A Good Faith Critique of Bryan Johnson’s “Don’t Die” Movement

The following passage is an excerpt from my new best-selling book, Reclaiming Reality: Restoring Humanity in the Age of AI. I’ve taken the liberty to add a few introductory paragraphs, but otherwise the work remains true to the excerpt from the book. You can learn more about the book, listen to the podcast based on the book, and purchase the book at ReclaimingReality.com. I recorded a podcast episode specifically on this topic that you can listen to here. I’d like to preference this by saying that I am both a fan, and a customer, of Bryan. I think the work that he is doing is both fascinating and important, even if we disagree philosophically and theologically on certain things. My hope is that this post will challenge him to think more deeply on spiritual matters.

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The transhumanist assumption that nothingness awaits after death makes their quest for technological immortality understandable, even rational. If this life is all there is, why not extend it indefinitely?

But the Christian hope offers a radically different perspective—not continuation of the same existence, but transformation into something new yet continuous with our present selves. Not uploading to escape the body, but resurrection that redeems it. Not technological self-salvation, but divine grace that preserves what is essential while transforming what is broken. The transhumanist movement is essentially a secular eschatology. It offers technological versions of Christian promises—immortality, transcendence, even a kind of salvation from the limitations of our current existence. Without the transformation of the self that Christian eschatology envisions, they want immortality without the dying to self that makes new life possible. They want the resurrection without the cross.

The irony is that their vision of technological immortality—uploading consciousness to machines or extending biological life indefinitely—might actually trap people in their current limitations rather than transcending them. A kind of stasis masquerading as transcendence. In contrast, the Christian hope is for genuine transformation—not just living forever as we are, but becoming what we were created to be. Not escaping death, but passing through it into new life. This reminds me of the sentiment of what C.S. Lewis wrote in “The Weight of Glory”—that we are not merely mortal beings having temporary spiritual experiences, but spiritual beings having a temporary mortal experience. The transhumanist error is in mistaking the vessel for what it contains, the pattern for the person, the information for the soul.

Bryan Johnson, an entrepreneur and technologist, has emerged as a prominent figure in the quest to transcend human mortality. After founding Braintree, a successful payment processing company later acquired by PayPal, he turned his attention to ventures at the intersection of technology and human potential. His company Kernel, which focuses on neurotechnology, and his ambitious project Blueprint, a meticulously engineered regimen to reverse aging, reflect his unwavering belief in science as the ultimate tool to conquer death. Johnson’s philosophy, distilled into the mantra “don’t die,” is rooted in the conviction that human ingenuity—through advancements in biotechnology, artificial intelligence, and genetic engineering—can indefinitely extend human life, if not render death obsolete altogether. 

At first glance, Johnson’s quest appears noble, even heroic. Who among us does not wish to delay death, to stretch time a little longer? Medical science has extended lifespans before—why not push further? But a deeper look reveals that this ambition is not simply about health or longevity. It is about control. The dream of escaping death is not new; from Gilgamesh to the alchemists, humanity has always sought ways to defy its own limits. Yet every human empire that sought to engineer perfection has ended in ruin. Johnson, and the wider transhumanist movement, merely update this ancient impulse with the tools of the digital age, exchanging mysticism for neuroscience, incantations for algorithms.

His daily routine, a rigorous protocol of diet, exercise, and medical interventions, epitomizes his commitment to this vision. Yet, beneath the surface of this high-tech crusade lies a deeper, almost primal human yearning: the desire to escape the inevitability of death, a theme that resonates across cultures and epochs. From a Christian perspective, Johnson’s mission raises profound theological questions. Central to the Christian narrative is the acknowledgment of death as a consequence of humanity’s fallen state, a rupture introduced by sin. Yet Christianity does not leave humanity in despair. The resurrection of Jesus Christ stands as the pivotal event in which death itself was defeated. The Apostle Paul, in his first letter to the Corinthians, declares, “Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55). This triumph is not achieved through human effort or technological innovation but through the sacrificial love and power of Christ. Eternal life, in this framework, is not a biochemical puzzle to be solved but a divine gift to be received through faith. 

Jesus’ words in John’s Gospel underscore this: “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die” (John 11:25-26). Here, eternal life transcends mere biological continuity; it is a transformed existence, free from suffering and sin, rooted in communion with God. Johnson’s ideology, while ambitious, inadvertently echoes humanity’s ancient longing for immortality. Yet Christianity offers a counter-narrative: the hope of eternal life is not found in prolonging mortal existence but in surrendering to the One who has already overcome death. The Christian faith teaches that human efforts to evade death, however noble, are ultimately provisional. They may delay the inevitable but cannot erase it. In contrast, Christ’s resurrection redefines death not as an endpoint but as a passage into eternal fellowship with God. 

This techno-utopianism also reveals a deeper spiritual blindness. It assumes that suffering, aging, and death are mere glitches in an otherwise perfect system—flaws to be eliminated rather than realities to be understood. Christianity does not celebrate death, but it does place it within a greater story. Death is not an arbitrary failure of biology; it is the consequence of sin, a wound that can only be healed by the Cross, not by code. The resurrection of Christ does not merely promise longer life but a redeemed one—where “there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain” (Revelation 21:4). No algorithm can offer that.

The real danger of Johnson’s mission is not just its futility but its idolatry. It is the same temptation that led humanity astray in Eden—the belief that we can seize eternal life on our own terms, becoming gods through our own ingenuity. But Christianity offers a radical alternative: we do not ascend to godhood—we are invited into communion with God. The eternal life we seek is not achieved through medical breakthroughs but received through grace. This is not an argument against scientific progress. Medicine, technology, and innovation are gifts to be stewarded. Christianity has always championed healing, seeing in it a reflection of God’s care for creation. But there is a difference between healing and hubris. The pursuit of health is one thing; the quest to conquer death itself, apart from God, is another. Science can extend life, but it cannot bestow meaning. It can delay death, but it cannot defeat it.

Ultimately, Johnson’s Blueprint is a mirror, reflecting the restlessness of the human heart—a heart that will never be satisfied with mere longevity. Augustine’s words remain as true now as they were centuries ago: “You have made us for Yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.” Johnson’s project, for all its brilliance, cannot offer true rest. His war on death will end as all such wars do—with defeat. Yet for those who accept Christ’s invitation, death is not the final enemy, but the threshold to a glory beyond imagination.

AI’s most insidious lie is that it exists to “optimize” human life—to smooth friction, predict desires, and eliminate inefficiency. But this promise of frictionless living is antithetical to the Christian understanding of spiritual growth, which thrives not in ease but in resistance. A faith that cannot wrestle with doubt at 3 a.m., unaided by chatbots offering prefabricated answers, is no faith at all. A love that never risks rejection by outsourcing romance to compatibility algorithms becomes transactional, not transformative. Even AI’s supposed triumphs—like prolonging life through medical algorithms—threaten to erode the sacred art of being present to mortality. When machines manage hospice care through emotion-detecting sensors, will we lose the raw, unscripted moments where families whisper final forgiveness or nurses hold trembling hands? The paradox is clear: in seeking to optimize existence, AI dissolves the very conditions that make life livable—the struggle that forges character, the uncertainty that demands faith, the limits that teach us to cherish what we cannot control.

The choice before us is not simply between life extension and mortality, but between two visions of eternity—one that clings desperately to a world that is passing away, and one that trusts in the promise of a world made new. “Because I live, you also will live” (John 14:19). In the end, it is not science but resurrection that will have the last word. Christian thought recognizes technology as a gift to steward, not an idol to worship, and insists that human dignity derives not from our capacity for enhancement but from our inherent status as image-bearers of God. This divergence is not merely philosophical; it is foundational. While transhumanism seeks to transcend human limitations in pursuit of a self-made utopia, Christianity calls us to embrace our createdness, acknowledging that true progress aligns with God’s design for justice, compassion, and reverence for life. As we navigate this technological frontier, the Church must boldly articulate this distinction, resisting the allure of technocratic salvation and instead framing innovation as a tool to heal, serve, and reflect the glory of a Creator who calls us not to self-deification, but to faithful stewardship of both our bodies and our shared future.

The ancient story of Daedalus and Icarus serve as profound warnings for the modern age of artificial intelligence. Across cultures and centuries, these myths expose a universal truth: technological power is never neutral. It either serves human flourishing under God’s authority or spirals into self-destruction when wielded apart from Him. 

The tragedy of Icarus is a parable for the unchecked ambitions of the technological age. His father, Daedalus, a master craftsman, builds wings to escape captivity—an act of brilliant ingenuity. But when Icarus, intoxicated by the thrill of flight, ignores the warnings and soars too close to the sun, his wings melt, and he plummets to his death. The lesson is not that technology is evil—Daedalus’s invention worked—but that the misuse of it, driven by hubris, leads to ruin. Today’s secular transhumanists follow the path of Icarus, seeking to overcome human limitations through AI, radical life extension, and digital immortality. Christians must instead use technology with reverence for God’s design, not in defiance of it. AI should serve human dignity, not reduce humanity to a set of programmable functions. It should heal and assist, not replace and dominate.

A parallel Christian society in the age of AI requires more than passive resistance to secular trends; it demands the active redemption of technology. The wings of Daedalus, properly used, enable escape. The question is not whether Christians should engage with AI, but how. Will we build systems that strengthen families rather than replace them? Will we use AI to deepen ethical discernment rather than circumvent it? Will we develop tools that amplify human dignity rather than reduce it? AI can be a force for good—helping the Church identify those in need of pastoral care, translating Scripture into every language, and modeling sustainable solutions for stewardship of creation. But its use must be governed by a higher principle: Does this technology help us love God and love others more fully?

The transhumanist movement, like Icarus, marvels at human ingenuity but tragically misdirects it. Their projects—uploading consciousness to the cloud, reengineering genes for “perfection,” merging biology with code—are modern Towers of Babel, seeking to ascend to heaven without holiness. But Christians are called to a different path, one grounded in the recognition that “every good and perfect gift is from above” (James 1:17). True technological progress must serve God’s Kingdom, not the delusions of self-deification.

Silicon Valley’s most fervent accelerationists preach a new gospel—that artificial superintelligence, once unleashed, will usher in a utopia of endless knowledge, abundance, and even the abolition of death itself. Their belief in the “Singularity,” the hypothetical point where AI surpasses human intelligence and reshapes civilization, is an eschatology in digital form. Yet this techno-optimism is built on a profound misdiagnosis of the human condition. No amount of computing power can resolve the true crisis of our age: the radical brokenness of human nature. Every civilization before us has sought salvation through its own idols—whether golden calves, political utopias, or scientific mastery. Transhumanism is simply the latest repackaging of an ancient heresy, mistaking symptoms for the disease. Mortality, suffering, and conflict are not errors in the code of existence; they are manifestations of a world groaning under the weight of sin (Romans 8:22). The singularity will not save humanity. It will only amplify the moral crisis already consuming us.

The final warning of these myths is clear: the line between innovation and idolatry is razor-thin. The AI age will demand clear moral leadership from the Church, not reactionary fear or blind adoption of secular narratives. Christians must frame innovation as a tool for healing, service, and worship—not as a new tower to reach heaven on our own terms.

A parallel Christian society will not emerge by rejecting technology but by reorienting it toward its true purpose. It will reject the empty promises of digital salvation and instead deploy AI to embody Christ’s kingdom—feeding the hungry, healing the sick, and proclaiming the Gospel. The wings of Daedalus can lift us toward compassion if our hearts are fixed on heaven, or they can melt and cast us into the depths if we fly too close to the false light of human pride. The modern world hurtles toward a moment of decision. Will we, like Icarus, ignore the warnings and plunge headlong into technological hubris? Or will we, like wise stewards, use these tools to glorify the Creator? The answer lies not in the machines themselves, but in the hands that wield them. The world is being remade—not by algorithms, but by the choices we make today.

Christians must reject both Luddite fear and transhumanist arrogance. Technology is not inherently corrupt—it is a gift from God, part of the cultural mandate to “subdue the earth” (Genesis 1:28). But like all gifts, it becomes a curse when divorced from worship. The tower of Babel (Genesis 11) exemplifies this: humanity united by language and ambition, yet building a monument to their own glory rather than God’s. Today’s digital towers—massive AI models trained on stolen data, biometric surveillance systems, and apps that exploit human weakness—are Babel rebuilt in binary. The answer is not to abandon technology but to reclaim it under Christ’s lordship. Imagine AI systems designed not to maximize engagement (and ad revenue) but to cultivate wisdom, temperance, and kindness. Imagine machine learning that identifies and uplifts the marginalized, as Christ did, rather than optimizing for corporate profit. This is not naivete—it is obedience.

The Church’s task is to model an alternative: a community where technology serves the flourishing of all creation in right relationship with God. Transhumanists fly toward the sun, chasing immortality in silicon; Christians walk toward the Son, who conquered death through the Cross. Our witness lies in demonstrating that true progress is not about transcending humanity but embracing it as God intended. AI cannot atone for sin, but it can help us feed the hungry. It cannot resurrect the dead, but it can help us comfort the grieving. It cannot grant eternal life, but it can help us extend the hands of Christ’s body here and now. Let Silicon Valley obsess over the Singularity. Followers of Christ will remain anchored in a far more radical hope: that every algorithm, robot, and data center will bow to the King who makes all things new—not by abolishing humanity, but by fulfilling it.