It began one evening almost a year ago at the Museum of Natural History in New York City, at a gala for alumni of Harvard Business School.

Under a full-size?replica?of a whale, I sat with the titans of our time as they?celebrated?their peers and their good?deeds.

There was?pride?in a room where net worth and?assets?under management?surpassed?half a trillion dollars.

We looked over all that we had made, and it was good.

But it just so happened, two days later, I had to travel up the road to Harlem, where I found myself sitting in an urban farm that had once been a vacant lot, listening to a man named Tony tell me of the kids that showed up there every day.

All of them lived below the poverty line.

Many of them carried all of their belongings in a backpack to avoid losing them in a homeless shelter.

Some of them came to Tony's program, called Harlem Grown, to get the only meal they had each day.

Tony told me that he?started?Harlem Grown with money from his?pension, after 20 years as a cab driver.

He told me that he?didn't?give himself a?salary, because,despite?success, the program?struggled?for resources.

He told me that he would take any help that he could get.

And I was there as that help.

But as I left Tony, I felt the sting and salt of tears welling up in my eyes.

I felt the weight of revelation that I could sit in one room on one night, where a few hundred people had half a trillion dollars,

and another room, two days later, just 50 blocks up the road, where a man was going without a salary to get a child her only meal of the day.

And it wasn't the glaring inequality that made me want to cry, it wasn't the thought of hungry, homeless kids, it wasn't rage toward the one percent or pity toward the 99.

No, I was disturbed because I had finally realized that I was the dialysis for a country that needed a kidney transplant.

I realized that my story stood in for all those who were expected to pick themselves up by their bootstraps, even if they didn't have any boots;?

that my organization stood in for all the structural, systemic help that never went to Harlem or Appalachia or the Lower 9th Ward;?

that my voice stood in for all those voices that seemed too unlearned, too unwashed, too unaccommodated.

And the shame of that, that shame washed over me like the shame of sitting in front of the television, watching Peter Jennings announce the new millennium again and again and again.

I had been duped, hoodwinked, bamboozled.?

But this time, the false savior was me.

You see, I've come a long way from that altar on the night I thought the world would end,?

from a world where people spoke in tongues and saw suffering as a necessary act of God and took a text to be infallible truth.

Yes, I've come so far that I'm right back where I started.

Because it simply is not true to say that we live in an age of disbelief -- no, we believe today just as much as any time that came before.

Some of us may believe in the prophecy of Brené Brown or Tony Robbins.

We may believe in the bible of The New Yorker or the Harvard Business Review.

We may believe most deeply when we worship right here at the church of TED, but we desperately want to believe, we need to believe.

We speak in the tongues of charismatic leaders that promise to solve all our problems.

We?see?suffering?as?a necessary?act?of the capitalism that is our god, we?take?the text of technological progress to be infallible truth.

And we?hardly?realize the human price we pay?when?we fail to question one brick, because we fear it?might?shake our whole foundation.

But if you are disturbed by the unconscionable things that we have come to accept, then it must be questioning time.

So I have not a gospel of disruption or innovation or a triple bottom line.

I do not have a gospel of faith to share with you today, in fact.

I have and I offer a gospel of doubt.

The gospel of doubt does not ask that you stop believing, it asks that you believe a new thing: that it is possible not to believe.

It is possible the answers we have are wrong, it is possible the questions themselves are wrong.

Yes, the gospel of doubt means that it is possible that we, on this stage, in this room, are wrong.?

Because it raises the question, "Why?"

With all the power that we hold in our hands, why are people still suffering so bad?

This doubt leads me to share that we are putting my organization, MBAs Across America, out of business.

We have shed our staff and closed our doors and we will share our model freely with anyone who sees their power to do this work without waiting for our permission.

This doubt compels me to renounce the role of savior that some have placed on me,?

because?our time is too short and our odds are too long to wait for second comings,

when the truth is that there will be no miracles here.

And this doubt, it fuels me, it gives me hope that when our troubles overwhelm us,?

when the paths laid out for us seem to lead to our demise,?

when our healers bring no comfort to our wounds,?

it will not be our blind faith --?

no, it will be our humble doubt that shines a little light into the darkness of our lives and of our world?

and lets us raise our voice to whisper or to shout or to say simply, very simply, "There must be another way."

Thank you.