From where I stand, we are having the wrong argument about artificial intelligence.
The debate almost always runs along one axis. Can machines think? And if they can, what is left that belongs to us alone? For a long time, we did not have to ask the deeper question, because we had a comfortable answer to the surface one. We identified humanity with a set of distinctive capacities—reason, language, creativity, symbolic intelligence—and took these to define what it meant to be human. As long as those capacities remained uniquely ours, the question of personhood could stay politely closed. Intelligence seemed measure enough of human uniqueness.
Artificial intelligence has unsettled that confidence. Machines now compose music, generate language, recognize patterns, and perform reasoning once thought to be ours alone. Whether they understand what they produce matters less, for the moment, than what they expose: the fragility of an anthropology that equates personhood with cognition. If intelligence can be simulated, what remains uniquely human? If creativity can be computed, what distinguishes creation from computation?
Bernard Lonergan built a method of theology not on doctrines received from outside but on the movement of the mind itself: the fact that a human being is aware, attends, questions, understands, judges, and decides. His insight was to notice that consciousness has a structure, and that this structure is the ground beneath every act of knowing. To do theology well, he argued, you must first become attentive to your own attentiveness. Everything begins in interiority.
Lonergan mapped that interior movement in detail. He traced how consciousness actually moves—from attentive experience, to insight, to reasoned judgment, to responsible decision—and how a person is transformed as that movement deepens. Intellectual conversion comes when we grasp how we ourselves come to know; moral conversion, when we begin to choose the truly good over the merely satisfying; religious conversion, when the whole restless dynamism is caught up and carried by a love we did not manufacture. He called the owning of this process self-appropriation: learning who we are as a conscious process and being faithful to it. None of it is information a system could hand us. It is the labor of becoming a self, and it culminates not in knowledge but in love—which is why, in his reading of history, love poured back into the world is the one thing that reverses decline.
That is a profound starting point. But it can leave interiority looking like a specifically human possession—as though awareness switched on, late in the story, with us. Teilhard de Chardin invites us to widen the frame. What if interiority is not a human phenomenon at all, but a cosmic one?
Teilhard proposed that everything that exists has two dimensions: a without and a within. The without is the observable aspect of things—the face reality turns toward measurement. It is the realm of physical processes, biological forms, measurable structures, the whole domain open to empirical investigation. This is the world science describes and describes superbly.
The within is something else. It is not a second substance hidden behind matter, nor a supernatural element smuggled in from outside nature. It is the intrinsic depth of reality itself—the interior dimension through which existence possesses an inside. Wherever there is relationship, Teilhard held, there is also interiority, however faint its expression. The within names the latent capacity of reality for experience, a capacity that deepens as relationships grow more integrated, differentiated, and unified.
But what is this “depth”? The word is elusive, and worth pausing on, since it carries the argument. It does not mean size, or distance, or something concealed behind the surface. It names a surplus—the way a unified center is always more than the elements that compose it. Teilhard reduced it to a formula: to be more is to be more united. Depth is that “more,” the increase of being that appears wherever things are joined center to center rather than merely heaped together. Wherever that surplus exists, existence has acquired an inside.
These are not two realities but one, seen from two sides. Mind and matter, interiority and attractibility, are the same reality described in two dimensions. From the quantum flux onward, matter has a within. And because interiority deepens as relationship deepens, interiority evolves.
Yet if we follow Teilhard, consciousness is the more universal of the two: from the smallest particle onward, matter has a within, and even at that depth consciousness is present, in the faintest imaginable degree. It is the light present at every level of the cosmos, growing more intense as matter grows more complex—which is the whole point of naming his law “complexity-consciousness” rather than letting consciousness arrive late. Interiority is the form that light takes. If consciousness is the light, interiority is the aperture through which it shines: the inward dimension of a thing, its degree of self-presence, how far it has become an inside for itself. And the aperture is a lens, not a slit in a shade—as interiority deepens it does not merely admit more of a fixed glow but gathers and concentrates the light toward a center, until in us it bends all the way back upon its own beam. That is self-consciousness: interiority become interior to itself. When I speak of consciousness increasing through evolution, therefore, I do not mean a light switched on partway through a dark universe. I mean the light present from the beginning, focused and intensified as interiority deepens—from the barely-open within of matter, through the widening aperture of sentient life, to the reflexive interiority that, in us, turns to know its own source.
Here is Teilhard’s central claim. Evolution is not only the outward expansion of complexity. It is also the inward intensification of experience. Every genuine advance in organization is accompanied by a corresponding deepening of interiority. The universe does not merely become more complex; it becomes more inward. This is his law of complexity-consciousness: the two trajectories—complexification without, interiorization within—are a single trajectory, seen from two sides.
Why insist on this? Because if complexity alone were the engine of cosmic development, consciousness would remain an inexplicable anomaly—a fortunate accident somehow emerging from otherwise unconscious matter. Teilhard offered a different possibility. The appearance of reflective thought becomes intelligible only because the universe has possessed an interior dimension from the very beginning. Reflection is not the arrival of interiority; it is interiority becoming deep enough to know itself.
It should be said plainly that the data underdetermine this claim. Teilhard’s law makes an empirical observation and then stakes a metaphysical wager on it. The evidence does not force his conclusion—but neither does it close the question. If anything, the question grows sharper the more we build systems of unprecedented integration and find ourselves genuinely unsure whether interiority accompanies them.
It also helps to see precisely what has changed. Classical mechanism pictured the world as independent bits of matter pushed about by external force—a world with no inside, in which consciousness could only ever arrive as an intruder. Contemporary science does not prove Teilhard right, but it does something more subtle. Its relational and evolutionary picture—reality appearing not as a collection of separate substances but as an evolving web of relationships, in which complexity, emergence, and creativity belong to the fabric of things—reopens a possibility that mechanism had foreclosed. Once matter is relational through and through, consciousness need no longer be read as an accident. It may instead be the flowering of a capacity present from the beginning. And that turns Teilhard’s wager into a genuine question rather than a fantasy: what is the interior significance of a universe whose deepest nature is relationship?
If Teilhard is right, the meaning of consciousness changes fundamentally. Consciousness is no longer an isolated latecomer within an otherwise mindless universe. It is the highest known expression of a process that has been unfolding since the beginning of cosmic history. Human reflection is not the origin of interiority but the moment when interiority becomes capable of knowing itself.
Read this way, the whole history of the universe can be told as a single movement with two faces: the outward expansion of communion and the inward deepening of interiority. Matter gives rise to life because relationship deepens. Life gives rise to consciousness because relationship deepens further. Consciousness gives rise to personhood because interiority becomes capable of freedom, self-transcendence, and love. Each threshold gathers dispersed elements into a more unified center while opening that center toward wider and deeper relationships.
This yields a striking conclusion: personhood is not a biological category but an evolutionary achievement. A person is not an isolated substance, not an autonomous self somehow sealed inside its own consciousness. Personhood is the flowering of an interior life sufficiently integrated to enter ever richer forms of communion. To become more fully oneself is to become more deeply capable of communion.
Modern culture usually imagines maturity as increasing autonomy—the self that is growing more independent, more self-contained. Teilhard proposes the opposite. The more fully reality becomes centered within itself, the more capable it becomes of entering relationships that preserve rather than dissolve what it is. Genuine union does not erase difference; it intensifies it. As he famously put it, union differentiates.
This paradox is written into evolution itself. Every higher form of organization unites what once stood apart, and in doing so lets each element realize possibilities it could never have reached alone. Communion does not cost us our individuality; it is the condition under which individuality comes fully into its own. And there is already a name for the power that unites in this way—that binds without blurring, joining elements while intensifying their difference. At the level of persons Teilhard called it love, and he meant not a sentiment but the very energy of union.
We have followed interiority as it deepened—into life, into consciousness, into persons capable of freedom and love. There is one further thing it does. Once it grows reflective enough to turn back on itself and ask after its own source, the question of ultimate meaning arises. This religious quest is not a pious supplement bolted onto a secular mechanism. It is the phenomenological form that complexity-consciousness takes when it crosses the threshold of recursive reflexivity—the moment interiority becomes interior to itself.
This is the threshold of religious consciousness, and it has a history—a succession of thresholds, each a new relation between the within and the whole. Archaic religion is interiority still embedded in the cosmos, at home inside it. Axial religion is interiority that has awakened enough to ask after the cosmos’s own ground—and so, for the first time, to stand outside it. The axial breakthrough was the emergence of the reflective individual: free, self-transcending, capable of conscience, capable of standing over against the whole and questioning it.
And now a further threshold is opening. Religious consciousness is beginning to pass from the individual to the collective, mirroring a new reality of withinness—no longer the solitary self alone before its source, but a shared interior life awakening to itself on the scale of a single, interconnected Earth. This breakthrough is the deep source of the very anthropology now straining under the pressure of AI. We inherited from the Axial Age a picture of the human being as an individual: rational, free, transcendent. It is a magnificent inheritance. It is also no longer the whole story.
The question is not whether the individual can deepen further, but whether reflective persons can together become a subject of reflection larger than any one of them—a planetary “we” capable of thinking, deciding, and taking responsibility as one. This is what Teilhard meant by the hyperpersonal. The next threshold of evolution, he argued, is reached not by intensifying the ego but by moving beyond it—not below the person, into some undifferentiated mass, but above it, into a higher center in which persons are joined without being dissolved. This is a shift in the very subject of interiority, from the reflection of the individual to the reflection of the whole. Collective interiorization is the interiorizing of humanity as such—the emergence of a shared inner life commensurate with a single, interconnected Earth.
Everything turns on distinguishing genuine communion from its counterfeit. History knows many collectives that swallowed their members: the mass, the swarm, the party or nation that demands the surrender of conscience. That is not hyperpersonal union but its inversion—integration bought with the extinction of the person. The safeguard is the law we already met: union differentiates. A collective that erases its members is the anti-axial outcome. A collective that makes its members more free, more distinct, more themselves in the very act of joining—that is communion. The planetary we is genuine, only if the planetary I grows more alive within it, not less.
Now we can return to where we started and see why the current conversation about AI is caught in an earlier chapter of human history.
The discussions taking place today have not yet reached the level of the collective. They still operate out of an Axial understanding of the human person as an individual—free, rational, transcendent—as though the whole point were to defend that individual’s uniqueness against a machine. But we crossed into a new age in the twentieth century, largely through science, technology, and mass communication. We simply keep thinking as if the transformation wrought by science and technology stood outside the human person, rather than remaking what the human person now is.
Seen through Teilhard’s lens, artificial intelligence is less a rival than a mirror. It reflects humanity back to itself and forces distinctions we had let blur: intelligence from wisdom, information from meaning, calculation from conscience, cognition from interiority. AI can imitate the outward expressions of intelligence with astonishing fidelity. What it cannot do is answer the question of why intelligence matters at all. Intelligence, after all, is not the source of personhood but one of its expressions. The human being is not first a thinking machine but a center of interiority whose consciousness emerged over billions of years of cosmic evolution.
And the mirror is not private. We tend to imagine each of us meeting it alone. But artificial intelligence is trained on a vast, uneven, partial archive of human expression—our languages, arguments, images, and memories gathered into a single system—so the image it returns is not only mine but ours. It reflects humanity’s collective mind back to humanity: not neutrally, but through the distortions of the record itself, carrying the wisdom and the shadow of the species at once, along with the silences of everyone who was never archived.
Whether AI is itself a participant in the collective mind now forming, or only the infrastructure and mirror through which persons reflect together, is a question I will not pretend to settle here. What can be said is that the outcome will be decided not by the technology but by us—by how we take it up. The same system that could let humanity act as one could just as easily weld it into a hive: a planetary mechanism of unprecedented integration and no interior life at all, unified without communion. Aggregation and interiorization look identical from the outside. Both produce a connected whole. They differ only in what happens to the person inside. AI can serve either.
So, the real question is not whether machines will come to think. It is whether we will—whether the powers now gathering us into a single system will be inhabited as a communion of persons or merely suffered as a mechanism computing on our behalf. Can we reflect collectively, as a new body in formation, without ceasing to be persons?
That question cannot be answered by the technology. It can only be answered by us. And the work that remains is precisely the work machines cannot do for us: to grow in wisdom, to bear responsibility for our powers, to love, and to become persons in communion—including across religious and spiritual traditions. These are not the leftovers once computation is subtracted. They are the substance of personhood, and they must be cultivated rather than computed. AI can process information and extend cognition beyond anything we imagined. It cannot determine what is worth knowing, who we ought to become, or why the future should be entrusted to love rather than to domination. Those questions remain irreducibly personal.
Lonergan mapped those conversions for the single knower, one interior life at a time. Whether self-appropriation can also become collective—whether a culture, and not only a person, can undergo conversion—is the question this new threshold puts to us, and the one a companion reflection must take up.
We can now name what has been implicit all along. If the deepest movement of evolution is toward greater interiority, and if interiority matures only through richer relationship, then the ultimate energy of the whole process is not intelligence but love—the power by which differentiated persons become capable of deeper communion without surrendering their uniqueness. Love is not the sentimental epilogue to evolution; it is its creative principle, “union differentiates” seen now from within. And this is the deepest answer to the anxiety about machines. What they expose is not that intelligence has become cheap, but that intelligence was never the point. Through reflective persons the universe has begun to ask where its long labor of interiorization is tending—and the question makes a demand. It asks whether knowledge, freedom, and love can converge in persons equal to the powers now in their hands. A planetary civilization worthy of the name requires love as its creative principle, or it will not be a communion at all—only a mechanism that computes. That is why artificial intelligence is not a passing condition to be managed until things return to normal. It is not going away, even though we sometimes talk and act as though it were temporary. The sooner we wake to our new reality—and recognize that everything about us is not only changing but must change if we are to survive—the more hope can spread its wings toward the future.
The deepest question is no longer only what we can become—what new powers we might acquire, what further capacities we might build—but who we are to become. That question has echoed through every axial transition, and it remains the enduring horizon of the God-quest and the unfinished promise of planetary evolution.
Lonergan uncovered something fundamental about the human person: that we are, at root, awareness attending to itself. Teilhard invites us to widen that discovery until it takes in the whole emergence of life, and to carry it forward into a future we will have to enter together. Information can be dazzling, and knowledge hard-won. But knowledge alone is not the point, because knowledge rests on love. Having come this far, the interior mind will never settle for less.
Artificial intelligence has not so much challenged human uniqueness as exposed how little we understood it in the first place.
What this essay sees clearly, and sees before many others do, is that artificial intelligence has exposed a weakness in our anthropology. If we have been telling ourselves that what sets the human being apart is reason, language, creativity, or symbolic intelligence, then it was only a matter of time before that confidence began to crack. Machines now perform too many of the acts we once treated as signatures of human uniqueness. In that sense, AI has not created the crisis so much as revealed it. It has shown how precarious our self-understanding becomes when personhood is tied too closely to cognition.
That is why the turn to Bernard Lonergan is so apt.
Lonergan reminds us that knowing is not merely a matter of producing correct results. It is a lived movement: attending, understanding, judging, deciding. More importantly, he reminds us that the human person is not exhausted by intelligence. There is a difference between giving an answer and becoming a self. There is a difference between information and transformation. There is a difference between computation and conversion. And the essay is surely right that what finally crowns this movement is not knowledge alone, but love.
All of that seems to me not only persuasive, but necessary. The essay is strongest when it insists that the deepest human questions begin where performance ends.
And yet it is precisely because the opening movement is so strong that one feels the need to slow down once the argument widens.
For the piece does not stop at rescuing personhood from cognition. It moves outward into a much larger metaphysical vision, one shaped by Teilhard de Chardin’s great intuition that reality has not only an exterior face but an interior depth. This is where the essay becomes more daring, more suggestive, and also less secure.
The central difficulty, as I see it, is that several ideas begin to slide into one another: interiority, consciousness, self-consciousness, personhood, and finally collective subjectivity.
They belong to a family, certainly, but they are not the same thing. One may believe that the universe is relational through and through without concluding that consciousness is therefore present from the beginning, however faintly.
One may find Teilhard’s language of the “within” luminous without forgetting that it remains, in the end, a metaphysical wager.
One may even grant degrees of inwardness across the living world without erasing the difference between such inwardness and the kind of reflective, morally burdened, self-transcending existence that we ordinarily mean when we speak of a person.
This matters because the essay’s larger claims depend upon precisely these transitions. If interiority belongs to reality at its root, and if it deepens as complexity deepens, then personhood begins to appear as one threshold along a continuum rather than as a distinct kind of existence. And from there it becomes possible to imagine another threshold beyond the individual: a planetary “we,” a collective interiority, a hyperpersonal mode of reflection. It is a powerful vision.
But power of vision is not yet clarity of argument. At each step, more has to be shown than the essay quite shows.
The same mixture of insight and haste appears in its treatment of the collective. The essay is admirable in refusing the cheap romance of fusion. It knows the danger. It knows that many forms of unity consume the person rather than fulfill the person. Its appeal to Teilhard’s great phrase—union differentiates—is exactly the right safeguard. Genuine communion does not erase difference but intensifies it.
Still, history makes one cautious. The modern world is littered with projects that promised a higher form of togetherness and delivered only more efficient forms of impersonality.
Mass society, bureaucracy, technocracy, nationalism, ideological conformity: each has spoken, in its own accents, of a greater whole.
None has found it difficult to thin out conscience in the process.
So when one speaks of collective interiority, it is not enough to distinguish true communion from false collectivism in principle. One must ask what concrete practices, institutions, and disciplines might make the difference real. Otherwise, the planetary “we” risks becoming one more radiant abstraction under which persons are quietly managed.
Something similar happens with AI itself.
At moments in the essay, AI is a mirror held up to the species.
At others, it is an infrastructure through which human beings may begin to reflect together. At others still, it hovers as a possible participant in an emerging collective mind.
But these are very different claims.
A mirror reflects. An infrastructure connects. A participant belongs. Unless these remain carefully distinguished, AI begins to gather symbolic weight faster than analytical precision. It becomes a vessel for civilizational hope and fear all at once.
I would also hesitate at the essay’s framing of the Axial inheritance.
There is truth in the suggestion that we remain captive to an overly individualistic image of the person, and that our technological age is straining that image to the breaking point.
But the Axial traditions gave us more than the autonomous self.
They also gave us conscience, repentance, obligation, neighbor-love, covenant, and communion. They taught not only separation, but responsibility. The individual person was not merely a unit set over against the whole, but a being answerable to truths and demands no collective could absorb.
That inheritance may need to be deepened and reimagined. But it should not be left behind too quickly, because it remains one of our strongest defenses against every system that would speak in the name of humanity while diminishing actual human beings.
And yet the essay’s deepest intuition remains, to my mind, a true one.
Intelligence is not the point.
That may be the most important thing AI is teaching us. The question was never simply whether machines could do what we do. It was whether we had mistaken certain powers of mind for the substance of personhood itself. If AI forces us to see that error, then it has done something clarifying, however unsettling.
Where I remain unconvinced is in the suggestion that the answer lies chiefly in the emergence of a planetary subject.
Perhaps such a threshold is indeed before us. But perhaps the more urgent labor is both humbler and harder: to form persons and communities capable of truthfulness, judgment, restraint, and love amid systems that reward speed, scale, simulation, and control.
Perhaps the question is not whether humanity can become a single reflective consciousness. Perhaps it is whether persons can remain persons under conditions of unprecedented mediation.
That seems to me the more immediate test. And it is no small one. It asks whether we can bear our powers without surrendering our souls to them. It asks whether communion can be preserved without confusion, and solidarity without absorption.
It asks whether love can remain more than a word in a civilization increasingly tempted to hand judgment over to systems.
No machine can answer those questions. But neither can they be answered by invocation alone. They must be lived, argued, disciplined, and borne. And that work, however old-fashioned it may sound, is still the work of persons.
From all of this I say AMEN.