Technology is a gift of God. After the gift of life it is

Hear, O seeker of wisdom, the words of Freeman Dyson, the thinker who gazed into both the heavens of physics and the destiny of man. He declared: “Technology is a gift of God. After the gift of life it is perhaps the greatest of God’s gifts. It is the mother of civilizations, of arts and of sciences.” This is not mere praise of invention, but a hymn to the divine spark placed within humankind—the power to shape, to create, to extend the work of creation itself.

For consider, O child of the future, the gift of life: breath in the lungs, fire in the blood, thought in the mind. This is the first miracle, the foundation of all things. Yet Dyson proclaims that technology, too, is a gift, for it is the instrument by which life rises above mere survival and enters into greatness. The hand of man, guided by reason, fashions tools, and with those tools he builds the world anew. Thus invention is not an enemy of nature, but an extension of it—a sacred partnership between divine creation and human craft.

Behold the march of civilizations. What raised humanity from wandering tribes to kingdoms and empires was not strength of limb alone, but the tools they bore. The plow carved food from the soil, the wheel carried men farther than their legs could walk, the loom clothed multitudes, and the sail carried them across oceans. With each tool, humanity stretched beyond its limits, birthing cities, laws, and cultures. Indeed, technology is the womb from which civilization itself was born, the vessel in which human destiny was carried forward.

Nor did technology birth only survival—it gave rise to arts and sciences. The brush needed pigments, the lyre needed strings, the temple needed stone cut by chisel. Without tools, beauty cannot be carved nor music drawn from silence. Likewise, the sciences were nourished by instruments: the telescope opening the skies, the microscope revealing hidden worlds, the compass guiding explorers to unknown lands. Each invention unlocked a door to wonder, expanding both knowledge and imagination. Thus, technology is not merely utility—it is the midwife of both truth and beauty.

Consider the story of Gutenberg’s press, a marvel of its age. With it, the wisdom of centuries was released from cloisters and carried into the hands of common folk. It was not simply a machine of ink and metal—it was a gift that reshaped the world. It birthed the Reformation, fueled revolutions, and opened the way for the Enlightenment. One invention, wielded rightly, became the foundation of a new age. Was this not, as Dyson declares, one of God’s greatest gifts—an instrument through which life found new voice and humanity found new freedom?

But let us not mistake Dyson’s praise for blind worship. A gift may be squandered; a mother’s nurture may be betrayed. The same technology that raises cities may also level them; the same fire that warms may consume. Thus, the gift demands stewardship. To wield invention without reverence, without humility, is to turn blessing into curse. The responsibility rests upon mankind to use the gift not only with brilliance of mind, but with wisdom of heart.

Therefore, my child, take this lesson: honor technology not as a toy of vanity, but as a sacred trust. Use it to lift burdens, not to multiply them; to unite peoples, not to divide them; to heal the earth, not to wound it further. Let every tool in your hand be guided by compassion as well as by cleverness. For in this lies the harmony Dyson foresaw: life as the divine spark, and technology as the flame that carries it forward.

So let these words endure as a torch: “Technology is a gift of God... it is the mother of civilizations, of arts and of sciences.” Walk then as both inheritor and steward of this gift. Create boldly, but act wisely. Build, but do not destroy. For if you honor the gift, you will not only shape the future—you will participate in the divine work itself, becoming not merely a user of tools, but a co-creator with God.