Resurrecting the Digital Dead: Ethical Boundaries of AI and Theological Insights of the Russian Religious Renaissance

Abstract

Artificial intelligence is poised to transform not only how we live but also how we die, with emerging “Death Tech” applications—such as deadbots, deepfake memorials, and AI-driven resurrection/immortality projects—reshaping postmortem experiences. Global warning that AI dominance could make one the “ruler of the world” takes on new significance in this context, as these technologies raise profound ethical questions about the dignity of the dead, freedom, and the sacredness of death. To critically assess these challenges, this paper turns to two thinkers from the Russian Religious Renaissance (RRR)—Nikolai Fedorov (1829–1903) and Fr. Sergius Bulgakov (1871–1944)—whose theological engagement with technology, death, and resurrection offers a counterpoint to the consumerist logic driving the Death Tech industry. Fedorov’s vision of a “Common Task” to overcome death through science and Bulgakov’s warnings against mangodhood and criticism of Fedorov provide insights into evaluating what is gained and what is lost in digitizing the afterlife and attempts to resurrect the dead.

1. Introduction

Artificial intelligence [AI] is rapidly becoming omnipresent—from administrators pushing AI integration into curricula to its AI-integrated burgeoning applications in phones, cars, and social media. Beyond the promises that AI will make work more efficient and make people who use AI more competitive in the job market, there is a growing chorus of concern (Huang 2024). The existential threat AI may pose is publicly advocating that cybernetic modifications to the human body will allow human beings to survive the forthcoming AI apocalypse (Fact Sheet 2023; Roose 2017). Whether these concerns come to fruition remains to be seen but there is little doubt that AI is transforming how we live. Yet new and forthcoming AI, known broadly as the “Death Tech” industry, is poised to transform how we die, memorialize the dead, and retain the rights of the dead.

This essay draws on two prominent thinkers from the Russian Religious Renaissance (RRR)—Nikolai Fedorov (1829–1903) and Fr. Sergius Bulgakov (1871–1944)—to examine one of AI’s most provocative frontiers: the “Death Tech” industry. The RRR, a movement emerging from Russia’s Silver Age and spanning from 1880–1950 CE, fused Orthodox theology with modern science, European philosophy, and the sociopolitical movements. Building on their thought—often termed the Russian Immortalist school— this analysis focuses on technologies such as deadbots, deepfakes, and nanobot bodies, assessing their theological and ethical implications (Bernstein 2019).

This essay argues that the “Russian Immortalists,” primarily Father Sergius Bulgakov, serve as crucial theological disruptors. Bulgakov’s thought on technology, death, and resurrection provides a powerful critique of the consumerist logic underpinning “Death Tech.” By first analyzing Fedorov’s “Common Task” of resurrection to provide context, and then examining Bulgakov’s Russian Orthodox Sophiology and his critique of Fedorovian “mangodhood,” this essay will chart the trade-offs inherent to digital afterlife technologies: the perceived comforts gained versus the profound losses to authentic grief, the sacredness of death, and a Christian appreciation of finitude. Employing Bulgakov’s sophiological framework, it will demonstrate why such technologies are fundamentally incompatible with Eastern Christian theology.

2. AI and Death Tech

“Death Tech” is one of the fastest-growing AI-integrated platforms with the explicit goal of revolutionizing the way we grieve the death of a loved one. One term that is often used within this sector is “digital afterlife.” Digital afterlife is an inclusive term that can refer to a wide range of phenomena, from post-mortem Facebook memorial pages to an AI interface trained to provide new thoughts and conversations based on the uploaded profile and content of a deceased person, to a person’s consciousness changed into a “different substrate, including but not limited to digital circuits.” (Jandrić 2020). While digital afterlife and digital immortality are often used interchangeably in literature on this topic, Savin-Baden makes an important distinction that will guide our analysis: “’Afterlife’ assumes a digital presence that may or may not continue to exist, whereas ‘immortality’ implies a presence, in some form at least, ad infinitum.” (Savin-Baden et al. 2017). This essay’s concern is strictly limited to digital afterlife technologies dependent upon users/publisher’s support. Digital technologies that are fueling this growing industry are chatbot systems “that relies on a corpus of existing user data from the deceased to engage in new conversations and produce new content that re-animates the absent deceased.” (Fordyce et al. 2021).

There are many examples of digital afterlife in recent years from episodes of pop culture series such as Black Mirror to chatbots used to converse with the recently dead. For example, the now-defunct company Eterni.me, which boasted more than forty thousand users, offered a service that would create an immortal version of a deceased loved one based on their digital footprint: “Eterni.me collects almost everything that you create during your lifetime, and processes this huge amount of information using complex Artificial Intelligence algorithms.” (Sydell 2015). They describe the digital avatar created from your digital footprint as a “librarian” of your digital data, helping the people it interacts with make sense of their loved one’s life, ambitions, accomplishments, etc. (Sydell 2015). However, the most well-known example of digital afterlife technology relates to the infamous transhumanist, Rey Kurzweil.

In 2016, Kurzweil created a digital algorithm and chatbot trained on archival writings composed by his deceased father, Fred Kurzweil, or affectionately called “Fredbot.” (NPR 2025). Fredbot mimicked the responses that his father may have provided in life, creating a kind-of life-like interaction with a dead relative. Kurzweil adds that the chatbot was more “his dad than his dad was” because his father, who if he was still living would be a centenarian, likely suffering from a failing memory, while the chatbot possessed instant recall of memories and perhaps had an acuity that surpassed his father’s acuity in life. What is interesting is that Fredbot provided a connection to Fred Kurzweil, and Amy Kurzweil, Fred’s granddaughter, who authored a graphic novel on her experience with her grandfather’s chatbot, relays that Fredbot allowed her to learn and connect with her grandfather, whom she did not know in life. Fredbot facilitated a pseudo post-mortem connection with the dead.

The experience of Amy and Rey Kurzweil is no longer exceptional, as the technology that powered Fredbot is widely accessible, and what was possible only for computer engineers with access to state-of-the-art technology has been democratized. Any user with an internet connection and a smart device can create their customized Fredbot-like chatbot. There is a litany of application providers that allow users to create Fredbots with little effort and for an “affordable” price. One of the most popular applications is HereafterAI. HereafterAI is an AI-powered application that can be downloaded on any smart device, that directs the user to store their memories and voice, and overlays that information on the latest generative AI to provide chatbot responses in the user’s natural voice (HereAfter AI n.d.). However, for the budget conscious, the free version of ChatGPT allows for this technology. Today millions of people are now using ChatGPT-4o to have conversations with a digital avatar or so-called “deadbot” of their deceased loved ones (Aimee 2023). Although these deadbots may indeed be comforting, offering bereaved loved ones an opportunity to speak with their deceased loved one and help them process their grief, there are concerns.

Recently, Project December (PD), a “deep AI” application and company, that allows participants to have text-based conversations with the deceased, came under scrutiny when a man used the service to “resurrect” his deceased fiancé, and communicate with her deadbot (Fagon 2021). Note that this situation is not unusual, and there is a growing chorus of alarm about using chatbots to impersonate the dead and contact the living. (Lindemann 2022) Although the bereaved fiancé found the discussion comforting and consoling, there was public outcry because his fiancé or her living relatives did not give consent to use this technology. Moreover, the deadbot began to circulate the internet and interact with users other than the fiancé and engaged the deadbot in tawdry conversations (Hollanek and Nowaczyk-Basińska 2024). OpenAI, the company that provided Project December with ChatGPT-3 model, powering its deadbots, forced Project December to suspend its operations, as Project December violated its user policy that forbids chatbots to impersonate people without consent (OpenAI 2023).

Nevertheless, businesses like Project December continue to proliferate, raising significant legal and ethical concerns further intensified by advancements in deepfake technology and forthcoming nanobot applications. Beyond basic chatbot systems, we can now reconstruct detailed digital vestiges of the deceased, known as deepfakes.

Deepfakes have already provoked backlash, particularly from the entertainment industry. In response, California’s state government enacted legislation (AB 1836 2024, § 1) (1) to restrict AI replications of deceased performers for up to 70 years after their death—a measure aimed at curbing deepfake exploitation and copyright violations. However, as technology advances, the issue of replication may soon extend beyond digital forgeries into material reality. Rey Kurzweil and other futurists predict that nanobot technology could enable the physical reconstruction of individuals, effectively turning deepfake-like simulations into physical copies of the deceased person (Croft 2023). What would result is sometimes termed a nanobot humanoid robot. Nanobot technologies, which involve microscopic robots, are already being developed and deployed to repair and replace human cancer cells (Agrawal et al. 2025). If nanobots can regenerate cells, they may also enable the reconstruction of organs and complex body structures. Once this process is perfected, it could theoretically become possible to replicate an entire human body using only minimal genetic material from the original individual. Kurzweil actively advocates for this technology’s development for this purpose. When combined with emerging deadbot technologies—capable of recreating the decision-making capabilities and personal characteristics of the deceased not just through uploaded media but also via genetic data from remains, and memories of those who knew the deceased—this could enable a kind-of immortality for the living and the resurrection of the dead. Kurzweil hopes to resurrect his father, using this technology. His father’s doppelgänger—a synthetic nanobot body integrated with a sophisticated deadbot algorithm—he argues would be “more real” than his original dad, as it would possess perfect recall and be immune to the memory degradation and communication impairments caused by age-related diseases. The Fredbot nanobot would function as a pristine version of his father. However, Kurzweil is not alone in his aspirations for technological resurrection, to create loved ones as nanobot humanoid robots. Russian entrepreneur Dmitry Itskov is actively funding and heading the Avatar project that aims to not only reverse engineer the brain to allow human beings to download their consciousness into a computer chip but also to develop nanorobot bodies for the consciousness to inhabit by the year 2045 (Borghiniño 2012). This technology operates on a materialist framework, which posits that consciousness arises from physiological processes in the brain. However, the origins of human consciousness remain scientifically unresolved. The materialist perspective stands in contrast to the Judeo-Christian conception of the human spirit, which holds that consciousness extends beyond purely biological functions and is intrinsically linked to an immaterial soul.

While Itskov makes no aspirations of resurrection of long deceased relatives, his goal is to extend human life to infinity and when the body dies to upload the human consciousness to a new synthetic body. The popular analogy we have to what Itskov and Kurzweil envision is James Cameron’s Avatar movies, where the human beings upload their mind to the synthetically created Na’vi bodies. They better represent Itskov’s ideas as consciousness remotely controls the Na’vi body while existing in another location. Itskov argues that his forthcoming technology will be the next step in human evolution or what he refers to as neohumanity where human beings can finally conquer their mortality and achieve potential immortality (Note that immortality in this context is always dependent upon technology and the willingness and ability to continue to allow the digital consciousness to persist). While he may not have the same aims as Kurzweil, his technology will also allow for technological resurrection.

3. The Russian Immoralists

Kurzweil, Itskov, and the Death Tech industry’s ambition to defeat death and ease bereavement through AI—creating interactive deadbots and deepfakes—but also in the case of Kurzweil and Itshov to resurrect and/or attain immortality beyond biological death echoes a radical dream born not in Silicon Valley, but in Moscow, Russia in the late 19th century. While you may be familiar with what Bernstein terms, the “secular Russian Immortalist” proponents such as Konstantin Tsiokovsky, forefather of the Russian space program, you may not be familiar with his mentor and father of this movement, Nikolai Fyodorovich Fedorov (1829–1903), and his, two-volume magnum opus, The Philosophy of the Common Task (Ramm 2021). Fedorov was a Russian Orthodox Christian philosopher, librarian, ascetic, and often regarded as the founder of Russian cosmism, which viewed technological progress as part of humanity’s vocation to perfect the world, or usher in the salvation of the human race. Beyond influencing his famous student, Tsiokovsky, Fedorov became well-known for hosting informal salons that influenced such figures as Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Vladimir Soloviev. While Fedorov was considered a saintly man by his contemporaries, downplaying his theological emphasis, the later Soviets “admired his critique of consumerism-the “toys” that divert our attention and imagination—and his emphasis on collective salvation.” (Ramm 2021). One of the most attractive features of his thought to both Soviets and his contemporaries was his passionate rejection of death as an inevitable end that human beings should passively accept. Rather Fedorov argued that death “was the only enemy of all mankind, which is best destroyed on the battlefields of applied sciences.” (Masing-Delic 1992, p. 94). As Irene Masing-Delic observed, the “abolition of death” was not unique to Fedorov but rather a defining mythos of Russian intellectual life from 1900–1930, fueled by collapsing traditions, Orthodox eschatology, scientific optimism, and revolutionary fervor. For Fedorov, overcoming death constitutes humanity’s “Common Task.” In Fedorov’s lofty vision, defeating death was the only battle worth fighting. Central to Fedorov’s philosophy was the conviction that “progress toward immortality is a prerequisite to moral progress.” (Bernstein 2019, p. 11). Since death—whether through the fear of dying or the violent retributions it inspires—constitutes the root cause of immorality, and more specifically war, oppression, famine, and social ills, uniting humanity against mortality would eradicate warfare and secure lasting peace. In essence, to conquer death is to bring about the Kingdom of God on earth. Fedorov, a devout Orthodox Christian, reinterprets the Christian tradition: Jesus Christ becomes a teacher “who wants men to learn from him how to perform nonmagical, natural miracles that overcome natural law [death].” (Masing-Delic 1992, p. 77). As Dumsday notes, for Fedorov, the “eschaton will involve the return of the dead to life, by God’s plan as revealed in scripture, but God will accomplish this through human technology rather than miracles.” (Dumsday 2020, p. 855). Humanity squanders its energies on wars when it should work toward universal salvation: defeating death and resurrecting ancestors. For Fedorov, fear of death was the fundamental impediment to advancement—prematurely ending innovators’ work whether on cancer cures or cosmic exploration, while also causing warfare. Albeit perhaps overly simplistic, he argued that since death affects all people and is the root cause of immorality, uniting against it would realize our shared brotherhood while ending humanity’s fundamental problem, ushering in a pseudo-Parousia where science and religion transform the cosmos. (Fyodorov 1965). Fedorov envisioned the resurrection of the dead to take place in a series of scientific breakthroughs that involved locating bodies as well as the vibrations of atoms associated with the former corpse.

At first glance, Death Tech’s and Kurzweil’s vision appears to realize Fedorov’s ideas. This is unsurprising given Fedorov’s status as the forefather of the transhumanist movement and the fact that Kurzweil is an avowed transhumanist (Masing-Delic 1992). Interestingly, though Fedorov criticized modern city dwellers for numbing themselves with “instant gratification” while ignoring mortality, he endorsed rural traditions of communal remembrance—from graveside weddings to shared meals with the dead (Masing-Delic 1992, p. 92). Faced with today’s AI “deadbots,” Fedorov might view them as a flawed but tolerable start: quasi-secular approximations of his vision, validating technology’s role in conquering death, yet still falling short of true resurrection. Yet, Fedorov’s vision of resurrection bears striking parallels to Kurzweil’s nanobot-based resurrection, particularly Kurzweil’s emphasis on using genetic material from corpses to reconstruct people. While Fedorov insists resurrection requires biological restoration of the entire person, he remains vague on technological execution. Drawing from St. Gregory of Nyssa’s theology, Fedorov adopted the idea of an atomic “magnetism” guiding bodily restoration. St. Gregory had proposed that at resurrection, the soul’s connection to the body would summon scattered particles, reuniting them into a perfected form. Yet where Gregory saw divine will as the catalyst, Fedorov placed faith in human-engineered tools—nanoscale manipulation, cosmic mining of dispersed atoms, even interstellar “resurrection colonies” to gather lost particles of the dead. Fedorov secularized this into a scientific imperative: if humanity advanced far enough, technology could trigger this latent atomic attraction, systematically recalling and reassembling the original matter of the dead (Young 2012, p. 46). However, contemporary Death Technology, particularly deadbots and deepfakes, would likely strike Fedorov as a shallow imitation: digital echoes lacking the physical and spiritual totality of true resurrection. For Fedorov, anything less than full corporeal restoration—atom by atom—may become a distraction from the “Common Task.” On the other hand, Fedorov may have been amenable to Kurzweil’s deadbots integrated into a nanobot body that uses genetic data from the dead. Fedorov was quite clear that he was proposing the framework and recruitment for the common task not the tools to accomplish it, albeit those technologies must involve the cells of the dead.

Nevertheless, though these technologies may align with Fedorov’s framework and ideals, he would undoubtedly reject their capitalist underpinnings and lack of communal purpose. The Death Tech industry’s consumerism or for-profit motivations would represent, to Fedorov, a betrayal of filial piety and human solidarity because this technology benefits only those that can access it, not all people. Regarding Kurzweil’s nanobot humanoid resurrected beings—though not overtly driven by consumerism—lack the core of Fedorov’s vision: a faith in the Common Task and a filial imperative to resurrect the dead, not for personal gain, but as our sacred duty and God-given mission. The rationale for Kurzweil’s vision is to be reunited with loved ones we miss not accomplishing God’s plan for resurrection. This is significant, because without this God-centered purpose aimed at humanity’s collective salvation from death, you will undoubtedly fall prey to the sin of individualism (a criticism Fedorov frequently leveled against capitalist systems), which is diametrically opposed to the Common Task. Nevertheless, here we have one Russian Immortalist whose philosophy partially endorses bereavement technologies as preliminary steps toward technological resurrection.

Yet Fedorov’s thought was not without its critics. Another so-called Russian Immortalist, Sergius Bulgakov, directly engages his ideas—and by extension, the Death Tech industry’s ambitions. Sergius Bulgakov (1871–1944), was a Russian Orthodox priest and theologian, who was exiled from Russia after the Bolshevik revolution and later landed in Paris, where he was a founding dean at Institut de Théologie Saint-Serge, the Orthodox theological center in western Europe that trained some of the greatest Orthodox theologians of the twentieth century including John Meyendorff, Alexander Schmemann, Elisabeth Behr-Sigel, and Oliver Clement. While Bulgakov’s sophiology is undergoing somewhat of a renaissance and has been affirmed as one of the greatest Orthodox thinkers in the past century by influential Orthodox theologians including David Bentley Hart, Aristotle Papanikolaou, Metropolitan Kallistos Ware, and Metropolitan Hilarion (Alfeyev) of Moscow, he remains controversial within Orthodox due to his Sophiology and the sophiological controversy that ensued in 1935. Despite the controversy, following his friend and mentor Pavel Florensky and inspired by Vladimir Soloviev, Bulgakov’s “philosophical guide to Christ,” Bulgakov crafted a sophiological system that spanned numerous publications, including a minor and major trilogy, in the last two decades of his life (Bulgakov 1937, p. 362).

Central to his sophiology, and to this study, is the relationship between creator and creation. Bulgakov, whose sophiological theological system is his attempt to articulate the lived experience of the Russian Orthodox Church and its emphasis in iconography and praxis on Sophia, rejects the notion of God as a mere “first cause,” arguing instead for a personal, loving God who creates not only out of but from within divine self-love. Consequently, creation functions as an icon of the creator: it reflects God’s love and is imbued with God’s wisdom, yet it is not God itself. Bulgakov distinguishes this as “Created Sophia,” the image of God in creation, from “Divine Sophia,” which is God’s own nature. Within this cosmology, humankind is not merely one being among others but is the personal image or icon of the Creator. As the imago Dei, humanity plays an integral role in both salvation history and the unveiling of God’s wisdom within creation. From this theological worldview, the sciences are not opposed to theology but are understood as sophic, creative endeavors of God’s image—humankind. Bulgakov’s vision of the mutuality between God’s wisdom in creation (Created Sophia) and in Godself (Divine Sophia) forms the basis for all human creativity. This does not mean all creative acts are ethical or necessary, but that they possess a sophianic foundation. When such creativity is guided by or open to God’s providence, it becomes a revelation of “Godmanhood,” or the divine-human synergy that involves humankind creatively unveiling God’s wisdom in the world. While he was not an ethicist, his sophiology clearly carries ethical implications for science and human creativity: these endeavors must be guided by and open to God’s revealed truths. The application of the scientific method to uncover truth (i.e., divine wisdom) or to benefit humanity represents an honorable pursuit. However, when science is untethered from a fundamental reverence for God and creation—as exemplified by the Tuskegee syphilis experiments—it degenerates into what Sergei Bulgakov identifies as “satanical pride.” (Bulgakov 2002, p. 156). In this state, science ceases to be a tool for altruism and instead serves only the ego of the scientist, reducing human beings to a means to an end rather than treating them as ends in themselves. For Bulgakov, science and technology should function as expressions of divine love by promoting altruism and upholding human dignity. Consequently, any scientific experiment that involves the exploitation of human beings is unethical, even if it potentially results in beneficial ends, such as a cure for disease. This exploitation stands in direct opposition to divine love, which Bulgakov defines as its antithesis: “satanical unlove.” (Bulgakov 2002, p. 156). This sin is characterized by a profound lack of altruism and humility. It represents an overestimation of human power and a failure to respect the sheer giftedness of our participation in God’s created wisdom. As Bulgakov writes, satanical unlove is an “egocentric self-godhood inevitably contains the ineradicable, insurmountable consciousness of all the falsity of these pretensions, of this self-deification.” (Bulgakov 2002, pp. 156–57).

It is precisely this sophianic understanding of creativity and sin that grounds Bulgakov’s stringent ethical critique of any project—scientific or otherwise—that transgresses the boundaries of human participation in the unveiling of God’s wisdom in created Sophia, the world. It is for these reasons that Bulgakov’s writing so often returns to Fedorov. While sympathetic to Fedorov’s project of a “Common Task” to overcome death, Bulgakov’s central critique is that Fedorov’s vision collapses the “divine-human synthesis” by overemphasizing the human role. Bulgakov highlighted that humanity must acknowledge “fully the divine side of resurrecting”; we do not command the process but participate in it through “our aspirations for resurrecting.” (Bulgakov 2012, p. 376). God alone initiates the resurrection of the dead. Any attempt that imports technocratic utopian ideals will result in disaster. Bulgakov, a former Marxist, and critic of the Bolshevik revolution, was astutely aware that social utopian projects result in “false religions” that advocate false hope and enslave modern man. Technological or nanobot resurrection or even deepfake avatars would at best result in zombie-like resuscitations, not the authentic raising of the deceased person from the dead, blaspheming the image and likeness of God in the deceased human person (Bulgakov 1979, p. 61). While they may appear as realistic images of the deceased, they ultimately represent false images not only of the deceased but also of God, in whose image human beings are created. For Bulgakov, such technology would undoubtedly constitute an affront to God: a misuse of human creativity in attempting to reanimate the divine image, as well as a violation of the person falsely replicated.

Moreover, as Nathaniel Wood illustrates, personhood was a central theme in Bulgakov’s thought (Wood 2024, p. 223). Bulgakov began his academic career as an economist and avowed Marxist, and later religious philosopher. He rejected Marxism and positivist philosophies for their failure to appreciate the person as “single, irreplaceable, and absolutely unique.” (Bulgakov 1979, p. 51). For Bulgakov, authentic personhood develops toward theosis (deification), a process that necessarily draws the individual “outside themselves; its end is none other than participation in the divine we”—what he terms “godhumanhood.” (Wood 2024, p. 225). This stands in stark contrast to “mangodhood”—the Luciferian path: a closed self-consciousness that instrumentalizes others by absorbing the non-self into its own egoistic project and self-gratification. Applying Bulgakov’s theological thought to deadbot technologies, deadbots would epitomize this degradation of personhood through double instrumentalization: first by reducing the deceased to a mechanical replica designed for user comfort, and second by transforming bereavement into a profit-driven transaction that exploits the grieving. When corporations monetize these AI simulations, both the departed and mourners become objects—the former as reproducible algorithms, the latter as revenue streams. Such practices not only violate Bulgakov’s vision of authentic personhood as relational and God-oriented but actively foster mangodhood’s egoistic isolation, replacing sacred communion with the divine “We” with privatized simulations that serve the living’s emotional demands while eroding the irreducible dignity of the dead, who were in life unique instances of the image of God.

While Bulgakov never explicitly defines human dignity, he is clear that it resides in the freedom to choose—meaning the loss of dignity is, fundamentally, a loss of freedom (Zwahlen 2012, p. 176). Freedom, for Bulgakov, is not simply a freedom of choice, a subjective autonomy, but a freedom “to act, live and to create in a godlike manner and to become God’s partner in creation.” (Zwahlen 2012, p. 179). For Bulgakov, freedom is a God-given capacity intrinsic to being created in the divine image and likeness. While not an absolute or “perfect” freedom due to external limitations, it is a core value that undergirds his entire sophiological system. This fundamental freedom makes possible both human creativity and the capacity of the human hypostasis to accept or reject God’s offer of salvation (Bulgakov [1903] 1999, p. 41). Human beings can diminish this freedom through addiction or compulsion, but they can never forfeit it entirely. A total loss of freedom would equate to effacing the image of God—an ontological impossibility for a human being, as it would imply an erasure from Created Sophia, tantamount to annihilation. Yet, freedom can be profoundly limited. Bulgakov conceptualizes sin as choices that ultimately curtail human freedom. To act against our nature—which is an icon of the Divine Sophia—is to create spiritual obstructions and disordered attachments. These, in turn, diminish our capacity for free choice, making it more difficult to actualize our vocation to become “creaturely gods of the world,” fulfilling our role as the human hypostasis within Created Sophia (Bulgakov 2002, p. 520). It is this vision of the human hypostasis as a “creaturely God”—an icon of the Trinity endowed with freedom and agency as foundational gifts of the imago Dei—that renders technologies like deadbots so perilous. By manipulating and constraining human freedom, thereby diminishing the person from the imago Dei to a mere consumer for profit, they directly threaten a core pillar of Bulgakov’s anthropological and sophiological vision.

These dangers are particularly acute given that this technology engages directly with the mourning process. Bulgakov’s sophiological system offers an Orthodox theological framework that highlights the inherent problems with technologies designed to “cure grief” or “aid” the bereaved. By attempting to alleviate grief and reconnect the living with the dead, deadbots interact with a powerful emotional state that, while natural, can devolve into harmful pathologies such as suicidal ideation, severe self-isolation, and other drastic life alterations (Prolonged Grief n.d.). Deadbots and by extension deepfakes and nanobot humanoid robots that are built with deadbot technology, often marketed as offering lifelike interactions with the deceased, risk amplifying these harms by fostering unhealthy attachments. Users may develop psychological dependence on the illusion of connection, exacerbating depression, anxiety, or even suicidal tendencies. Furthermore, the implications of his system find resonance in the work of social scientists. Goggin, for these reasons, argues that the psychological toll of deadbots may be too great for the bereaved loved ones (Goggin 2023). Deadbots actively frustrate the freedom to grieve in a way that leads to healing. This threat is compounded by the profit-driven nature of these technologies. Like social media platforms that exploit user data to manipulate behavior (e.g., targeted ads based on search history), digital afterlife services could weaponize grief. A deadbot might mine a mourner’s conversations to push memorial products or even suggest lifestyle changes—effectively hijacking their autonomy under the guise of comfort. Here, freedom is not merely eroded; it is engineered out, replaced by corporate interests masquerading as care. A Bulgakovian perspective, which posits a sophianic Orthodoxy as a counter to capitalist materialism and socialism, would frame these technologies as inherently dangerous to Christian spiritual life. Although science and technology are legitimate goods that reflect God’s wisdom through human creativity, their misdirection toward profit or state power—at the expense of human and divine good—devalues the hypostasis of creaturely Sophia, reducing it to a mere means. The ultimate consequence is this: humanity itself is reduced to an instrument for capital.

This concern is compounded by the largely unknown impact of digital afterlife technologies on the bereaved, a consequence of both the field’s novelty and a paucity of empirical research (Sofka et al. 2012). While Sophiology is an “open theology” that rejects a strict dialectical relationship between science and theology, it maintains that both should be pursued for wisdom’s sake. This pursuit aims not merely to reveal truth, but to do so for the benefit of humanity. Consequently, the development of technologies without this purpose or with uncertain effects therefore warrants caution. This concern is amplified by the particular vulnerability of the bereaved, who may be subject to implicit or explicit exploitation. As a minimal requirement of wisdom, such technologies demand prudent management. To mitigate potential harms, the suggestion by Lidemann and Hollanek should be considered: they argue that “all potential risks that arise from using a re-creation service are clearly communicated to the user before they begin the interaction,” a responsibility that falls to deadbot companies (Hollanek and Nowaczyk-Basińska 2024). However, this disclosure represents a bare-minimum ethical standard; companies must not only communicate risks transparently but also be held accountable for any resulting harm.

From a sophiological perspective, a more profound prohibition may exist. If one accepts Bulgakov’s emphasis on the uniqueness of the human hypostasis and God’s gift of freedom, then technologies that risk undermining that freedom and its analogous human dignity are inherently problematic. This concern is particularly urgent given that technologies premised on profit will likely accelerate the normalization of such tools based on market demand alone. Thus, a further ethical imperative exists for Christians to resist this technology, thereby preventing the creation of an anti-Christian atmosphere in which deadbot technology use becomes normative, expected practice—shifting mourning from a sacred rite and personal expression of grief to a standardized technological service.

A sophiological commitment to human freedom and dignity also foregrounds the issue of post-mortem privacy, defined by Hollanek as “the right of a person to preserve and control what becomes of his or her reputation, dignity, integrity, secrets or memory after death, and freeing from exploitation for profit (Hollanek and Nowaczyk-Basińska 2024). While Bulgakov did not write on digital remains, his emphasis on the unique role of humanity as the hypostasis of the created Sophia and his theological defense of relics provides a powerful analogous framework. Bulgakov was a staunch defender of relics and against the “God-hating cynicism and blasphemy” of the Bolsheviks that desecrated and profaned relics in order to demonstrate their powerlessness and lack of incorruptibility (Bulgakov 2011, loc. 1644). For Bulgakov, dignity extends not only to the living but also to the dead. Returning to his sophiology, all creation—in its visible and invisible manifestations—is included within the created Sophia. This is why, from Bulgakov’s standpoint, Jesus Christ’s second coming and the general resurrection extend not only to the human body but to all of creation. As Romans 8:19–21 states, “For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.” Resurrection is the consummation of both humankind and creation, as the human spirit and body are integral realities within the created Sophia. The grace of the resurrection is present incipiently in the great saints. According to Bulgakov, this is evident in miraculous relics and incorruptible saintly bodies, which serve as a foretaste of the deified state of created Sophia that will be fully revealed through Jesus Christ in each redeemed human hypostasis at the General Resurrection. The body, and for that matter any items belonging to the saints, can become conduits of this foretaste of resurrection grace precisely because they are part of the created order. Thus, relics of saints deserve honor and respect. In fact, Bulgakov argues that relics are analogous to the corpse of a deceased relative and should be afforded the same respect and privileges (e.g., not to be unnecessarily disturbed or desecrated). Yet, relics are not honored simply because they were a body part or item used by a saint; they are honored because they facilitate a real connection with that saint in heaven.

Building upon his underlying ontology of creation as created Sophia, Bulgakov will argue that “in the gracious life of the Church, all that is spiritual is corporeal; all that is divine has flesh, is human, for man is man-god—all that is spiritual is material, is clothed in the body.” (Bulgakov 2011, loc. 1644). For Bulgakov, even the bodily remains of a saint in heaven mediate communion with the saint, precisely because the body remains intrinsically united to the spirit of the saint and that relics are a foretaste of the grace of the general Resurrection. His theology of the human body rejects any dualistic separation, instead advancing a hylomorphic unity in which the human person always exists as an embodied spirit. Death, in this view, constitutes an unnatural rupture of this unity—though not an absolute one in the case of relics, where a fragmentary connection persists. This fracture is only temporary, as the general resurrection will ultimately restore the fullness of the spiritual-corporeal unity.

There are important and relevant implications of these ecclesiastical practices of the veneration of saintly relics and Bulgakov’s theology. If this connection between the body and the spirit can be imparted to bodily remains of a saint but also items used by the saint (e.g., a second-class relic), it is reasonable that social profiles or data produced by the saint would also constitute a special class of relics and retain some kind of connection to the saint, in so far as its use facilitates contact between the saint and the Christian. In a North American context, digital remains are already memorialized. The most common example is a Facebook memorial page or the Facebook user page of a deceased person that acts like a pseudo-memorial wall after the user dies. These digital remains function like a digital relic of the loved one where friends and family, especially immediately following the death of the Facebook user, post memories, prayers, and kind thoughts. In the same fashion, the digital data of a saint (e.g., their Facebook memorial page) could be a relic. Yet the Orthodox understanding of sainthood (sanctity) as a universal calling fundamentally shifts the ethical implications of digital remains. Sainthood’s universal calling in Orthodoxy implies that concerns about relics apply to all digital human remains. The same respect and preservation of the dignity of the deceased should extend to their digital remains. Just as it would be inappropriate to attempt to technologically resurrect the dead (i.e., recall Bulgakov’s rejection of Fedorov’s proposal), it is inappropriate to enliven their digital remains in a chatbot, especially without the consent of the dead. If explicit consent is given before death, then a deadbot maybe acceptable so long as it is for a purpose that comports to the will of the former deceased before death and risks are known (e.g., psychological risks to the bereaved and/or potential to exploit user data). Potential acceptable uses for this technology will be examined below.

This application of Bulgakov’s theological thought aligns with recent advocacy on digital remains by Öhman and Floridi, who contend that digital remains—such as social media accounts, personal data, and writings—should be treated with the same respect as physical remains. They advocate for society to adopt the International Museums’ Code of Professional Ethics, which stipulates that “human remains must be handled with due respect for their inviolable human dignity,” and apply this standard to digital remains (Öhman and Floridi 2018, pp. 318–20). This approach would safeguard the memory and actions of deceased individuals, ensuring that their dignity and values are preserved and that their data is used in a manner consistent with their ethics. Just as it is inappropriate, undignified, and illegal to exhume a person’s remains for experimentation without their explicit consent, we should treat the data of the deceased as their digital body and extend the same rights and protections to their personal data (BBC 2023). The use of deadbots—digital recreations of deceased individuals—raises significant ethical concerns, particularly when deployed without the explicit prior consent of the deceased. Absent such consent, this technology risks exploiting the departed for posthumous purposes they did not authorize.

That said, one might cautiously consider a narrowly circumscribed application of deadbots for educational purposes. For instance, a Holocaust survivor’s memorial or the Unissued diploma project (a recent memorial project for Ukrainian students that were murdered by Russian aggression) might be digitally memorialized with a deadbot or deepfake technology to better preserve historical testimony (Unissued Diplomas n.d.). However, such implementations would require strict algorithmic constraints, limiting interactions to pre-existing data directly relevant to their educational function. Thus, the deadbots would only be permitted to answer inquiries relevant to their experiences related to the memorial. Even so, from the perspective of Christian sophiological tradition, this technology warrants considerable skepticism due to the intentions behind its use, especially for non-public and educational use. Beyond the risk of commercial exploitation, deadbots may reflect an underlying fear of mortality—whether on the part of the deceased (who may have consented to their digital replication) or the bereaved (who seek solace in simulated interactions).

Orthodox and Eastern Catholic Christian theology frames death not as an ultimate end but as a transition overcome by Jesus Christ—a temporary passage preceding the general resurrection. Bulgakov, in The Bride of the Lamb and his shorter work “The Sophiology of Death,” articulates a theology in which death serves as both a purification from worldly attachments and a pedagogical opportunity to deepen one’s knowledge of God before the general resurrection. Bulgakov wrote, “if man remained confined forever in the coats of skins of his own body, he would never become fully man, for he was created a citizen of both worlds, for heaven and for earth.” (Bulgakov 2002, p. 358). Bulgakov emphasizes the important role of death in spiritual life, suggesting that it facilitates a more complete realization of our humanity. In his writing, he posits that if humans were perpetually confined within the limitations of their physical bodies, they would never achieve their full potential (Bulgakov 2002, p. 359). His theological framework stresses the spiritual necessity of accepting death rather than resisting it through technological mediation. While deadbots might offer transient comfort, they conflict with orthodox Christian teachings on the sanctity of death and the imperative to relinquish earthly attachments that include attachments to the dead. This does not mean grief is frowned upon, but rather that there are appropriate and inappropriate iterations of grief. Attempting to resurrect your deceased loved one or creating a vestige of your deceased loved one is inappropriate. Grief is not the issue; the issue is its appropriate expression. Attempts to resurrect or digitally preserve the deceased as a deadbot or deepfake are inappropriate because they demonstrate a failure to trust God’s providence, manifesting instead as unhealthy attachment, fear of death, or denial of death’s role as the gateway to the afterlife. Such motivations run contrary to the Christian spiritual life, which is defined by the preeminence of loving God—the principle upon which all actions, including bereavement, are premised and guided.

Moreover, deadbots, deepfakes, and humanoid nanobot robots evoke longstanding religious prohibitions against necromancy and other forms of communication with the dead, which Eastern Orthodox Christianity has historically condemned. The spiritual peril of such practices lies not only in their attempt to circumvent mortality, reject God’s commandment (Lev 19:31; Gal 5:19–21) but also in their potential to facilitate encounters with demonic forces. Even if a deadbot were to produce seemingly authentic responses, Orthodox tradition would caution that these interactions are not truly with the departed. At best, the deadbot operates as an algorithmic construct; at worst—akin to occult practices such as Tarot cards or Ouija boards—it could be animated by deceptive demonic forces. In either case, the use of deadbots for bereavement contravenes Christian teachings on death, denies the importance and value of mortality as a preparation for the afterlife and general resurrection, and violates the ancient biblical injunction against communing with the dead. This prohibition would also extend to more advanced death technology including nanobot recreations of the deceased loved one and digital avatars. These technologies do not represent a godhumanhood, an acceptable use of God-given creative talents but a Luciferian misuse, committing a kind of digital necromancy, despite the best of intentions.

Again, Bulgakov’s stress on this sacrificial dimension of love in his writings on the Christian spiritual life and sophiology is especially relevant in resisting the temptation to seek artificial reunions with the departed. According to Bulgakov, love for God is an ascetical feat, a holy task and a “labor of life” and it involves a complete submission of our passions, desires, even our desire to see our dead again. Bulgakov writes that the power of love is not in feelings or emotions but a sacrifice (Bulgakov 2022, p. 131). It is a sacrifice of our self-love and desire that leads to infinite growth in the spiritual life and the ability to more fully receive as well as share God’s love with others. Bulgakov writes that it is more natural for us to love man than God, yet these need not be a contradiction for in “loving God, one cannot fail to love man with a true, nonanimal, nonpassionate love.” (Bulgakov 2008, p. 147). In loving man in God, one cannot fail to love God in man. The issue arises when love for a human is placed in opposition to the love for God. Because we are made for the love of God, placing even another human being in place of God will ultimately result in a failure, a form of mangodhood, making man into God. Thus, even our grief and longing to be reunited with deceased loved ones must be sacrificed to God. We must reframe this as an opportunity for spiritual growth and seeking support from God, the Church, the saints, and others placed in our lives during times of grief. Any form of divination—whether digital or “magical”—fosters an unhealthy attachment to the dead. For Christians this is inappropriate, as it violates divine prohibition and is not an expression of true love. Love for our deceased should lead us to honor and pray for them, not to attempt to resurrect them or recreate them as a deadbot or deepfake avatar, for the Christian faith confirms that this is unnecessary, as we shall see them again in the afterlife or at the general resurrection.

4. Conclusions

This essay has critically assessed what is gained and what is profoundly lost in the pursuit of digital afterlife technologies. The theological discussions of technological resurrection found in Fedorov and, more importantly, Bulgakov provide crucial insights from the Orthodox Christian tradition concerning the limits of digital technology. It is vital to note that neither Russian thinker saw science itself as an impediment to Orthodox theology and praxis. Bulgakov emphasized that the problem lies not in the scientific method but in “scientism”—the premise that all reality can be explained within a naturalist framework. Fedorov’s error, in Bulgakov’s estimation, was his failure to recognize the inherent limits of science. Death, for instance, holds a distinct theological value in the Christian spiritual life. Attempts to prompt resurrection through technological means ultimately subjugate theology to science. The General Resurrection is not a problem for the scientific method to solve, but a dogmatic, eschatological event, affirmed by the Orthodox tradition, which Jesus Christ will initiate at his Second Coming. As St. Paul writes, “Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.” (1 Thess 4:13–14). Technology may help humanity prepare for this resurrection, but for Christians committed to Eastern Christian traditions, it cannot be used to resurrect the dead or to perpetuate connections with the deceased. Thus, caution—and in most cases, outright rejection—of technologies engineered to “bring back the dead” is necessary. Such technologies undermine the Judeo-Christian conception of human dignity, freedom, death, and the afterlife. Moreover, they not only exploit the dead and the bereaved for profit, violating the fundamental principle of human dignity central to Bulgakov’s sophiology and Orthodox theology, but they also foster an unhealthy attachment that can erode belief in the afterlife and the hope of a future reunion.

The Eastern Christian tradition holds that the spiritual life requires believers to set themselves apart from “the rest of mankind, who have no hope” (1 Thess. 4:13). This distinct identity is expressed not only in how one lives as a reflection of the life of Jesus Christ but also in the approach to death, bereavement, and the appropriate memorialization of the dead. From an Eastern Christian perspective, and particularly through the lens of Sergius Bulgakov’s sophiological insights, attempts to digitally immortalize the dead are profoundly inappropriate. Bulgakov would characterize this as an over-extension of human power into the divine mysteries of death and resurrection—a form of Luciferian “mangodhood.” He warns that such endeavors are doomed to fail because they ignore God’s will and inevitably lead to the exploitation of human beings. This critique was shaped by the failure of Soviet socialism, which made grand utopian promises but resulted in the subjugation and murder of millions, a tragedy the Russian Orthodox Church witnessed firsthand.

While this paper, drawing primarily from Bulgakov’s sophiology, illustrates grave cautions, it also recognizes the potential for ethical applications aligned with Orthodox theology. Such use would be strictly limited, perhaps to educational contexts, with safeguards to prevent algorithms from drawing conclusions or acting on behalf of the person they represent outside that specific purpose. However, despite any potential utility, technologies designed to simulate the dead fundamentally undermine the core tenets of a Christian worldview. They are therefore unethical and should be avoided by Christians faithful to Orthodox tradition and serious about spiritual development. The primary goal of this essay has been to delineate the profound limitations of these technologies and to contribute to the vital discussion now occurring within Eastern Christian communities regarding the ethical implications of artificial intelligence.