On August 3rd, 1914, as dusk was settling over St. James’s Park in Westminster, Central London, the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, stood at the window of his room at the Foreign Office with his friend John Alfred Spender, editor of the Westminster Gazette. 

It had been a grueling week of diplomatic back-and-forth as Europe continued to flounder following the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the presumptive heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, who was killed together with his wife in Sarajevo at the end of June. Earlier that day, it had become clear that all diplomatic efforts had been to no avail, and what would turn out to be the most devastating war in history was about to begin with the German invasion of Belgium.

Grey, whose own role as the British Empire’s top diplomat was intimately bound up with the failures leading up to the war, gazed out the window and murmured words to his friend that would haunt him, and remain etched in history: “The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.”

Outside, the scene was peaceful — the soft glow of the gas lamps, the calm of a London evening. But inside Grey’s office, and in the corridors of power across Europe, the gears of war were already turning. In that moment of eerie calm, Grey’s dark words captured the sense of a world that had sleepwalked into disaster, with leaders who did nothing to stop the calamity that was about to engulf them all.

The series of events historians call the July Crisis is a textbook example of catastrophic leadership failure: Self-important aristocrats and diplomats, smug politicians, and gung-ho military experts, all aloof in their ivory towers, refusing to hear the voices of those who warned of the abyss ahead. Illusions of dignity and prestige that would be lost were prioritized over both the realities of a world order that was changing, and any thought that war was the worst possible alternative.

It makes you wonder: What would have happened if Europe’s leaders had actually listened to the voices of the people who would be affected? If they’d heard from the soldiers who would soon die in the trenches, the mothers who would soon be left to mourn, and the ordinary citizens and their descendants whose lives would be shattered for a century to come?

One of the great foundations of modern democracy is the ‘voice of the people’ — the idea that leaders are accountable to those they govern, and that power and justice are strongest when they emerge from the bottom up, not imposed from the top down. In his foundational work, Two Treatises of Government, the seventeenth-century English political philosopher John Locke argued that governments only derive legitimacy from what he called “the consent of the governed.”

Thomas Jefferson was a big fan of this idea, and together with America’s founding fathers, he ensured that it was enshrined in the US Constitution. Jefferson was also a devoted admirer of the Hebrew Scriptures, and it is therefore not surprising that this idea is embedded in the Torah. In an 1813 letter to the prominent Quaker William Canby, Jefferson expressed admiration for the “sublime philosophy of the Hebrew prophets,” calling it “the most precious” source of religious and moral guidance.

And indeed, in the Torah, we find a remarkable example of this very principle — a moment when leadership didn’t come from the top down, but rather emerged from the Israelites’ desert camp itself. Despite resistance toward it from an influential voice, Moshe, the paradigm of Jewish leadership, embraces the ‘voice of the people’ wholeheartedly.

The story can be found in Parshat Beha’alotecha after Moshe appoints seventy elders to share the burden of prophecy and leadership. Suddenly, two men — Eldad and Medad — begin to prophesy in the camp outside the carefully orchestrated gathering.

Their unexpected prophecy shakes the status quo, and Moshe’s devoted deputy Joshua suggests they be arrested and jailed for this shocking break with protocol. But Moshe’s reaction to Joshua’s suggestion is nothing short of remarkable: “Would that all of God’s people were prophets, that God would put His spirit upon them!” (Num. 11:29).

Moshe’s response stands as a timeless rebuke to those who cling to control and hierarchy at all costs. It recognizes that the strength of any group depends on nurturing the spirit of prophecy in every voice, not suppressing it in the name of protocol or power.

More importantly, it is a moment that reveals the essential Jewish approach to leadership: being a leader is not about imposing authority from above, but rather, it is about creating space for everyone’s potential to shine.

In contrast to the European leaders of 1914, who turned away from the people they served, Moshe understood that authentic leadership is about empowering the people’s voice. But there was no one like Moshe in the summer of 1914. Amid the swirling chaos of that fateful July, one voice of caution stood out: Jean Jaurès, who represented the French working class.

In the final days of peace, Jaurès warned passionately of the ruin that lay ahead, urging European leaders to be conscious of the looming catastrophe. On July 25th, he declared that France must not be drawn into this reckless conflict with unknown consequences — a calm, prophetic voice bravely highlighting the human cost of world war.

Just six days later, he was assassinated in a Paris café — silenced by a pro-war fanatic at the very moment he was trying to prevent cataclysmic devastation. The elevated elites eagerly marching into conflict hardly acknowledged his death, but when they did, they dismissed him as a traitor to the French nation.

His passing marking the disappearance of one of the few voices still calling for caution. He was a lone prophetic voice — an “Eldad and Medad” for his time — whose warnings were drowned out by those urging war.

We are seeing the same dynamic play out in our days — prophetic voices being ignored by the elites. Broadcaster and news blogger Mark Levin has long warned of the dangers of Iran’s nuclear ambitions, a threat that many in the halls of power seem content to downplay or ignore.

Former US military intelligence officer and Middle East analyst Michael Pregent consistently highlights the risks of the West’s misguided alliance with Qatar, which bankrolls extremism even as it claims to be an ally.

And former IDF intelligence officer Yigal Carmon of MEMRI translates the words of jihadists who call for violence against the West, exposing the danger from those who harbor hatred toward the very countries they live in — yet his warnings fall on deaf ears.

These are today’s “Eldad and Medad,” raising their voices in the camp, warning of the abyss that lies ahead. And we ignore them at our peril. The lesson of Moshe in Beha’alotecha is that true leadership does not fear the grassroots voice — and that one must never suppress the prophet in the midst of the people. Those voices are always the ones that can save a nation from sleepwalking into disaster. “Would that all of God’s people were prophets, that God would put His spirit upon them!”

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California. 

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