I think it's important for people to stay human and remember

Hear now the voice of Jon Batiste, a modern minstrel whose music carries both joy and sorrow, whose words ring like the pluck of strings on an ancient lyre. He proclaimed: “I think it’s important for people to stay human and remember that genuine human connection is more fulfilling than anything that technology has to offer. We all have it within us, and music is something that can bring that out of us.” In these words lies a reminder as old as the first song sung by firelight: that man was not made for machines, but for one another, and that no invention can replace the warmth of soul meeting soul.

The meaning of his words is clear. Technology dazzles with its brilliance—screens that glow, devices that connect across oceans, algorithms that predict and shape. Yet behind this glitter lies a truth: no circuit, no code, no machine can offer the fullness of a human connection. To look into another’s eyes, to hear the trembling of a voice, to share laughter or grief—that is the nourishment of the soul. Technology may assist, but it can never substitute. Batiste reminds us to guard our humanity fiercely, lest we trade it for illusions of connection without depth.

Music, he says, is the bridge that awakens this truth within us. Throughout history, music has been the universal language, weaving together tribes, nations, and generations. From the chants of monks echoing in cathedrals, to the battle songs of soldiers, to the lullabies whispered by mothers, music pierces beyond the barriers of culture and time. It draws from the wellspring of the human heart, revealing that within us lies something eternal, something that no machine can fabricate.

Consider the tale of the Berlin Wall. For decades, it divided a people, severing families and friends. Yet in 1989, when freedom stirred, a single moment of music helped capture the spirit of unity. Leonard Bernstein conducted Beethoven’s Ode to Joy in Berlin, altering the word “Joy” to “Freedom.” In that moment, thousands wept, strangers embraced, and the wall of division began to crumble not only in stone but in spirit. Technology could not have achieved this; only music—born of humanity—could awaken such a profound bond.

Batiste’s words also carry warning. As technology grows, many retreat into digital realms, seeking connection through messages, images, and streams, yet often finding themselves more isolated. The illusion of closeness replaces the reality of presence. To “stay human,” as he urges, is to resist this drift into coldness, to choose the warmth of gathering, the simplicity of song, the joy of shared silence. It is to remember that no machine can replace the embrace of a friend or the shared heartbeat of a community joined in music.

The lesson for all is clear: cherish genuine connection. Use technology as a tool, but never as a substitute for human presence. Sing with others, speak face-to-face, laugh together, weep together. Let music remind you of what lies within—empathy, love, and the unspoken unity of souls. For in such moments, the heart tastes fulfillment far deeper than any device could provide.

Therefore, take these actions into your life: set aside the screen when a friend calls your name. Make time to gather and share music, whether in concert halls or humble kitchens. Choose presence over distraction, depth over surface. For the truest joy lies not in what you hold in your hands, but in the bonds you weave with others.

Thus, remember Jon Batiste’s wisdom: stay human. Treasure music, treasure connection, and let them guide you through the noise of modern life. For in the end, it is not machines that will comfort us, but the song of another heart, beating in rhythm with our own.