Article
AI
Comment
4 min read

It's our mistakes that make us human

What we learn distinguishes us from tech.

Silvianne Aspray is a theologian and postdoctoral fellow at the University of Cambridge.

A man staring at a laptop grimmaces and holds his hands to his head.
Francisco De Legarreta C. on Unsplash.

The distinction between technology and human beings has become blurry: AI seems to be able to listen, answer our questions, even respond to our feelings. It becomes increasingly easy to confuse machines with humans. In this situation, it is increasingly important to ask: What makes us human, in distinction from machines? There are many answers to this question, but for now I would like to focus on just one aspect of what I think is distinctively human: As human beings, we live and learn in time.  

To be human means to be intrinsically temporal. We live in time and are oriented towards a future good. We are learning animals, and our learning is bound up with the taking of time. When we learn to know or to do something, we necessarily make mistakes, and we take practice. But keeping in view something we desire – a future good – we keep going.  

Let’s take the example of language. We acquire language in community over time. Toddlers make all sorts of hilarious mistakes when they first try to talk, and it takes them a long time even to get single words right, let alone to try and form sentences. But they keep trying, and they eventually learn. The same goes with love: Knowing how to love our family or our neighbours near and far is not something we are good at instantly. It is not the sort of learning where you absorb a piece of information and then you ‘get’ it. No, we learn it over time, we imitate others, we practice and even when we have learned, in the abstract, what it is to be loving, we keep getting it wrong. 

This, too, is part of what it means to be human: to make mistakes. Not the sort of mistakes machines make, when they classify some information wrongly, for instance, but the very human mistake of falling short of your own ideal. Of striving towards something you desire – happiness, in the broadest of terms – and yet falling short, in your actions, of that very goal. But there’s another very human thing right here: Human beings can also change. They – we – can have a change of heart, be transformed, and at some point in time, actually start to do the right thing – even against all the odds. Statistics of past behaviours, do not always correctly predict future outcomes. Part of being human means that we can be transformed.  

Transformation sometimes comes suddenly, when an overwhelming, awe-inspiring experience changes somebody’s life as by a bolt of lightning. Much more commonly, though, such transformation takes time. Through taking up small practices, we can form new habits, gradually acquire virtue, and do the right thing more often than not. This is so human: We are anything but perfect. As Christians would say: We have a tendency to entangle ourselves in the mess of sin and guilt. But we also bear the image of the Holy One who made us, and by the grace and favour of that One, we are not forever stuck in the mess. We are redeemed: are given the strength to keep trying, despite the mistakes we make, and given the grace to acquire virtue and become better people over time. All of this to say that being human means to live in time, and to learn in time. 

So, this is a real difference between human beings and machines: Human beings can, and do strive toward a future good. 

Now compare this to the most complex of machines. We say that AI is able to “learn”. But what does it mean to learn, for AI? Machine learning is usually categorized into supervised learning, unsupervised and self-supervised learning. Supervised learning means that a model is trained for a specific task based on correctly labelled data. For instance, if a model is to predict whether a mammogram image contains a cancerous tumour, it is given many example images which are correctly classed as ‘contains cancer’ or ‘does not contain cancer’. That way, it is “taught” to recognise cancer in unlabelled mammograms. Unsupervised learning is different. Here, the system looks for patterns in the dataset it is given. It clusters and groups data without relying on predefined labels. Self-supervised learning uses both methods: Here, the system uses parts of the data itself as a kind of label – such as, for instance, predicting the upper half of an image from its lower half, or the next word in a given text. This is the predominant paradigm for how contemporary large-scale AI models “learn”.  

In each case, AI’s learning is necessarily based on data sets. Learning happens with reference to pre-given data, and in that sense with reference to the past. It may look like such models can consider the future, and have future goals, but only insofar as they have picked up patterns in past data, which they use to predict future patterns – as if the future was nothing but a repetition of the past.  

So this is a real difference between human beings and machines: Human beings can, and do strive toward a future good. Machines, by contrast, are always oriented towards the past of the data that was fed to them. Human beings are intrinsically temporal beings, whereas machines are defined by temporality only in a very limited sense: it takes time to upload data, and for the data to be processed, for instance. Time, for machines, is nothing but an extension of the past, whereas for human beings, it is an invitation to and the possibility for being transformed for the sake of a future good. We, human beings, are intrinsically temporal, living in time towards a future good – which machines do not.  

In the face of new technologies we need a sharpened sense for the strange and awe-inspiring species that is the human race, and cultivate a new sense of wonder about humanity itself.  

Snippet
Creed
Easter
Time
3 min read

Don’t rush the creme eggs

As Lent approaches, mark each season for what it is.

Iona is a PhD candidate at the University of Aberdeen, studying how we can understand truth. 

A giant creme egg lies smashed on the ground beside a tilted market barrow.
Creme Egg publicity stunt, 2012.
The Grocer.

Christmas before last, we ran out of milk on Boxing Day. An emergency of epic proportions that had to be remedied immediately with a trip to ASDA. Stepping out of the howling wind into the sanctuary of the entrance of ASDA, shaking my hood out of my face, I saw them. My stomach sank, dread rose, I heard my blood rushing in my ears… the Creme Eggs were back.  

This may be a slightly exaggerated account. But there really were cream eggs at that ASDA. On Boxing Day. Now, I don’t want to launch into ‘back in the day…’ wailing or a bemoaning of the ignorant capitalist machine (that’s an article for another day…). But that moment really did give me pause.  

Why does it matter? Well, I suppose in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t. It mattered only because of what it represented to me: a rushing onwards, an inability to properly acknowledge and celebrate the seasons, a restlessness.  

I have long found this (ever increasing) tendency to rush from one season to the next unhelpful and difficult to deal with. Every year, I am labelled the token grinch for refusing to join in the ‘Christmas cheer’ before December. I have, at times, leaned into that moniker. But it’s not actually true. I do like Christmas. All 12 days of it. None of which are in November, let alone October! (we’re getting dangerously close to rant-territory now.)  

I love the anticipation of Advent. I find the slow blossoming of Spring every year one of the most joyful experiences we in temperate climes are lucky enough to witness. I enjoy the slowing down, the preparation of Autumn. I take comfort in the opportunity Winter gives for taking a break, for taking stock, re-evaluating, laying old things to rest. I find days like Ash Wednesday and All Saint’s Day so helpful and important. I don’t want to rush past Lent to Easter and chocolate.  

I did not grow up in a liturgical tradition. So, when I joined a Church of Scotland a few years ago that marked these days and seasons, I felt like I had finally found a frame for my wandering. 

Marking each season for what it is, appreciating its gifts, being present in the moment, not rushing ahead (or lagging behind) is so valuable. It gives me a ground, a certain foundation when everything else feels like it’s spinning, faster and faster. The news never stops, social media races past me and before I know it it’s time for pumpkin spice lattes, hot cross buns, Wham!ageddon, and Halloween, all at once. But Christmas is always on the 25th of December. Easter is always preceded by Lent and followed by Pentecost. Going through the year with these way-markers helps me to keep both feet on the ground and my gaze on the path ahead.  

I’m not particularly invested in how exactly each season is marked. Whether it is cream eggs, or pumpkin spice, the first crocus, or the celebration of a saint’s feast, we all find different things helpful and attractive. What I do think is important is to recognise and mark the seasons.  

I read a lot of headlines and posts at the start of the year that talked about how to beat the ‘overwhelm’ of modern daily life. I don’t pretend to know the answer or have a cure-all. I do think that one thing that can help is to step out of the consumerism-driven, ever-rushing, ever-increasing race through the seasons that never lets us stop for a minute to rest and reflect on the moment we are in right now.  

So whether you want to mark Lent in a more traditional way, by giving something up, maybe attending an Ash Wednesday service, reflecting on life and death, or by perhaps buying yourself a bouquet of daffodils. I encourage you to mark this season in some way. Before rushing on to the Creme Eggs. 

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