Embodied Souls in a Technological Age

Transhumanism and the Line I’m Still Trying to Find

I’ve been thinking a lot about transhumanism lately, and I haven’t landed on a clean answer.

I do think transhumanism is wrong at its core. The idea that we should move past being human, that our bodies are outdated hardware to be upgraded or escaped, doesn’t sit right with me, especially from a Christian perspective.

But here’s the harder question I keep coming back to.

Where exactly do we draw the line?

It’s easy to reject the extreme versions. Uploading consciousness. Digital immortality. Turning the human person into software. Most Christians would agree those things cross a line.

What’s much harder is figuring out where that line actually begins, because we don’t jump there all at once. We approach it slowly, one reasonable step at a time.

Take something simple, like a heart stent.

Almost no one has an issue with that. A stent supports a failing artery so the heart can keep doing what it was designed to do. It restores function. It feels clearly aligned with healing.

That seems consistent with Scripture’s view of caring for the body. Paul writes, “Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own,” (1 Corinthians 6:19, ESV). Taking care of the body matters.

Now take a pacemaker.

Still feels acceptable. The heart is still there. The body is still functioning as a whole. Technology is assisting biology, not replacing it.

But what about a fully artificial heart?

This is where I start to feel tension. The heart is no longer living tissue. It doesn’t grow or heal. It’s a machine. And yet, the person is still conscious, still relational, still themselves in every visible way.

Is this still healing, or is it replacement?

I don’t have a clean answer.

What about a heart transplant?

That feels different again. The heart is biological. It came from another human. Most Christians are comfortable with this because it still fits within God’s created order. It feels like stewardship of life rather than an attempt to out-engineer it.

But notice what’s happening.

Each step feels reasonable on its own. The discomfort only shows up when you zoom out and look at the direction instead of the moment.

So what happens if we keep following that direction?

What if most of the body is replaced with machines? Lungs, kidneys, pancreas. At what point does the body stop being a body and start being a system designed simply to keep consciousness running?

And then there’s the question that really forces the issue.

What if the only biological part left is the brain? Imagine a brain kept alive in a container, fed nutrients and oxygen, controlling a robotic body. It can see, hear, think, remember, and interact. From the inside, it might feel completely normal.

Is that still a human life?

My instinct says no. But when I try to explain why, it gets complicated.

If we define humanity purely by consciousness, then it’s hard to draw a firm line here. But Christianity has never defined humans as just minds.

Scripture presents humans as embodied souls. Body and soul together. Genesis tells us that God formed man from the dust of the ground and breathed life into him (Genesis 2:7, ESV). The body isn’t incidental. It’s part of how God chose to make us human.

That’s why resurrection matters so much in Christian belief. Our hope is not escape from the body, but its renewal. “For this perishable body must put on the imperishable,” Paul writes (1 Corinthians 15:53, ESV). God doesn’t promise to save our thoughts alone. He promises restored, redeemed bodies.

This is where transhumanism starts to feel misaligned.

Transhumanism often treats the body as something to overcome. Christianity treats the body as meaningful, even in its weakness. Broken, yes. Fallen, yes. But still intentional.

Healing works within that design. Transhumanism eventually tries to replace it.

The problem is that the shift from one to the other isn’t obvious in real time. It happens gradually. Each step makes sense. Each choice feels compassionate. And only later do we realize we’ve changed how we understand what a human is.

I don’t think the answer is rejecting technology. Christians have always used tools to care for life. Jesus healed the sick. Preserving life matters.

But direction matters more than capability.

Are we using technology to restore what’s broken, or to escape the limits God built into being human?

A robotic heart used as a last resort feels different than a future where biological hearts are seen as outdated. A prosthetic that restores mobility feels different than replacing healthy limbs for performance. A neural implant that treats disease feels different than one designed to remove dependence, struggle, or moral friction.

I also want to be careful how we talk about death here.

Christianity doesn’t teach that physical death is the ultimate reality to be avoided at all costs. It teaches that life is found in relationship with God. Jesus says, “Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live” (John 11:25, ESV). Physical death is real, but it isn’t the final word.

That changes how we think about survival.

Staying alive is not the same thing as living well. Preserving consciousness at any cost is not the same thing as honoring the kind of life God created us for.

I don’t have a perfectly drawn line yet.

What I do know is that being human is more than staying functional. It’s embodied, relational, dependent life before God.

And I’m increasingly convinced that if we don’t wrestle with this now, we’ll cross a line slowly, without ever meaning to.

I may not know exactly where the line is.

But I believe it exists.

And I think it’s worth thinking deeply about before technology decides for us.