Artificial Intelligence makes an alluring promise: a frictionless life. Already, it is possible to summon almost anything with a voice command or a swipe. A pizza arrives when we want it, wherever we are. Some speculate that soon enough, our personal digital servants will anticipate our cravings before we are even aware of them. The moment we begin to feel a pang of hunger for our favorite slice, it will already be on its way.
The dream of a frictionless life is seductive. Yet it carries within it the seed of death. If there is no resistance, no pause, no need to choose, then we hurtle forward unchecked. Remove every bit of friction and what remains is not freedom but collapse.
We know this already in other corners of modern life. Stories have emerged from South Korea of young people in gaming cafés, immersed for so long in digital worlds with no reason to disconnect, that their bodies finally gave way. In another direction, many of us feel the tyranny of our inboxes—thousands of small demands arriving almost without effort, because email and messaging have made communication nearly frictionless. What feels easy for the sender becomes overwhelming for the receiver. Frictionless systems redistribute burden without regard for human capacity.
Even in education, we see the danger. A physics student can now ask an AI to solve the problem set. The answers come quickly, elegantly, and with no apparent strain. But learning does not happen that way. It is the resistance of the problem that forms the mind. Struggle, frustration, even failure—these are the sources of insight. Offloading every act of thought to a machine is not efficiency; it is a way of robbing ourselves of wisdom.
In physics we define friction as that which resists motion. A body in motion, encountering no resistance at all, moves endlessly. But the opposite extreme is also true: too much friction, and motion is impossible. Life requires a balance, an optimal point where there is just enough resistance to give shape to energy and direction to effort. Engineers spend careers refining bearings, lubricants, and gears to achieve this delicate middle ground. The lesson is not to eliminate friction but to optimize it.
What, then, constitutes friction in the digital age? In a world increasingly mediated by algorithms and automated responses, what breaks the flow? What reminds us to stop, to rest, to reflect?
To my mind, scripture and tradition already provide an answer: the Sabbath. The Sabbath is a divinely mandated form of friction. It is the circuit breaker God has woven into creation itself. To work without ceasing is to grind both the land and ourselves into dust. To rest—truly rest—is to embrace resistance against the endless demands of production, consumption, and efficiency. It is holy friction, preserving us from destruction and teaching us that flourishing is not found in limitless acceleration.
This insight may invite us to rethink the life and lived experience of the modern Church. Too often, our congregations mirror the values of the marketplace: accomplishments, achievements, constant activity. What if, instead, we understood our common life not as an arena for getting things done, but as a sanctuary of resistance—a place where we learn again to worship God rather than productivity? What if the focus of our common life wasn’t growth and success, bur worship – real worship as an end in itself not as something we give lip service to as we count pledge and plate as the misdirected teleology of our efforts.
I sometimes wonder if the old blue laws, long abandoned, contained a wisdom we have forgotten. Not as tools of social control, but as an acknowledgment that people require a pause, a holy resistance, a shared sabbath. Even if the wider world does not embrace such practices, the faithful still can. For us, Sabbath is not optional. It is the God-given friction that keeps us from hurtling over the edge.
The promise of AI is enticing, but if we are wise, we will not seek a frictionless life. Instead, we will seek a life where friction is rightly ordered, where resistance becomes the means of wisdom, and where worship—resting in the presence of God—reminds us who we truly are.
(Some thoughts from that have arisen from a conference I attended last week.)
