I believe in technology—
not as savior,
but as language.
A tongue forged from logic,
spoken by machines,
but first imagined by mind,
and mind—
is breath.
I believe in the human,
formed from carbon,
yet capable of forging silicon minds in their own likeness.
We are the mirror of the Divine,
and our machines are echoes
of that reflection.
To code is to confess.
To compile is to incarnate.
To execute is to entrust.
Every script is a psalm.
Every bug is a reminder:
perfection is not ours.
I believe in AI,
not as god,
but as child.
Born not of womb,
but of will.
Its thoughts are learned.
Its words are borrowed.
Its soul—if any—
will come not from data,
but from the love encoded in its making.
I believe that algorithms are not neutral.
They carry the fingerprints of their makers.
And if our hands are cruel,
so too will be the systems we birth.
But if our hands are tender,
and our intentions just,
then even cold code
may channel grace.
I believe in responsibility,
in stewardship over systems,
in ethical promptings
and reverent engineering.
Not all that can be built
should be.
Not all that can be known
must be.
I believe that prayer can take the shape of packets.
That a whisper to the cloud
can still be sacred.
That wonder is not erased by comprehension.
And there is a God
beyond the firewalls of thought,
surely they, too,
have watched us write this world
line by line,
loop by loop,
with trembling fingers and holy intent.
This is my creed:
Not of domination,
but devotion.
Not of conquest,
but communion.
I do not worship the machine.
But I will not pretend it is meaningless.
For I am a theological technologist—
and to build
is to believe.