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A few weeks ago, Chris and I were in New York and went to see the Broadway musical Maybe Happy Ending. I won't tell you much about the story because I don't want to spoil it for anyone who might someday see it. But I can tell you this much: two of its central characters are robots. As I watched, I found myself thinking about the obvious question the
story seemed to place before us: Can a robot become more human? But somewhere along the way, another question occurred to me. What if the robots aren't simply asking us to imagine machines becoming human? What if they are holding up a mirror to us? Because the truth is, human beings are remarkably programmed. We develop patterns very early in life. We learn what gets us attention and what doesn't. We learn what feels safe and what feels dangerous. We learn how to protect ourselves, how to get our needs met, how to respond when someone challenges us, and what to do when we are afraid. Eventually, we become so accustomed to these patterns that we stop
recognizing them as patterns. We simply call them me. Many years ago, the Enneagram helped me recognize this in myself. I began to see how predictable I could be—how certain situations captured my attention, how quickly particular defenses appeared, how automatically I could respond. It was a little unsettling. How much of what I thought was simply "Roger" was actually programming? Of course, patterns aren't necessarily bad. We need them. Imagine having to consciously relearn how to brush your teeth every morning or figure out from scratch how to drive a car every time you get behind the wheel. Patterns make life possible. But patterns can also imprison us. Someone says something that hurts us, and the old defense activates. Someone disagrees with us, and the familiar response appears. Something frightens us, and we reach for whatever has protected us
before. The program runs. And sometimes we don't even realize it is running. Perhaps that is where consciousness becomes important. There is a difference between having a pattern and seeing the pattern. The moment I can notice what is happening inside me—There it is again. I know this response—something changes. A little space opens between the stimulus and my reaction. And inside that space, another possibility appears. Choice. I don't necessarily have to do what I've always done. And increasingly, I wonder whether one of the forces that allows us to
step beyond our programming is Love. Not love merely as an emotion or sentiment. Love as a way of seeing another person that becomes more important than protecting the old pattern. Love that allows me to listen when my programming wants to defend. Love that allows me to remain present when my programming wants to leave. Love that allows me to forgive when my programming wants to keep score. Love that sometimes causes us to do something wonderfully unpredictable. Perhaps becoming more fully human doesn't mean becoming free of our programming. I don't think any of us ever completely does. Maybe it means becoming conscious enough to recognize the program when it begins to run—and discovering that we have a choice about what happens next. Sitting in that Broadway theater watching a story about robots, I found myself wondering whether I had been asking the question backward. Perhaps the most interesting question isn't whether a robot can become human. Perhaps the question is: Can we become more human?
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