Genesis 7:4 offers both a warning and a reckoning: rain will cleanse the earth, but only at the cost of destruction. It’s a story of judgment and renewal, a biblical vision of humanity washed clean after its sins. Yet as we stand in 2025, staring into the maw of our own creations, the reckoning feels less divine and more man-made.
At the Collezione Maramotti in Reggio Emilia, Italy, the exhibition Through the Flood reshapes that ancient, harrowing message into a mirror reflecting humanity’s failings. Images of natural disasters, animal suffering, war, illness, and death confront visitors—not as the wrath of God, but as the wages of human hubris. In its quiet halls, the Ark whispers an unsettling question: Is survival possible without change?
This thought lingers as I reflect on the techno-future being crafted around us. Artificial intelligence (Machine Thinking) we are told, will save us. Ministers in the UK boast about AI being “mainlined into the veins” of the nation, promising revolution in health, education, and infrastructure. Potholes will vanish. Waiting lists will shrink. The UK will lead the world.
And yet, instead of feeling hopeful, I feel dread.
The source of my unease isn’t technology itself—it’s the men behind it. Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Bezos, Steve Bannon, and Donald Trump. Each embodies a distinct flavour of arrogance and ambition. Musk dreams of colonising Mars while his rockets explode spectacularly. Zuckerberg builds immersive metaverses as our real world crumbles. Bezos, ever the pragmatist, delivers convenience laced with surveillance. Trump and Bannon weaponise chaos, amplifying divisions with ruthless precision.
Together, they are our modern-day architects of Babel, steering humanity into a future that feels less like salvation and more like Revelation. In their hands, innovation no longer feels like a beacon of hope but a vast, uncontrollable machine. Like Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now, they’ve ventured too far into the jungle of ambition, building their own dominions and losing their moral compass along the way. Kurtz’s haunting words—“The horror, the horror”—echo through the chaos they create.
The signs of reckoning are everywhere. Climate change—once dismissed as nature’s whim—has become an undeniable consequence of human greed. Rising seas, burning forests, and storms that rage with unprecedented fury are not acts of God but of man. And as AI and Big Tech promise to cure our ailments, they also chip away at our humanity. Convenience comes at the cost of privacy; progress demands sacrifice—but who decides what, or who, will be sacrificed?
Yesterday’s explosion of Musk’s SpaceX Starship felt like a metaphor too perfect to ignore. A technical glitch, a miscalculation, or perhaps just hubris—it doesn’t matter. The disintegration of that rocket mid-flight is a fiery reminder of what happens when ambition outpaces wisdom. It’s a glimpse into a future that promises ascension but delivers only ash.
The exhibition Through the Flood warns us that survival requires more than blind faith in progress. The Ark is not just a vessel; it’s a reminder of the cost of inaction. The biblical flood washed away the sins of humanity, but our current deluge is of our own making. As in Revelation, the seals of destruction seem to be breaking: war, pestilence, fire, and famine surround us—not as prophecies, but as consequences.
We are not passive witnesses in this apocalypse. The fault lies not just with the tech titans but with all of us. We handed them the reins, seduced by promises of progress, never pausing to ask if we were steering the future—or if the future was steering us.
As I reflect on Genesis, Revelation, and Apocalypse Now, one question haunts me: Is it too late? The Ark whispers that survival is possible, but only if we confront our failings before the waters rise too high.
In Reggio Emilia’s quiet halls, and in the shadow of Bezos’s empire, Musk’s exploding rockets, Trump’s carnival of chaos, and Zuckerberg’s metaverse, there is still a sliver of hope. If we move beyond apathy and accept accountability, perhaps we can build a new earth—not gifted by God, but rebuilt by our own hands.
But will we act before the floodwaters claim us all? I’m not sure we’re in safe hands.
