Last week, in the liminal space between departures and arrivals, I found myself sitting in the back of two different taxis on the way to and from a British airport. Both journeys were unremarkable in distance; both were unforgettable in implication.
The first driver was an immigrant, softly spoken, dignified. In his home country he had been a highly qualified teacher of languages and a professional translator. He spoke five languages fluently. Five. In another era, in another economy, that would have been a golden ticket. In 2026 Britain, it was not enough. He had tried repeatedly to find work as a translator. “The companies use AI now,” he told me, not with anger but with resignation. “It is faster. Cheaper. Good enough.”
The second driver was British-born, in his late twenties, with a master’s degree in accounting technology. He had applied for hundreds of jobs. “The entry-level analysis work is mostly automated now,” he said. “They want people with ten years’ experience to supervise the software.” He laughed as he said it, but it was the kind of laugh that conceals a quiet bewilderment. He had done everything right. Studied hard. Earned the qualifications. Followed the script. But the script had changed.
Then there was a third moment. One of my adult children was launching a business venture and needed a logo and brand name. In years past, this would have meant conversations with a graphic designer, brainstorming sessions, creative back-and-forth. Instead, he typed a few prompts into an AI system. Within seconds, it produced a name and logo that were, frankly, excellent. No meetings. No invoices. No human designer.
It is difficult not to be impressed.
Artificial intelligence is extraordinary. In medicine, it is already demonstrating diagnostic accuracy rates that in certain domains exceed those of human clinicians. It can scan thousands of radiological images in moments. It can cross-reference symptoms against vast databases no human brain could hold. It does not tire. It does not get distracted. It does not have a bad day.
Progress is real. And it saves lives.
I am not a Luddite. Nor should we romanticize inefficiency. If AI can detect a malignancy earlier than I can, I want it in my clinic. If it can translate emergency instructions instantly into five languages, I want it in our hospitals. If it can help a young entrepreneur design a professional brand without incurring crippling start-up costs, I welcome that, too.
And yet.
There is a growing unease beneath the admiration. What kind of world are we building when roles once rooted in human encounter are quietly hollowed out? What happens to the immigrant linguist whose gift was not merely grammar but nuance, cultural texture, the subtle music of idiom? What happens to the young accountant whose training was not simply in numbers but in judgment, mentorship, and collaborative thought?
More deeply: What happens to us?
We are already witnessing a generation for whom “interaction” increasingly means interface. There are people who live almost entirely mediated lives – ordering food from apps, working remotely, socializing through screens, seeking advice from chatbots. The friction of face-to-face encounter, the awkward pauses, the spontaneous laughter, the warmth of a shared smile, has been slowly eroded.
World is crying out for greater human connection
Psychologists warn us of rising loneliness, anxiety, and alienation. The world is not crying out for greater efficiency: It is crying out for connection.
Judaism has always insisted that the human being is not a data point but a divine presence. In Genesis, we are told that the human being is created b’tzelem Elokim – in the image of God. Whatever that phrase means, it surely means this: each person carries irreducible worth. Not because of productivity. Not because of speed. Not because of computational power. But because of presence.
The Talmud teaches that when a person destroys a single life, it is as if they have destroyed an entire world; and, conversely, when a person saves a single life, it is as if they have saved an entire world. That teaching is astonishing. Each person is a world. A universe of memory, longing, humor, contradiction, hope.
AI can process worlds, but it should not be one.
There is a famous rabbinic idea that God counts us not as a shepherd counts sheep – interchangeable – but rather as a jeweler counts diamonds, one by one, each precious and distinct. The Torah is full of names, genealogies, stories. It dwells on the individual. It lingers.
Machines optimize; they do not linger.
In my varied roles, I have sat with mourners in the raw hours after loss. I have held the hand of a dying patient in hospital. I have watched as a shy bar mitzvah boy found his voice in front of a community. None of these moments can be reduced to algorithm. They depend on something ineffable: the transmission of empathy through tone, posture, silence. The gentle nod that says, “I am here with you.”
Even in medicine, the data is clear: outcomes improve when patients feel heard. A correct diagnosis delivered without compassion is not the same as a correct diagnosis delivered with warmth. Healing is not only about accuracy; it is about accompaniment.
To be sure, AI can simulate empathy. It can generate phrases that sound reassuring. It can be trained on millions of examples of “supportive language.” But simulation is not the same as soul. A programmed expression of concern is not the same as a heart that trembles with another’s pain.
Perhaps what we are confronting is not simply a technological revolution but a theological one. For centuries, many of our identities were built around what we could do: calculate, translate, design, diagnose. Now machines can do many of these things faster and, in some cases, better.
So, who are we?
The Jewish answer has never been that our worth lies in our output. It lies in our covenant: In our capacity for relationship, both with God and with one another. The Hebrew word for face, panim, is always plural, hinting that identity itself is relational. We become fully human not in isolation but in encounter – inter”facing” with fellow humans, not the AIs some have rushed to create, virtual entities that are now rushing even faster to recreate themselves.
The danger is not that machines will become human: The danger is that humans will become machine-like, measuring themselves by efficiency metrics, curating their personalities for algorithms, outsourcing creativity, conversation, even consolation.
We need not reject technology to resist that drift. We can choose to use AI as a tool rather than a substitute. Let it analyze the scan – but let the doctor look the patient in the eye. Let it draft the logo – but let the entrepreneur still learn to persuade, to listen, to build trust. Let it translate the text – but let us still delight in the slow, clumsy, beautiful work of learning another’s language face-to-face.
In Ethics of the Fathers, we are taught: “Acquire for yourself a friend.” Not an interface. Not a feed. A friend. Friendship cannot be downloaded. It requires time, shared experience, forgiveness, laughter.
The two taxi drivers I met were not merely casualties of economic transition: They were reminders. Reminders that behind every technological leap are human stories of aspiration, disappointment, reinvention. They were also, in a quiet way, teachers. For in the simple act of conversation inside the car, something profoundly human occurred. We spoke. We listened. We recognized one another.
No algorithm can replace that.
We stand at a remarkable moment in history. We have built tools of astonishing power. The question now is whether we will allow those tools to redefine what it means to be human, or whether we will double down on the very qualities that no machine can replicate: compassion, presence, moral responsibility, covenantal love.
The future need not be downbeat – it can be deeply hopeful. For as long as a smile can disarm a stranger, as long as a hand can steady another hand, as long as a human being can sit with a struggling other and say, “Tell me what is in your heart,” humanity retains an advantage no code can capture.
AI may calculate faster than we can think. But it cannot care faster than we can love.
And in the end, it is love and care, not computing power, that will determine the kind of world we build for the next generation.
The writer is a rabbi and physician. He writes and teaches on Jewish ethics, leadership, and resilience. His work appears on rabbidrjonathanlieberman.substack.com and youtube.com/@rabbidrjonathanlieberman.