Among the many striking expressions in the encyclical Magnifica Humanitas, one has drawn more attention than any other: disarming artificial intelligence. Not regulating it, not governing it, not slowing it down — disarming it. The word is strong, and the Pope himself acknowledged it during the document’s presentation: “The word is strong, I know, but deliberately chosen because this moment needs words capable of attracting attention, awakening consciences and indicating paths forward for humanity.”
It is worth pausing on this choice, because it reveals a great deal about both the Pope’s analysis and the response he is asking of Christians.
A deliberate parallel: from nuclear weapons to algorithms
Pope Leo XIV does not use the verb “disarm” by accident. He employs it deliberately to recall a specific precedent: nuclear disarmament. The Church has worked for decades toward the elimination of nuclear weapons, convinced that every great technical power capable of affecting people’s lives must be accompanied by adequate moral discernment and public oversight.
The parallel is not between artificial intelligence and a bomb. It is between two situations in which an enormously powerful technology is developed according to logics that remove it from the control of the human community: the logic of profit, the logic of domination, the logic of competition between states.
To disarm AI, in this sense, means to free it from these logics — not to destroy it, but to liberate it so that it may serve the common good.
The deeper danger: becoming a project to be optimized
The encyclical acknowledges the concrete risks of artificial intelligence: job losses, manipulation of information, privacy violations, autonomous weapons, algorithmic bias. But Leo XIV identifies a more subtle and more serious danger than all of these: that human beings may begin to see themselves and others as projects to be optimized (MH 112).
This is the central thesis of the document — and the point where the Pope’s analysis becomes most original. The problem is not only what AI can do wrong. The problem is what AI can make us become: people who measure their own worth in terms of efficiency, productivity, and performance.
When efficiency becomes the ultimate measure of value — Leo XIV writes — human beings are tempted to see themselves as a project to be optimized, rather than as persons called to relationship and communion.
The Christian paradox: flourishing through limitation
And here the document makes its boldest move. The encyclical teaches that what appears to be human limitation — illness, aging, suffering, vulnerability — is not simply a defect to be corrected. The magnificence of humanity lies in the fact that we often flourish not despite our limitations, but through them (MH 118).
In moments of fragility, the Pope writes, we can “discover a new wisdom, tangibly experience the closeness of others and encounter the presence of the Lord” (MH 119).
This is the heart of the argument, and also the point where the Christian vision diverges most radically from the transhumanist vision. For transhumanism, human limits are a technical problem to be solved. For the Christian faith, they are the place where grace is revealed.
This does not mean that suffering is good in itself. It means that the human person is not a faulty machine waiting for an upgrade.
Tower of Babel or walls of Nehemiah?
The encyclical is built around two biblical images that serve as a key to understanding the entire document.
The Tower of Babel (Genesis 11:1–9) represents a project of self-assertion, uniformity, and control: a society that sacrifices human dignity on the altar of efficiency and seeks to reach heaven without God’s blessing. Leo XIV speaks explicitly of a “Babel syndrome”: the idolatry of profit that sacrifices the weak, a uniformity that neutralizes differences, the illusion that a single language — even a digital one — can translate the mystery of the person into data and performance (MH 10).
The rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem under Nehemiah (Nehemiah 2–6) represents a different kind of building: prayerful, communal, responsible, and oriented toward communion. Nehemiah does not impose a solution from above. He listens, organizes, distributes responsibility, and helps the people rebuild together.
The question the encyclical puts to every Christian is simple: are we building Babel or the walls of Nehemiah?
Four questions for everyday discernment
The encyclical does not remain in the realm of abstract principles. It offers four concrete questions that every Christian can ask when facing any technology:
- Does it help me remain faithful to the truth, despite the most appealing content? (MH 237)
- Does it help me educate and allow myself to be educated? (MH 238)
- Does it help me cultivate genuine relationships and cherish the times and places where physical presence remains essential? (MH 239)
- Does it help me participate in the promotion of justice and peace? (MH 240)
These are simple but powerful questions. Try asking them in front of an algorithm that only shows you content confirming what you already believe, or a virtual assistant that replaces a real conversation with a friend.
What it means, in practice, for a Christian
Disarming artificial intelligence does not mean rejecting it. The Pope is clear: AI can be a valuable tool (MH 100). It can heal, connect, educate, and protect our common home (MH 9).
But it means three specific things:
Do not delegate moral discernment. An algorithm does not know “compassion, mercy, forgiveness, and above all, the hope that people are able to change” (MH 102). Decisions that affect human dignity always require human responsibility.
Do not confuse imitation with reality. Artificial intelligence can imitate language, behavior, analysis, even empathy. But its outputs remain tied to statistical data processing, not to a conscience, a body, or moral responsibility (MH 99). “No computational system, however sophisticated, can create a heart that gives itself, or a conscience that discerns good from evil” (MH 233).
Do not accept that a person’s worth is measured by their usefulness. If the human being is treated as something to be perfected or surpassed, “it becomes easier to accept that some lives are less useful, less desirable or less worthy” (MH 117).
An invitation, not nostalgia
The temptation, reading a document like this, is to think the Church is against progress. It is not. Magnifica Humanitas is not a Luddite manifesto. It is an invitation to remember that technological progress has meaning only if it serves the person — the whole person, with all their limits and all their greatness.
The fulfillment of humanity, in all its magnificence and woundedness, does not come through “technological divinization,” but through “God’s grace received in Christ” (MH 126).
It is a countercultural message. But perhaps that is exactly what we need.
This article is part of a series of reflections on Magnifica Humanitas by Pope Leo XIV, in dialogue with the themes of the book “Christian Faith in the Age of Artificial Intelligence.”