Jesus wasn’t a stranger to building. He’d spent years with wood and stone before calling his first disciples to follow him. He knew that a tower looks simple from a distance but becomes complicated the moment you’re digging the foundations. So when he wanted a picture for what it costs to follow him, he reached for something practical and visible.

That word — sit down — is doing real work. Jesus is describing an intentioned pause: stop, take a seat, and reckon honestly with what’s in front of you before you build.

Built Fast, Never Stopped Counting

It turns out this posture of slowed-down consideration is what the best-built towers today model for us. I recently read Bent Flyvbjerg’s How Big Things Get Done, whose first chapter — “Think Slow, Act Fast” — surveys decades of megaprojects and finds the same story again and again: most megaprojects (95%) land late and over budget.

One of the rare success stories is the Empire State Building, finished under budget and ahead of deadline, at a pace that still looks absurd today — at one point in 1930, crews erected twenty-two stories of steel in twenty-two working days.

The building’s own developers liked to tell it as a tidier story than that. A 1931 publicity pamphlet boasted that before a single shovel of dirt was moved, the architects already knew “how many rivets and bolts would be needed.” Dig into the trade-press record and we discover that design, demolition, and foundation construction overlapped — it wasn’t a linear process, at least not initially.

What made it work wasn’t necessarily a long planning phase — it was that the posture of counting the cost was never neglected. General contractor William Starrett ran daily inspection reports tracking cost and progress on every part of the job; steel arrived one lift at a time because there was no room on site for anything uncounted.

And that discipline wasn’t improvised under deadline pressure — Starrett had already run all U.S. Army construction for the War Industrial Board during the First World War, and published a book on the discipline a year before ground broke. It arrived fully formed because it had already been tested somewhere harder.

Counting the cost, then, is a discipline you sustain while you build, and it’s often forged in seasons shaped by past pressure tests.

Starrett’s discipline was honed in an army office years before anyone in New York cared about it. Jesus uses the counting the cost of the tower to ask something similar of anyone who’d follow him — can you afford to follow me? The distinct claim of Christianity is that we can’t afford not to follow Jesus, even though it means facing what’s in store: sacrifice, resistance, hardship, persecution, isolation, obedience peppered with loss.

The rich truth is that once you accept the cost, you’re not the chief builder of your destiny anymore. You’re the messy but beautiful construction site. It’s Jesus who does the slow work in you.

On your decision to follow Jesus you are mercifully and instantly gifted access to the creator and are justified for relationship. Then slowly, daily sanctification is wheelbarrowed upon your life in increments too small to notice, until, suddenly, one day what was quietly being built is revealed in all its glory! Do we really truly understand what God is building in those who follow him? We can’t even begin to comprehend!

What AI Tempts Us to Skip

Most of us aren’t building skyscrapers, though — we’re building sentences, strategies, decisions, sermons, code, and now with AI tools and models that provide instant results.

James Kelly, founder of FaithTech, names something quite perceptive and helpful about this moment for those adopting AI to build and create: there used to be a gap between a question and an answer, and that gap was where thought actually happened. As AI closes it, he writes, “immediacy now feels normal and patience feels inefficient.”

Kelly’s argument is that we need godly leadership that resists the formation pressure AI exerts — not by rejecting the tool, but by refusing to let its pace become our default posture.

The real danger isn’t speed itself. It’s unconsidered and uncounted speed — the deliberate removal of that sit-down pause to count the cost that Jesus recommends to us, in practical projects and our relationship with him alike.

When the Builders Warn Us

It’s playing out at civilisational scale right now. This month, researcher Jacob Coxon resigned from Anthropic, warning that the race toward more powerful, self-improving AI is moving faster than anyone’s ability to make it safe — not because the people building it are unaware of the danger, but because each side is convinced that pausing just hands the advantage to someone less careful.

Numerous other AI safety researchers across the mainstream AI companies, concur often saying there is no viable plan for the risks of AI that improves itself.

It’s the tower-builder in Luke 14, surrounded by other builders racing to finish first, each one afraid that stopping to collectively count will simply hand the advantage to someone else. It’s building from fear — fear of competition down the road with different value systems, or even fear of other nation-states who dominate humanity.

When the gap between question and answer is squeezed out at this scale, that’s exactly when Christians need to be advocating for it to be put back — and we can’t really operate with any authority if we’re not doing this personally ourselves in our own building.

This moment is also a time to pray — the people closest to this technology are telling us plainly how high they believe the stakes are, and though the outcomes are debatable, there are clear, well-documented present dangers of people trying to misuse AI for cyberattacks, influence operations, surveillance, biology, and building weapons.

The warnings of a superintelligence — essentially AI self-building itself — without clearly defined boundaries perhaps also need to be heeded. Ex-Google CEO Eric Schmidt himself has said that when AI starts to self-improve, that’s the moment we need to “pull the plug” — he should know, having presided over Google as it built its own machine learning search engine.

There are small signs that some of the coordination this moment needs is actually being attempted, not just called for. We need to pray for those leading AI labs.

Counting the Cost of a Prompt

With all the global impact of AI, change ultimately begins at home. I feel as Christians there are questions to answer more personally. What does it look like to take up the posture of counting the cost with a tool like this?

Perhaps it starts with a habit of asking more: what are we losing by using AI? Are there times when a slower, more costly way would serve us better? What did we miss by letting the tool answer before we’d finished asking? What would we have noticed ourselves that we didn’t, because the answer arrived before the question had really settled in us?

And there’s a deeper question underneath those. Does the constant, unconsidered use of these tools quietly dampen our own spiritual formation — the slow work Jesus is doing in us, the sanctification that can’t be rushed? That’s not a question with a tidy answer. But it deserves the same posture Jesus asked of the tower-builder: sit down first, and be honest about the cost.

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You’ve probably typed the Person with Folded Hands emoji 🙏 without thinking twice about it. It’s shorthand for please, thank you, for thoughts and prayers, or more rarely even a high-five. By Unicode’s own frequency data, it sits among the five most-used emoji in almost every English-speaking country — roughly one in every 30 emoji sent worldwide is this one.

But how did it emerge? The answer turns out to be stranger, older, and more theologically loaded than a yellow icon can communicate on its own.

From the Catacombs to Your Keyboard

Long before emojis there was a gesture for prayer — and for the first few centuries of the church, it wasn’t even the one we typically recognize.

The earliest Christians prayed standing, arms raised and spread, palms open toward heaven. It’s called the orans position — Latin for “one who prays” — and it’s everywhere in second-century Roman artwork but perfectly exemplified on the walls of catacombs like Priscilla and Callixtus, used to depict characters from the Bible like Noah, Abraham, Daniel, and countless nameless believers whose souls were pictured still praying from beyond the grave. The early theologian Tertullian, writing around A.D. 200, told Christians to pray exactly this way — arms outstretched, imitating Christ on the cross.

Folded hands, palm to palm, often accompanied with kneeling came later — and more slowly than you’d expect. Historians note it isn’t well established as a Christian prayer gesture until sometime after the 13th century.

One theory ties it to a feudal practice: an act of submission like a captive offering their hands to be bound. Over the centuries it became used as a way to demonstrate loyalty and homage to rulers, acknowledging another’s authority and one’s own submission.

By the early 1500s it had become inseparable from one image in particular — Albrecht Dürer’s Praying Hands, a study of two clasped, careworn hands that's since become one of the most reproduced devotional images in Western art. You can find it everywhere - it's even tattooed on Justin Bieber's left leg!

By the time these folded hands of submission reached your emoji keyboard in 2008, the icon was already carrying 500 years of Christian visual language. Which makes it all the more unexpected that the emoji itself actually had almost nothing to do with any of that.

A Japanese Gesture

Emojis obviously didn't emerge from Vatican vaults and you could be forgiven to think they were dreamed up at a Silicon Valley party. The emoji actually originated from the Land of the Rising Sun: Japan.

Japanese mobile carriers in the late 1990s are the father and mothers of the emoji — NTT DoCoMo’s i-mode service launched in 1999 with 176 tiny pixel icons, and rival carriers SoftBank and KDDI quickly built their own competing sets. Ultimately each collection had its own version of a folded hands ‘picture character’.

KDDI’s early design, from 2003, made the intent obvious — a full figure, head bowed, eyes closed. SoftBank’s was simpler: just the two hands. When the iPhone launched in Japan in 2008, Apple built its first emoji set directly on SoftBank’s designs effectively making it global, Google and Microsoft followed soon after.

In Japan, this visual gesture was arguably never primarily about prayer. It’s the same gesture used before a meal, said alongside itadakimasu — closer to thanks than supplication. It is used when asking for forgiveness, of making a polite, insistent request or to show simple gratitude. It carries the same root as gasshō, the Buddhist bow of respect, and echoes the Hindu namaste — traditions of etiquette and reverence, not necessarily traditions of engaging a personal God.

When Unicode formally standardized the symbol in 2010, under the official name “Person with Folded Hands,” it inherited all of that ambiguity. Western users looked at two folded palms and immediately read it through a thousand years of Dürer living in the collective subconscious. Japan had handed the world a gesture of everyday respect and the world received it as a religious icon.

Nobody designed that meaning. It simply traveled by geographical osmosis — attached to a symbol whose original creators weren’t especially trying to say anything remotely about God at all.

All this history is a fun bit of tech trivia but it points to something worth sitting with.

Japan has one of the smallest Christian populations of any developed nation, and the history behind that is more dramatic than a lot of people know. Francis Xavier brought the gospel to Japan in 1549, and it established quickly enough that the response was severe: foreign missionaries were banned 38 years later, Christianity itself was outlawed in 1614, and widespread persecution followed until 1640.

A year later Japan sealed itself off from much of the outside world entirely, a period of national isolation that lasted until Commodore Perry forced its ports open in 1853. Protestant missionaries returned in 1859, but the ban on Christianity itself wasn’t formally lifted until 1873 — meaning Japan spent close to 260 years with the gospel officially outlawed. Religious freedom wasn’t constitutionally guaranteed until 1947, in the aftermath of the Second World War.

That history left a real mark. It’s a country where, as one member of the BibleProject Japan translation team put it, most people carry something close to a blank slate about the Bible. And the present-day church is under real strain: as of 2021, half of Japan’s pastors were 65 or older, seminary enrollment has been falling for years, and one in seven churches is without a pastor.

And yet quietly, patiently, something is stirring underneath.

Still Searching for the Shape of Prayer

Jeremy and Kumiko Jenkins, who lead 24-7 Prayer’s work in Japan describe it as work happening beneath the surface long before it’s visible above ground — the kind of growth, Kumiko writes, that takes years, the way “the strongest trees spend years growing beneath the surface before anyone notices them.”

They have been wondering what would it actually look like for prayer to arise authentically from the Japanese heart, rather than borrowed wholesale from outside Christian traditions that carry a very different spiritual history. Their answer points somewhere specific: Japanese spirituality has long moved through embodiment, space, and quiet rather than through decision and declaration. Which means the forms that will carry prayer authentically in Japan may look less like the American altar call and more like posture, gesture, stillness — categories Japan already has deep native fluency in and categories the Japanese mobile carriers were attempting to give visual language to in the late ‘90s.

Recently BibleProject Japan’s translation team ran into a version of the same challenge at the level of a single word. Rendering “the image of God” into Japanese, they landed on a phrase built around katachi — shape, form or pattern — “the shape of God” — reasoning that someone hearing it for the first time, with no biblical background, would land on roughly the right feeling even without the theological scaffolding. It’s a small, concrete example of a much bigger pattern: reaching for native form to carry meaning that originated somewhere else.

That same instinct — shape first, content later — is exactly what happened decades earlier with a gesture the whole world now uses several billion times a day.

Japan didn’t set out to give humanity its icon for prayer. It gave the world a shape — a form, a katachi — for something it associated with thanks, politeness, and everyday request. The world filled that shape with its own inherited meaning, layered on 5 centuries of Dürer founded on 15 more centuries of postured reverent submission.

Now, in a strange kind of symmetry, Japan finds itself doing the same work in reverse — searching for the language, the posture, the practice that would let prayer take root there as itself, not imported wholesale from elsewhere. And that search comes with a warning for anyone outside Japan tempted to treat this moment as a spectacle to admire from a distance.

Toshiki Morikawa, a pastor in Osaka known as the Gospel Samurai, has been blunt about it: he’s watched people arrive chasing “revival clips” for social media and hype without any real intention to love the country long after the cameras stop, and his church now asks any outsider who wants to partner with them to fully submit to the local church rather than their own brand. His challenge cuts close to the bone for anyone drawn to this story from outside: “Are you committed to coming to Japan or are you committed to impacting Japan?”

The world adopted Japan’s gesture and filled it with meaning Japan never intended. It would be a strange kind of irony to watch Japan’s own search for authentic prayer and do the same thing again — projecting outside expectations onto a story that isn’t ours to write.

The world has been gifted Japan’s shape for prayer and Japan is still exploring what to fill it with. Maybe the truest posture for the rest of us is the posture of folded hands of submission and intercession. This is really what Japan needs right now — to actually pray, and mean it, when we type 🙏.

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Back in 2007, when blogging was big, writing about faith and tech led to my first job—as a young man in my 20s on invitation I interned for the Bible Society of New Zealand, helping them adopt digital tools to engage people with the Bible. Both the writing and the job were so much fun!

The Bowl of Ramen & Resurrection

Now back in the UK and approaching my 40s I recently found myself eating ramen with a new friend. I shared my journey of how my writing had lead me into a world of faith, formation and technology. It hit me: I’d put down writing a blog for a season to better understand my own theological foundations but over time I had perhaps neglected something I used to love—and that the Lord may still want to use. So I’m resurrecting the writing but this time with a particular focus.

A question that’s shifted

As I left New Zealand all those years ago, social media was just emerging and the iPhone had made its debut. Today, tech is just as exciting—AI, quantum computing, web3—but in a world obsessed with novelty, the question for me has shifted.

I used to ask and help people answer: “How do we use new technology to share Jesus?”

Now, as a technology builder, I’m asking:

“How do we use new technology wisely? How do we integrate technology into our lives in a way that enriches and facilities our formation in Jesus?” Many are asking similar questions in an ever changing cultural landscape.

What to expect

You could think of this blog which I have named ‘Appostolo’ (a play on “app” and “apostle,” which means messenger) as part behind-the-scenes (or build-in-public) and part theological journey.

So I’ll be writing about faith and technology, often with an emphasis on prayer, worship, discipleship and mission to the nations - but this time with my own side project in mind. More exciting details to come.

This blog is also a way to stay connected. Recently a few people have been asking for a newsletter update. The last five years have brought a lot of change—getting married, finishing my job in science and innovation, starting a business, moving four times—and it’s easy to lose touch with friends.

So welcome. I’m glad you’re here!

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