Commencement is a strange word.
In higher education, we use it to describe the end of something. But it actually means beginning.
Every May at Manna U, we gather to celebrate degrees earned, assignments submitted, research defended, and perseverance proven. Families fill the room. Names are called. Applause rises. It feels like an arrival.
But commencement is not an arrival at all
It is a “sending.”
It is the moment preparation gives way to responsibility.
Years ago, when I spoke at a commencement ceremony, I told graduates something that always feels slightly disruptive to say: You aren’t really supposed to be here.
Statistically speaking, many who start never finish. Interruptions derail momentum. Life happens. Financial strain, health challenges, family pressures, doubt, fatigue, and the odds quietly stack themselves against completion.
And yet, some finish anyway.
That tension matters.
Behind every graduate is a story no printed program can capture. Some battled illness. Some navigated deployment. Some worked full-time while studying at night. Some faced discouragement they never posted about. Some failed a class and tried again. Some nearly quit.
Some students may be all about the drama (you know who you are), but formation is rarely dramatic. It’s cumulative, and cumulative formation produces something far more valuable than information: resilience.
Years ago, when I entered my first Brazilian Jiu Jitsu competition, I thought I was prepared. I had trained. Conditioned. Drilled. Rehearsed scenarios. But there is one thing training cannot fully replicate: experience.
When you step onto the mat for the first time, your body floods with adrenaline. Your senses narrow. The noise fades. You realize quickly that preparation and pressure are not the same thing.
About two hours before that first match, I remember thinking, “What in the world are you doing here?”
A voice whispered: “You don’t belong here. You’re not built for this. These people are better than you.”
Instead of listening to that voice, I chose to trust my preparation.
Once the match began, I did not think. I responded. Training took over. Even in losing, I gained something far more valuable than a medal: confidence born from endurance.
That lesson has stayed with me.
Commencement feels like victory, and it is. But it is also the first step onto a larger mat.
Preparation and pressure are not the same thing.
The world graduates step into will test more than knowledge. It will test steadiness, humility, theological clarity, and ethical courage.
And here is where commencement becomes weighty.
It’s not just finishing a program.
It’s being sent.
In Scripture, formation and mission are inseparable. Disciples are formed, then sent. Leaders are shaped, then entrusted. The church gathers, then scatters.
Education that ends in self-advancement misunderstands the gospel.
One of the most dangerous threats to graduates is not failure. It is pride and apathy. A quiet drift into indifference. A subtle belief that finishing entitles one to ease. A loss of urgency about the responsibility now entrusted to the next generation.
Humility keeps leaders usable.
Humility remembers that we are stewards, not owners. That influence is borrowed, theology matters, and accountability strengthens. That failure is not fatal, but pride can be.
The world does not need more impressive leaders.
It needs steady ones.
Leaders who understand that:
- Leadership is hard and traumatic, and still worth saying yes to.
- Accountability is an ethical force-multiplier.
- Failure is a great educator.
- Life and leadership are 360-degree exercises.
- Everything rises and falls on theology.
We’ll clap and shout at commencement, but it’s not about applause.
It’s about being sent.
And it is one of the greatest privileges of leadership to watch prepared men and women walk into the world ready to serve, not for recognition, but for faithfulness to King Jesus and His mission.
Dr. Carlo A. Serrano, President