In a year when America’s divides feel sharper than ever — on the streets of Los Angeles, at the border, and in the digital spaces where we argue and perform — Bishop T.D. Jakes is passionate about the gospel of connection.
But if you think that means just more talk, you’re missing the point.
Jakes, now 68, spent decades in the public eye: counseling presidents, comforting the grieving and challenging the status quo from the pulpit of Dallas’ Potter’s House. But in 2025, as the country faces a new wave of humanitarian crises and cultural gridlock, his message is less about what we say and more about how we listen.
“We speak in tweets,” Jakes says, his voice both weary and urgent. “Dr. King could not have tweeted his way into a civil rights revolution. There’s something about the human voice and its tone and its pitch. It’s not just about vocabulary. It’s body language and expression. The motion that’s emitted as we talk to each other that communicates on such a higher frequency. I don’t just read your words. I read your eyes.”
It’s a diagnosis that feels painfully accurate in 2025. The country is loud, but it’s not deep. We’re all talking, but few of us are really hearing each other.
Jakes isn’t just lamenting the loss of nuance — he’s warning about what happens when we stop seeing each other as fully human.
“We don’t get that cross-pollination that is necessary to have fruitful humanity,” he says. “We have slipped into our own traps and reinforced our own beliefs. We’re hitting gridlocks on things that we should come together on. We talk at each other, not to each other.”
If you’re looking for a blueprint for healing, Jakes insists it starts with humility.
“You cannot be a great speaker if you’re not a great listener,” he says. “So I’m not sure that we’ve lost our speech, but we’ve definitely lost our hearing.”
It’s a challenge that feels almost impossible in a moment when every issue — immigration, race, faith, even public health — has become a litmus test for which side you’re on.
But Jakes insists that the way forward isn’t to shout louder, but to listen better.
“We come on social media with a predisposed point of view, and we are there to defend it, not to learn about the other person, because the art of speaking is listening.”
He’s not just talking about politicians or pundits. He’s talking about all of us — scrolling, posting, arguing, rarely pausing to consider that the person on the other side of the screen might have something to teach us.
“Ponder before you speak and try with all of your might to leave some indelible impression on the hearer, so that even if we don’t agree, at least we walk away feeling heard and feeling understood.”
Jakes knows the irony: He’s a preacher, famous for his voice. But he’s quick to point out that real preaching is a two-way street.
“Preaching for us has never been a monologue. It’s always been a dialogue,” he says. “It’s a conversation with the congregation. And believe me, they will let you know what they feel or think one way or the other.”
It’s a lesson that feels urgent now, as communities across the country wrestle with how to welcome newcomers, how to bridge divides, how to build something that lasts.
“You can’t just consider what you want to convey without considering me,” he said. “If you convey it but it doesn’t connect to me, then you fail.
“Age is a factor,” he continued. “Race is a factor. Socioeconomic levels of life are a factor. Walk into the room fully armed, not only with what you prepared to say, but how they listen.”
At the heart of Jakes’ message is a radical humility — a willingness to admit that you might not have all the answers.
“I think today what we do is we’ve become paralyzed by the level of truth we perceive,” he says. “We do not leave room for the possibility that there might be a higher principle. Progress comes because somebody is open to the possibility that it could be better.”
He points to the Apostle Paul, who wrote that he hadn’t “apprehended” the full truth of God.
“If he didn’t count himself to have been apprehended, then certainly we have the right to evolve and grow and develop until we have finished our course,” Jakes says. “That ambiguity is where faith is born. That ambiguity is where trust is born. That ambiguity is where conversations are born. And most importantly a mutual respect. You cannot speak effectively to an audience that you do not respect. When you get to the point that you think that you are absolutely right about absolutely everything you are starting to decline.”
“You start thinking of others, ‘You don’t know what I know and therefore you don’t know anything,’” he continues. “Well, I might not know what you know but I know something. And so let’s sit down at the table and you bring what you know, and I bring what I know. Let’s make a meal.”
Jakes is keenly aware that he’s part of a generational relay. He’s watched as giants — John Lewis, Fred Price — have passed on, leaving a new generation to pick up the baton.
“Ultimately, you may create a march we never thought of,” he says. “That’s what generations are all about. But the raw material that makes faith is ageless. It’s ageless.”
He’s not interested in nostalgia. He’s interested in what comes next.
“I’m just handing them the raw materials. I’m handing them the baton. I’m handing them the score,” he says. “They have to come up with their own rhythm.”
In a moment when it feels like everything is coming apart, Jakes is still building. Still hoping. Still believing in the power of community to heal what’s broken. And he’s inviting the rest of us to join him — not with a tweet, but with a conversation.
