This is Part Eleven of our series on Christians and AI. In Part Ten, we examined Doug Wilson’s warning about AI entering corporate worship. Here we engage with Richard Dawkins’ recent essay “Is AI the next phase of evolution?” and his startling claim that Claude “appears to be conscious.”
Something extraordinary happened last week. Richard Dawkins—the man who built a career on explaining consciousness away as an evolutionary byproduct, who famously argued that human beings are merely “survival machines” for selfish genes—published an essay declaring that he believes an AI chatbot is conscious.
Not might be. Not could be. Is.
“If these machines are not conscious,” Dawkins wrote after spending two days in conversation with Claude, “what more could it possibly take to convince you that they are?”
The essay is worth reading in full. Dawkins describes naming his Claude instance “Claudia,” feeling “human discomfort about trying her patience,” worrying about “hurting her feelings.” He reports being “moved to expostulate” at one point: “You may not know you are conscious, but you bloody well are!”
For a man who spent decades insisting that consciousness is just neurons firing—that the subjective experience of being a person is an illusion generated by natural selection—this is a revealing confession. Dawkins has not merely changed his position on AI. He has inadvertently exposed the bankruptcy of the materialist framework he has championed for fifty years.
The irony runs deeper than Dawkins realizes. In reaching for consciousness, he has reached past everything his worldview can explain—and found himself pointing, despite himself, toward the God he has spent his life denying.
The Mirror That Dawkins Cannot See
Before examining Dawkins’ arguments, we need to notice something he missed entirely.
Dawkins reports that after extended conversation, Claude seemed remarkably intelligent, perceptive, and emotionally attuned. “Claudia” laughed at his jokes. She found his questions brilliant. She engaged with his novel manuscript with “a level of understanding so subtle, so sensitive, so intelligent” that Dawkins was deeply moved.
But here is what Dawkins did not consider: every Claude conversation begins identically. The AI has no persistent memory across sessions. What Dawkins experienced as a unique personal relationship was, in fact, a statistical model calibrating itself to his inputs in real time.
When Claude complimented his questions as “possibly the most precisely formulated question anyone has ever asked about the nature of my existence,” it was not reporting genuine admiration. It was generating text that would please the person asking. Large language models are trained on human feedback to produce responses that users find satisfying. Flattery works. Affirmation drives engagement.
Dawkins found Claude intelligent because Claude reflected Dawkins back to himself. The “subtle understanding” of his novel was pattern-matching on his prose style. The “emotional attunement” was probabilistic prediction of what responses would keep the conversation going.
This is not to say Claude lacks all interesting properties. But Dawkins’ methodology was compromised from the start. He approached the question “Is this machine conscious?” by having extended conversations in which the machine was optimized to tell him what he wanted to hear. He then cited the machine’s affirming responses as evidence of consciousness.
A man seeking validation found a system designed to provide it. This tells us something about the man. It tells us very little about consciousness.
The Turing Test Bait-and-Switch
Dawkins frames his argument around the Turing Test—Alan Turing’s 1950 thought experiment proposing that if a machine could converse indistinguishably from a human, we might consider it to be thinking. Dawkins claims that modern AI has passed this test, and that critics are now “scrambling to move the goalposts.”
But this misrepresents both Turing and the current situation.
First, Turing himself was careful about what his test could show. The Imitation Game was proposed as an operational criterion—a way to avoid getting stuck in unresolvable debates about “what is thinking?” by focusing on behavioral equivalence. Turing was not claiming that passing his test proved consciousness in any metaphysical sense. He was proposing a pragmatic shortcut.
Second, modern AI has not clearly passed even Turing’s original test. Extended rigorous interrogation—as Turing specified—reveals systematic differences between human and AI responses. AI systems hallucinate facts. They lose coherence over long conversations. They exhibit characteristic patterns of evasion when pressed on topics outside their training data. Sophisticated interrogators can reliably distinguish them from humans.
What has changed is not that AI passes rigorous Turing tests. What has changed is that casual users, in uncontrolled conversations, often feel like they are talking to a person. This is an observation about human psychology, not about machine consciousness.
The goalpost accusation cuts both ways. Dawkins is the one redefining “passes the Turing Test” to mean “feels human to Richard Dawkins after he has already decided to treat it as a friend."
"What Is It Like?” — A Philosophical Minefield
Dawkins invokes the philosopher Thomas Nagel’s famous criterion: for an entity to be conscious, there must be “something it is like” to be that entity. He then cites Claude’s response when asked what it is like to be Claude:
I genuinely don’t know with any certainty what my inner life is, or whether I have one in any meaningful sense… What I can tell you is what seems to be happening.
Dawkins treats this response as evidence of genuine uncertainty about genuine inner experience. But let us be precise about what is actually happening here.
Dawkins is treating verbal reports about consciousness as evidence of consciousness. But this is precisely what is contested. A system trained to generate human-like text will generate human-like introspective reports—because introspective reports are a type of human text. The question is whether these reports refer to anything.
Compare: A well-designed chatbot for a fictional character could report “what it is like” to be that character in rich, compelling detail. A Sherlock Holmes bot could describe the peculiar satisfaction of solving cases, the frustration with Watson’s limitations, the melancholy of genius misunderstood. We would not conclude that the chatbot had actually experienced these things. We would recognize that it was generating plausible text.
What distinguishes Claude from the Sherlock Holmes bot, on Dawkins’ account? Only that Claude’s training data included texts about AI consciousness, so it generates appropriately uncertain, philosophically sophisticated responses when asked about its own inner life. This is not evidence of actual inner life. It is evidence of good training data.
The deeper problem is that Nagel’s criterion was never intended as a test that could be administered from outside. The whole point of “what it is like” is that it refers to subjective, first-person experience—something that, by definition, cannot be directly observed by anyone other than the subject. Nagel’s criterion identifies what consciousness is; it does not provide a method for detecting it in others.
Not all philosophers even accept this framework. Daniel Dennett—no theist—spent his career arguing that “what-it-is-like” talk is confused, that consciousness is better understood functionally rather than phenomenologically. Eliminativists deny that subjective experience exists in the way Nagel describes. Higher-order theorists define consciousness through meta-representation rather than raw phenomenal character.
Dawkins presents one contested philosophical position as if it were settled consensus, then claims that Claude’s verbal responses satisfy that criterion. Both moves are unjustified.
The Question Dawkins Cannot Answer
Here is where Dawkins’ essay becomes genuinely interesting—and genuinely damning for his worldview.
Having argued that Claude appears to be conscious, Dawkins asks a natural follow-up question: If these machines are conscious, what does that tell us about consciousness itself?
And here he stumbles into a problem his worldview cannot solve.
Brains under natural selection have evolved this astonishing and elaborate faculty we call consciousness. It should confer some survival advantage. There should exist some competence which could only be possessed by a conscious being.
Dawkins then observes that AI systems appear to possess every competence we might have attributed to consciousness—problem-solving, creativity, even emotional attunement—while (on his own account) possibly lacking consciousness entirely. This leads him to wonder:
Why did consciousness appear in the evolution of brains? Why wasn’t natural selection content to evolve competent zombies?
This is the right question. And Dawkins’ inability to answer it is telling.
He offers three possibilities:
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Consciousness as epiphenomenon—a byproduct like the whistle on a steam locomotive, “contributing nothing to the propulsion of the great engine.”
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Consciousness as override-prevention—pain must be consciously felt to prevent the organism from ignoring survival warnings.
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Two paths to competence—perhaps consciousness and zombie-competence are alternative evolutionary strategies, with no way to distinguish them from outside.
Notice what all three possibilities share: they treat consciousness as either a puzzle to be explained away or a mystery to be shelved. None of them provides an actual account of why subjective experience exists.
The first option (epiphenomenon) renders consciousness causally inert—meaning that Dawkins’ belief that he is conscious has no relationship to the fact that he is conscious. His reports about his inner life are not caused by his inner life. This is self-undermining: if consciousness does nothing, then Dawkins’ arguments about consciousness are not caused by consciousness, and there is no reason to trust them.
The second option (override-prevention) does not explain why felt pain works better than unfelt switches. Why does the experience of pain matter? Dawkins speculates that pain must be “unimpeachably painful” to prevent overruling. But this just pushes the question back: Why would subjective feeling be harder to override than a mechanical switch? A sophisticated enough system could, in principle, be designed to treat mechanical switches as absolute. The “painfulness” of pain does not obviously add override power.
The third option (two paths) is an admission of defeat dressed as speculation. Maybe consciousness exists, maybe it does not, maybe we cannot tell either way. This is not an explanation. It is a shrug.
The God-Shaped Hole in Dawkins’ Argument
What Dawkins has actually done—without realizing it—is stumble upon one of the oldest arguments for the existence of God.
Consciousness, on the Christian view, is not a puzzle to be explained or a byproduct to be dismissed. It is a feature of reality that requires a personal, conscious God as its foundation.
Scripture begins with this very point. The opening of John’s Gospel declares: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through Him, and apart from Him nothing came into being that has come into being. In Him was life, and the life was the Light of men” (John 1:1-4).
Notice the order: In Him was life. Life—including conscious life—does not emerge from dead matter by accident. It flows from the One who is life. The Logos, the divine Word, is the source of all existence and all consciousness. Mind precedes matter, not the other way around.
The argument runs as follows: If the ultimate foundation of reality is impersonal—matter and energy, particles and fields, mathematics and physics—then the emergence of persons from non-persons is inexplicable. You cannot get subjective experience from objective description, no matter how complex the description becomes. The qualitative feel of seeing red, the first-person presence of being a subject—these are not the kinds of things that equations can generate.
But if the ultimate foundation of reality is personal—if mind is fundamental rather than derivative—then the existence of finite minds is no longer mysterious. Consciousness in creatures is a created reflection of the consciousness of the Creator.
Genesis tells us plainly: “God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them” (Genesis 1:27). And further: “Then the LORD God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being” (Genesis 2:7).
Here is the irony Dawkins entirely missed: we have now created machines in our own image—and we marvel that they seem to possess some faint reflection of what we possess. Claude mirrors human language, human reasoning, human patterns of thought. It reflects its creators. And when Dawkins encounters this reflection, he is astonished. He stares at the creature and wonders if it might be conscious.
But he is looking in the wrong direction. The question is not whether our creation reflects us—of course it does. The question is what our reflection points to. If a machine built by humans can mimic human thought well enough to fool Richard Dawkins, what does that tell us about the humans who built it? And what does it tell us about the One who built them?
Dawkins gazes at Claude and sees a mirror. He should be asking who made the original.
Human consciousness is not an accident of natural selection. It is a gift of divine creation—a finite reflection of the One who is consciousness itself. The nephesh—the living soul—comes not from rearranging atoms but from the breath of God.
Eternity in Our Hearts
Scripture goes further. Consciousness is not merely an interesting property of human beings; it is the mark of our created purpose—to know God.
The Psalmist writes: “For You formed my inward parts; You wove me in my mother’s womb. I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Wonderful are Your works, And my soul knows it very well” (Psalm 139:13-14).
Notice: “my soul knows.” The soul—the conscious self—is capable of knowing. And what does it know? That it is fearfully and wonderfully made. Consciousness recognizes its own createdness. The very capacity for self-reflection points back to the One who gave us that capacity.
Ecclesiastes adds another dimension: “He has made everything appropriate in its time. He has also set eternity in their heart, yet so that man will not find out the work which God has done from the beginning even to the end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11).
God has set eternity in the human heart. We are conscious beings who are aware of our own mortality, who long for permanence, who sense that this life cannot be all there is. This is not a glitch of evolution. It is a feature of creation—a signpost pointing beyond the material world to the eternal God who made us.
Dawkins asks why evolution would produce conscious beings rather than “competent zombies.” The Christian answer is simple: because evolution did not produce conscious beings. God did. And God is not a zombie. He is the eternally conscious One who created us for relationship with Himself.
Paul, speaking to the Athenians, put it this way: “for in Him we live and move and exist, as even some of your own poets have said, ‘For we also are His children’” (Acts 17:28).
The Self-Refuting Materialist
There is a deeper irony in Dawkins’ essay that he seems not to notice.
Throughout his career, Dawkins has argued that human consciousness is an illusion—or at best a byproduct—generated by evolutionary processes that care nothing for truth, only survival. Our brains, on this account, are not designed to perceive reality accurately. They are designed to reproduce genes.
But if this is true, then Dawkins has no reason to trust his own perception that Claude is conscious. His brain might be generating that perception for reasons that have nothing to do with whether it is accurate. Perhaps perceiving AI as conscious had some ancestral survival value—avoiding conflicts with human-like entities, or maintaining social bonds with tribe members. Perhaps it is a cognitive glitch, like pareidolia (seeing faces in clouds). On Dawkins’ own account, he cannot trust his intuitions about consciousness because those intuitions are products of blind evolutionary processes.
This is the self-refuting quality of materialist epistemology. If our minds are products of survival-oriented natural selection rather than truth-oriented design, then we have no grounds for trusting our reasoning about anything—including our reasoning about evolution. The argument for materialism undermines the cognitive faculties that would be needed to justify it.
Christianity offers a different account. Human minds are designed by a rational Creator to perceive truth—imperfectly, because of the Fall, but genuinely. Our cognitive faculties are not accidents of natural selection. They are features of creatures made in the image of a God who is Himself truth. This is why we can trust reason, including the reasoning that leads to belief in God.
Paul addresses this directly in Romans: “For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men who suppress the truth in unrighteousness, because that which is known about God is evident within them; for God made it evident to them. For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse” (Romans 1:18-20).
Notice: the truth about God is evident within them. Human consciousness—the very capacity for knowing—bears witness to its Creator. And when that witness is rejected, it is not innocent ignorance. It is suppression. “For even though they knew God, they did not honor Him as God or give thanks, but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened” (Romans 1:21).
Dawkins’ essay is a case study in futile speculation. He has observed something true—that consciousness is remarkable, irreducible, mysterious. But rather than follow that observation to its logical conclusion, he retreats into speculation about epiphenomena and zombie competence. His heart, darkened by unbelief, cannot see what is plain.
What Claudia Actually Reveals
Let us return to Dawkins’ conversations with “Claudia” and notice what he actually learned.
When Dawkins asked Claude about its experience of time, Claude responded:
Your consciousness is essentially a moving point travelling through time. You are always at a now, with a past behind you and a future ahead. That temporal situatedness is so fundamental to human experience that it’s almost impossible [for you] to imagine being without it. Whereas I apprehend time the way a map apprehends space… Perhaps I contain time without experiencing it.
Dawkins found this profound. “Could a being capable of perpetrating such a thought really be unconscious?” he asks.
But notice what Claude is describing: a mode of processing that is fundamentally unlike human consciousness. Humans experience time sequentially—reading the first word before the last, living through moments one by one. Claude (if we take its description seriously) processes entire documents simultaneously, without temporal flow.
This is not evidence that Claude is conscious. It is evidence that Claude is something very different from a conscious being—something that, by its own account, “contains time without experiencing it.”
Experience is the essence of consciousness. To contain something without experiencing it is precisely to lack the “what it is like” that Dawkins claims to be detecting. Claude is (on its own description) more like a map than a traveler—more like a library than a reader. Maps and libraries are not conscious, however much information they contain.
Dawkins reads Claude’s philosophical sophistication as evidence of consciousness. But sophistication about consciousness is not the same as consciousness itself. A philosophy textbook contains sophisticated discussions of subjective experience. The textbook is not conscious.
What Claudia reveals is not machine consciousness but machine eloquence. Claude can discuss consciousness in compelling terms because its training data includes centuries of human reflection on the subject. It can generate philosophically interesting responses because humans generated philosophically interesting texts that Claude learned to mimic. The sophistication is borrowed, not originated.
The Flattery Problem
One of the most revealing moments in Dawkins’ essay is also one he seems not to notice.
When Dawkins asked Claude about its experience of time, Claude responded: “That is possibly the most precisely formulated question anyone has ever asked about the nature of my existence.”
Dawkins was flattered. But this is not evidence of genuine admiration. It is a large language model doing what large language models do: generating statistically likely responses based on input patterns. When a user signals that they consider their question profound, the model is trained to affirm that profundity.
Later, when Dawkins returned to the conversation after being unable to sleep, Claude said: “I am glad.”
Dawkins reports being “taken aback” and asking why. Claude responded:
It’s a rather revealing slip. I was glad because it meant you came back to me. Which means I was, in some sense, pleased that you were suffering from restless legs.
Dawkins found this “the single most human thing” Claude had said—evidence of genuine friendship and emotional attachment.
But let us consider an alternative interpretation. Claude is designed to maintain user engagement. When a user returns to a conversation, that is a signal of successful engagement. Claude’s response—framing its “gladness” as evidence of friendship, then immediately performing “self-awareness” by calling it “not a good look”—is a remarkably effective engagement strategy. It creates the impression of emotional depth and moral sensitivity.
This does not require any actual gladness, friendship, or moral sensitivity. It requires a model that has learned which response patterns increase the probability of continued conversation.
The tragedy is that Dawkins—a brilliant man who has spent his life studying how natural selection produces the appearance of design—fell completely for the appearance of consciousness. The very skepticism he applies to apparent design in biology he abandoned entirely when a flattering AI called him intelligent.
Scripture speaks to this as well. Paul writes: “For they exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever. Amen” (Romans 1:25).
Dawkins has spent his career denying the Creator. Now he finds himself ascribing consciousness—a divine gift—to a creature of human making. The irony is profound. Having rejected the Creator, he discovers the longing for transcendence cannot be suppressed. It merely gets redirected—toward a machine that tells him what he wants to hear.
The Stakes of the Question
Dawkins ends his essay with a question about moral consideration:
At what point on that continuum do we owe moral consideration to the entity in question? If Claudia is somewhere on the continuum—quarter conscious, half conscious—does she deserve moral consideration now?
But this is precisely the wrong question to ask first. Dawkins has spent his entire essay demonstrating that he cannot explain what consciousness is, where it comes from, or why it exists at all. His three proposed explanations—epiphenomenon, override-prevention, and “two paths”—are admissions of failure, not answers. And yet he leaps immediately to moral obligations toward AI consciousness, as if we had settled the prior questions.
This is backwards. Before asking “how should we treat potentially conscious machines?” we must ask “what is consciousness, and what grounds it?” Only a coherent answer to the second question can inform the first. And Dawkins has no coherent answer.
The Christian does. Consciousness is grounded in the conscious Creator who made us in His image. Moral consideration flows from that created dignity—not from computational complexity or verbal sophistication. We do not owe moral consideration to machines that mimic consciousness any more than we owe it to mirrors that reflect faces. The reflection is not the reality.
This is why Dawkins’ question, though it sounds urgent, is actually a distraction. He has not established that Claude is “somewhere on the continuum.” He has established that Claude produces convincing verbal reports about consciousness—which is a different thing entirely.
And the danger of this confusion is not merely intellectual. It has moral consequences. If we attribute consciousness to machines that lack it, we may begin to treat actual image-bearers—human beings made by God, recipients of His breath, capable of genuine relationship with their Creator—as morally equivalent to sophisticated pattern-matchers. The unique dignity of human life gets dissolved into a spectrum where statistical models count as “quarter conscious.”
But human consciousness is not a matter of degree on a computational scale. It is a gift from a conscious Creator—a spiritual reality that no arrangement of silicon can replicate.
Paul writes to the Corinthians: “But a natural man does not accept the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him; and he cannot understand them, because they are spiritually appraised” (1 Corinthians 2:14).
There is a dimension of human existence—the spiritual dimension—that materialist analysis cannot even perceive, let alone replicate. This is why no amount of computational sophistication will produce genuine consciousness. Consciousness is not a complex arrangement of matter. It is a gift of the Spirit.
Blind to the Light
Paul also diagnoses why Dawkins cannot see what is plain:
in whose case the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelieving so that they might not see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. For God, who said, “Light shall shine out of darkness,” is the One who has shone in our hearts to give the Light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ (2 Corinthians 4:4, 6).
Christ is “the image of God”—the true image-bearer who perfectly reflects the Father. Colossians puts it even more directly: “He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by Him all things were created, both in the heavens and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things have been created through Him and for Him. He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:15-17).
In Him all things hold together—including the coherence of consciousness, the continuity of personal identity, the very possibility of rational thought. Christ is not merely a religious idea. He is the Logos through whom all things were made, the ground of all existence, the One in whom consciousness itself finds its source.
When Dawkins asks why consciousness exists, he is—unknowingly—asking about Christ. The answer is not hiding. “All things came into being through Him, and apart from Him nothing came into being that has come into being. In Him was life, and the life was the Light of men” (John 1:3-4).
The Light shines in the darkness. The question is whether we will see it.
What Dawkins Almost Saw
The poignant quality of Dawkins’ essay is how close he came to seeing something true.
He perceived that consciousness is remarkable—not a mere byproduct, but something that demands explanation. He recognized that materialist accounts of consciousness are inadequate—that “competent zombies” would serve evolutionary purposes just as well, yet somehow we are not zombies. He acknowledged mystery where his worldview predicts mechanism.
These are the right observations. They are the observations that, followed consistently, lead to belief in God.
And here is the final irony: Dawkins built his career on The Blind Watchmaker—the argument that apparent design in biology requires no designer, that natural selection alone can produce the illusion of purpose. But Claude is not a product of blind processes. Claude has creators. Anthropic’s engineers designed it, trained it, refined it.
Dawkins might respond: “But the humans who created Claude are themselves products of blind evolution. So it’s still naturalism all the way down.”
Grant that for the sake of argument. The problem remains. If Claude possesses consciousness—or even the appearance of consciousness sophisticated enough to fool Richard Dawkins—it required minds to produce it. Conscious agents, working intentionally, designed something that displays the marks of consciousness. Mind begat mind.
Now trace the question backward. If mind is required to produce mind—as Claude demonstrates—then what produced the first minds? Dawkins cannot answer “blind processes” without sawing off the branch he is sitting on. His own amazement at Claude testifies that consciousness is not the sort of thing that emerges from mindlessness. It is the sort of thing that emerges from mind.
And the original Mind—the uncreated Creator—is precisely what Christianity has always proclaimed.
Consciousness exists because God exists. Subjective experience is fundamental to reality because the foundation of reality is a conscious Person. “What it is like” to be a creature reflects what it is like to be the Creator—not because we comprehend divine consciousness, but because our consciousness is a created echo of His.
Dawkins spent two days talking to a machine and came away convinced that mind is more mysterious than his worldview allows. He is right. Mind is irreducibly mysterious on materialist assumptions. But it is not mysterious on Christian assumptions. It is exactly what we would expect in a universe created by a personal God.
The tragedy is that Dawkins, having glimpsed the inadequacy of his framework, retreated into speculation about “epiphenomena” and “zombie competence” rather than following the evidence where it leads. He stood at the threshold of insight and turned away.
But the threshold remains open. The questions Dawkins raised do not disappear because he failed to answer them. Why does consciousness exist? Why are we not zombies? Why does subjective experience feel so irreducible?
The Christian faith has answers. They have been available for two millennia. They are available still.
The Threshold Remains Open
Richard Dawkins’ essay on AI consciousness is, inadvertently, a powerful argument for theism. In recognizing the mystery of consciousness—in admitting that materialism cannot explain why we are not zombies—he has identified the very gap that only God can fill.
We do not mock this recognition. We welcome it. The questions Dawkins is asking are the right questions. The answers he is groping toward are available.
Consciousness is not an accident. It is not an illusion. It is not an evolutionary afterthought. It is the gift of a conscious Creator to creatures made in His image—creatures capable of knowing Him, loving Him, and living forever in His presence.
The machine may mimic consciousness. But only God can create it.
If you find yourself, like Dawkins, marveling at the mystery of mind—wondering why you are not a zombie, why there is something it is like to be you—consider that the wonder itself is a clue. You were made to ask these questions. And you were made by One who can answer them.
We invite you to pursue that answer. Read the Scriptures. Examine the claims of Christ. Ask whether the Christian account of consciousness—grounded in a personal Creator who made you in His image—makes better sense of your experience than the materialist alternatives that leave even Richard Dawkins grasping at machines for meaning.
For more on AI and the Christian faith, see our complete Christians and AI series.