Easter Reflection

As I write this it’s Maundy Thursday 2026. This evening Sarah and I will be attending services at church where we commemorate Jesus’ last meal with His followers. This meal is unique. It is one that has been celebrated in churches throughout the world for the last two millennia on a consistent basis. Luke recorded Jesus’ words about this meal in chapter 22:

“I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer. For I tell you I will not eat it until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.”

This meal is the preamble of the last part of Passion week, the celebration of Christ’s death and resurrection. In handing His followers the bread—His body to be broken—and the wine—His blood that must be spilled—He is in essence telling them about His death, mere hours away.

“Do this in remembrance of me.” —Luke 22

My mind turns to these things not only because of the Passion week but also because of what Sarah and I discussed on our porch last night with a friend. The world is changing, rapidly, and a dominating reason this is so is the development of Artificial Intelligence (AI) and everything related to it. We have talked about AI quite a lot in our community especially related to the arts. The arts is a part of culture that was quickly impacted by AI’s initial development. AI has made “everyone an artist”. Now it seems to have broken even beyond those bounds. AI seems to have reached the boundaries of what it means to be human.

Sarah recently came across an article about how AI developers and builders were turning toward faith and the church because they are unsettled about creating “god-like powers” through AI. It has been causing them to ask questions like, “…what does it mean to be human if we can play God?” As a result they are seeking answers to their fears in places of faith.

What a contrast are these two things, Christ instituting Communion and Artificial Intelligence.

Humanity is looking for something to save them—whether it is their time or their lives—and AI seems very willing to fill that need. It is an empty savior.

For two millennia the very words of Jesus’ initiation of the Eucharist—“this is my body”, “this is my blood”—have stood as the pinnacle of what it means to be human. Because that “feast” represents a restoration of humanity into a relationship with their creator God, the way we were created to begin with. We need salvation, “…without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins.” And we need another human to do the job. In this case the human not only ate bread and drank wine and shared it with His followers, the same mouth that ate and drank spoke everything into existence—“…in Him all things hold together.”

It is understandable why AI developers sense a discomfort in what they are developing. Perhaps they see the inadequacy of humanity’s attempt to save itself? This is not new. Human beings have known this emptiness deep down since our “First Parents” felt the juices of the Forbidden Fruit drip off their chins.

Christ replaced that fruit with more powerful food—bread and wine. So when you celebrate the Table this Easter and beyond remember that a human construction like AI has no power to wipe our chins of the stain of the Fruit. By His death Jesus took the fruit out of our hands and gave us bread. By His resurrection He offered us a cup of wine to let its stain cover the one left there by Adam & Eve.

This is God’s gift, a human act of the God-Man—unlike AI and any other attempts to save ourselves.

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Blessings-