There we were, souls and bodies packed into a Texas church on the last night of our lives. Packed into a room just like this, but with creaky wooden pews draped in worn-down red fabric, with an organ to my left and a choir at my back and a baptism pool built into the wall behind them. A room like this, nonetheless. With the same great feelings of suspense, the same deep hopes for salvation, the same sweat in the palms and the same people in the back not paying attention.
Pale tulikuwepo, nafsi na miili imejaa kwenya kanisa la Texas usiku wa mwisho wa maisha yetu. Tumejaa kwenye chumba kama tu hiki, Ila kina viti vya mbao vitoavyo sauti vilivyo- pambwa na kitambaa chekundu kilichochoka na kinanda kushoto kwangu na kwaya nyuma yangu na dimbwi la ubatizo lililojengewa ukutani nyuma yao. Chumba kama hiki, hata hivyo. Na hisia ile ile nzuri ya kusisimua, matumaini ya kina yale yale ya wokovu, jasho lile lile mikononi na watu wale wale kwa nyuma ambao hawasikilizi.
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
This was December 31, 1999, the night of the Second Coming of Christ, and the end of the world as I knew it. I had turned 12 that year and had reached the age of accountability. And once I stopped complaining about how unfair it was that Jesus would return as soon as I had to be accountable for all that I had done, I figured I had better get my house in order very quickly.
Hii ilikua Desemba 31, 1999, usiku wa Ujio wa Pili wa Kristo, na mwisho wa dunia kama nilivyoujua. Nilikua na miaka 12 huo mwaka na nilifika umri wa uwajibikaji. Na mara nilipoacha kulalamika kuhusu jinsi isivyo haki kua Yesu angerudi mara tu nilivyokua ninawajibika kwa yote niliyofanya, nikagundua ni bora niweke nyumba yangu sawa haraka.
So I went to church as often as I could. I listened for silence as anxiously as one might listen for noise, trying to be sure that the Lord hadn't pulled a fast one on me and decided to come back early.
Hivyo nikaenda kanisani kadri niwezavyo. Nilisikilizia ukimya kwa wasiwasi kama mtu angesikilizia kelele, kujaribu kua na uhakika kua Bwana hajanivutia ya haraka na kuamua kurudi mapema.
And just in case he did, I built a backup plan, by reading the "Left Behind" books that were all the rage at the time. And I found in their pages that if I was not taken in the rapture at midnight, I had another shot. All I had to do was avoid taking the mark of the beast, fight off demons, plagues and the Antichrist himself. It would be hard --
kama tu akifanya hivyo, nilitengeneza mpango wa ziada, kwa kusoma vitabu vya "Kuachwa Nyuma" ambavyo vilivuma mda huo. Na kupata kwenye kurasa zao kua kama sikuchukuliwa kwa mnyakuo kati kati ya usiku, Nilikua nina bahati nyingine. Nilichotakiwa kufanya ni kuepuka kuchukua alama ya mnyama, kupigana na mapepo, mapigo na mpinga Kristo mwenyewe. Ingekua ngumu --
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
but I knew I could do it.
lakini nilijua ningeweza.
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
But planning time was over now. It was 11:50pm. We had 10 minutes left, and my pastor called us out of the pews and down to the altar because he wanted to be praying when midnight struck. So every faction of the congregation took its place. The choir stayed in the choir stand, the deacons and their wives -- or the Baptist Bourgeoisie as I like to call them --
Lakini mda wa kupanga uliisha sasa. Ilikua saa 11:50 usiku. Tulibakiwa na dakika 10, na mchungaji akatuita tutoke kwenye viti tuelekee madhabahuni kwa sababu alitaka awe anasali saa sita ikigonga. Hivyo kila sehemu ya usharika ilichukua nafasi yake. kwaya ilibaki kwenye nafasi yake, mashemasi na wake zao -- au Wabaptisti Wabepari kama ninavyopenda kuwaita --
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
took first position in front of the altar. You see, in America, even the Second Coming of Christ has a VIP section.
walichukua nafasi ya kwanza mbele ya madhabahu. Unaona, Marekani, hata Ujio wa Pili wa Kristo kuna sehemu ya VIP.
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
(Applause)
(Makofi)
And right behind the Baptist Bourgeoisie were the elderly -- these men and women whose young backs had been bent under hot suns in the cotton fields of East Texas, and whose skin seemed to be burnt a creaseless noble brown, just like the clay of East Texas, and whose hopes and dreams for what life might become outside of East Texas had sometimes been bent and broken even further than their backs.
Na nyuma tu ya Wabaptisti Wabepari walikua wazee -- hawa wanaume na wanawake ambao migongo yao ya ujana iliinamia jua kali kwenye mashamba ya pamba Texas Mashariki, na ngozi zao zilionekana zimeungua kama ukahawia mgumu unaofaa kama tu udongo wa Texas Mashariki, na ambao ndoto zao na matumaini ya maisha yangekuwaje nje ya Texas Mashariki ambazo zimekiukwa na kuvunjika tena zaidi hata ya migongo yao.
Yes, these men and women were the stars of the show for me. They had waited their whole lives for this moment, just as their medieval predecessors had longed for the end of the world, and just as my grandmother waited for the Oprah Winfrey Show to come on Channel 8 every day at 4 o'clock. And as she made her way to the altar, I snuck right in behind her, because I knew for sure that my grandmother was going to heaven. And I thought that if I held on to her hand during this prayer, I might go right on with her.
Ndio, na hawa wanaume na wanawake walikua nyota wa onyesho kwangu. Ilibidi wasubirie maisha yao yote kwa huu wakati. kama tu waliowatangulia mapema walivyotamani mwisho wa dunia, na kama tu bibi yangu alivyongoja kipindi cha Oprah Winfrey kuanza kwenye Chaneli 8 kila siku saa 4 kamili. Na alivyokua akielekea madhabahuni, nilinyata nyuma yake, kwa sababu nilijua kabisa kua bibi yangu alikua anaenda mbinguni. Na nikawaza kama nikimshikilia wakati wa maombi, ninaweza kwenda nae pia.
So I held on and I closed my eyes to listen, to wait. And the prayers got louder. And the shouts of response to the call of the prayer went up higher even still. And the organ rolled on in to add the dirge. And the heat came on to add to the sweat. And my hand gripped firmer, so I wouldn't be the one left in the field. My eyes clenched tighter so I wouldn't see the wheat being separated from the chaff. And then a voice rang out above us: "Amen."
Hivyo nikashikilia na nikafunga macho kusikiliza, kusubiri. Na maombi yakawa na kelele. Na kelele za kujibu wito wa maombi yakaenda juu zaidi. Na kinanda kikaunga kuongezea wimbo. Na joto likaja juu kuongezea kwenye jasho. Na nikakaza mkono zaidi, ili nisiwe wakuachwa kwenye shamba. Macho yakabana zaidi ili nisione ngano ikitengwa na makapi. Na sauti ikaita kutoka juu yetu: "Amina."
It was over. I looked at the clock. It was after midnight. I looked at the elder believers whose savior had not come, who were too proud to show any signs of disappointment, who had believed too much and for too long to start doubting now. But I was upset on their behalf. They had been duped, hoodwinked, bamboozled, and I had gone right along with them. I had prayed their prayers, I had yielded not to temptation as best I could. I had dipped my head not once, but twice in that snot-inducing baptism pool. I had believed. Now what?
Ilikua imeisha. Nikaangalia saa. Ilikua imepita saa sita. Nikaangalia waumini wazee ambao mwokozi wao hakuja, waliokua na majivuno sana kuonyesha ishara zozote za kusikitika, ambao waliamini mengi na kwa mda mrefu kuanza kua na mashaka sasa. Lakini nilisikitika kwa niaba yao. Walikua wamedanganywa, wamedhulumiwa, wamepumbazwa, na nilienda kabisa pembeni yao. Nilisali sala zao, nilisalimika dhidi ya vishawishi kadri ninavyoweza. Nilizamisha kichwa sio mara moja, ila mara mbili kwenye dimbwi la ubatizo lililojaa kamasi. Niliamini. Sasa nini?
I got home just in time to turn on the television and watch Peter Jennings announce the new millennium as it rolled in around the world. It struck me that it would have been strange anyway, for Jesus to come back again and again based on the different time zones.
Nilifika nyumbani kwa mda kuwasha televisheni na kumwona Peter Jennings akitangaza milenia mpya ilivyoingia duniani kote. Ikanijia kua ingekua ajabu hata hivyo, kwa Yesu kurudi tena na tena kulingana na kutofautiana mda.
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
And this made me feel even more ridiculous -- hurt, really. But there on that night, I did not stop believing. I just believed a new thing: that it was possible not to believe. It was possible the answers I had were wrong, that the questions themselves were wrong. And now, where there was once a mountain of certitude, there was, running right down to its foundation, a spring of doubt, a spring that promised rivers.
Na hii ilinifanya nijihisi mjinga zaidi -- kuumia, kweli. Lakini hapo huo usiku, sikuacha kuamini. Niliamini tu kitu kipya: kua inawezekana kutokuamini. Inawezekana majibu niliokua nayo hayakua sawa, kua maswali yenyewe yalikua yamekosewa. Na sasa, palipokua mwanzoni na mlima wa uhakika, palikua, ukishuka chini ya chemchemi yake, bubujiko la mashaka, bubujiko lililoahidi mito.
I can trace the whole drama of my life back to that night in that church when my savior did not come for me; when the thing I believed most certainly turned out to be, if not a lie, then not quite the truth. And even though most of you prepared for Y2K in a very different way, I'm convinced that you are here because some part of you has done the same thing that I have done since the dawn of this new century, since my mother left and my father stayed away and my Lord refused to come. And I held out my hand, reaching for something to believe in.
Ninaweza kufuatilia mchezo mzima wa maisha yangu mpaka usiku ule kwenye lile kanisa pale mwokozi wangu hakuja kwa ajili yangu; pale kitu nilichoamini kwa hakika kikageuka kua, kama sio uongo, basi sio hasa ukweli. Na hata kama wengi wenu walijiandaa kwa Y2K kwa njia tofauti, ninaamini kua upo hapa kwa sababu kuna sehemu yako imefanya kitu sawa na nilichofanya tangu mwanzoni mwa karne hii, tangu mama yangu aivyoniacha na baba yangu kukaa mbali na Bwana wangu akakataa kuja. Na nikatoa mkono wangu nje, nikitafuta kitu cha kuamini.
I held on when I arrived at Yale at 18, with the faith that my journey from Oak Cliff, Texas was a chance to leave behind all the challenges I had known, the broken dreams and broken bodies I had seen. But when I found myself back home one winter break, with my face planted in the floor, my hands tied behind my back and a burglar's gun pressed to my head, I knew that even the best education couldn't save me.
Niliendelea nilipofika Yale miaka 18, na imani ambayo safari yangu kutoka Oak Cliff, Texas ilikua ni nafasi ya kuacha nyuma changamoto zote nilizojua, ndoto zilizovunjika na miili iliovunjika niliyoona. Lakini nilivyojikuta nimerudi nyumbani pumziko moja la winta, na uso wangu ukiwa umezama sakafuni, mikono yangu imefungwa mgongoni na bunduki ya mwizi ikiwa kichwani kwangu, nilijua hata elimu bora isingeweza kuniokoa.
I held on when I showed up at Lehman Brothers as an intern in 2008.
Niliendelea nilipofika pale Lehman Brothers kama mfanyakazi tarajali 2008.
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
So hopeful --
Na matumaini --
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
that I called home to inform my family that we'd never be poor again.
nikapiga nyumbani kujulisha familia yangu kua hatutakua maskini tena.
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
But as I witnessed this temple of finance come crashing down before my eyes, I knew that even the best job couldn't save me.
Lakini niliposhuhudia hili hekalu la uchumi likianguka chini mbele ya macho yangu, nilijua kua hata kazi bora isingeweza kuniokoa.
I held on when I showed up in Washington DC as a young staffer, who had heard a voice call out from Illinois, saying, "It's been a long time coming, but in this election, change has come to America." But as the Congress ground to a halt and the country ripped at the seams and hope and change began to feel like a cruel joke, I knew that even the political second coming could not save me.
Niliendelea nilipofika Washington DC kama mfanyakazi mdogo, ambae alisikia sauti ikiita kutoka Illinois, ikisema, "Imekua mda mrefu kuja, lakini kwenye huu uchaguzi, mabadiliko yamekuja Marekani." Lakini kongamano liliposimama na nchi iliponyofolewa kwenye pande matumaini na mabadiliko yalianza kua kama utani, nilijua kua hata ujio wa pili wa kisiasa usingeniokoa.
I had knelt faithfully at the altar of the American Dream, praying to the gods of my time of success, and money, and power. But over and over again, midnight struck, and I opened my eyes to see that all of these gods were dead.
Nilipiga makoti kwa imani madhabahuni mwa ndoto ya Marekani, nikiombea miungu ya wakati wangu wa mafanikio, na fedha, na nguvu. Lakini tena na tena, saa sita iligonga, na nikafungua macho yangu kuona kua miungu yote hio imekufa.
And from that graveyard, I began the search once more, not because I was brave, but because I knew that I would either believe or I would die.
Na kutoka kwenye hayo makaburi, nilianza kutafuta tena upya, sio kwa sababu ya ujasiri, ila ni kwa sababu nilijua kua ningeamua kuamini au ningekufa.
So I took a pilgrimage to yet another mecca, Harvard Business School --
Hivyo nikachukua hija kwenda bado mecca nyingine, Shule ya Biashara Harvard --
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
this time, knowing that I could not simply accept the salvation that it claimed to offer. No, I knew there'd be more work to do.
wakati huu, nikijua kua siwezi kukubali wokovu kirahisi ambayo ilidai kutoa. Hapana, nilijua kutakua na kazi za kufanya zaidi.
The work began in the dark corner of a crowded party, in the late night of an early, miserable Cambridge winter, when three friends and I asked a question that young folks searching for something real have asked for a very long time: "What if we took a road trip?"
Kazi ilianza kwenye kona ya giza katika sherehe iliojaa, kwenye usiku wa manane wa winta ya Cambridge ya mapema inayosumbua, pale marafiki watatu na mimi tuliuliza swali ambalo vijana wanaotafuta kitu cha halisi waliuliza kwa mda mrefu sana: "Inakuaje tukienda safarini?"
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
We didn't know where'd we go or how we'd get there, but we knew we had to do it. Because all our lives we yearned, as Jack Kerouac wrote, to "sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere," and go find out what everybody was doing all over the country. So even though there were other voices who said that the risk was too great and the proof too thin, we went on anyhow.
Hatukujua tungeenda wapi au jinsi tungefika huko, lakini tulijua tulipaswa kufanya hivyo. Kwa sababu maisha yote tumetamani, kama Lack Kerouac alivyoandika, "kutoroka nje usiku na kupotea popote," na kwenda kuona watu wengine wanachofanya nchi nzima. Hata kama kulikua na sauti nyingine zilizosema kua hatari ni kubwa sana, na ushahidi mdogo sana, tulienda hivyo hivyo.
We went on 8,000 miles across America in the summer of 2013, through the cow pastures of Montana, through the desolation of Detroit, through the swamps of New Orleans, where we found and worked with men and women who were building small businesses that made purpose their bottom line. And having been trained at the West Point of capitalism, this struck us as a revolutionary idea.
Tulienda maili 8,000 tukizunguka Marekani kwenye kiangazi cha 2013, kupita malisho ya ng'ombe ya Montana, kupita magofu ya Detroit, kupita mabwawa ya New Orleans, ambapo tulipata na kufanya kazi na wanaume na wanawake waliokua wakijenga biashara ndogo zilizofanya sababu kua kiini chao. Na kuweza kufundishwa kwenye West Point ya ubepari, hii iligonga kama wazo la mapinduzi.
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
And this idea spread, growing into a nonprofit called MBAs Across America, a movement that landed me here on this stage today. It spread because we found a great hunger in our generation for purpose, for meaning. It spread because we found countless entrepreneurs in the nooks and crannies of America who were creating jobs and changing lives and who needed a little help.
Na hili wazo lilisambaa, na kukua kua shirika lisilo na faida liitwalo MBAs Kupitia Marekani, harakati ilionifikisha hapa kwenye hili jukwaa leo. Ilisambaa kwa sababu tulipata njaa kubwa zaidi kwenye kizazi chetu kwa dhumuni, kwa maana. Ilisambaa kwa sababu tulipata wajasiriamali wasiohesabika kwenye nyufa na mapengo ya Marekani ambao walikua wakitengeneza ajira na kubadili maisha na waliohitaji msaada kidogo.
But if I'm being honest, it also spread because I fought to spread it. There was no length to which I would not go to preach this gospel, to get more people to believe that we could bind the wounds of a broken country, one social business at a time. But it was this journey of evangelism that led me to the rather different gospel that I've come to share with you today.
Lakini kama nikiwa muaminifu, ilisambaa pia kwa sababu nilipigana kuisambaza. Hakukua na umbali ambao nisingeenda kuhubiri injili hii, kupata watu zaidi kuamini ili tuweze kufunga majeraha ya nchi iliyovunjika, biashara moja ya kijamii kwa mda. Lakini ilikua hii safari ya uinjilisti ilionipeleka kwenye injili tofauti ambayo nimekuja kuwashirikisha leo.
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.
Ilianza jioni moja, karibia mwaka uliopita kwenye Makumbusho ya Asili ya Historia ya jiji la New York, kwenye sherehe ya wahitimu wa Shule ya Biashara Harvard. Chini ya ukubwa wa mfano wa nyangumi mzima, nilikaa na matitan wa wakati wetu wakisherehekea na wenzao na matendo yao mema. Kiburi kilikua kwenye chumba ambapo thamani halisi na raslimali chini ya utawala zilizidi nusu ya dola trilioni. Tuliangalia juu ya vyote tulivyotengeneza, na ilikua nzuri.
(Laughter)
(Kicheko)
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.
Lakini ilitokea tu kua, siku mbili baadae, Ilibidi nisafiri juu kuelekea Harlem, ambapo nilijikuta nimekaa kwenye shamba la mjini ambalo mwanzoni lilikua eneo la wazi, nikimsikiliza mtu aitwae Tony akiniambia kuhusu watoto waliotokea hapo kila siku. Wote hao waliishi chini ya mstari wa umasikini. Wengi wao walibeba mali zao kwenye mabegi ya mgongoni kuepuka kuzipoteza mahali pa wasio na makazi. Baadhi yao walikuja kwenye mradi wa Tony, uitwao Harlem Grown, kupata mlo pekee waliopata kila siku. Tony aliniambia kua alianzisha Harlem Grown na hela ya pensheni yake, baada ya miaka 20 kama dereva wa teksi. Aliniambia kua hakujipa mshahara, kwa sababu licha ya mafanikio, mradi ulipambana na rasilimali. Aliniambia kua angechukua msaada wowote ambao angeweza. Na nilikua pale kama huo msaada.
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.
Lakini nilipomuacha Tony, nilihisi uchungu na chumvi ya machozi ikijaa kwenye macho yangu. nilihisi uzito wa ufunuo kua ningeweza kukaa kwenye chumba kimoja usiku mmoja, ambapo watu mia kadhaa wenye nusu ya dola trilioni, na chumba kingine, siku mbili baadae, mitaa 50 tu juu ya barabara, ambapo mtu alikua anaenda bila mshahara kumpa mtoto mlo wake pekee wa siku.
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.
Na haikua ukosefu wa hali ulio dhahiri uliyonifanya nitake kulia, haikua wazo la watoto wasio na makazi wenye njaa, haikua hasira juu ya ile asilimia moja au huruma kwa wale 99. Hapana, nilisumbuliwa kwa sababu hatimae niligundua kua nilikua msafisha damu kwa nchi iliyohitaji upandikizo wa figo. Niligundua kua hadithi yangu ilisimama kwa wale wote ambao walitegemea kujinyenyua wenyewe na kamba za buti, hata kama hawakua na buti zozote; ndipo shirika langu liliingia kati kwa misaada yote ya miundo, utaratibu ambayo haikuwahi kwenda Harlem au Appalachia au huko Lower 9th Ward; ambapo sauti yangu ilisimama kwa niaba ya sauti zote hizo zilizoonekana sio za kisomi sana, zisizosafi sana, zisizobebeka sana.
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.
Na aibu ya hilo, hio aibu ilifurika juu yangu kama aibu ya kukaa mbele ya televisheni, kuangalia Peter Jennings akitangaza milenia mpya tena na tena na tena. Nilikua nimedanganywa, nimedhulumiwa, nimepumbazwa. Lakini wakati huu, mkombozi wa uongo alikua mimi.
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.
Unaona, nimepita njia ndefu kutoka madhabahuni usiku niliodhani dunia ingeisha, kwenye dunia ambayo watu wananena kwa lugha na kuona mateso kama kama tendo la lazima la Mungu kuchukua nakala kua ukweli usio na dosari. Ndio, nimetoka mbali sana mpaka nimerudi pale nilipoanzia.
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.
Kwa sababu sio tu kweli kusema kua tunaishi wakati wa kutoamini -- hapana, tunaamini leo kama tu wakati wowote uliokuja kabla Baadhi yetu wangeamini kwenye unabii wa Brene Brown au Tony Robbins. Tunaweza kuamini Biblia ya The New Yorker au ya Harvard Business Review. Tungeamini kwa kina zaidi tunapoabudu hapa hapa kwenye kanisa la TED, lakini tunataka sana kuamini, tunahitaji kuamini. Tunaongea kwa lugha za viongozi wa karismatik wanaoahidi kutatua matatizo yetu yote. Tunaona mateso kama tendo muhimu la ubepari ambao ni mungu wetu, tunachukua nakala za maendeleo ya teknolojia kuwa ukweli usio na dosari. Na ni vigumu kugundua bei ya binadamu tunayolipa tunaposhindwa kuuliza tofali moja, kwa sababu tunahofu litatikisa msingi wetu wote.
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?
Lakini kama unasumbuliwa na vitu visivyo na busara ambavyo tumekuja kukubali, basi inakua mda wa kuuliza maswali. Hivyo sina hapa injili ya uvunjaji au uvumbuzi au hatima ya mara ya tatu. Sina hapa injili ya imani kuwashirikisha leo, kwa kweli. Ninayo na ninatoa injili ya mashaka. Injili ya mashaka haikuombi kua uache kuamini, inaomba kua uamini kitu kipya: ambacho kinawezekana kutokuamini. Inawezekana majibu tuliyonayo yamekosewa. Inawezekana maswali yenyewe yamekosewa. Ndio, injili ya mashaka inamaanisha kua inawezekana kua sisi, kwenye jukwaa hili, kwenye chumba hiki, tumekosea. Kwa sababu inaleta swali, "Kwanini?" Na nguvu zote tulizonazo mikononi mwetu, kwanini watu bado wanateseka vibaya sana?
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.
Haya mashaka yananipeleka mimi kuwashirikisha kua tunaweka shirika letu, MBAs Kupitia Marekani, nje ya biashara. Tumeondoa wafanyakazi wetu na kufunga milango yetu na tutashirikisha muundo wetu bure na yeyote atakaeona nguvu zao kufanya hii kazi bila kungoja ruhusa yetu. Haya mashaka yananilazimisha kukataa jukumu la mkombozi ambao baadhi wameniwekea, kwa sababu mda wetu ni mfupi sana na bahati zetu ni ndefu sana kungojea ujio za pili, wakati ukweli ni kua hakutakua na miujiza hapa.
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."
Na haya mashaka, yananichochea, inanipa matumaini kua pale matatizo yanapotuzidia, pale njia zilizowekwa kwa ajili yetu kuonekana zinatupeleka kwenye kifo chetu, pale waponyaji wetu wasipoleta faraja kwenye majeraha yetu, haitakua imani yetu yenye upofu -- hapana, itakua mashaka yetu nyenyekevu yatakayoangaza mwanga kidogo kwenye giza la maisha yetu na la dunia yetu na kuturuhusu kunyenyua sauti yetu kunong'oneza au kupiga kelele au kusema tu, kawaida sana, "Lazima kuwe na njia nyingine."
Thank you.
Asanteni.
(Applause)
(Makofi)