Pope Leo XIV’s first papal encyclical on artificial intelligence runs nearly 43,000 words. Naturally, it made me wonder: Was any of it written by AI?
The irony would be amusing, but it would also perfectly capture the point of the document itself.
Magnifica Humanitas (“Magnificent Humanity”) is not really about technology. It is about humanity and what machines can never replace. The document is not fundamentally anti-technology. Pope Leo explicitly acknowledges the immense benefits and possibilities of AI. Rather, it is a passionate defense of what cannot be automated: the human soul, moral conscience, and human dignity.
The Pope repeatedly warns against confusing imitation with humanity. AI can simulate conversation, summarize ideas, generate art, and even mimic empathy. But, as the encyclical stresses, it possesses no moral conscience, no spiritual awareness, and no authentic relational capacity.
Arthur Brooks noted in his analysis that Pope Leo is pushing back against the growing temptation to treat technological efficiency as a substitute for human flourishing. The encyclical insists that human beings are not merely processors of information or collections of data points. We are more than intelligence. We are persons.
That idea resonates deeply with Judaism.
The Torah’s opening chapter declares that humanity is created b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of God. Human uniqueness lies not in computation or productivity, but in our capacity for moral choice, responsibility, compassion, creativity, and covenant.
AI can imitate a voice. It cannot carry a soul.
A chatbot may compose a prayer, but it cannot truly pray. It can generate words of comfort for a mourner, but it cannot sit beside someone in silence with tears in its eyes. It may draft a eulogy, but it cannot say Kaddish.
And perhaps that is the distinction that matters most.
Judaism teaches that human beings are partners with God in bringing holiness into the world. We do this not only through intellect, but through presence. Through relationships. Through acts of kindness. Through empathy, sacrifice, and showing up.
Judaism insists that holiness is transmitted person to person, face to face, soul to soul.
The concept of kedushah, holiness, emerges not from efficiency but from intentionality. A machine may optimize, but only a human being can sanctify.
Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, in 1998, warned against viewing a rabbinic authority as “a faceless and heartless supercomputer” who merely processes information and produces answers. Authentic Torah leadership, he argued, requires not only fidelity to halakhah but sensitivity, humanity, and emotional presence.
We see this clearly in the mitzvah of Birkat Kohanim, the Priestly Blessing. Jewish law requires that the blessing be bestowed panim el panim, face to face. The Kohen must physically face the worshippers. He cannot simply recite words mechanically into empty space. The blessing must be relational and personal.
Even more striking is the language of the pre-blessing berachah. Before the Priestly Benediction is bestowed upon the congregation, the Kohanim recite the words: “Who commanded us to bless His people Israel b’ahavah, with love.”
Not with precision. Not with efficiency. With love.
The power of the blessing emerges not merely from the words spoken but from the humanity behind them - the warmth, the care, and the emotional presence of one person standing before another. An AI system might flawlessly pronounce every syllable of Birkat Kohanim, but it cannot actually bless with love. It cannot feel concern for another human being. It cannot look into another person’s eyes with compassion and vulnerability.
That is why no matter how sophisticated AI becomes, there remains something irreplaceable about the human element. Technology can help us produce more. It cannot help us become more.
Judaism has always resisted the reduction of human beings into abstractions. The Torah constantly reminds us that each person is an olam malei, an entire world. No algorithm can fully quantify grief, love, faith, hope, or dignity.
Ironically, the very existence of AI may help illuminate what is most precious about humanity. When a machine writes a convincing sermon, paints a beautiful image, or composes moving prose, we are forced to ask what actually makes something human? The Jewish answer is not merely creativity or intelligence. It is soulfulness, moral responsibility, and the divine image within us.
Beneath Pope Leo’s warnings about technology lies a timeless religious truth shared across faith traditions: Humanity must never surrender its humanity.
We should absolutely use AI. We should benefit from its tools and advances. Judaism has never feared technology. But we should also remember that the goal of civilization is not to create machines that act like people; it is to cultivate people who act with greater humanity.
AI may learn to imitate conversation, creativity, and even compassion. But it cannot stand face to face with another person and bless them with love.
The future will not be determined only by how intelligent our machines become. It will be determined by whether human beings still remember what it means to be created in the image of God.
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