Hear Our Voice

Every year, I have the honor of giving the Invocation at our graduation ceremonies. And every year, I rise from my seat with a lump in my throat.

It’s not just because I’m speaking right after the graduates process in, though that alone is enough to stir emotion. They walk right past my seat—some of them making eye contact, others looking determinedly ahead. I steal glances at the goofy boys I’ve shushed a hundred times in class or assembly, now too serious to meet my eye. I see girls who once cried in my office now beaming with calm, confident maturity. There are the jubilant ones, practically bursting out of their robes with joy. Each one—whether they drove me nuts or were so dear I could’ve taken them home and raised them as my own—walks past me changed. Not grown, perhaps, but more grown. Not finished, but transformed. And I am filled with pride.

And then I walk to the podium and speak a blessing—to the crowd, yes, but especially to them. “Parents, friends, colleagues, and graduates…” I say, and when I reach the word “graduates,” I silently tell myself: Don’t cry. I am a certified crybaby, and I would absolutely weep with pride if I didn’t know by now how to hold it together. That, I suppose, is where I’ve grown. I’ve learned how to speak with feeling without falling apart. Because this is their moment, not mine. So I bite my lip, think about something mundane—anything to avoid making myself the story.

These students are not my children. They are young adults. And if we’ve done our jobs well, we’re not sending them out just to follow the rules or reach our goalposts. We’re sending them out ready to build lives of their own.

In this week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha, Moses hits a breaking point. After everything—the revelation at Sinai, the giving of the Torah, the incident with the Golden Calf, the exhaustive codes of holiness and purity—what do the people complain about?

Food.

They complain and complain, until Moses himself complains to God. And what he says is remarkably raw and honest:

“Why have You treated Your servant so badly? Why have I not found favor in Your eyes, that You place the burden of this entire people upon me? Did I conceive all this people? Did I give birth to them, that You should say to me, ‘Carry them in your bosom as a nurse carries an infant’? … I cannot carry this entire people alone—it is too heavy for me.” (Numbers 11:11–15)

I understand his frustration.

Moses sees the people failing to appreciate what they’ve been given, failing to grow, and he feels personally responsible. But here’s the truth: God never asked Moses to treat the Israelites like children, to carry them like babies. That’s not leadership. That’s control. And it breeds dependence, not strength.

Back in Parashat Yitro, Moses’ father-in-law, Yitro, gives him his first major leadership lesson. I can summarize it in one word: delegate. Yitro tells Moses, “You can’t do it all. You must share the responsibility.”

That’s a hard lesson. It’s hard when you care about your job. Harder still when you care about the people you serve. Letting go feels risky. It’s a paradox: to build something that outlasts you, you have to step back. You have to give others space to lead—even if they fail, even if they take what you built and reshape it into something you didn’t expect.

Leadership is not being a crossing guard. It’s teaching people how to cross the street. Yes, sometimes we must walk them across ourselves—when they’re too young, too unsure. But the real test of leadership isn’t whether people did whatyou wanted. It’s whether they understand why they’re doing it, and then choose to do it on their own.