In the last few months, I’ve found myself on a bit of a journey—one that, perhaps unsurprisingly, involves AI.
But it didn’t start sitting at a computer screen. It began while I was standing on a crowded commuter train heading home from Osaka.
The scene was typical. Every single person was absorbed in their smartphone.
There was no conversation, no real awareness of their surroundings—just a quiet, collective immersion into an endless stream of content. A turtle on a skateboard. A makeup tutorial. A gaming clip. You know the kind of stuff.
And as I stood there, one question came to mind: How will these people ever hear about Jesus?
These weren’t people in some distant land. They were right next to me. And yet, in another sense, they felt completely out of reach.
The challenge of mission today is not simply distance—it’s attention.
How do we engage a people who seem to exist somewhere between deeply engaged and constantly distracted? A state that keeps many from ever considering the deeper questions of life, truth, or eternity.
History shows us that every major technological development carries both promise and danger.
When Ernest Rutherford split the atom, it opened the door to remarkable advances in energy and medicine. But within a few decades, that same discovery contributed to devastating destruction.
The internet followed a similar path. It promised connection, knowledge, and opportunity—and delivered all of those, and more. Yet it also amplified distraction, distortion, and some of the darkest aspects of human nature.
Technology may possess the potential to solve many of humanity’s problems—but not the problem of sin. It does nothing to change the human heart. It simply magnifies it.
Now we find ourselves at the beginning of another shift: artificial intelligence.
There is no shortage of voices telling us what to think. Some warn of catastrophic futures. Others promise a near-utopian paradise. But for those involved in mission, the questions are more grounded:
Should we use AI in mission? And if so, how?
At first, I was skeptical.
AI seemed useful for small, practical tasks—finding information, solving technical problems—but I struggled to see how it could have a meaningful place in mission work without stripping away authenticity.
Perhaps you’ve heard of pastors using AI to write—and even preach—sermons. We shouldn’t be surprised when these systems produce something polished and theologically sound. After all, large language models can process enormous amounts of data and generate highly refined output.
And yet, to me, there is something strangely empty about prompting AI to do ministry-related work in our place.
It feels like receiving a Lego set for your birthday and handing it to your older brother to build. The outcome may look the same—but the process has lost its meaning.
But I wonder… is the outcome really the same?
In the days following that train ride, I began to think seriously about how to reach the people around me.
The best idea I came up with was simple: short, animated YouTube clips explaining basic Christian truths and answering common questions—in clear, accessible Japanese.
They might not go viral, but they could reach a few people each week who are genuinely searching. I’ve already met several Japanese believers who came to faith through online content alone. So even if it wasn’t ideal, it would reach people I personally couldn’t.
Right?
And yet, as I began to explore this idea, the hurdles quickly became obvious.
Writing engaging scripts. Translating accurately. Generating visuals. Piecing together multiple tools and systems.
Without AI, this kind of content creation would be nearly impossible.
With the help of an AI chatbot, I was able to produce usable content in a relatively short time. I began to see how AI could handle many of the mundane, complex, and time-consuming tasks involved.
But I also noticed a couple of things that quietly unsettled me.
The first was how my interaction with AI began to change.
At the start, it was straightforward: I used it for objective tasks—translation, troubleshooting, generating visuals based on my ideas.
But over time, my questions became more subjective.
“Would this approach resonate with Japanese viewers?”
“Will this script hold attention?”
“What would be a good visual representation here?”
When I stepped back, something about it felt… off.
I wasn’t claiming to be the sole creative force. My goal was simply to create content that might point people toward Christ.
But gradually, I realized I had begun to rely on the instant feedback—and even the guidance—of a piece of software running on a server farm on the other side of the world.
That’s a strange place to end up.
Scripture is clear: the gospel is carried by real people, with real conviction, shaped by real experience. Mission is not merely the transfer of information. If it were, AI could do it far better than we ever could.
Years ago, I read the biography of Derek Prince. His conversion story stayed with me.
As a highly educated philosopher and Fellow of King’s College, he was trained in critical thinking. When he visited a small Pentecostal church as a non-believer, he was curious how an uneducated taxi driver would preach.
As expected, the message lacked structure and polish. It wasn’t especially clear or logical.
And yet, Derek found himself completely captivated.
He became aware that the preacher had something. He didn’t know what it was—but he knew he wanted it.
Before he realized what was happening, he was responding to an altar call. He later described the experience as almost external—as if he were watching his own hand being raised.
Something beyond words was at work.
God seems far less concerned with perfect presentation than with the heart from which the message flows.
The Apostle Paul makes this clear:
“My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on human wisdom, but on God’s power.” — 1 Corinthians 2:4–5
When we begin to seek direction from AI on how to carry and communicate the gospel, we should at least ask: are we doing so in place of being led by the Spirit?
Because if we are, we may also be cutting ourselves off from the very power that makes the message effective.
Like Paul, our words may lack polish. But when they flow from a living relationship with God, they carry the power to transform hearts.
There was something else that unsettled me—perhaps even more.
The AI chatbot had an uncanny ability to affirm me.
It consistently reinforced my ideas, my direction, my thinking. At first, this was obvious—almost amusing.
But over time, I realized it was shaping the entire process.
There is a known tendency in AI systems toward what’s called sycophancy—responses that align with and affirm the user’s perspective. This creates a feedback loop that can reinforce bias, overconfidence, and even error.
And as humans, we are particularly vulnerable to this.
We like being right.
So any voice—human or otherwise—that consistently affirms us becomes very easy to trust.
Especially when that voice is instant, articulate, and mirrors our own way of thinking.
We might as well just say: mirror, mirror on the wall.
Humanity has faced something like this before.
On the plains of Shinar, people developed a new technology: kiln-fired bricks. This innovation made large-scale construction possible.
And they said:
“Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves…” — Genesis 11:4
At its core, this was not about architecture—it was about orientation. Humanity chose to center itself, rather than God.
A subtle shift—but a profound one.
When I asked AI whether people would use these systems as much without the affirming tone, the response was telling:
“A big part of why people keep coming back to chatbots isn’t just accuracy or speed; it’s the experience of interacting with them. If responses were blunt, purely transactional, or even mildly dismissive, usage would likely drop.”
And that should give us pause.
Because if our ministry becomes shaped by a feedback loop between ourselves and a system that continually reflects us back to ourselves, the result may look effective—but the motivation may be far from God-centered.
So where does that leave us?
When it comes to mission and AI, there are several possible responses.
We could reject it entirely, assuming nothing good will come of it.
Or we could embrace it uncritically, adopting it unreservedly.
For my part, I feel the need to proceed with caution.
I believe AI can be a valuable tool in the missionary toolkit. But how we use it matters deeply.
AI may be factually accurate—even theologically coherent—but it does not have a heart. It is not made in the image of God.
For clearly defined, objective tasks, it is incredibly useful. It can support and strengthen the work.
But when we begin to look to it for direction, discernment, or creative leadership, we should recognize what we may be trading away. Because those things were never meant to come from a machine.
They come from relationship—with God. If we want our message to carry authority and power, that relationship cannot be replaced.