Will Our Children Find Work?
The bottom rung of the career ladder is being cut off. Historically, young people did the grunt work — answering phone calls, site cleanup, and similar tasks — to learn a job. Today, these tasks are starting to be performed by AI for pennies, leaving only jobs that require higher-level mastery. If you can’t start at the bottom because a machine is already there, it becomes nearly impossible to get the experience needed to reach the top.
Some Early Evidence: A Stanford Digital Economy Lab study (August 2025) found that early-career workers aged 22–25 in AI-exposed fields saw a 16% relative decline in employment from late 2022 to mid-2025 — while workers over 30 in the same fields saw employment grow by 6–12%. Entry-level job listings in AI-exposed fields fell 13% over the same period. The Federal Reserve Bank of New York reports that underemployment among recent college graduates hit 42.5% in 2025 — its highest level since 2020 — while only 30% of the Class of 2025 had secured full-time work in their field by mid-year. The burden of AI displacement, so far, falls almost entirely on those just starting out.
The Provision
What follows is a work of fiction — an imaginative look at one possible future, offered not to alarm but to help us think, pray, and prepare.
He knocked like he wasn’t sure he had the right to. I knew the rhythm, but the weight was wrong — a faint echo of the boy who once believed every door in the world would swing wide at his touch. I pulled it open to find my son hunched against the biting February wind.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, trying to force a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
I took the bag. It was light: milk, beans, and saltine crackers. We moved to the kitchen table, a scarred oak relic that had held the weight of every season…the friction of old homework, the heat of family arguments, and the hushed sanctity of grace before meals.
John sat and stared at my weathered hands. The silence was heavy. Slowly he reached in his pocket, pulled out his phone, and set it down towards me. Another email. Another rejection. The words were professional and polite, as if smiling while closing the door.
“They don’t want to train junior accountants anymore, Dad,” he said, his voice flat. “They want someone who already has years of experience. The entry stuff… it’s just gone. Ledger reconciliations, basic tax prep — that was supposed to be my rung. How am I supposed to learn if no one gives me the chance?”
The kettle began to hiss. Outside, the wind clicked against the windowpane like a metronome, counting down time he didn’t feel he had.
He reached into his wallet and carefully unfolded an ultrasound photo. It was gray and grainy — a secret translated into light. His thumb hovered over the tiny silhouette of the child, a life quietly waiting in the wings.
“Veronica’s sick every morning,” he whispered. “She tries to hide it, tries to stay cheerful, but I can see her counting. Gas. Rent. The price of milk.” His throat tightened. “I’m counting too.”
There are fears that don’t sound like fear until you hear them vibrating in a man’s chest.
He glanced at his phone again. “I’ve been reading about the proposed ‘Provision Package,’ the universal basic income checks. They talk like it’s a gift. Like it’s just ‘help’ for the transition.”
“And?” I asked, leaning in.
“I want to believe it’s just help,” he said, his gaze drifting back to the photo. “And for a lot of people, I know it is. But I’ve been looking at the terms. It’s not just about the money; it’s the ‘continued eligibility’ clauses, the check-ins and the digital tracking of where the funds go. It feels less like a safety net and more like a spider web. I’m worried that if we start depending on it now, we might find ourselves having to choose between conscience or bread. I just don’t want to be in a position where I can’t say no.”
I bowed my head and prayed for wisdom, the kitchen growing quiet enough to hear the house settle. Finally, I reached across the table and took my son’s hands in my own callused grip. I spoke softly, “Every kind of help comes with something. Pride comes with strings too. Even Christ allowed Himself to be carried when He couldn’t stand. Your value and dignity as a man have nothing to do with a paycheck. If you need the ‘Provision’ to put food on the table, take it as a tool, not a master. We’ll read the fine print. We won’t accept anything we can’t in good conscience accept. We’ll find a way through this…together.”
John kept staring at the ultrasound, motionless but for the slow rhythmic outlining of his thumb over the contours of his child. “The politicians say there will be new jobs in time, jobs we can’t even imagine yet. They say everything will be better once we get through this economic transition.” He paused. “I don’t know, Dad. I think the world is forgetting what it means to be human.”
I asked him if it would be alright if I said a prayer for the child, for Veronica, and for his job search. As I said, “Amen,” I felt something stir in me. A realization. A chilling clarity. I stared at the scarred oak of the table and understood that it was a headstone for a dying age, a time when a man’s labor was his leverage, a fair trade that bought his family the right to be left alone. Now, that social contract was being severed. The corporate machine and the state were merging into a single, seamless provider, decoupling us from being masters of our own craft to being permanent clients of a system that no longer required our hands and minds to function.
I shot a glance at John, concern showing in the creases of my forehead. But I didn’t see what I expected to see. John was smiling to himself, and I saw in his eyes something fierce — new sparks of an ancient rebellion. He said, “Thanks Dad. Accounting was overrated anyway.” He paused a moment, then looked up slyly, “You and mom have any plans for that old barn by the creek?” There was a glint in his eyes that I hadn’t seen since his childhood. I knew God was moving, a Spirit over the void.