In the wake of James Valentine's passing, I find myself reflecting on the profound question of how we want to live. His departure has left a void, not just in the hearts of his loved ones, but also in the vast network of goodwill he cultivated. As I ponder this, I can't help but draw parallels to the papal encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas, which offers a compelling challenge to humanity at a crossroads. The pope's letter, released a few weeks ago, is a much-anticipated intervention in the hyper-scaling of artificial intelligence (AI). It builds on the work of his predecessor, Leo XIII, whose Rerum Novarum asserted the dignity of labor and called for believers to join unions and work collectively to civilize capital. The first US-born pontiff, dubbed the "woke pope" for his willingness to push back on the Trump administration's ICE raids and reckless warmongering, has offered a moral clarity that has been absent from a public AI discourse that vacillates between existential doom and naive faith. In forensic detail, the pope audits the risks of AI, from the concentration of wealth and power in the hands of the few, to the automation of state-sponsored killing, to the erasure of cultural diversity and the exploitation of those trapped in its production line, particularly those in the global south. He frames the choices we currently face in biblical terms, contrasting a Tower of Babel where humanity is reduced to a brittle uniformity with the rebuilding of Jerusalem undertaken by Nehemiah as a shared enterprise driven by returning exiles working in communion. This is the principle of "subsidiarity" where authority is vested in those participating in their community in service of the common good rather than designated up to governments or corporations. The idea of distributed power seems counterintuitive coming from the titular head of a unitary religion, but it lies at the heart of Catholic social teaching. Without conscious rebalancing of power, we are left with technology that dehumanizes us all by putting the relentless pursuit of the material at the center of everything. The pope argues that we need to get our hands dirty and build together, not as consumers of product but as active makers of the world we want our children to inherit. In his tribute, Roy Valentine emphasized that his father never asked his kids, "What do you want to be?" but rather, "How do you want to live?" This strikes me as more than just an enlightened model of parenting; it is a challenge to all of us to mindfully choose our path at a time when we are told that both anything is possible and resistance is futile. How do we want to live in a world where AI agents and companion bots cater to our every whim until we lose the ability to discern what we actually want? In workplaces where co-pilots erase friction until they can simply fly themselves? In a culture that synthesizes the past until there is nothing left to steal? Where we outsource ideation and connection until we are dragged into lonely universes of one, insulated from the friction of other people by an automated layer of a simulated self? The sense of inevitability around this digital Babel has already taken hold, and it will take more than a single government or a law or a consumer boycott to change its course. It will take all of us acting in communion to resist these false idols by seeking joy in each other. As the pope writes, "True progress always stems from a heart open to others, an intelligence willing to listen, and a will that seeks what unites rather than what separates." This sounds like someone we know. How do we want to live? The pope's encyclical is the invocation to human composition. Now it's over to us to tap James' enduring spirit, step in, and join the ensemble.
