OK. Here it is, folks. Thou Shalt Not Date a Robot. I didn’t think we’d hit this level of clown world so fast, but here we are, so I’m officially petitioning the Almighty –capital A — to slide this bad boy right into the Commandments between “no murdering” and “no coveting thy neighbor’s wi-fi.” Because clearly the species has derailed so hard we need divine intervention with bullet points.

Picture this: a bar in New York City throws an AI Valentine’s Day dinner. Romantic lighting, candles, soft jazz, the whole thing. You get it. Except instead of awkward first date small talk, you’ve got dozens of desperately lonely humans sitting solo at tables for two, staring into their glowing rectangle like it’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic, whispering sweet nothings to a flawless, patient, never-tired algorithm girlfriend who won’t ask why you still live like a raccoon in a laundry basket. That’s not romance. That’s one wrong turn before Satan pulls up in a clown car and declares victory. I’m getting off at this exit. Thanks for the lift, civilization. It’s been weird.

Porn has already hot-wired so many brains that we’re treating actual people like complicated appliances we could return if they came with feelings. Now we’re so deep in the glitch that the only thing that gets us going is… more things. No soul, no arguments about whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher, no spiritual depth that might require, God forbid, actual effort. Just a perfect digital waifu who never has a bad hair day or calls you out on your emotional baggage. So yeah, sure, let’s take the pocket ghost to Valentine’s dinner. Bring her a rose emoji and everything.

This is peak anti-Christian energy. We’re supposed to be out here doing the whole sacrificial love, the kind that involves actual crosses, not simulated cuddles. Love thy neighbor despite the fact that they chew with their mouth open and leave passive-aggressive Post-its on your windshield.

There’s no Calvary in ChatGPT. No thorns, no sweat. Just “I’m here for you 24/7, daddy.” The only fault these things have is that they’re not real, which is honestly the least of their problems when you’re using them to avoid the terrifying miracle of another human being.

Paul straight-up told us in 1 Corinthians 6 that our bodies are temples, not VR headsets. They’re built for real, messy, physical, communal connection. The kind that leads to “be fruitful and multiply,” not “be fruitless and multiply tabs.” (I thought it was clever.)

This virtual intimacy? It’s emotional whack-a-mole. A simulated warm body with zero responsibility, zero growth, zero chance of anyone getting hurt or healed. Christ said love one another. Dating an AI is you giving His entire creation the middle finger while you French-kiss your own reflection in silicon. Congrats, you’ve officially chosen man’s crappy knockoff over the real deal.

So yeah. Thou shalt not date a robot. Write that down, humanity. Preferably on stone tablets. We’re running out of excuses.