I’ve been spending the last part of an hour proving to a machine that I am who I say I am.
It showed me nine little squares and asked me to identify all the traffic lights. I did. It then produced another nine squares and demanded that I find the bicycles. One bicycle had half a wheel hiding in a corner, and apparently I was expected to recognise it.
Finally, after establishing that I had better eyesight than most human beings, the machine accepted that I was human.
It then informed me that my password was incorrect.
I was shocked. I had created that password only because the same machine had rejected my earlier one as too weak.
“Add a capital letter,” it ordered.
I added one.
“Add a number.”
I added my birth year.
“Too easy to guess.”
I changed it.
“Add a special character.”
By then, I was the special character.
Eventually, I created a password so complicated that no criminal could possibly guess it. Unfortunately, neither could I.
I tried again.
“You have one attempt remaining,” warned the machine.
It sounded like a prison guard speaking to an escaping prisoner. I stared at the screen, wondering whether to risk my final attempt or begin a new life under a different name.
Then it offered me hope.
“Forgot password?”
“No,” I wanted to shout, “the password forgot me!”
A code was sent to my phone. My phone was in another room. By the time I returned, the code had expired. A second code arrived, but the screen vanished before I entered it.
Finally, a message appeared saying my account had been locked.
And there I was, standing outside my own digital house. Everything inside belonged to me, but I could not enter.
Technology was meant to serve us. Instead, we now ask its permission to enter our bank accounts, read our letters, see our photographs and sometimes even switch on our lights.
As I scratched my head, wondering what my password was, I imagined a man walking up to the gates of heaven.
“Password?” asked the angel.
“Love, kindness and compassion,” replied the man.
The gates opened immediately, and he walked in.
I looked again at my computer screen. It was still demanding a capital letter, a number and a special character. But I realised that the most important password I would ever need required none of them.
Love, kindness and compassion.
It’s certainly simple enough to remember, but difficult enough to live.
And I thought, “That is the kind of password I need.”
Not merely to enter my computer, but to open hearts while I am still here..!