Christ is Risen, my dear readers!
The American IT corporation Palantir Technologies, one of the principal contractors of the Pentagon, the Israeli military, and Western intelligence agencies in the field of data analysis, has published a programmatic statement that analysts have already begun calling the harbinger of a new political reality.
In a series of reflections that will follow, I would like to offer my thoughts on the Palantir manifesto, which reveals before us a profound spiritual drama in which the outlines of ancient temptations emerge beneath the façade of technological progress. When we examine this document, we discover not merely a business strategy, but a full-fledged anthropological declaration permeated by the spirit of “this world”—that very condition of human existence which, in Christian tradition, is characterized by estrangement from God and reliance exclusively upon human strength.
In our view, the central image here is the archetype of the Tower of Babel. This comparison ceases to be a mere metaphor when we grasp the essence of the Babylonian sin: humanity’s attempt to reach heaven—that is, fullness of being and security—through purely technical means, while ignoring the spiritual vertical. In the modern context, the “new bricks” of this construction are algorithms and Big Data. If the ancient builders sought to “make us a name” for themselves, asserting their self-sufficiency, then modern ideologues of total control aspire to create a system capable of calculating and ordering reality without reference to Divine Providence.
The problem lies in a substitution of meanings. The true unity of mankind, known in theology as sobornost—conciliar unity—is founded upon love and the freedom of each individual person. The manifesto, however, proposes a different kind of unity: unity through control and division. Here the “right of the strong” triumphs, where technological superiority becomes an instrument for the domination of some over others. Within this paradigm, the human person ceases to be the image and likeness of God and becomes merely an object of surveillance, a digital profile in a database.
Moreover, within this striving for total transparency one can discern a dangerous imitation of Divine omniscience. God sees the human heart in order to save it, whereas algorithmic surveillance lays the person bare for the sake of manipulation and social engineering. This deprives man of the sacred mystery of the inner life, which is essential for repentance and spiritual growth. We are confronted with a form of neo-gnosticism in which salvation and power are promised through possession of “special knowledge”—data that supposedly makes it possible to direct the course of history itself.
From an eschatological perspective, such an attempt to construct a “perfect order” through technical means appears as a kind of anticipation of the Last Judgment, yet one deprived of Christ and His mercy. It is the creation of a mechanical ersatz paradise, where living faith is replaced by algorithmic predestination. Theology reminds us that every structure built upon the sand of human pride and the thirst for power inevitably leads to new division and spiritual collapse.
Thus, the Palantir manifesto stands before us as a challenge: Will we be able to preserve our freedom in Christ within a world that seeks to replace the living presence of the Creator with the soulless code of self-appointed architects of a “new Babylon”?
On the AI arms race and the end of ethics
One of the theses put forward in the manifesto of Palantir Technologies declares that ethical debates are meaningless and that the only thing that matters is who will be the first to create the perfect weapon. This idea represents the very essence of the tragic choice before which humanity has repeatedly stood, but which in the age of high technology acquires a fatal scale. From a theological perspective, the assertion that “ethics is meaningless” in favor of technological supremacy is not merely a strategic calculation, but a profound spiritual crisis leading to the loss of the very essence of human existence.
Human history begins with the calling to bear the image and likeness of God. This likeness to the Creator is realized not in the ability to destroy, but in the freedom of moral choice, mercy, and love. When pragmatism completely displaces morality, a voluntary act of dehumanization takes place. A person who rejects the ethical dimension for the sake of survival effectively declares that biological existence is more important than spiritual vocation. At that moment, he ceases to be a participant in the Divine plan and becomes merely a function, a component in a complex military machine.
The words of the Savior spoken to Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane—Put up again thy sword into his place (Matt. 26:52)—reveal the falsehood of the idea that a “perfect weapon” can become the guarantor of peace. Christ points to a spiritual law: External power, when not restrained by an inner moral law, inevitably generates a new cycle of entropy and destruction. Reliance upon the sword creates the illusion of control, but in reality it enslaves man. The one who builds his security solely upon fear of the enemy becomes himself a prisoner of that fear. Instead of building the Kingdom of God, man begins constructing a “citadel of death,” in which the only value is the ability to destroy another before he destroys you.
This trap of survival exposes the deepest paradox of all: In attempting to save “civilization” at the cost of conscience, humanity loses the very meaning for which civilization ought to exist. If the structure of society remains intact, yet mercy and meekness have been removed from it, then what stands before us is no longer a human community, but a mechanical anthill. Theology reminds us that peace is not merely the absence of war, but a state of harmony with God and with one’s neighbor. Without an ethical foundation, every empire that possessed the most advanced weapons of its age inevitably collapsed from within, because the living spirit had departed from it.
Christ’s question concerning the profit of gaining the whole world at the cost of one’s soul (Matt. 16:26) now sounds as a final warning. “To gain the whole world” is itself a metaphor for the technological and military triumph sought by refined pragmatism. Yet the soul—or conscience—is the one bond that makes a human being truly human. To damage this bond for the sake of temporary security is equivalent to spiritual suicide.
Thus, ethical debate is not meaningless at all—it is the final line of defense for humanity. As long as we are still capable of arguing about good and evil, as long as we still hesitate before the supposed right to kill for the sake of comfort, we remain within the realm of Divine freedom. To renounce this inner struggle in favor of the “perfect sword” means that the enemy has already conquered us by depriving us of the most precious thing of all: the ability to be merciful, and therefore the ability to remain alive unto eternity.
True civilization rests not upon the power of weapons, but upon the strength of the spirit—a spirit capable of preferring the truth of life to the temporary triumph of force.
On total militarization and the “corrupting peace”
The thesis in the manifesto of Palantir Technologies concerning the necessity of “hard power” and the supposed danger of prolonged peace reveals a profound conflict between the ideology of survival and Christian Revelation. At its core, the attempt to declare peace a “mistake” and fear the engine of progress represents a radical redefinition of what man is and what he is called to become.
The theological understanding of history tells us that sin and spiritual corruption do not arise from the absence of external threats, but from the fallen condition of human nature itself. The assertion that a long period of peace corrupts society contains within it a dangerous substitution—it shifts the center of spiritual life away from inner struggle and toward outward aggression. In place of the evangelical call to spiritual watchfulness—a constant vigilance over the purity of one’s thoughts—it offers a surrogate in the form of military mobilization.
But if a person cannot remain faithful to God without fear of an external enemy, then such faithfulness possesses no spiritual value. It is an admission of spiritual bankruptcy, where the illusion of a “purifying” war takes hold, and only the threat of death supposedly compels man to remain “fit.”
In the Sermon on the Mount, Christ proclaims: Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God (Matt. 5:9). This is not a call to passively accept evil, but an affirmation of the active, creative power of love. Peacemaking is the highest form of strength. To be a peacemaker means to become like God in His creative and reconciling action.
The call for a “militarization of the spirit” and a return to “hard power” inevitably collides with this vocation. In the Christian tradition, war has always been understood as a tragedy and a consequence of the Fall—a bitter medicine, perhaps, but never a desirable state or a norm. When violence is elevated into an ideal, it drives mercy from the heart and transforms man from the image of God into a mere instrument of geopolitics.
An ideology in which fear is proclaimed the driving force of progress—as in the vision proposed by Palantir—rests upon a fragile anthropological foundation. From the perspective of the New Testament, fear is precisely what enslaves man, making him captive to instinct and external manipulation. The Apostle John the Apostle speaks plainly: Perfect love casteth out fear (1 John 4:18).
A society united by fear of an enemy is a temporary and fragile society. According to the Gospel, true unity is built not merely against “outsiders,” but for the sake of what is higher. Progress born of terror and the necessity to destroy is devoid of grace; it is mechanistic and ultimately directed toward destruction. Genuine creative striving becomes possible only within the realm of freedom and love, where man creates not because he fears perishing, but because he longs for the fullness of being.
In the end, the attempt to cure spiritual weakness through a call to war leads only to greater hardening of heart. The Gospel teaches that victory over the world begins not with the conquest of territories or displays of power, but with victory over sin within one’s own heart. To replace this “invisible warfare” with outward militarization is to reject Christ in favor of the ancient, pre-Christian gods of force and fear.
Truly Christ is Risen!
