Artificial things have been with us long before technology. Many of us remember the spray-on snow we used to decorate our windows at Christmas. We didn’t buy those cans because we needed snow; we bought them because they promised a feeling—warmth, nostalgia, a sense of magic we wanted to recapture. After all, real snow melts as soon as you bring it in the house. But a few swirls of a can, and suddenly the living room looked like a holiday scene.
But the illusion broke the moment we touched it. The “snow” that sparkled from a distance crumbled into a chemical dust. It clung to our fingers, left a smell in the air, and never quite matched the expectation raised by the picture on the can. And its ingredients—propellants, plastics, residues—were far less harmless than we imagined.
We may not all describe it the same way, but we know the feeling: something essential is slipping from our grasp. We hunger for what is real.
Across our communities and towns—and increasingly across our nation—many people share a growing sense of disorientation. We live in an age where so much around us feels manufactured. Artificial images pass as photographs, political messages are crafted to manipulate rather than inform, and online interactions often substitute for real relationships. Even the news we consume is filtered through systems trained to hold our attention rather than tell the truth.
We begin this series with a simple but important word: artificial. By artificial, we mean what we create to imitate the real—functional, impressive, even beautiful at times—yet ultimately unable to give the truth, presence, or life that only the real can provide. Our world is filled with such imitations. They surround us so completely that we often accept them without question, even when something in us still hungers for what is genuine.
And that hunger is everywhere. Many people describe a growing sense that modern life feels manufactured. We scroll past images engineered to influence us, hear news shaped for profit rather than truth, and engage in conversations that feel rehearsed rather than honest. Even our relationships can thin out when mediated entirely by screens. We are connected in ways unimaginable a generation ago, yet many feel strangely alone.
Spray-on snow was a small thing, but it teaches a larger truth. Artificial substitutes work just well enough to keep us from asking what we’re truly hungry for. They offer a moment of escape, a brief sense of comfort, a way to decorate the ache without addressing it. But like a body that keeps signaling hunger because its food lacks nutrients, our souls keep signaling hunger because the substitutes we grab for cannot nourish the places that hurt. The craving itself points beyond the artificial to something real— something we cannot manufacture.
And into this landscape, we now introduce another substitute that promises relief: artificial intelligence, better known as AI.
AI delivers on promises we’ve yet to imagine, yet AI can never deliver on the one promise we need to hear the most. Our souls keep whispering that something essential is still missing. Like a body signaling hunger because the nutrients are gone from our food, our spirits signal hunger because the artificial comforts we reach for cannot nourish the places that hurt.
And the more we try to fill ourselves with substitutes, the more we realize the substitute was never the point. The craving itself points to something deeper—something real—that we cannot manufacture. This is the quiet pain that runs beneath our towns and neighborhoods. We reach for things that promise relief but deliver only distraction. We settle for the artificial because we don’t know where else to turn.
And right here—into the small ache beneath our artificial comforts—God enters the artificial.
Advent begins here, in the honest recognition that we inhabit a world where appearance often matters more than substance and where artificiality has become normal. Yet Scripture insists that God meets us precisely in this place.
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light, and now light is shining on them. You have given them great joy,
Isaiah 9:2-7
Isaiah speaks to a people who also felt surrounded by shadows: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.” Artificial light can brighten a room, but spiritual darkness remains unchanged until God speaks. Isaiah proclaims that the real Light—the Light that the artificial cannot imitate—comes from God alone. And this Light doesn’t wait for us to escape the artificial. Instead, it enters our world precisely as it is.
Here is the promise: God does not stand far off from our artificial world. God steps into it. Into our substitutes, our disappointments, our longing, our ache. The real enters the artificial so that the artificial no longer defines us.
John, the fourth Evangelist, takes Isaiah’s promise and directly connects it to Jesus, stating even more boldly: “The Word became a human being and lived among us,” while reminding us that the Word is God. Not artificial. Not imitation. Not symbolic. It’s real flesh. Real presence. Real love.
This is the hope we carry into Advent: God enters the artificial—so that we don’t have to stay there.
In a world full of illusions—ancient or modern—God’s answer is embodiment. God comes not as an idea or an image, but as a person with breath, heartbeat, and vulnerability. When everything feels unreal, the incarnation stands as God’s declaration that truth, presence, and humanity still matter.
Jesus is God’s answer to every artificial substitute we’ve used to silence our hunger. Where the artificial promises something it cannot deliver, Jesus delivers what the artificial cannot promise: life, fullness, peace, and presence.
What would our world look like if we took this seriously? One thing is sure: we would reclaim the depth that so easily slips from our grasp. Families might rediscover the value of presence that isn’t mediated by screens. Churches could become sanctuaries of honesty where people are genuinely seen rather than curated. Our civic life might resist the temptations of spectacle, choosing wisdom and integrity over whatever feeds outrage or fear.
Advent invites us to imagine—and practice—a more grounded way of living, one shaped by God’s insistence on the real.
Our companion book for this season, AI Ethics, opens with a reminder that technological power now outpaces our moral maturity. Artificial intelligence has become one of the primary ways many people encounter the world. These systems filter what we see, shape what we believe, and in subtle ways redefine what counts as real.
The author, Dr. Mark Coeckelbergh, warns that when a society loses its shared sense of reality, it becomes vulnerable to manipulation, to confusion, and to fear. His observation is not meant to alarm us, but to awaken us to our calling. Christians cannot escape this artificial age, but we are invited to live wisely within it.
Coeckelbergh reminds us that AI systems don’t simply imitate human abilities—they also shape our behavior, our decisions, and even our sense of self. In subtle ways, AI can encourage us to accept imitation for reality. Convenience becomes a kind of comfort. Automation becomes a sort of trust. We slowly trade the unpredictable richness of real relationships for the smooth polish of artificial interaction.
And as our series unfolds, we will explore what it means to live as people of the Light in an age of imitation—how to use technology without being used by it; how to pursue truth in a world full of imitation; and how to find our grounding not in the artificial but in the God who became flesh for us.
Episode one is our starting point, but our journey continues as we ask together: If God enters the artificial, where might He be entering our lives right now—and what real transformation might follow?
So where do we begin? We begin by naming the ache honestly—acknowledging the ways we’ve settled for artificial comforts instead of seeking the real presence of God. We begin by paying attention—recognizing where artificial solutions have numbed us instead of nourishing us.
We begin by opening ourselves to Advent’s promise: The Real has come. The Light has dawned. God enters the artificial.
Advent encourages us to begin with truthfulness about our own lives and to notice where artificial substitutes have replaced embodied presence or real connection. It invites us to small, intentional acts of grounding: a conversation without distractions, a shared meal, a moment of quiet reflection, or an act of care that cannot be automated or optimized. As artificial systems increasingly mediate our attention, Advent asks us to cultivate discernment—to verify before sharing, to pause before reacting, and to choose depth over speed.
This year, for Advent, we begin with a simple proclamation: we live in a world shaped by the artificial, but we worship a God who enters the real. The incarnation is God’s response to our longing, reminding us that hope does not emerge from manufactured things.
Instead, hope was born in a manger—in the most uncurated way possible—and grows into a light the darkness cannot overcome. Advent invites us to follow that light, trusting that God rescues the artificial, not by avoiding it, but by transforming it with presence and truth.
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Pastor Tommy
Dr. Mark Coeckelbergh, AI Ethics. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2020. (ISBN 9780262538190).