Want to AI-Proof Your Career? Study Theology.

The anxiety beneath the AI boom is palpable. High performers (and high earners) in fields like software development, data analytics, and cyber-security are reading about rapid gains in AI capability, asking whether their job will be next. Some have responded with existential dread. Others have sought to control the situation by adding more technical skills, trying to chart a learning curve ahead of the LLMs. But what if the real risk in the AI boom isn’t falling behind? What if the real risk is becoming too replicable, too easy to re-create? 3.5 years into the AI explosion, it’s increasingly clear that AI doesn’t eliminate all, or even very many, jobs. Rather, AI isolates and exploits aspects of human labor that are easily “programmable.” Enter the Theologian as the AI-Proof professional, and Theology as a quintessentially irreplaceable skill.

Prior to 2022, career security, and affluence, almost necessitated the learning of scarce, complex technical skills like coding. In the age of AI, technical skills are increasingly automatable. See it for yourself. In under an hour, you can create an app of your choice via tools like Claude or Lovable. What once took years now takes seconds. When bots become technical, technical skills are no longer scarce. The rarified skillset of the AI age, the one that is truly impossible to automate, are the skills of judgment and meaning-making. While these skills might not be trained in Silicon Valley, they remain the bedrock of theology. 

As Cade Metz recently wrote in the New York Times, AI is exceptionally strong in narrow, highly structured domains. It possesses remarkable, yet “jagged” intelligence. It is surprisingly weak, however, in situations that are ambiguous, where the context shifts, where moral reasoning is necessary. Can ChatGPT solve complex math? Yes. Can it navigate real-world decisions that one might characterize as “judgment call?” Ask your chatbot to solve your next workplace dispute or standoff. I’ll wager you a bitcoin it won’t help one bit (or byte). 

Within this AI economy, jobs aren’t replaced wholesale. They are fragmented. Every role becomes a mix of automatable tasks, completed alongside a chatbot, and remarkably humanr responsibilities. The question is no longer “Will AI take my job,” but “In which parts of my work protected from AI’s jagged edges?” 

Thus, as AI handles structured tasks, economic, and vocational value, concentrates in areas with low feedback, high ambiguity, and true human consequence. Moreover, it becomes crucial to decide when AI is wrong, to interpret outputs critically, and to take accountability for the outcomes. AI can generate answers. We still have to choose which course to take. 

The time has come for the theologian. Theology, a discipline of wrestling with the sacred from a very human vantage point, involves tasks that no LLM can replicate. To theologize is to read complex and ancient texts across time and context, to accept that they have multiple meanings, and to construct a message or narrative that is resonant and relevant. 

To do the work of the theologian is to navigate ambiguous situations, responding with an articulation of what is faithful, reasonable, and conscientious. The chatbot follows scripted rules. The theologian forms a coherent view point that informs leadership decisions, ethical stances, and organizational culture. 

This is not to say that all programmers should become pastors or that all data scientists should study divinity. But it might be helpful for those fearing the jagged edges of AI to recognize how the discipline of theology, of interpreting meaning, is applicable more than ever. Presented with ambiguity, how might we account for the influence of tradition? How might we draw upon that which is authoritative? Where should we look for meaning, for purpose? We might not always bring up God when we bring up Google, but surely the theological task has newfound relevance for those in sales, marketing, product management, and many more “anthropological” fields. 

But were all programmers to become more pastoral, we might be in a better place societally. To think theologically is to consider what it means to be a minister. As Bonhoeffer would suggest, theology is inseparable from ministry. So our argument would be incomplete if we were to recommend that the AI-at-risk in our society only learn from the heady side of theology. Pastoral ministry involves attending to people navigating uncertainty, grief, and conflict. To be a pastor is to listen, to attend to difficulty in a way that is relational, rather than transactional. Who among us isn’t navigating uncertainty, grief, and conflict? Who among us wouldn’t appreciate the support of a non-transactional, non-anxious trustworthy person? The tech manager may not preach on the Gospel. But the pastoral skillset is increasingly important to the managerial class. 

Theology alone is seldom a career path. I’m not encouraging a generation of AI-displaced workers to enroll at divinity school (though some should give that serious consideration). Instead, the practice of theology will become a force multiplier for technical skill. The question isn’t “Does theology get you hired?” It’s “What kind of judgment shows up once you are?”

My advice to the class about to graduate is to learn a technical skill. To learn to work alongside AI. But to take a critical look at what these tools do, and how they are forming us. And at the same time, to read great texts and engage great works of art that cultivate patience, focus, and empathy. To put oneself in situations where ambiguity is a given and the next step isn’t obvious. AI fluency and the human formation form a powerful pair for the road ahead. Tools, paired with telos, will AI-proof your career. 

The future of work will not be evenly automated. It will be uneven, unpredictable, and responsibility-heavy. That puts a premium on judgment, presence, and meaning-making. The safest careers are found where AI keeps coming up short.

Beyond the Click: Generosity in a Tech-Shaped World

An acute crisis often produces “Clicktivists”—people whose sense of impact is tied to visible online actions: changing a profile picture, retweeting a hashtag, or participating in a viral challenge. This is not to say clicktivism is inherently wrong. The ALS Foundation’s Ice Bucket Challenge, for example, raised awareness, mobilized donations, and demonstrated the power of social media for good. With Millennials increasingly generous, online campaigns can even generate substantial financial support. Yet digital gestures are inherently incomplete. As our politics polarize and our social fabric weakens, it’s worth asking whether clicks and hashtags can replace real-world generosity. Technology doesn’t merely provide tools—it shapes habits, attention, and moral imagination. Social media rewards speed, visibility, and performance, training us to equate “public recognition” with impact. A post, filter, or badge can signal care, but they rarely require risk, effort, or sacrifice. Over time, we risk forming a habit of performance over practice, mistaking visibility for virtue.

Consider Facebook filters. In 2015, millions overlaid rainbow colors on their profile pictures to celebrate the legalization of same-sex marriage in the U.S. For many progressive Christians, this was a moment of joy, justice, and public witness—but it also raised questions: Did digital signaling translate into ongoing advocacy and tangible support for LGBTQ+ neighbors? Similarly, the “I Got My Covid-19 Vaccine” badge in 2021 showed solidarity with public health initiatives, yet it also highlighted how online gestures can substitute for harder, relational conversations. Digital generosity can amplify good, but without intentional follow-through, it can be more mirage than movement.

Here’s where theology and formation intersect. Generosity is most powerful when it becomes embodied—when it interrupts our routines and shapes how we live out our Baptismal calling. As Miroslav Volf writes in Exclusion and Embrace, true love requires us to “risk ourselves for the sake of others,” stepping beyond convenience or performance. Andrew Root reminds us that formation is not just about information or behavior—it’s about the habits, practices, and rhythms that shape who we become. Digital gestures rarely form that depth; embodied generosity does.

Think of the teenager who closes TikTok to sit beside a lonely student on the bus. Consider the family that not only donates money but shows up to prepare the summer camp grounds. Picture a congregation hosting a chili cook-off, where shared labor and laughter translate into tangible resources for ministry. These acts may not trend online, but they endure in memory and relationship. They cultivate empathy, rewire attention outward, and disrupt the rhythms of consumerism. Through visceral, physical action, we share smiles and service, levity and labor—strengthening the fabric of connection within our communities.

Some lectionary texts echo this tension. In the parable of the dishonest manager (Luke 16:1–13), Jesus reminds us that resources are temporary tools meant to foster relationships and generosity, not self-interest. In the story of Lazarus and the rich man (Luke 16:19–31), noticing need without acting is no generosity at all. These passages call us to tangible response, inviting us to live the Gospel not just in thought or online expression but in daily, concrete acts.

The challenge for the church in the digital age is not to reject technology, but to use it wisely. Social media can amplify generosity, prompt awareness, and rally support—but it cannot replace presence. Online campaigns should point toward embodied acts: a Venmo transfer accompanied by volunteering at a local shelter; a hashtag paired with a physical visit to a neighbor in need. Technology can be a conduit, not a substitute, for discipleship and formation.

During your next stewardship season, consider reframing digital engagement as a catalyst rather than a finish line. Let social feeds remind you to show up, not just signal. Before posting about solidarity or advocacy, take one small step toward someone physically present in your neighborhood, school, or congregation. Let your acts of generosity embody your convictions, shaping both others and yourself.

True generosity is slower, riskier, and often invisible to the broader world. It doesn’t trend online. It requires attention, labor, and presence. It transforms habits and hearts, rewiring us toward outward love and sustained community. In a world of endless clicks and scrolling, the Gospel calls us to step off the feed and into real life—to knock on doors, share time and labor, and cultivate joy, service, and connection in tangible ways. Technology can amplify that generosity, but it can never replace it.

Maundy Thursday as Masterclass: Leadership Lessons from the 1st of the 3 Days

Maundy Thursday does not look like a leadership seminar. There are no slides, no slogans, and no applause lines. There is a basin, a towel, and a teacher who kneels at the feet of his friends.

And somehow, it becomes a masterclass.

At a time when leadership is so often measured by volume, visibility, and the ability to command attention, Maundy Thursday offers a different vision. Leadership begins not by asserting status, but by setting it aside. Jesus says, “The master is not greater than the servant,” and then he lives those words in a way that is unmistakably concrete, with water, dust, and human touch.

Foot washing is not efficient and it is certainly not scalable. It does not attract a crowd or build a following overnight. But it does something more important. It forms a different kind of relationship, one rooted in dignity rather than hierarchy, in presence rather than performance.

Then comes the command that holds it all together. Love one another.

Not admire one another. Not compete with one another. Not position yourself above one another.

Love.

The kind of love that builds others up over time. The kind of love that notices who has been overlooked and quietly brings them back into the center. The kind of leadership that does not need to announce itself in order to be real.

Maundy Thursday invites us to examine the kind of leaders we are becoming. Are we forming people for love and service, or simply capturing attention? Are we creating space for others to grow, or are we reinforcing our own importance?

The leadership of the Last Supper, seen within the upper room, may be quiet, but it is not weak. It is intentional, grounded, and deeply generative. Long after louder forms of leadership fade (you can likely name some examples), this one lesson endures, passed from person to person, act to act, like a shared cup of wine, a shared loaf of bread.