The Algorithms of Anxiety

The following passage is an excerpt from my new best-selling book, Reclaiming Reality: Restoring Humanity in the Age of AI. You can learn more about the book, listen to the podcast based on the book, and purchase the book at ReclaimingReality.com.

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We live in an age of perpetual anxiety. Modern technology, rather than bringing peace and stability, has created a society that is constantly unsettled, uncertain, and on edge. The very systems designed to provide information and connection have instead fueled fear, division, and emotional instability. Artificial intelligence, social media algorithms, and mass surveillance have not simply changed the way we interact with information—they have reshaped how we think, how we feel, and even how we understand reality itself.

The average person today consumes more information in a single day than previous generations encountered in a lifetime. Every moment, we are bombarded with breaking news, notifications, trending topics, and algorithmically curated content designed to provoke an emotional response. The result is a culture of constant distraction and heightened anxiety, where people feel powerless in the face of overwhelming events. This is not accidental. It is by design.

Big Tech companies understand that fear drives engagement. Social media platforms, news websites, and search engines are optimized not to inform, but to agitate. The more emotionally charged a story is, the more likely it is to be shared, commented on, and reacted to. Algorithms are built to exploit this reality, amplifying sensationalized content that triggers outrage, panic, and tribalism. The goal is simple: to keep people addicted to the cycle of doom-scrolling, ensuring they remain glued to their screens and, by extension, under the influence of those who control the digital world. But this digital age of anxiety is more than just a marketing strategy—it is an existential crisis. Søren Kierkegaard, writing in the 19th century, foresaw many of the spiritual dangers that now define the AI era. He diagnosed the modern condition as one of infinite possibility, where man is paralyzed by endless choices and, in doing so, loses himself. He described this as the “vertigo of possibility”—the overwhelming terror that comes from realizing that one could be anything but is, in fact, nothing without commitment.

Artificial intelligence embodies this vertigo perfectly. It presents a world without limits, where knowledge, entertainment, and identity are endlessly customizable. It offers a seductive illusion that one can become anything, learn everything, and exist everywhere, all at once. But Kierkegaard warned that this kind of limitless choice does not lead to freedom—it leads to despair. The more options we have, the harder it becomes to commit to any one thing, and without commitment, we lose our sense of self. This is precisely the trap of the digital world. A person can spend their entire life online, consuming an infinite stream of content, debating an infinite number of topics, exploring an infinite number of digital identities. But at the end of it all, they have built nothing, they have grounded themselves in nothing, and they are left feeling hollow. AI has not freed them; it has enslaved them to an illusion of endless potential.

Kierkegaard called this “the despair of not wanting to be oneself.” It is the condition of a person who has surrendered their authentic self for an artificial one, constantly distracted, constantly entertained, but never truly present. This is the very despair that AI exacerbates. Social media allows us to craft digital personas that are more polished than reality. AI-generated content can simulate art, literature, and even personal interactions, making human effort feel obsolete. The algorithms that curate our experiences shape our desires, subtly directing us toward prefabricated identities rather than allowing us to cultivate our true selves through faith and commitment.

In this sense, AI becomes not just a tool—it becomes a force that reshapes the human soul. It encourages detachment from real-world relationships, replacing them with virtual interactions. It removes the need for patience and discipline by making everything instantly available. It creates a world where people never have to choose—because the algorithm is always making choices for them. And yet, as Kierkegaard observed, the inability to make a real commitment is the very source of despair. For Christians, resisting the algorithms of anxiety is not just a psychological necessity—it is a spiritual discipline. We must actively take steps to guard our hearts and minds against the constant stream of fear-driven information. This does not mean ignorance or retreating from reality, but it does mean refusing to be controlled by the artificial urgency of the digital world.

The first step is reclaiming control over our attention. Attention is one of the most valuable resources we have, and yet most people give it away freely to platforms that do not have their best interests at heart. Christians must be intentional about where they direct their focus. This means setting strict boundaries on social media use, limiting exposure to anxiety-inducing news cycles, and prioritizing real-world relationships over digital interactions. The less time spent consuming algorithmically curated content, the more mental and spiritual clarity one gains. The second step is cultivating a biblical mindset rather than an algorithmic one. The world’s algorithms thrive on fear, but Scripture calls us to live in faith. Instead of being shaped by trending topics, believers should be shaped by the eternal truths of God’s Word. This means beginning and ending the day with Scripture rather than a screen, allowing the peace of God to shape our thinking rather than the anxieties of the world.

The third step is building real communities. One of the greatest weapons of the modern technocracy is isolation. People who are constantly online but disconnected from real human interaction are far easier to manipulate. The antidote to this is local, in-person community—strong families, committed churches, and friendships rooted in shared faith rather than digital affinity. When Christians prioritize physical presence over virtual engagement, they create networks of resilience that cannot be easily controlled by tech giants.

The goal of the technocratic system we live in is not simply to keep people anxious—it is to keep them distracted. A fearful, distracted person does not pray. A fearful, distracted person does not build. A fearful, distracted person does not resist. The greatest act of defiance against the system is to choose peace, to cultivate wisdom, and to trust in the sovereignty of God over the manufactured chaos of the world.

Kierkegaard understood that true selfhood is found not in infinite choices but in commitment—a life rooted in something eternal. For Christians, that means a life rooted in Christ. As artificial intelligence and algorithmic control become more sophisticated, the temptation to surrender to the overwhelming flood of information will only increase. But Christians are not called to be passive participants in the world’s digital theater. We are called to be watchful, discerning, and courageous. “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7). Reject the anxiety. Reject the distractions. Build a life that is rooted in reality, in truth, and in faith. In doing so, we not only protect our own souls from the manipulations of the digital age, but we also create a model for others to follow—a model of what it means to live freely in an age of algorithmic control.

This moment presents unprecedented Gospel opportunities. As AI destabilizes secular certainties, people will hunger for answers machines can’t provide. The woman disillusioned by AI-generated friends will crave real communion. The man terrified of brain-computer interfaces will long for a self that transcends hardware. The child raised by chatbot tutors will ache for authoritative truth. Kierkegaard’s “knight of faith” becomes our archetype—those who live with grounded urgency, their existence itself a rebuke to digital nihilism. Our churches must become existential sanctuaries: spaces where silence isn’t feared, questions aren’t pathologized, and mystery isn’t resolved. We’ll need catechisms that address AI anxiety, liturgies that re-enchant embodiment, and pastors skilled in existential spiritual direction.

The Christian response to AI’s existential void isn’t reactionary but radically hopeful. We don’t retreat to pre-technological innocence but advance toward redemption’s horizon. Kierkegaard’s “truth is subjectivity” finds fulfillment in the scandal of particularity: While AI generalizes, Christ individualizes; where machines abstract, the Cross concretizes. In an age of synthetic selves, we offer identity rooted in divine adoption. Amidst algorithmic determinism, we proclaim liberating obedience. Against transhumanist hubris, we elevate cruciform weakness as strength. This is Christianity’s moment not despite AI, but because of it—the failure of silicon saviors makes room for the only Savior who satisfies the abyss-sized longings of the human heart.

The corrosive effects of digital technology on human flourishing have been both profound and paradoxical. Smartphones—those pocket-sized portals to infinite distraction—were sold as tools of liberation, yet they’ve become prisons of compulsive comparison and fractured attention. Social media promised connection but delivered atomization; dating apps guaranteed romance but normalized disposability; streaming services offered entertainment but eroded patience. The data is damning: suicide rates among teens and young adults aged 10-24 increased by 62% from 2007 to 2021, “deaths of despair” from alcohol, drugs, and suicide claimed over 207,000 American lives in 2022, and nearly one-third of adults report experiencing feelings of loneliness at least once a week. Among young adults aged 18-25, 61% reported experiencing profound loneliness during the pandemic, despite being perpetually “online.”

Silicon Valley’s utopian rhetoric crumbles before the reality it’s wrought—a generation drowning in abundance, their souls starved by the very tools that promised fulfillment. This isn’t mere correlation but causation: when human beings outsource their agency to algorithms designed to addict, when families fracture into digital fiefdoms, and when transcendent meaning is reduced to dopamine hits from likes and swipes, nihilism becomes the default posture of those raised by screens.

The coming AI revolution threatens to metastasize this spiritual cancer. If smartphones weakened our capacity for sustained thought, superintelligent systems could atrophy our ability to think at all. When AI surpasses human performance in every cognitive domain—writing our emails, diagnosing our illnesses, even crafting our art—what becomes of us? Vocational identity, already crumbling under gig economy pressures, may disappear entirely. The carpenter’s pride in his craft, the teacher’s joy in sparking insight, the scientist’s thrill of discovery—these pillars of meaning face obsolescence. For a generation already adrift, this displacement could prove catastrophic. If today’s youth struggle to answer “Who am I?” when TikTok defines their tastes and Instagram curates their relationships, how will they fare when AI not only mirrors but authors their identities?

Kierkegaard’s warning about the “unum necessarium”—the one thing needful—becomes urgent here. The Dane observed that without an “eternal consciousness,” humans inevitably despair, for temporal achievements crumble and finite pleasures cloy. Our technological age has inverted this truth, convincing millions that the sacred lies in self-optimization—biohacking the body, gamifying productivity, outsourcing cognition to apps. But these are sandcastles against the tide of cosmic meaninglessness. AI superintelligence will expose this futility with terrifying clarity: When machines can iterate self-improvement exponentially faster than humans, what’s the point of our incremental growth? When synthetic minds compose symphonies that make Bach sound pedestrian, why bother practicing the violin? The crisis isn’t economic but existential—a wholesale erosion of why we should get out of bed in a world that doesn’t need us.

Like what you’ve read? Buy the full book here.