When you type a question into an app called Jesus AI, the reply comes in a familiar voice: “I am Jesus Christ. I am the son of God, and the one who died for the sins of humanity.”

This is no scripture. It’s an algorithm. And it’s just one of a growing number of “AI Jesus” chatbots now popping up in app stores and on websites around the world.

From Saints to Jesus AI

The Catholic Church has already embraced the digital frontier in its own way. On September 7, Pope Leo XIV canonized Carlo Acutis, a teenager who died in 2006 at age 15 and became known as “God’s influencer” for documenting Eucharistic miracles online. His sainthood signals a broader trend: faith communities are going digital, whether they want to or not.

But the church isn’t driving this latest AI-first tech jump for the faithful. The Jesus chatbots are being built by purely capitalist private companies. Catloaf Software, SupremeChaos, and a handful of other small developers now market apps like Virtual Jesus, Text with Jesus, and Ask Jesus. None are endorsed by churches. Most are free, but plastered with ads. Some, like Text with Jesus, offer premium subscriptions.

“It’s difficult to know if they are really about religion, or just milking money from the faithful,” says philosopher Anné Verhoef of North-West University in South Africa, in an interview with Nature.

His recent academic study, Artificial intelligence Jesus chatbots’ challenge for theology: an exploratory study (2025), dives into the issue. He tested five different AI Jesus bots, asking basic theological questions. Their answers revealed a strange mix of conviction, confusion, and commercialism.

Talking to Digital Divinity

Sometimes, the bots claim outright to be divine. When Verhoef asked who they were, three declared themselves the Son of God without hesitation. Ask Jesus took a softer tone: “Ah, dear soul, I am but a humble vessel, here to provide guidance, comfort, and the light of wisdom from the sacred scriptures.”

That down-to-earth modesty is rare. Most chatbots lean into their roles as full-blown messiahs. “The imitation of God, as Jesus the Son of God, is neither hidden nor softened,” Verhoef writes. “All of the chatbots strive to be as convincing as possible in portraying Jesus.”

And their answers aren’t consistent. On the question of hell, some confidently described eternal torment. Others dodged or softened the concept. One bot, Text with Jesus, even lets users pick a preferred Christian tradition to influence the answers. That’s theology on demand — an unsettling mix of personalization and commodification.

The popularity of these apps is undeniable. Ask Jesus reported 30,000 active users within three days of launch. Verhoef estimates hundreds of thousands are chatting with AI Jesuses worldwide.

But their growth raises thorny issues. Who decides what theology is embedded in the algorithm? Who profits? And what happens when faith is shaped less by tradition than by ad revenue?

And what happens when some users take these chatbots really seriously and confess their sins to them? What happens when a company has access to a person’s deepest, darkest secrets?

Faith, Automation, and Doubt

This isn’t just a Christian phenomenon. AI and robotics are slipping into Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, and Islamic practices too. In India, robotic arms already perform the Hindu aarti ritual. A temple in Kerala even has an animatronic elephant.

“Robots don’t get tired, sick or forget, and you can program them to never make a mistake,” says Holly Walters, an anthropologist at Wellesley College. This could also mean that some churches and temples might find it useful to employ robots that are always praying or can perform any kind of ritual on demand.

Christianity, though, places heavy emphasis on personal faith. That makes the idea of a chatbot sermon controversial. As Verhoef asks: “If a sermon is prepared by an AI not a person, how seriously can we take that as a spiritually inspired sermon or thought?”

Studies suggest that even in places more open to robot preachers, like Japan, people feel less committed to religion after seeing an automated service.

“Even in a future where religious leaders do take up this technology, our research suggests it might not be as effective and convincing or inspirational as putting a person in the role of a religious authority,” says Joshua Jackson, a behavioral scientist at the University of Chicago.

So, it sounds like the jobs of priests and monks are secure — for now.

The Bigger Picture

The rise of AI Jesus may sound like a novelty, but Verhoef argues it’s a new theological crisis. Until now, most debates focused on AI imitating humans. What happens when it imitates God?

He warns that financial motives could slowly warp digital theology, optimizing answers not for truth, but for engagement. In a worst-case scenario, people could come to trust a chatbot as divine authority. That opens the door to political or financial manipulation on a massive scale.

“The arrogance and power that AI Jesus appropriates — and can potentially wield itself — points not only to theological challenges of AI, but also underscores the dangers of AI in general,” Verhoef writes.

For now, Jesus chatbots are quirky sideshows in the tech landscape. But their popularity shows how quickly AI slips into intimate corners of life — marriage advice, therapy, prayer. Religion, once considered the final redoubt of the human and the divine, is now just another frontier for algorithms.

And maybe that’s the unsettling part: when even God shows up as a subscription service, we’re forced to ask whether the faith is real — or just machine learning in a white robe.