Designing for Dissent

A Reflection On The Lost Art of Honourable Disagreement.

There is a curious sort of silence that falls over a room when the cost of disagreement grows too expensive. It is not the silence of reverence, nor that of contemplation—it is the silence of fear. Ideas left unspoken, questions swallowed, perspectives hidden behind polite nods and pursed lips. The group moves forward, apparently unified, yet tragically impoverished. For no real thinking has occurred—only the performance of agreement.

This, I fear, is the fate of too many modern gatherings: a subtle tyranny of consensus. And so I submit to you that one of the finest gifts we might give to any community—academic, ecclesial, civic, or familial—is the structuring of space for principled dissent.

Now, dissent need not be dramatic. I do not speak here of mounting barricades or preaching on the proverbial  soapbox, but of the quieter, nobler art of questioning well. To dissent is not to destroy, but to deepen; not to divide, but to discover. It is the friction that sharpens thought and the tension that tests integrity.

In Kingston College, many years ago, as a member of the debate society, I came to  admire the tradition, once upheld in the better debating societies, of appointing a formal opponent—not an enemy, but a necessary provocateur. Their task was not to ridicule, hard for us as teenage boys at the time,  but to challenge, to press the hidden assumptions and bring to light the buried logic. Such institutions understood what we now too often forget: that ideas, like swords, grow dull without resistance.

The great failing of many groups—particularly those that prize harmony—is their conflation of agreement with unity. But genuine unity is not sameness; it is the hard-won fruit of shared purpose amidst difference. A choir, after all, is not a chorus of unison, but a weaving of voices, each distinct, yet in concord.

What then does it mean to design for dissent?

Firstly, it means creating explicit roles and rituals for disagreement. Practice Radical Respect. In planning meetings or councils, make it someone’s task—indeed, honour—to raise the question no one dares ask. Rotate this responsibility, lest it become the burden of the naturally contrarian. In the Benedictine tradition, even the youngest monk was expected to speak before decisions were made—a small gesture of radical respect.

Secondly, it requires building the emotional scaffolding for dissent: cultivating a culture in which disagreement is met not with suspicion but curiosity. When someone says, “I see this differently,” let the room lean in, not back. Train your members—your students, colleagues, elders—to ask, “What do you see that I might be missing?”

It also helps to separate the person from the position. Dissent is too easily misread as disloyalty. But it is often those who care most deeply who speak the hardest truths. We must foster an atmosphere where disagreement is not just permitted but prized, not for its own sake, but for the integrity it demands.

I am reminded of an old friend, a historian who used to say, “If I’m not being disagreed with, I worry I’ve stopped thinking.” He would invite critiques of his theories and interpretations with an almost mischievous delight, and would beam when someone poked a hole in his logic. “Ah! There it is,” he would say. “Now we can begin again.”

This, I think, is the spirit we must recover: a kind of joyful seriousness in our conversations, where dissent is not threat but opportunity.

And so, dear friends, I offer you this challenge—not to be disagreeable, but to be disagreeing, nobly and courageously. In your next gathering, take up the mantle of thoughtful opposition. Question not to dominate, but to deepen. Disagree not to prove your cleverness, but to safeguard your community from complacency.

Invite disagreement into the very architecture of your group life—into your boardrooms, sermons, syllabi, and dinner tables. Make room for the uncomfortable pause, the counterpoint, the awkward “I’m not sure I agree.” For in that small rupture lies the possibility of renewal.

A thinking community is not one that always agrees—it is one that has learned how to disagree well. Let us become, then, such a people. And may our conversations—difficult, dazzling, and deeply human—make us wiser together than we could ever be alone.