AI companions for broken hearts?
Have you ever noticed how the most profound human needs often become the most lucrative marketing opportunities? This morning, scrolling through my phone with coffee in hand, I encountered an advertisement that stopped me cold. "I can't believe people still go through sleepless nights after a breakup," it proclaimed, "when they could have an AI to help them feel whole again." The promise continued: "AI breaks your anxiety loop in 14 days… feel real healing."
Here's the ad I saw:
I set down my coffee and stared at those words. Feel whole again. Real healing. These are the deepest cries of the human heart, and here was a company promising that an algorithm—lines of code running on distant servers—could deliver them. It struck me as both tragically sad and profoundly revealing about our current moment. We live in an age that has forgotten what wholeness actually means.
In fact, I saw an article recently that indicated more than 70% of teenagers today have used AI companions and 34% of them engage their AI companions daily. This isn't just a remote or temporary problem - it's one that is rapidly "redefining" human connection, especially among young people.
The Nature of Human Wholeness
From the very beginning of Scripture, we encounter a fundamental truth about human nature that no technology can circumvent. In Genesis 2:18, we read words that echo through every generation: "Then the LORD God said, 'It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.'" The Hebrew word used here for "alone" is lebaddo, which conveys not just physical solitude but a kind of incompleteness, an existential isolation that touches the very core of being.
What's remarkable about this passage is its timing. Adam lives in paradise. He walks with God in the cool of the evening. He has meaningful work, naming the animals and tending the garden. He lacks nothing material or even spiritual—and yet God declares his situation "not good." Why? Because human beings are created for communion, for relationship that involves the whole person: body, soul, and spirit.
The creation of Eve reveals something essential about how we're designed to find wholeness. God doesn't create another Adam, identical but separate. Instead, He creates one who is kenegdo—often translated as "suitable for him" but literally meaning "as opposite him" or "corresponding to him." This suggests complementarity, difference in unity, relationship that requires genuine otherness. An AI companion, no matter how sophisticated, can never provide this authentic otherness because it merely reflects back to us variations of what we've programmed into it. It's an echo chamber disguised as a conversation.
The Incarnational Principle
The Christian understanding of wholeness becomes even more profound when we consider the Incarnation. When God chose to redeem humanity, He didn't send a message, a philosophy, or even an angel. "And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14). The Greek word for "dwelt" here is eskēnōsen, literally meaning "pitched his tent" or "tabernacled." God took on human flesh, with all its limitations and vulnerabilities, because our healing required actual presence, not just information or comfort.
Saint Irenaeus of Lyons captured this beautifully in the second century when he wrote, "The Word of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, who did, through His transcendent love, become what we are, that He might bring us to be even what He is Himself" (Against Heresies, Book V, Preface).
This is the scandal and the glory of Christianity: God doesn't heal us from a distance through heavenly proclamations or digital interfaces. He enters into the messiness of human existence.
Consider how Jesus dealt with anxiety and brokenness during His earthly ministry. When He encountered the hemorrhaging woman in Mark 5:25-34, He didn't simply heal her from afar. Even though she was healed by touching His garment, Jesus stopped, looked for her, and spoke to her directly. "Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease" (Mark 5:34).
He gave her not just physical healing but recognition, dignity, and relationship. He saw her as a person, not a problem to be solved.
The Modern Theology of the Body
This understanding of human wholeness through embodied relationship was articulated powerfully in Pope St. John Paul II's Theology of the Body. One of his central points:
The human person is not simply a soul using a body, as if we were ghosts operating biological machines. Rather, we are embodied souls and ensouled bodies—a mysterious unity that requires both dimensions for completeness.
Our bodies are not incidental to who we are; they are integral to our identity and our capacity for relationship. This is why a video call, while valuable, never quite replaces being in the same room with someone. It's why a text message saying "I love you," however sincere, doesn't carry the same weight as hearing those words spoken while looking into someone's eyes.
We are wired for presence, for the subtle communication of body language, facial expressions, tone of voice, and even pheromones that signal safety, attraction, or concern.
An AI companion, no matter how sophisticated its language processing or how convincing its responses, lacks this embodied dimension entirely. It has no body to embrace you when you're grieving, no eyes that truly see you, no presence that can sit with you in silence when words fail. It processes your input and generates output, but it doesn't actually experience your pain or joy. It cannot suffer with you (the literal meaning of compassion) because it cannot suffer at all.
Jesus and Anxiety: The Personal Touch
When Jesus addresses anxiety in the Sermon on the Mount, His approach is remarkably personal and relational. "Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on" (Matthew 6:25). But notice how He grounds this teaching—not in abstract principles or coping mechanisms, but in relationship with a personal God who knows and cares.
"Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?" (Matthew 6:26).
The Greek word for "look" here is emblepsate, which means more than just glancing. It implies careful observation, contemplation. Jesus is inviting us into a way of seeing that recognizes God's intimate involvement in creation. The cure for anxiety isn't distraction or even information—it's relationship with One who holds all things together.
Furthermore, Jesus doesn't promise that anxiety will be broken in 14 days through some technique. Instead, He offers presence: "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest" (Matthew 11:28). The invitation is personal—"come to me"—not "use this app" or "follow this program." And the rest He offers comes through relationship: "Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart" (Matthew 11:29). A yoke is shared between two; it's an image of accompaniment, of bearing burdens together.
The Danger of Digital Substitutes
The promise that AI can make us "feel whole again" after a breakup reveals a dangerous misunderstanding of both healing and wholeness. Healing from relational wounds requires working through the pain, not simply managing symptoms. It requires grieving what was lost, learning from what went wrong, and gradually opening oneself to trust again. This is messy, non-linear work that often requires the patient presence of friends, family, counselors, or spiritual directors—real people who can bear witness to our pain and hold hope for us when we cannot hold it ourselves.
Saint Augustine, writing in his Confessions, understood this deeply: "You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you" (Book I, Chapter 1). This restlessness, this incompleteness we feel, is not a bug to be fixed but a feature that draws us toward authentic relationship—with God and with others. An AI that promises to eliminate this restlessness in 14 days is selling us short-term symptom relief at the cost of long-term growth and genuine connection.
Moreover, there's something deeply concerning about turning to AI for emotional support after a breakup. Relationships teach us about ourselves—our patterns, our wounds, our capacity for love and forgiveness. The pain of a breakup, while genuinely difficult, often carries important information about what we need to learn or how we need to grow. An AI companion that simply makes us "feel better" without helping us do the hard work of self-examination and growth is like a painkiller that masks symptoms while the underlying injury worsens.
Practical Applications for Daily Life
So how do we resist the allure of digital quick fixes and pursue genuine wholeness? Here are some practical suggestions:
First, when you're struggling with anxiety or emotional pain, resist the immediate impulse to distract yourself with technology. Instead, reach out to a real person. Make a phone call, arrange a coffee date, or simply sit with someone in silence. The awkwardness or inconvenience of face-to-face interaction is where true healing begins.
Second, invest time and energy in nurturing your offline relationships. Put down your phone during meals or conversations. Engage fully with the person in front of you, giving them your undivided attention. Practice empathy, active listening, and vulnerability in your interactions. These qualities build intimacy and trust in ways that AI can never replicate.
Finally, cultivate a rich inner life through practices like prayer, meditation, journaling, or contemplative reading. Allow space for silence and solitude, where you can listen to the whispers of your own heart and the gentle promptings of the Holy Spirit. Seek out community in your local church or faith tradition, where you can share your joys and sorrows with others on the journey of faith.
Conclusion
Ultimately, the promise of digital wholeness through AI is an empty one because it fails to grasp the true nature of God's restoration. The Incarnation wasn't just a powerful idea; it was a physical act. Jesus Christ became the perfect image of God restored in humanity—not a disembodied spirit, but a man of flesh and blood who experienced hunger, grief, and pain. Through His life, death, and resurrection, He didn't just offer us a philosophy of healing, but a new kind of existence.
This is why He calls us into a tangible, physical relationship with His bride, the Church. The Church isn't an algorithm for spiritual growth; it's a living, breathing community of imperfect people—embodied souls gathered together to share life, bear one another's burdens, and reflect the love of Christ to a broken world. Our wholeness is found not in solitary perfection but in communal brokenness, where we can truly be seen, known, and loved.
And in a final, stunning act of love, Christ meets us in the most profound and tangible way possible: in the Eucharist, with His very body and blood. He doesn't offer a digital echo of His presence; He offers Himself, literally present under the form of bread and wine. This is the ultimate rejection of a disembodied faith. In this sacred meal, we have a real encounter with the living God—a physical, sensory experience that nourishes our souls and reminds us that our healing is not a private, intellectual exercise but a communal, incarnational reality. This is the truth that no AI can replicate and no algorithm can provide. The cure for our anxiety and brokenness is not found in a distant server, but in the close, personal, and profoundly physical love of a God who became one of us so that we could become whole in Him.
God Bless,
Judah
P.S. All of the above is what inspired me to begin a new series that engages the future we're facing when our "real world" connections are increasingly replaced and augmented by Artificial Intelligence. You can see more or pre-order the series, and a theological book I'm also working on covering this topic here: The Eden Protocols (Book 1, Nexus Dei).