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When I first started getting involved in interfaith work in the 1990s, I would go to conferences and criticize. I’d stand up from the floor and shake a fist at the people on the stage. You’re too white, too old, too boring, I’d say. Where are the young people? Where’s the social action? I’d quote Dorothy Day and Swami Vivekananda and Thich Nhat Hanh -- the people who inspired my own involvement in interfaith work. Where was the spirit of vibrancy and risk that they embodied?
I did this, conference after conference, until it became something of a shtick. People knew what to expect from me. And they affirmed me -- said that I was courageous and insightful, that critiques like mine were necessary and welcome.
One of the turning points in my life came when a veteran of one of these interfaith events, hearing me rattle off my by now much-practiced litany (too white, too old, too boring; you need more young people, more diversity, more action) did me the favor of not simply affirming my insightfulness. And instead she said, “Hey, you’re talking about an interfaith youth movement. That’s a really good idea. You should build that.”
Wait a second, I thought to myself. You mean you’re not going to tell me how smart I am for telling other people what they’re doing wrong? You expect me to build something better?
That’s exactly what she expected. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt two emotions: pride and fear. Pride that she thought of me as someone who could turn a vision into action, and fear that I didn’t have the ability to do it.
What does it look like to build a better order rather than offering a more brilliant critique?
We live in a moment that is a veritable Olympics of Critique, and for all kinds of justifiable reasons. But what comes the day after the protest? If your revolution against the current order succeeds, do you have the skills to build a better one?
In the Netflix drama Narcos: Mexico, the organization is running into a slew of challenges. Felix, the founder, is glum. His deputy, Don Neto, helpful enumerates all the problems, ticking them off one by one. Felix yells, “I know all about what’s going wrong -- I need someone to solve the problems.” Don Neto looks surprised that Felix is looking at him. “Listen,” he says, “I’m only the No. 2. My job is to point out the problems, not to figure out how to solve them.”
You want to be Felix, not Don Neto -- the No. 1, not the No. 2. Actually, you don’t want to run a drug operation at all, but ignore the packaging and focus on the message: Whatever it is you do, why not prepare to be the leader rather than the critic?
There’s a stereotype about campuses that they’re principally places that foster critiques. I actually think they are the ideal institutions for developing the vision, knowledge and skill set to be a builder. There’s no other place on earth where ideas become reality faster than for students on college campuses. These are mini civil societies teeming with people waiting to support your desire to launch or expand a cool initiative. And the skills that you develop in building that club -- running meetings, creating a budget, designing programs, recruiting participants, training next year’s leadership team -- these are the skills that will serve you well as a builder wherever you go.
