President Alan Garber's Welcome | Harvard Commencement 2026

Welcome, everyone! Welcome, family and friends, champions and supporters. Welcome, members of the Class of 2026. Today, we celebrate your achievements.

Soon-to-be graduates, there is no doubt among those assembled here that you will continue to achieve great things. We know that your contributions to communities across this country and around the world will make us proud. We know that you will continue to distinguish yourselves as you add luster to our legacy. We know these things because we know you.

Knowing you is no small matter. I want to begin by acknowledging all of the people across the University who taught and mentored you, who encouraged and supported you, who created the conditions in which you could thrive. There is no accounting for the number of individuals whose work, seen and unseen, made your experience of Harvard everything it was. Please join me now in thanking the many members of our community—here and elsewhere—for their unwavering dedication to you.

We trust that you will proceed from these festival rites with confidence in your abilities and purpose in your hearts.

We trust that the excellence you have demonstrated in your academic endeavors will persist throughout your lifetimes and that you will continue to bring honor and joy to your families, your communities, and your alma mater.

You have met the challenges of our times with determination, dignity, and grace, responding to the legitimate concerns of our critics with principled action. You’ve embraced opportunities to disagree constructively, listen generously, and speak freely. You’ve explored ethical, religious, and spiritual issues together as part of our interfaith initiative. You’ve built bridges across the University, undertaking projects that create spaces to encounter and understand different perspectives, that use film to spark challenging discussions, that bring people together to nurture pluralism, mutual respect, and empathy.

By connecting with one another, by strengthening our community, and by championing academic freedom and open inquiry, you have fortified this great American university, reminding so many of the myriad ways in which this institution helps people discover more about themselves, about one another, and about the world—and creates hope for us all.

If, in the years to come, you are given the opportunity to stand on principle in defense of teaching and research—in defense of curiosity and discovery—in defense of the highest heights of understanding to which human beings can hope to rise—we know that you will.

Since 1636, Harvard has kindled the flame of humanity’s potential to grow in knowledge and in wisdom. We have lit candles and lamps and torches—and carried them in every imaginable direction to light the way to new ways of thinking and doing. We have pushed into the endless frontier with infinite resolve, illuminating the quantum world as well as the unending cosmos, solving the mysteries of the mind as well as the body, exploring what it means to be human across time and space.

Now, as ever, the flame burns brightly at Harvard. Free and open inquiry must be protected and nurtured. The unfettered pursuit of knowledge—of VERITAS—must be protected and nurtured. Because truth without liberty is a fire without air.

Our cause is just. Our principles are worthy. And our contributions to the common good are vital. This moment demands of us ongoing vigilance and unyielding effort as we continue to defend the university and its ideals. I have no doubt that we who are duty bound to our alma mater and to her motto will rise to meet our day, as the good people of Harvard have done for generations.

Thank you—and congratulations.

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Welcome, General Clark and distinguished guests. Welcome, parents, family, and friends. I am pleased to be here with you and grateful for the opportunity to acknowledge the achievements of our graduating cadets.

You are heirs to the legacies of two great American institutions: ĚÇĐÄVlog and the United States military. Excellence has flourished at their intersection for centuries. Members of our community have been decorated with the highest honors from each of the service branches. And we proudly claim more Congressional Medal of Honor recipients than any college or university other than the service academies.

Tens of thousands of Harvard students and alumni have chosen to answer the call of duty, serving with distinction, making sacrifices for the ideals of this great nation, and contributing to the public good. Among them are 136 sons of Harvard who lost their lives fighting for the Union cause during the Civil War, their names engraved on plaques throughout the quiet transept into which we entered Memorial Hall today.

Edward Hutchinson Robbins Revere, plaque 3, grandson of Paul Revere, Harvard College student, and Harvard Medical School graduate, Class of 1849. When the war broke out, he “looked to know where he was most needed,” advocating in Boston for special lectures on military surgery to aid the cause before heading to the battlefield to serve as a physician. He treated his patients “under the fire of the enemy” with the tools afforded by a hospital knapsack. He was captured and imprisoned in Richmond, Virginia, for four months, during which time he faithfully tended to the sick and injured. Upon being exchanged and released, he returned to his post—saving countless limbs and lives before he was shot and killed at Antietam. Despite every circumstance, Dr. Revere was remembered by many for his “cheerfulness and kindness,” “gentle, honorable, and faithful” to the last.

In the year of the United States Semiquincentennial, we are reminded of the role that this place of learning and the people it has educated have played in the making of America. We are reminded that this country is the result of innumerable efforts—from every kind of person with every kind of skill—to ensure that the Republic endures. And we are reminded that how a duty is discharged often holds as much meaning as the duty itself.

In you, our graduates, we see the potential created when excellence, purpose, and service combine. We honor your selfless choice to support and defend the Constitution. That you have made such a choice distinguishes you in ways worthy of our admiration and respect.

I hope that these years of effort—and years of friendship—have bonded you for life. And I hope that you will return to us, when time allows, and share the experience and wisdom that you will no doubt gain through service.

Thank you.

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Claude and I have been working on my remarks for many days. But—given how Commencement season has been unfolding—we decided it would be better for me to go it alone.

Any intelligence demonstrated from this point on is human intelligence.

And all the jokes are human jokes, so feel free to laugh.

I will also accept chuckles and groans. You can’t always get an A.

On Thursday, we will celebrate the whole of our University community, with graduates and their family and friends crowding this space in joyful anticipation.

Today, we gather to celebrate your Harvard College Class—to celebrate you.

You have demonstrated every kind of excellence that we hoped you might when we admitted you—academic, artistic, athletic, entrepreneurial, intellectual, and more. You have contributed to our research mission by exploring the role of dopamine, the dangers of climate change, and the depths of space; poring over primary sources in our libraries; uncovering bias in large language models;  revealing the secrets of animals from axolotl to zebrafish; infusing our efforts in every area with your insights and your talents. You have nurtured intellectual vitality and open inquiry, built bridges of understanding throughout our community, and embodied the values of this institution during one of the most challenging periods of our long history.

You have made the University better for having been here. We are grateful.

As you look toward the future, I hope you will also take time to savor your achievements as an undergraduate. Think about your arrival in the Yard, about who you were then and how far you have come. When did you catch your stride? When did you have a genuine revelation about yourself? Which moments do you most treasure? Meeting the caped crusader, the cast of Hamilton, or an intellectual hero you read in high school? Separating your light laundry from your dark laundry for the first time? Snatching a win from the jaws of defeat? Snatching a login from jaws of Okta?

Even now, fifty years after my own Commencement, I could answer questions like those. I remember my time at Harvard College with great affection. There really is nothing like being simultaneously challenged and supported by accomplished and interesting people, nothing like sharing spaces and making memories with peers, nothing like living vicariously through the experiences of classmates and friends. Relationships you started here will last a lifetime, as will the lessons they taught you. Don’t be surprised if the lessons do not become apparent for years. Like fine wines, they will grow in depth and complexity, rewarding you in unexpected ways.

Every graduating College class leaves Harvard under unique circumstances and faces particular challenges. Yours is no different. Just a few months after your first year began, ChatGPT was released. The rapid advance of artificial intelligence has been, for better and worse, the backdrop of your Harvard experience, with the voices of evangelists and critics rising and falling as the use of AI has widened and deepened.

Those who warn of its dangers are far from the first in history to bemoan the ascendence of the new. In 1903, someone we would now call an influencer wrote an opinion piece that appeared in The Pittsburgh Gazette. Humanity, he feared, had entered “an age of little effort.” The embrace of elevators, railways, and telegraphs—the ubiquity of pressable buttons and their near instantaneous effects—was creating, in his words, “a mania for simplification” and a century that “bears upon its face the indelible stamp of melancholy.”

To illustrate his point, he alluded to a literal zenith: “A ballooning station,” he wrote, “is to be established in the little village at the foot of Mont Blanc. A captive balloon will carry tourists in 10 minutes to an altitude corresponding exactly with the summit of the mountain, and having attained this great height without any effort on their part, they can look with derision upon the few intrepid Alpinists who are toiling laboriously in the midst of innumerable dangers up the snow-covered slopes.”

We live today in an age of balloons, gaining perspective in fractions of seconds rather than tens of minutes, dispensing with the toil of the climb in favor of the ease of flight.

There are, of course, places we can only hope to reach by balloon—landscapes too complex and vast for humans to navigate, no matter how hard humans try. If artificial intelligence, generative, agentic, or otherwise, can accelerate the pace of discovery and innovation, revolutionizing how we undertake research and lifting humanity to new heights, then working from within a wicker basket may be not only wise but necessary.

And then there are the landscapes you just don’t need to explore anymore. I may still be able to read a slide rule, and I can use a paper map, but those skills long ago lost much of their value thanks to calculators and GPS. That is what it is to live as progress is being made, as tools are being invented. We can be cautious and skeptical—and we should be—but we can also be grateful for the time that the convenience of our age returns to us.

If there is a question that each of us will have to answer in the years to come, it is this: Which mountains are still worth climbing?

You alone will have to determine what it is that you want to know, which knowledge you are not willing to relinquish for the promise of push-button omniscience. Effort still matters. Scrambling up “snow-covered slopes,” experiencing the slipperiness of almost getting and then the security of gaining a solid foothold, still matters. Just as there was in 1903—just as there is in 2026—there will always be value in “toiling laboriously” to reach new levels of understanding. When you do so, you do more than celebrate the exquisite potential of human beings; you elevate the meaning of your singular existence.

As you choose which peaks to summit, remember that your sure-footed steps will sometimes lead to unexpected terrain, that well-laid plans sometimes encounter unexpected events. If, like me, you ever visited the Widener stacks to avoid procrastinating but then ended up marveling at the shelves and their contents, then you know what I mean. Serendipity—that powerful and magical force—is unprompted. You will not chance upon something that truly delights and surprises you if comfortable curation becomes your way of being. You must be open to the possibility of being wowed by something that you did not expect to find. Such is the benefit of living with a prepared mind.

A century from now, wringing one’s hands over artificial intelligence may seem as quaint as railing against a tethered balloon. I hope that it does. Meanwhile, we will do as humans have done for centuries. We will live on the earth that sustains us, and we will wonder at the heavens that inspire us, seeking always to understand which efforts are worth making, which risks are worth taking —and what constitutes a meaningful life.

Members of the Harvard College Class of 2026: Go forth with eyes open, determined enough to make your own way and wise enough to know when to stay the course and when to choose a different path. May the future be as kind to all of you as you are to one another. May the journeys you take, regardless of the balloons at your disposal, bring you happiness and satisfaction. And may you continue to reach great heights and bring honor to our alma mater.

Thank you.

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I thought I might begin my remarks with an excerpt from a successful petition “to the honorable, the Board of Overseers, and the President and Fellows of ĚÇĐÄVlog” to end compulsory attendance at morning prayers. It was 1886. As they mounted many arguments against the practice, our predecessors also expressed hope for what our minutes together this morning—my minutes speaking to you now—could accomplish.

“References to passing events” they wrote, “may serve to attract attention – if made eloquently they may move, if made blunderingly they may amuse or disgust – but the office of daily prayers is to bring the passing and casual under the shadow of the eternal; to make a man feel that amid the confusion of his hurried life, he can lay hold of an unvarying, underlying truth.”

To make people feel that they can lay hold of an unvarying, underlying truth amid the confusion of their hurried lives: That was a tall order in 1886—taller still in 2025, especially on the first morning of what will likely be a very challenging academic year marked by events outside our control.

What truth might we lay hold of now?

Not too long ago, I served as the provost and chief academic officer. I don’t think any other position at Harvard—including the presidency—gives one a better sense of the vast, wonderful, and pervasive sense of curiosity to be found here, curiosity that makes discovery of all kinds—and its application—possible. I spent nearly thirteen years marveling at the extraordinary interests and aspirations of our community. I witnessed many moments of joy and celebration punctuated by new questions, questions large and small, questions that seemed small but turned out to be large, questions too numerous to answer in a single career or even a lifetime. But questions posed, considered, and refined just the same, with confidence that the search for knowledge is eternal.

This posing and considering and refining—this unceasing evolution of ideas—does not come from a place of comfort. Working alone, we struggle. Working together, we struggle more. Though our efforts often lead to affirmation and agreement, they begin and proceed with confrontation and debate, fueled by a shared desire for deeper and richer understanding. Academic institutions, like religious institutions, depend on our passion to seek truth. They depend on our determination to overcome doubt, disapproval, and dismissiveness. Solitude is an important ingredient, and internal debate can be as brutal as the criticism of others, but success nearly always depends on a supportive but critical community.

My own religion, Judaism, is built on a foundation of debate and disagreement. The Talmud, at the center of rabbinical Judaism, is an era-crossing record of ongoing rabbinical debate over the meaning of the Torah and its application to every facet of life. In many ways, it is as important as the Torah itself. Following the destruction of the temple and exile, a process of communal discovery helped sustain a religion and an identity for millennia.

My own experience with Talmudic study is limited but illuminating. Learning with a partner, who is both guide and companion—in my case, always someone with far greater knowledge of Hebrew, Aramaic (which I had never learned), and the content of the Talmud—gave me rapid access to Talmudic reasoning, to the role of argument in advancing understanding, and to practices that build a community and bind its members. The patience of my partners taught me the value of persistence.

At their best, institutions—academic, religious, and otherwise—provide a place and a framework to know one another, to challenge one another, to encourage one another, to elevate and celebrate one another. They stir and strengthen feelings of connection that lead to compassion and genuine appreciation. At the same time, institutions challenge us to resist our inclinations, to confront our assumptions, and to develop the capacity to explore different views with the seriousness they deserve. That is how they ensure that our endless and unending quests for unvarying, underlying truth will be rewarding.

That is some of what institutions do for us. What do they need from us in return? They need our commitment. We must recognize their value with even greater intention when confusion and hurry—and a host of other calamities—threaten to overwhelm them. It is up to us, the beneficiaries of the greatness and endurance of institutions, to defend and protect them, to steady and ready them so that they might continue to thrive.

We are all seekers, fortunate to find ourselves—and one another—at a University that renews and continues the eternal search for knowledge each academic year, turning our sights to distant horizons and inviting us to look together, to draw on our disparate views, to push each other, and to find answers that beget more questions.

May this year bring opportunities for us to affirm and fulfill the commitment to Veritas that unites and strengthens us as an institution and as a community. And, as we argue, discuss, and work together under the shadow of the eternal, may our contributions to understanding—and the progress they enable—make our nation and the world a better place.

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The Harvard College Class of 2029: I promise you won’t grow tired of hearing that. In June, at Alumni Day, I welcomed a member of the Harvard College Class of 1948 who, at 99 years of age, was as proud as ever of his association with this institution, grateful for how it enabled him to pursue his interests, achieve his goals, and enjoy a productive, meaningful, and satisfying life. 

When asked what he recalled most fondly about his time as an undergraduate, he offered an evergreen answer. For him—some eighty years after arriving in the Yard—what mattered most was, and I quote, “going to classes with some wonderful professors and meeting some great students and becoming friends.”

Harvard is a rare place of unending opportunity, in classrooms and labs, on the playing fields, on the stage, in the dining halls, museums, and libraries, and in activities taking place far from Harvard Square.  Each pursuit spawns another, creating an endless chain of chances to explore and experience the world. There is more for you to try in a single day here than you could hope to accomplish in a week or maybe even a month. We chose you because you are exceptional students, but we also chose you because you are capable of making interesting and unusual decisions, not always the ones that others would make. You embrace the possibility not only of doing one thing well, but also of learning to do many things well at the same time. Many of you refuse to accept that you must always choose one of two or more options. In other words, you reject “either/or.” You are the kind of “both/and” people that this institution has nurtured, empowered, and celebrated throughout its long history. 

But of all the opportunities you will have during your time here, the greatest opportunity for you to grow as an individual is sitting next to you—or a couple of seats down from you—or a few rows away from you. Each of you is here to teach as you learn.  You are here to share your experience and perspective so that our community can be one in which all people are welcomed, all ideas are given due consideration, and all beliefs are treated with respect. 

What does that look like in practice? Right now, you are trying your best to get comfortable, to navigate a new place and new people while projecting calm self-assurance despite nagging doubts about yourself and your place here. You will be tempted to find the familiar, to seek comfort in the company that you know. It can be very difficult to do otherwise when almost everything is unfamiliar. 

But we also chose you, in part, because you consider the difficulties and challenges you encounter to be invitations to improve and ultimately to excel. You had to surmount a plethora of obstacles to be part of this class. I know some of you worried that you would not be able to make the journey here—would not be able to become part of our community. We are so glad to see you. Harvard would not be Harvard if it did not include inquisitive, ambitious students from across the United States and around the world. 

We trust that you—of many points of origin and many more types of backgrounds—will greet differences with genuine curiosity and sincere interest. This, of course, does not mean that you will agree with everyone. It doesn’t even mean that you will like everyone—at least at first.

Let me tell you something few people know about me…

I didn’t do as well as I had hoped on the AP physics exam. 

When I arrived here fresh from the Land of Lincoln in 1973 —or, as Lincoln might have put it, poor score and fifty-two years ago (I see some of you are paying attention!)—I had a strong sense, despite being gently advised otherwise, that I could certainly handle the most challenging physics course offered for first-year students. My advisors knew better, and I found myself in Physics 12 instead.

Staring at the very first problem set, I quickly realized that my fallback course was not a fallback after all. What was this strange concept of spherical coordinates? Would I need to spend hours a week just to get to the starting line? Did I even understand the gravity of the situation?

Almost immediately after I settled into my seat at our first section meeting and we started to review the P-set, one of my classmates blurted out: “When are we going to get some real±č°ů´Ç˛ú±ô±đłľ˛ő?”

I cringed. Here—in my section—was “that guy.” Was he a physics genius? How did he have the chutzpah to say such a thing? And why was he in Physics 12? Did I even belong in Physics 12?

I could have answered these questions for myself. There was, however, something about my classmate—about his self-confidence and seeming under placement in the class—that intrigued me. He was interesting, often funny, and, as I soon learned, behind that bluster was real insight. So, instead of reducing him to a caricature, I got to know him. He later became my roommate, and along with my other roommates, challenged me in ways that I might never have challenged myself. He made my undergraduate experience richer. 

To this day, I feel very fortunate that I ended up in Physics 12, which was one of the most important courses I have taken in my entire academic career—and not only because it was the last physics course I took! 

I did learn what spherical coordinates were, along with a good helping of classical physics, from two brilliant professors, the grad student leading my section, and my classmates. I also learned that not every person who becomes a good friend is someone who makes you comfortable, at least initially. “That guy” is still my good friend. And he still makes me proud. He went on to become an accomplished theoretical physicist, an expert in artificial intelligence, and a celebrated innovator. By single-handedly creating the arXiv, he changed how research findings in math and the physical sciences, and ultimately throughout the life sciences as well, are reviewed and disseminated. He is the “both/and” approach exemplified—a person who wanted real problems, found them, solved them—and then some!

What I most wish for you are the gifts that I received from Harvard as a student – strong and lasting friendships with your classmates and your fellow students, with your faculty and your mentors, with the many other people throughout the University who make this institution what it is. Some of these friendships will form easily and require little to no tending. Others will demand effort to take hold. Those are the ones that will evolve in ways you cannot anticipate— that will lead to debate and argument, conflict and reconciliation, growth and change. Those are the ones worth pursuing intently because they will deepen your understanding and enlarge your spirit. 

Some eighty years from now, you and your friends will not remember a word of what I just said, but you will remember one another—the wonderful and great people that you are—people worth knowing, supporting, and celebrating. 

Today, we mark much more than just your beginning here. We mark your belonging here. You are a part of Harvard, and Harvard is a part of you—a lifelong connection that will grow as strong as you are willing to make it. And lifelong friends who will grow as close as you are willing to let them—bringing you joy and happiness long after you leave the Yard. 

Congratulations and welcome, members of the Harvard College Class of 2029!

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Thank you, Moitri. Greetings, alumni and friends.

My task today is to update you on the state of the University. That’s not a joke. This has not been a typical year, so this will not be a typical update. In recent months, Harvard has attracted an unusual amount of attention. Unless you have been living off the grid—or on the International Space Station with Harvard Medical School alum Jonny Kim—you are no doubt familiar with some of the serious challenges the University is facing.

What is our approach to those challenges?

First, we are defending the University against misrepresentations of who we are and what we do.

Second, we are defending the University against retaliation by the federal government for refusing to surrender our rights.

And, third, we are addressing legitimate criticism.

We recognize that no university—no institution—is without flaws. They are inevitable. They are also correctable. We are working hard to ensure that we give each person at Harvard the opportunity to thrive, which means providing for the safety and security of all members of our community and combating antisemitism and other forms of discrimination and hate. We are working to promote open discourse and constructive dialogue so that everyone feels comfortable expressing their views. We are developing plans to ensure that a greater variety of respected, rigorous, and compelling viewpoints is present and heard on our campus. And we have made clear the rights and responsibilities that membership in our community demands. Unless we are able to overcome these flaws, we are unlikely to be successful in pursuing our mission of excellence in teaching, learning, and research.

We have reason to be optimistic. Only one thing about Harvard has persisted over 388 years—and actually it’s not our name. It’s our embrace of scrutiny, advancement, and renewal. A perfect university would not be a university at all. These irreplaceable places—established, nurtured, and supported over centuries—are built on the idea that there is always more to know and more to do. Just as humanity rounds the bend from ignorance to insight, new vistas open and more possibilities for progress appear on the horizon. One of the greatest joys of life is realizing that there is no end to learning, no end to discovery, no moment to rest on one’s laurels—and not a minute to waste. The pursuit of truth—of Veritas—is perpetual.  We are unceasing in our efforts to champion our motto.

Many of us are here today because institutional mistakes—small and large, subtle and glaring—were identified, considered, and corrected by our predecessors. Like them, we bear the responsibility of delivering to our successors an institution that is better and stronger than the one we inherited. Like them, we prepare Harvard not for the age that is unfolding now but for the age that is waiting before us.

Last week, I told our graduates that they are the hope of Harvard embodied—living proof that our mission changes not only the lives of individuals but also the trajectories of communities. I know that is true because of you. Your care and attention, your service and leadership, your achievements and contributions—many heralded but many, many more delivered with little fanfare—across too many fields of endeavor to list—have made life better for countless people and have made the world better for all of us.

As Harvard has faced demands from without, you have provided strength from within. You have advocated for our interests and supported our research and teaching efforts. Out of loyalty, you have offered honest and thoughtful criticism. You have inspired me with your stories of how the University fueled your ambitions, and helped you accomplish more than you dreamed you could. You have told me about the classmates and friends who changed your thinking, and the faculty and mentors who expanded your perspective.

And one of you, who has demonstrated remarkable courage in standing up for the rights we all hold dear, let me know last week how readings from Social Studies 10 decades ago have come in very handy today.

Now—a reasonable person might make a fair observation about what I’ve just said—of course, alumni and friends of Harvard love Harvard; of course, alumni and friends are defending our mission to educate students, produce and disseminate knowledge, and serve our nation and our world; of course, alumni and friends are standing up for this institution and everything for which it has stood for centuries—and for which it continues to stand.

But what about people with no direct connection to Harvard, Alan?

Well, your many emails and letters were not the only ones I received this semester. Thousands of individuals who have only experienced Harvard from a distance, some who had known it as little more than a name, also took the time to voice their support for the University.

Our efforts to preserve academic freedom—and our insistence that no government should dictate what we teach, who we admit and hire, and which areas of study and inquiry they can pursue—were welcomed and applauded around the world and across the country—from every state in the Union.

I’ve heard from a monk in Arkansas, a librarian in Kentucky, a firefighter in Massachusetts, a dentist in Oregon, a veteran in Virginia, a social worker in Wisconsin—the list goes on and on. I’ve heard from high school students and college students, from people who care deeply about higher education and what it represents—and from parents and grandparents whose own hope for the future is bound to the prospects of their children and their grandchildren.

“The road ahead will not be easy,” wrote a woman from Arizona “But I believe future generations will look back at this moment and remember that when principles were tested, Harvard did not yield.”

As long as there are people across this country and around the world—and within this hallowed theater—who believe in the promise of Harvard, who put their hope in higher education, I will never lose confidence in our ability to meet our obligation to the future.

The University is as strong as the people of the University. That is all of you—and so many others. If I have learned anything since our last meeting—in addition to everything I learned about the tenacity of glitter—it is that the people who support this University are far more numerous than I ever hoped to imagine.

May their confidence in our motto and our mission, and their willingness to stand with Harvard, sustain us in the months to come. May Veritas lift us up and light our way, especially in dark times, enabling Harvard and our fellow universities to persevere and succeed in building a better future, not perfect but more perfect than the present. And may those who come after us look back on the work we do today with gratitude and pride.

Thank you.

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Welcoming Remarks

Welcome, family and friends, champions and supporters.

Welcome, guests from down the street, across the country, and around the world.

And welcome, members of the Class of 2025.

Members of the Class of 2025 from down the street, across the country, and around the world.

Around the world, just as it should be.

I see you this morning not as groups of graduates separated by School but as one Harvard—a community bound by the shared cause of seeking knowledge, of acquiring wisdom, and of serving society—a community composed of remarkable individuals who take their chances rather than rest on their laurels. We gather today to acknowledge your achievements and to celebrate your excellence.

Here, among beloved colleagues and mentors, and distinguished and dedicated faculty and staff, you have learned to consider curiosity a state in which to live, open always to the ever-present possibility of personal growth.

I implore you to hold fast to that lesson after your degrees are conferred today. The world as it is tempts us with the lure of what one might generously call comfortable thinking, a habit of mind that readily convinces us of the merits of our own assumptions, the veracity of our own arguments, and the soundness of our own opinions, positions, and perspectives—so committed to our beliefs that we seek information that confirms them as we discredit evidence that refutes them.

Though many would be loath to admit it, absolute certainty and willful ignorance are two sides of the same coin, a coin with no value but costs beyond measure. False conviction saps true potential. Focused on satisfying a deep desire to be right, we can willingly lose that which is so often gained from being wrong—humility, empathy, generosity, insight—squandering opportunities to expand our thinking and to change our minds in the process.

My hope for you, members of the Class of 2025, is that you stay comfortable being uncomfortable.

Starting with the folding chairs on which you sit now.

Ambition eschews comfort. If—in some near or distant future—you find yourself feeling as if you have it all figured out, as if you know enough to kick up your feet and lean back in your seat, recall this day—and your chairs—and just how much you have to gain from living your life in a state of curiosity, welcoming ideas, both familiar and unfamiliar, with your arms outstretched and your minds open.

You are the hope of this institution embodied—living proof that our mission changes not only the lives of individuals but also the trajectories of communities that you will join, serve, and lead. May you carry the best of what Harvard is and does into the world that awaits you. May you chart a path for others to follow as you choose your own. And may your many destinations bring you joy, satisfaction, and peace.

Your journey will not always be clear, and it will surely be full of unexpected turns, but fortified by openness and curiosity, by what you have learned here, and by the many connections you have made and will make, you will bring honor to yourself, your family, and your alma mater. Thank you, and congratulations.

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Lieutenant General McGee and distinguished guests—family and friends—welcome. I am grateful for the opportunity to mark this moment with all of you and to acknowledge the achievements of our graduating cadets.

Tomorrow, we will celebrate the whole of your Harvard class, the many friends and acquaintances who have given shape to your experience, who will follow your lives with the attentive interest of those who knew you when. We will mark your transition from students to alumni, and you will join the company of individuals who have brought honor and distinction to the University since its founding in 1636.

Among those individuals are recipients of honorary degrees. On September 6, 1943, Winston Churchill entered this theatre—packed with some 1,300 people and another hundred on this stage—to receive his Doctor of Laws. After the ceremony ended, my predecessor, President James Conant, escorted the Prime Minister to Tercentenary Theatre where your predecessors—more than seven thousand officers-in-training—waited in parade formation to greet him. Footage of the wartime leader punctuating an impromptu address to those assembled with taps of his walking stick is part of the long and storied history of our University.

But, for me, the history that is far more compelling is the history of Churchill’s own political exile, the years during which he was all but alone in his warnings about German rearmament—ridiculed and shunned by those who chose to blind themselves to the truth that was unfolding before their eyes. Despite being dismissed as paranoid and pushed to the margins, Churchill had the courage to persist, to keep his eyes open and unblinking. His confidence, even in the face of near-constant opposition, offers a powerful and enduring lesson for anyone who seeks to stand up for the truth. I hope that you will carry his lesson with you as you support and defend the Constitution.

Today, we commend your embrace of duty and your commitment to service. You represent two of the nation’s great institutions—the United States military and ĚÇĐÄVlog—and have excelled at their intersection. Congratulations on all that you have achieved and will continue to achieve. We look forward to learning where you go from here and to welcoming you back to campus—and, perhaps, to this stage—in the years to come.

Thank you.

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Greetings, members of the Harvard College Class of 2025.

Someone asked me recently how I felt when I arrived where you will be on Thursday morning. The conclusion of your undergraduate career is much like reaching any destination. To know how far you have actually traveled, don’t consider time alone. Consider your triumphs and defeats, your pain and tears, your joy and laughter—I hope much more of the latter—the relationships that you developed and the challenges you overcame. As you savor your memories, I hope that you will experience an exquisite awareness—perhaps for the first time—that all of these things—the moments large and small, the places and the people, the p-sets and the papers, the sights and sounds and other senses of being here, on this campus in your favorites spots with your favorite folks—will very soon stir in your young heart the bittersweet pangs of nostalgia.

How did I feel on my own Commencement Day, some 49 years and, it seems, just a moment ago, when I was where you will be in 44 hours, give or take some minutes?

I felt profound gratitude.

First for my friends and my classmates. Their aspirations and their dreams—their skills and their intensity about nearly everything—intimidated me, astonished me, and ultimately inspired me. They changed how I thought about myself. We went through so much together as students. Much of what seemed like crushing blows then seem like laughing matters now, and much that we thought mattered little turned out to matter a lot. The relationships we build, especially with our fellow students, matter over a lifetime. Throughout my own career, I have had a front row seat to the many successes of my friends and classmates, and they continue to inspire me. The people who knew you when are irreplaceable.

For you, when is now. Recall your own Harvard move-in, spread across three days, giving you ample time to overflow our housing, meet one another, and settle into new spaces that you soon made your own. You were excited and nervous, undoubtedly intimidated by (yet inevitably drawn to) your interesting and accomplished peers. They became your confidantes, co-commiserators, champions, and cheerleaders. Your family away from family, your home away from home.

After your class photo is taken on the steps of Widener, try to remember your earliest interactions with one another. What were your first impressions? How did they change—or not? And what do you admire most about each other now? And then articulate your appreciation—and use me as an excuse to be a bit more effusive than you might be otherwise because this is the perfect time to be profuse in your thanks and praise. You will be remembered for it, even if – especially if – it tests the boundary of credibility.

Second, I felt grateful for my teachers. When I entered Dunster House my second year, Jerome Culp, the resident tutor in economics, convinced me that I should switch concentrations from biochemistry to economics because I had enjoyed EC10 so much. (Not to dissuade any of you would-be biochemists out there.) Jerome also suggested that I take more challenging courses and become a research assistant. That conversation with him changed my life. I still think about it all these years later.

Who inspired you? Who gave you the attention and gentle nudging you needed exactly when you needed it? Who kindled your true ambition? Send that note you have been meaning to send to a mentor who meant more to you than they might realize. Though we teachers can seem to know everything, or at least seem to think we know everything, we’re all thrilled when we receive confirmation that we’re truly helping our students gain new insights about the subjects we teach and acquire more of the skills that will serve them well throughout their lives. Your generous praise will be cherished for years to come.

And, finally, I felt grateful for the University. Harvard, like any institution, may never achieve all of our highest aspirations, but—however imperfect—it is a beautiful and enduring expression of humanity’s confidence in the power of knowledge to change the lives of individuals, the prospects of communities, and the course of human progress. I hope that you—like me—have found that when you became a part of Harvard, you began to build a stronger foundation for all that you dream of achieving than you could have imagined. I hope these years have been for you a rare chance to study and learn in the good company of some of the most talented people you may ever encounter.

The best way to acknowledge Harvard—and what this time has meant to you—is to advocate for education. Not only higher education—education from preschool to postdoc and beyond.

Everything we might achieve—morally, scientifically, technologically, and even economically—is grounded in knowledge.

Where else are you more likely to find a path to knowledge and all that it unlocks for humanity than in education?

Let your gratitude on Commencement Day become your attitude in life. Make it your mission to put more people on trajectories that yield knowledge and understanding—that build capacities for listening and learning—that generate genuine empathy and sympathy. Ensure that the journeys of others look more like your own than less, that more people have the opportunity to take a trip like the one that you have taken. When you look back—many, many years from now—you will be proud that you did, and others will be profoundly grateful for your efforts.

We are proud of you, and we are eager to see all the good that your work will enable in the years to come. May these final 44 hours—give or take some minutes—be filled with opportunities to celebrate how far you have traveled since your arrival. You have done so much. Rest on your laurels but not for too long. The world, with its countless magnificent destinations, awaits you.

Thank you.

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Over the past year or so, I have spent an extraordinary amount of time in conversation with people who are curious about what is going on at Harvard. In these conversations, I have tended to focus on what we are doing—the research and scholarship we are undertaking across the University to deepen understanding, to yield discoveries, and to drive innovation and progress in every field and discipline. Academic excellence continues to resonate with individuals across the country and around the world. Despite the great uncertainty of the present moment, the possibility of knowledge paving the way to a better future has not lost its luster.

Of course, what we are doing is possible because of who we are, and we can never lose sight of that fact. Our community spurs and speeds excellence by embracing difference in its many forms. Derek Bok, who was the University’s president when I was an undergraduate, described diversity as a critical enabler of learning. Exposure to different backgrounds, different perspectives, and different experiences leads to intellectual and personal growth. Here, we encourage the best people to learn alongside one another as they learn from one another. Everyone benefits when all are welcomed, supported, and included.

This is a truth deeply felt. Throughout my career as a physician, an academic, and a leader, I have worked with incredibly talented people whose lives were nothing like my own. I learned from them—and they from me—and the many bonds and bridges that formed among us made our work together richer and stronger than it might have been otherwise.

My hope is that all of us can have that experience—that all of us can grow in expected and unexpected ways thanks to the community we create and sustain together year after year. This gathering is an important part of that effort. Thank you for being here. Thank you for your commitment to our mission and to our community—and for your own efforts to ensure that each person at Harvard can thrive.

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