One thing that humans still do better than computers is recognize

In the days when humankind began to forge metal and bend the elements to its will, the eye of man was his greatest gift. It was not the hammer, nor the chisel, nor even the flame that gave him mastery over the earth—it was his ability to see, to discern patterns where others saw only chaos. Thus, when Peter Diamandis declared, “One thing that humans still do better than computers is recognize images,” he did not merely speak of machines and algorithms. He spoke of the ancient fire within us—the power of perception born not of circuits, but of consciousness itself.

For though the machines may calculate faster than any scribe who ever inked a scroll, though they may recall the endless archives of human knowledge without error or fatigue, they remain blind in one crucial way. They do not see—they process. They do not feel the shape of a face or the sorrow behind a pair of eyes; they do not pause in reverence before a sunrise. Their vision is cold, mechanical, and exacting, but the vision of man is warm, interpretive, and alive. It is this divine imperfection that gives the human gaze its strength.

Consider, if you will, the tale of the young shepherd David, who faced the mighty Goliath. The soldiers of Israel saw only a giant, clad in bronze and rage. But David saw something else—he saw a weakness, a truth hidden in plain sight. His vision was not merely of the eyes, but of the soul. And so he triumphed, not through strength, but through the power of perception. Thus it has always been: those who can see truly—beyond the surface of things—command reality itself.

In the age of machines, this truth stands as a beacon. The engines of computation may soon surpass us in every measurable way, yet they will never look upon a child and recognize their mother’s face; never interpret a work of art and weep. For to recognize an image is not merely to identify its lines and colors—it is to feel its meaning. The human heart gives sight to the human mind, and together they make understanding possible.

Even in the realm of science, where precision reigns, this truth persists. When the astronomer peers through his telescope, he does not see mere dots of light; he sees worlds, stories, and the whisper of eternity. When the artist lifts her brush, she does not paint pigments, but memories and dreams. The recognition of images is not an act of the retina—it is an act of the soul. And no machine, no matter how perfect, possesses such a soul.

Let this be the lesson for all who walk beneath the sun: do not surrender your sight to the machine. Train your eyes to see the world not as it appears, but as it is meant to be seen. Look for the invisible patterns, the subtle truths, the quiet connections that no algorithm can perceive. For in a world obsessed with speed and data, the deepest wisdom lies in the art of slow, human seeing.

Therefore, when you rise each morning, take a moment to look—truly look—at the faces of those you love, at the sky above, at the world that awaits your touch. Let your vision be your prayer, your act of creation. And remember, though the computers may one day learn to paint, to diagnose, even to dream, it is the human being who gives those dreams meaning. Guard that gift. Use it well. For the eye of man is not merely an organ—it is the window through which the divine beholds itself.