Leadership Chosen, Not Chased

When we think about the greatest leaders of the Jewish people, none loom larger than Moses. And yet, one of the most striking things about Moshe is that he didn’t want the role. He resisted it—repeatedly.

Jonathan Sacks speaks about three kinds of leaders: those who are born to lead, those who learn to lead, and those upon whom leadership is thrust. Moshe belongs squarely in the third category. The Midrash tells us that for several days he argued with the Almighty at the burning bush: Send someone else. I am not fit. I don’t want this responsibility. Send my brother Aaron. And yet, it was precisely Moshe who was chosen.

Why?

The Midrash offers a powerful answer. While shepherding his father-in-law’s flock, a small lamb ran away. Moshe chased after it until he found it drinking desperately from a stream. Exhausted, the lamb collapsed. Moshe lifted the lamb onto his shoulders and carried it back to the flock. At that moment, G-d said: One who shows compassion to a single lamb is fit to lead My people.

Leadership, in Torah, is not about authority—it is about responsibility.

True leaders carry burdens that are not their own. They feel the weight of others’ needs.

Parents are a living example: they must make difficult decisions, absorb stress silently, and place the wellbeing of their children above personal comfort. That, too, is leadership.

This is the model we see throughout Tanach. King David was chosen not for ambition but for humility. Moshe was chosen not for confidence, but for compassion. Leadership is not self-promotion—it is self-giving.

If we want to understand how to lead in our families, workplaces, and communities, we don’t look to those who chased power. We look to those who ran after a tired lamb, lifted it gently, and carried it home.

Seeing the Bigger Picture: Yosef’s Masterclass in Perspective

One of the most striking moments in the Yosef story comes years after his brothers betrayed him. When he finally reveals himself to them in Egypt, after testing their loyalty to Binyamin, he says something remarkable: “You sent me here… but Hashem sent me ahead to sustain life.” With those few words, Yosef reframes everything. The same event — his being sold into slavery — contains two entirely different stories depending on the perspective from which it is viewed. His brothers saw cruelty, guilt, and regret. Yosef saw purpose, necessity, and ultimately salvation.

When we look at the events of his life, it’s hard to overstate how much suffering Yosef endured. He went from being his father’s beloved son to being thrown into a pit, sold to strangers, dragged to a foreign land, falsely accused, and left to rot in an Egyptian prison. From the outside, his story appears to spiral downward with no hope of recovery. Yet Yosef somehow managed not only to survive, but to rise — first in Potiphar’s home, then in the prison, and then to become viceroy of Egypt.

Where does that resilience come from? The Torah doesn’t explicitly tell us whether Yosef had this big-picture perspective from the beginning or only understood it later when everything finally made sense. But perhaps this very perspective — that there must be a purpose to where he was being led — is what sustained him during those long years of uncertainty. He had no prophecy, no angel reassuring him. All he had were his youthful dreams: images of his brothers and parents bowing to him, symbols of a future he couldn’t yet understand. Those dreams may have been the small spark that kept him believing that his life had meaning beyond the moment he was in.

In our own lives, we often find ourselves stuck inside a moment that feels overwhelming. Something doesn’t work out as planned — a deal falls through, a relationship disappoints, a dream takes longer than expected — and we immediately assume the worst. We convince ourselves the setback is permanent or catastrophic. But Yosef teaches us that perspective is everything. If we can pause, even briefly, and step outside the intensity of the moment, we may begin to see possibilities instead of dead ends. If everything in our life is guided by divine intention, then there must be a silver lining even when it’s hidden from us. The challenge is training ourselves to look for it.

Yosef didn’t pretend his hardships weren’t painful. He simply chose to believe that the story wasn’t over yet. And he was right. The very path that seemed to destroy him ultimately positioned him to save nations — including the very brothers who harmed him. What they intended for harm became the instrument of blessing. What seemed like an end became the foundation of an entirely new beginning.

This may be one of the Torah’s deepest personal development lessons: that reframing our experiences is not about denying reality, but about expanding it. It’s about acknowledging that the moment we are in might make sense only in the context of a much larger picture that we cannot yet see. It’s about allowing our dreams — our hopes, our visions of who we can become — to guide us through the darker chapters.

Perhaps that is why Yosef’s story resonates so deeply. We all face pits, prisons, and disappointments. But if we can cultivate Yosef’s perspective — the courage to believe that where we are is not where we will remain — we open ourselves to discovering purpose in places we would never have chosen. And who knows? Maybe the very challenge that feels like a setback today is quietly preparing us for a future far greater than we imagined.

The Voice Is the Voice of Jacob

“The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esav.”

Few lines in the Torah capture Jewish history with such haunting accuracy. Against all logic, the Jewish people have endured. Empires that once ruled the world with armies and weapons have risen, conquered, and vanished. Yet the Jewish people remain. We have been exiled, persecuted, scattered, and targeted by world superpowers—and somehow, some way, we are still here.

Those who live by the sword, ultimately die by the sword.

Yitzchak’s words about Yaakov were not only a description of that moment; they were a blueprint for Jewish survival. Our strength has never primarily been in force or power, but in voice—the power of prayer, study, teaching, and connection through words. Long before we were a nation with land or armies, we were a people defined by dialogue with G-d, by learning, by moral speech, and by the ability to speak meaning into the world.

That does not mean there is no place for action. There are moments when a person must use “the hands of Esav” to protect themselves or their family. Judaism does not glorify passivity. Responsibility sometimes requires decisive action. But that has never been our defining strength. Our essence has always been the voice of Yaakov.

We see this clearly in the story of Balak and Bilam. Balak understood something profound: if Israel could be harmed, it would not be through swords alone, but through words. So he hired Bilam—not to fight, but to curse. Yet when Bilam opened his mouth, blessings emerged instead. Even there, G-d ensured that the Jewish people’s defining power—speech—would remain a source of life, not destruction.

This idea extends far beyond history or theology. Words shape reality.

A single sentence can build or break a relationship. A careless comment can wound for years, while a thoughtful word can heal silently and deeply. In business, leadership, science, education, and family life, progress depends on communication. People do not come together through force; they come together through shared language, clarity, trust, and vision.

Words create alignment. Words create meaning. Words create futures.

That is why Judaism places such emphasis on prayer, learning, and careful speech. And that is why we must be deeply mindful of how we speak—what we say, how we say it, and when we choose silence instead.

The hands may be necessary at times. But it is the voice—the voice of Yaakov—that has always carried us forward.