Over the course of the last few weeks, I have noticed a subtle shift in the posters displayed around our village in north-east Scotland, advertising everything from the opening of a new curry house to fundraising events for new Christmas lights. Posters are a standard feature of any small community, but what stood out about these was that they were all AI-generated. They all carry that distinct polished, sleek aesthetic that is characteristic of AI – difficult to define precisely, but unmistakably artificial. A few weeks later, walking through another village further up the coast, I noticed the exact same phenomenon. Bus shelters and shop windows were filled with posters displaying that same artificial, uniform professionalism. As I stood reading a poster advertising a community book sale, I was overcome by a sudden wave of sadness. Two distinct Scottish villages, each with its own rich history, were beginning to look identical.

Over my teaching career, I have observed a parallel change that I believe is directly linked to this reliance on technology. Even before AI entered the mainstream, shifts in my pupils forced me to adapt or abandon lessons I had used successfully for years. For instance, during my first year of teaching, I began an annual project with every new S1 class: creating a short picture book loosely based on Eric Carle’s Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?. The objective was to teach adjective agreement and colours through the imaginative creation of a short story. I used to love this project because the work handed in was a genuine joy to read. Pupils routinely came up with far more creative ideas than I could have anticipated, taking visible pride in their work – from stories filled with every imaginable pink animal to magical creatures and exotic bear species. Over time, however, I was forced to retire this particular lesson. The issue was not merely that writing and drawing had come to be viewed as tedious or laborious, but that coming up with an original idea had become an overwhelming struggle. Many pupils could do little more than copy my own demonstration example. Creativity and imagination were visibly waning and I felt that same wave of sadness at witnessing it in them.

There is little doubt that screen-centric living has reshaped human development, and we are only beginning to comprehend its long-term implications. Within education, it is increasingly recognised that an entire generation struggles to generate original thought. As I have reflected on this trend, it seems clear that we have transitioned into a society that primarily consumes information through digital screens. Growing up in the 1990s, children (such as myself) were routinely sent outside to play, told to entertain themselves when bored, and encouraged to ride bikes, learn instruments, draw, read, or write stories. Today, critical developmental years are spent passively consuming content on televisions, tablets, and smartphones. This shift inevitably impacts the creative capacity of the mind. The struggle, trial, and failure that once defined childhood development have been largely replaced by observing others do things. Why master a musical instrument when music streams endlessly on demand? Why learn the craft of photography when AI can generate a bespoke image at the click of a button?

In striking contrast, the Bible is filled with examples of human creativity, skill, and labour from the opening pages of Genesis. At the very beginning, Adam – created in the image of the Creator God – is tasked with naming every living creature, participating directly in the creation account. In Genesis 4, we read of those who forged tools of bronze and iron, and those who mastered musical instruments. In Exodus 31, Bezalel and Oholiab were explicitly filled with the Spirit of God in wisdom, skill, and craftsmanship to design and adorn the tabernacle. Noah spent years in laborious, meticulous effort building an enormous ark. Solomon penned proverbs of wisdom, the Psalmists composed songs and poetry, and even the builders of the Tower of Babel, despite their sinful intentions, utilised God-given creative capacities. This impulse to build, craft, and invent is central to what it means to be human. We are made in the image of God, the God who spoke the heavens and earth into existence. Our capacity to imagine, design, and create reflects His divine glory. This is precisely why AI-generated content is so deceptively evil: it stunts the very faculties that reflect our Creator. It replaces human agency, perseverance, and original craft with a synthetic alternative, one utterly devoid of soul, struggle, or true originality. It represents the quiet erosion of what makes us human. 

Satan harbours an enduring hatred for humanity precisely because we were created in the image of God and creativity is a key part to that divine reflection. While technology undoubtedly offers many practical benefits, the rise of artificial intelligence I believe serves a far more sinister purpose: the systematic dimming and eradication of those human attributes that reflect our Creator. Incapable of genuine creation himself, the enemy relies on his age-old strategy of replacement and usurpation, offering cheap, synthetic counterfeits in place of genuine human skill. But when we trade the God-given labour of original thought and creativity for the effortless convenience of a prompt with the push of a button, we do not merely lose a cultural art form; we surrender a vital aspect of what it means to bear the image of God.