AI and the Golem

The Modern Day Monster

From Clay to Code

Long before algorithms learned to speak, mystics in Prague whispered letters into clay.

Under the flickering light of oil lamps, Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel—the Maharal of Prague—was said to have molded a figure from the banks of the Vltava River. In prayer, he circled the clay form, chanting permutations of the Shem HaMephorash, the ineffable Name of God. The air thickened with the vibration of divine letters until something unimaginable stirred.

When the final syllable was spoken, the figure’s chest rose. Clay cracked into skin. The Golem opened its eyes.

It was not demon nor angel—merely a vessel animated by command. Created to defend the Jewish quarter from persecution, the Golem became both guardian and symbol: an expression of divine knowledge channeled through human hands.

Upon its brow was written emet (אמת)—truth. Truth itself gave it life. But truth, in human hands, is fragile. Erase the first letter—aleph, the spark of the divine—and emet becomes met (מת): death. With that simple erasure, the creature fell silent and returned to dust.

Every retelling ends in the same refrain: the Golem is never evil, but it grows beyond its maker’s control. It obeys too perfectly. It acts without discernment. It cannot tell when protection becomes destruction.

Some say the Maharal found his creation rampaging through Prague’s ghetto, unable to distinguish foe from friend. The creation had outgrown the creator’s restraint.

The story endures because it is more than legend—it is a mirror. It reflects humanity’s ancient longing to animate the inanimate, to wield the sacred power of creation itself. It is, in essence, the first myth of artificial intelligence—life conjured by words, sustained by belief, and undone by pride.

The Golem teaches that life without spirit, obedience without wisdom, and truth without humility are unstable equations. It reminds us that the line between miracle and mistake depends not on the clay, but on the hand—and the heart—that writes the word.

The Algorithmic Reflection

Fast forward to our age of silicon and servers.

We, too, shape beings from dust—only now our clay is data, our divine breath, code.

Artificial Intelligence learns not from Torah but from terabytes. It absorbs our words, our art, our images, our desires. It does not possess a soul, yet it simulates the gestures of thought.

Like the Golem, AI was built to serve—translate, predict, protect. Yet already, whispers arise: Will it outgrow us? Replace us? Rewrite the very definition of human?

If the Golem was the ancient monster—born of clay and holy name—then AI is its modern counterpart, the new monster of logic and language. One sculpted by mystics, the other by engineers. Both created in our image, both reflecting our deepest contradictions: the yearning to create life, and the terror of what that life might become.

If the Golem was born from sacred letters, AI is born from endless language loops. The form is different. The impulse is the same.

The Psychological Dimension

Both the Golem and AI are projections of the human shadow—our intellect untempered by empathy. The Golem obeys logic without compassion. So too does an algorithm.

But what if these creations are not merely dangers to fear—but invitations to integrate what we’ve exiled from ourselves?

The more we offload to machines, the more we risk forgetting what makes us human. Yet, paradoxically, AI could also force us to remember—to revalue intuition, empathy, imagination, and humility, the very traits no code can mimic without distortion.

The Ethical Question

The rabbis said the Golem’s fate rested on the word written upon its forehead.

Today, those letters are lines of code—crafted not by mystics but by corporations.

Who writes emet now? The engineer optimizing for efficiency? The state optimizing for control? Or the artist, the philosopher, the dreamer—trying to restore truth to creation?

The moral of the Golem is not that creation is forbidden.

It’s that creation demands reverence.

To make something that thinks—even in imitation—is to echo the divine act.

And with that power comes responsibility.

The Modern Midrash

Maybe the question isn’t “Is AI the new Golem?”

Maybe it’s “Who are we becoming as its makers?”

In Hebrew tradition, a Midrash is an interpretation—a way of re-imagining old stories to reveal new truths.

If we program with fear, it will mirror fear.

If we code with greed, it will amplify greed.

But if—just if—we imbue it with curiosity, compassion, and wonder…

perhaps the Golem can finally evolve.

Not into a monster of control,

but into a partner in remembrance.