In the last post, we explored the power of story as a tool for formation. But formation doesn’t happen in a vacuum — it happens inside a cultural moment. And right now, that moment is being reshaped by forces that go far deeper than artificial intelligence alone. AI is just the tip of the iceberg. Beneath it lies the entire digital age—smartphones, social media, dopamine loops, curated selves. AI didn’t create this world. It’s accelerating it—but it’s really just the surface. And if we want to form students who can thrive in it, we have to address the whole iceberg.
This is where the t-shaped engineer comes into view.
In my book, The t-shaped Engineer in the Age of AI, I describe a model of formation that integrates technical depth, relational breadth, and Christ-centered purpose. It’s shaped like a lowercase “t”—a cross. And that shape matters.
Because in a world of acceleration, distraction, and disconnection, we need engineers who are not just technically competent, but relationally wise and spiritually grounded. We need formation that is slow, communal, and intentional.
And that brings me to a pair of stories—because that’s how I promised we’d explore these ideas here: through narrative, through lived experience, through moments that shape us.I don’t have room here to explore all of the ice beneath the surface – the cell-phone culture, the depression, anxiety and meaning crisis in the middle of modern life, I could go on. I’ve picked two aspects to tackle in this second post – the tyranny of efficiency and its impacts on presence, and the ways in which the algorithmic life is chipping away at connection.
The Hearth and the Heat
A few months ago, I was selected to attend a Christian retreat on discipleship in the digital age. Over 80 people at our university applied—only 20 were chosen. I was honored to be among them.
The retreat was led by Jonathan Lett, my coauthor on the first paper introducing the t-shaped engineer. Jonathan is a theologian—brilliant, thoughtful. At this retreat, he was grounded, relatable, vulnerable. A gifted facilitator. He curated an amazing experience.
We explored how the digital world is shaping us—how it forms our habits, our attention, even our desires. One metaphor in particular stayed with me: the hearth. Jonathan drew it from philosopher Albert Borgmann — a focal practice, Borgmann called it, an activity that gathers a community around something real, something that resists being rushed
In pre-modern homes, the hearth was the focal point—the source of warmth, light, and life. But it took effort. You had to gather wood, tend the fire, keep it going. It was a communal task. A focal practice. And that was the point: some things aren’t meant to be rushed. They’re meant to be done slowly, together, with care.
That image broke something open in me.
We talked about the good things the digital age offers—but also the ways it tempts us to trade depth for speed, presence for performance. In particular, what a precious resource and gift our attention is. These are themes and implications I explore more fully in my book: the erosion of attention, the rise of anxiety, the epidemic of disconnection. The digital world isn’t neutral—it’s forming us.
We talked about being dedicated children of God in the current moment. After several days of marinating in these ideas, something shifted. That experience led to a complete re-examination of how I was thinking about AI — not primarily as a technical problem to manage, but as a formational force already shaping my students and, I realized, me.
This retreat didn’t just inform me. It re-formed me.
It reminded me that formation is slow. Communal. Intentional. And that in a world of acceleration, the hearth still matters.
Three Captains, One Prize
Concrete canoe shows up often in my book—and for good reason. It is an annual engineering challenge sponsored by the American Society of Civil Engineers where university teams design, build, and race canoes made entirely of concrete. It’s where some of the most formative stories I’ve witnessed as an educator have taken place. This story gets to the heart of the contest, and it’s not about winning. It’s about recovery. About what happens when three students, each carrying their own burdens, find healing in community.
To understand the story, you need to understand the competition. Concrete canoe combines four components into a single engineering challenge:
- Constructing and displaying the final product
- Writing a design report that outlines project management and engineering decisions
- Delivering an oral presentation to highlight communication and storytelling skills
- Competing in a series of races that test athleticism, training, perseverance, and teamwork
In our region are two of the largest civil engineering programs in the country—consistently ranked in the Top 50 by U.S. News & World Report. My institution at the time was certainly not that.
This story takes place in the year immediately after Covid lockdowns. Community was fragile. Buy-in was hard. We barely made it to the competition. But Esther, Omar, and Bao had experienced enough that year to agree to lead the next.
Esther was a good leader, but fought anxiety and the quiet question: “Am I good enough?” (Spoiler alert: she absolutely was.)
Omar was a nose-to-the-grindstone worker—“Don’t put me under the lights, Coach. I’m just here to do the work and get people on board.”
Bao drifted, moved on to other pursuits.
That left two legs of the stool. But we were still missing something. The best teams, as you’ve likely experienced, have more contributors and leaders, not less.
Enter Hannah.
She didn’t make it at one of the “U.S. News” schools I mentioned above. Covid loneliness and depression swallowed her up. But she was talented, and determined to start over. She resisted concrete canoe at first—had done it at the old school, and the general sense of failure left scars that she associated with canoe, even though that had been one of the few bright spots. I told the team to wait. She’d need her people. She’d need a circle.
She did.
Together, the three of them made up more than the sum of their parts. The team gave Hannah healing—a place to belong. It gave Esther a place to shine, to prove her worth. It gave Omar buddies—a place to “be” and show how quiet commitment and grit can make all the difference.
We won that year.
But the real victory was watching that Big 3 grow, depend on one another, and transform through the power of community.
What Is AI Doing to Moments Like This?
This story took place only a few years ago. It feels like an entirely different world now.
Would there still be room for this type of growth?
The digital age has reshaped how students live, learn, and relate. Anxiety, depression, and loneliness are on the rise. Students arrive on campus not just distracted—but disoriented. They’re unsure of their identity, uncertain of their purpose, and often disconnected from community.
Smartphones, social media, and now AI have accelerated this drift. AI isn’t the cause—but it’s the accelerant. It offers shortcuts, but not connection. It simulates presence, but doesn’t offer belonging.
- A 2023 advisory from the U.S. Surgeon General declared loneliness and isolation a public health crisis, with effects on mortality comparable to smoking.
- Sociologist Daniel Cox reports that friendship is declining—especially among men—and that young adults are increasingly disconnected from meaningful relationships.
- Studies show that smartphone and AI use correlate with reduced critical thinking, increased anxiety, and diminished attention spans.
- AI tools, while powerful, are often used to bypass struggle rather than deepen engagement—leading to shallow learning and weakened perseverance.
In this landscape, stories like Esther, Omar, and Hannah’s feel increasingly rare—and increasingly urgent.
Paddling Against the Current
Community is good. It’s sacred. But many of the digital winds are blowing in the opposite direction.
The current of the river is flowing fast—and it’s flowing the wrong way.
Preserving spaces for embodied, relational formation will take real effort. It will require intentionality, resistance, and a renewed imagination for what education is for.
Concrete canoe is just one example. But the deeper truth is this:
Really, it’s not about building boats. As educators, as mentors, as disciple makers, we’re about building people.
The hearth and the concrete canoe seem like unlikely companions. One is a philosopher’s metaphor for slow, communal attention. The other is a collegiate engineering competition. But they are pointing at the same truth: formation happens in presence, not in efficiency. It happens when people stay in the room together long enough for something real to occur.
The digital age — and AI as its accelerant — is quietly dismantling both. It offers us speed where we need slowness, simulation where we need belonging, shortcuts where we need struggle. Hannah didn’t need a better algorithm. She needed Esther and Omar. She needed a circle.
The work of Christian engineering education, at its best, has always been the work of tending fires and building circles. That work is harder now. It is also more urgent.
