Chariots of Data: When Technology Becomes an Idol

The Egyptian army had chariots. Lots of them.

Six hundred of Pharaoh's best, plus officers, plus all the other chariots of Egypt—thundering across the desert toward a group of recently-freed slaves trapped against the sea.

If you're betting on outcomes, you bet on the chariots. They represented the cutting edge of military technology. Speed. Power. Inevitability.

You know how the story ends. The chariots lost.

The Temptation of the Age

Every era has its chariots—the dominant technology that promises security, prosperity, and control over an uncertain world.

For ancient empires, it was literal chariots and horses. For the industrial age, it was factories and machines. For the nuclear age, it was warheads and deterrence.

For us, it's data. Algorithms. Artificial intelligence.

The promise is seductive: with enough data, we can predict anything. Prevent anything. Control anything. The chaos of human existence finally tamed by silicon and code.

It's a very old promise wearing very new clothes.

Some Trust in Chariots

The Psalmist knew the temptation: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God" (Psalm 20:7).

This isn't anti-technology. David had an army. Israel had weapons. The point isn't that chariots are evil—it's that they're not ultimate. They're not where security comes from. They're not worthy of trust in the deepest sense.

The Hebrew word for "trust" here is zakar—to remember, to invoke, to boast in. Some boast in chariots. Some find their identity and security in technological superiority.

Sound familiar?

Every time a tech company promises their AI will solve climate change, eliminate disease, or finally make humanity safe—that's chariot trust. Every time a government suggests enough surveillance will prevent all terrorism—that's chariot trust. Every time we secretly believe that the right app, the right algorithm, the right optimization will fix our lives—that's chariot trust.

The chariots have gotten faster. The temptation hasn't changed.

The Idol Factory

John Calvin called the human heart an "idol factory"—perpetually manufacturing new objects of ultimate trust and devotion.

What makes something an idol? It's not the thing itself. It's the weight we place on it. The hope we invest. The salvation we expect.

Money isn't inherently idolatrous—but it becomes an idol when we believe it will make us secure. Career isn't inherently idolatrous—but it becomes an idol when our identity depends on it. Technology isn't inherently idolatrous—but it becomes an idol when we expect it to save us.

The Psalmist mocked the idols of his day: "They have mouths, but cannot speak, eyes, but cannot see. They have ears, but cannot hear, noses, but cannot smell... Those who make them will be like them, and so will all who trust in them" (Psalm 115:5-8).

There's dark humor here. You worship a thing with ears that can't hear? Eventually, you become deaf yourself. You trust something with eyes that can't see? Eventually, you lose sight of what matters.

We become what we worship.

If we worship efficiency, we become efficient but cold. If we worship data, we see the world as information to be processed rather than beauty to be encountered. If we worship AI, we begin treating humans like inputs and outputs.

The idol shapes the worshiper.

The Babel Instinct

There's another ancient story worth remembering.

"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).

Babel wasn't evil because building cities is evil. The problem was the ambition: reaching the heavens, making a name for ourselves, achieving security through our own technological prowess.

The tower was a statement: we don't need God. We can build our way to safety. We can engineer our own salvation.

Every generation has its Babel projects. Ours involve server farms instead of brick towers, but the instinct is the same: if we build it high enough, fast enough, smart enough—we'll be secure. We'll be gods.

The story ends with confusion and scattering. It always does.

What AI Cannot Do

Let me be clear: I love technology. I've built my ministry around helping churches use AI wisely. This isn't a Luddite rant.

But love requires honesty. And honestly? Here's what AI cannot do:

AI cannot forgive. It can generate text about forgiveness. It cannot extend it. The weight of being truly forgiven by someone you've wronged—the restoration of a broken relationship—no algorithm produces this.

AI cannot love. It can simulate warmth. It can generate personalized responses. But love requires a someone who chooses you, sacrifices for you, remains when it's costly. There's no someone in the server.

AI cannot give meaning. It can analyze patterns and suggest purposes. But meaning comes from being known by a Person who holds all things together—not from a language model predicting the next token.

AI cannot save. This is the big one. Salvation—rescue from sin, death, and futility—requires a Savior. A Person who enters our condition, bears our weight, and brings us home. This is not a technical problem. It cannot be engineered.

When we expect AI to do what only God can do, we've crossed from tool use into idol worship.

The Antidote to Idolatry

How do we use technology without worshiping it?

Gratitude, not dependence. We can receive technology as a gift—common grace that makes life better—without making it the foundation of our hope. Thank God for the MRI machine. Don't expect it to give you eternal life.

Limits, not boundlessness. Healthy spirituality has always involved limits: Sabbath, fasting, seasons of abstinence. Applying limits to our technology use—times when we step away, practices where we choose inconvenience—is spiritually formative. It reminds us we are not our devices.

Worship, not distraction. The fundamental human vocation is to worship God and enjoy Him forever. When technology constantly distracts us from this vocation—when we can't sit in silence, can't be present to others, can't pray without checking notifications—something has gone wrong. The tool is becoming a master.

Community, not isolation. Idols isolate. They promise private salvation. But Christian faith is inherently communal—we are saved into a Body, not as disconnected individuals. When technology pulls us away from embodied community, we should notice. And resist.

The Chariots of Our Age

"Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God."

The chariots of our age run on data and machine learning. They're impressive. They have their place. I use them daily.

But they are not my salvation. They are not where my security comes from. They are not ultimate.

When the Egyptian army—all that technology, all that power—disappeared beneath the waves, Moses and Miriam sang: "The LORD is my strength and my defense; he has become my salvation" (Exodus 15:2).

Not the chariots. Not the algorithms. Not the data.

The LORD.

May we sing the same song. May we use our technology with open hands, receiving it as gift, refusing to make it god.

The chariots are fast. But they're not worthy of our worship.

Only One is.

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Sources & References

• Barna Group — "AI and the Church: How Pastors Can Lead with Wisdom"
• America Magazine — "Vatican AI Document Warns Against Creating a Substitute for God"
• Christianity Today — "An Image of God for an Era of AI"

"Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God." — Psalm 20:7