I always wanted to be one of those guys who hiked up rocky mountains, camped by nightfall next to flickering fires, caught fish with his bare hands.

But domesticated rhythms of work and life meant I never gave myself permission to try.

Then I burned out. Left my corporate job. My marriage ended. And I moved from the States to Spain to rediscover myself.

Rob, a friend of mine who served as a preceptor for research I was doing on the role hurried thinking and behavior played in society, offered me his flat to rent in the rural town of Arenas de San Pedro.

Once settled, I bought a backpack and hiking boots, and he and I set off an hour north into the mountains of Domingo Fernando.

We walked for what felt like miles through a thick, dry forest on a steady incline.

I was young and fit by most accounts, but none of that prevented my breath from becoming deranged in the heat of afternoon.

Meanwhile, Rob breathed just fine. Which surprised me (and, I admit, injured my pride a little).

He was an Oxford professor near sixty-years old with an average build, yet traversed the woods with the same ease that he did his frequent travels between the Saïd Business School and Arenas—not a straight-line commute.

Rob’s steps were sure and steady. He might as well have been Spanish, given how much time he had spent here the last twenty-five years. He knew the terrain. And it knew him back.

I trailed him with a kind of wistfulness, seeking solid ground amidst my life’s shifting landscapes.

Generative artificial intelligence (AI) had spurred onto the news scene at the time of our hike. As Rob and I caught up with each other, we explored the immense hype around AI, and looked for pertinent connections between it and my research into hurry.

We walked another mile uphill. “Where are we going?” I asked. I don’t recall whether I was questioning where AI was taking the human race or the overgrown trail ahead of Rob and me.

Then, as if he had noticed something, Rob stopped us. Took a step off the beaten path.

Bent his knees toward the ground. Scooped a pile of dirt into his hands.

It spilled between his timeworn fingers.

“There is more complexity in a spoonful of this soil than all of New York City,” he said.

At first I didn’t know if he was being serious or hyperbolic or what this might have to do with AI. But I shut up and listened.

“Take a human body, for instance. There are as many non-human cells in you and me as our own human cells. Around thirty trillion are our own. Thirty trillion belong to microorganisms that affect health and mood.

“Each cell is as complex as New York City.

“So, if we have thirty trillion cells…

“That’s thirty trillion cities.”

He then pointed from the tip of my pinky toe all the way to the crown of my glistening forehead.

“From the perspective of two single cells on a relative scale between the farthest reaches of your body, they are near equivalent to the distance of any human being—right now—to the edge of the observable universe. As far out as our most sophisticated telescopes can detect: forty-six billion light years away.

“So, you are a universe. I am a universe. ‘I am large. I contain multitudes.’”

I took a moment to process his words, the minutiae of microbes and soil muddled with the grandeur of mountains and men and space. Slowly, I felt my chest rise and fall, recovering a steady cadence. For the first time in what felt like a long time, air deeply filled my lungs, dispersed to every last inch of my flesh. “Then we are birthing new universes all the time,” I said. “Since the cells in our body regenerate nearly every seven years.”

Rob formed a small smile. Further spun his web of thought. “To say that AI in anyway comes close to resembling that is…misleading. It massively underestimates the glory of God. A phrase that’s helpful for humility whether you consider yourself a believer or not. The idea that we are human beings and therefore can do anything is hugely dangerous. Coming into a landscape like this can help us remember that.

“For decades I’ve hiked these trails. When I come here on a day after it’s snowed, I haven’t got an idea where I am or where to go. All my cairns are covered. Meanwhile, the squirrels and mice don’t bat an eyelid.”

I noticed a cairn nearby, piled with five or six stones in semi-orderly fashion, marking out the next trail. “We think we know,” I said. “We don’t pause long enough to understand what we already have. So eager to use AI to enhance every facet of life, because that’s what everyone else is doing, because that’s how we’ll increase our margins.”

“Sometimes the problems we want to solve aren’t problems at all,” Rob said. “Which only brings about more problems.”

I looked, and the dirt had finished spilling between his fingers. He closed his hand and lowered it to his side.

“Careful. Prudence. Context. Caution,” he said.

We proceeded on our hike, and drank cold, clean water from a river.

Later, we would notice an ibex in the distance, which had already noticed us.

When we finally emerged from the forest line at a higher elevation, I witnessed great big rocky white peaks that told me a story about my smallness and their trustworthiness.

We sat down on a clearing of ground, and Rob pulled a loaf of bread from his backpack, tore off pieces of it, and lined them with slices of smoked salmon and Manchego. We ate until full.

Then each of us chose a patch of ground, laid down our tired bodies, and took siestas beneath the shadow of the sun.

All we had was all we needed.

Behold, the glory of God.