I May be Wrong

Before his death, the Swedish Buddhist monk and broadcaster Björn Natthiko Lindeblad left us a remarkable book. Its title, I May Be Wrong, was more than the name of a book—it was the conclusion of his life's journey.

At the age of twenty-six, Björn walked away from a successful career, gave away all his possessions to the poor, and entered a remote bamboo forest monastery in Cambodia. There he devoted himself entirely to the life of contemplation for fourteen years.

When his years of training were over, a newspaper reporter asked him,

"What did you learn during those fourteen years?"

With a gentle smile, the monk replied,

"I learned that I could be wrong."

That answer struck me with such freshness and power that I later shared the story with a younger colleague from my university days. When I explained that fourteen years of rigorous spiritual discipline had led him to the simple realization that he could be wrong, my friend chuckled and said,

"Was that really worth fourteen years? I learned that back when I graduated from high school."

His response left me speechless.

It also forced me to ask myself a deeper question:

What is the difference between something learned by the mind and something learned by the heart?

What separates the person who understands this truth intellectually from the one who spends fourteen years stripping away the ego until it becomes part of his very being?

Both men uttered the same sentence, but the weight of those words could not have been more different. For one, it was information. For the other, it had become a way of being.

Most of us already know, at least intellectually, that human beings are imperfect. We know we make mistakes. We know our opinions can be wrong.

But what happens in everyday life?

How often, with a close friend, a coworker, or even a spouse, do we interrupt before the other person has finished speaking, dismissing their thoughts with, "No, that's not right"?

Whenever we encounter someone who thinks differently, our quiet awareness that I could be wrong often disappears. Knowing something is very different from laying down our pride and stubbornness and allowing that truth to shape the way we live.

Perhaps those fourteen years were not spent acquiring new knowledge at all. Perhaps they were spent allowing one simple truth to travel from the head to the heart—and finally into every cell of his being. It was a long journey of self-emptying.

When I was young, I embraced faith and believed I had finally found answers to life's deepest questions. My heart was filled with peace, and the world seemed new. I loved Jesus. My parents were proud of the changes they saw in me. The young man who once complained about everything gradually became someone who wanted to serve others and live in obedience.

But growing in faith did not mean that I was always right.

In fact, the moment we become convinced that we are standing on God's side, we may unknowingly begin to mistake our own judgments for God's will. From that moment, it becomes easier to judge others than to understand them.

I was no exception.

For many years I lived without knowing how to say, "I could be wrong." Having faith did not automatically make me a righteous person.

Jesus never taught His followers to exalt themselves. Instead, He taught us to empty ourselves and to love others. The Christian life is not about accumulating more knowledge. It is about slowly letting go of the quiet assumption that "I am already right." Perhaps truth comes to us more through emptying than through accumulating.

Imagine what our world might become if everyone carried just one sentence deep within the heart:

"I could be wrong."

Whenever conflict arises, whenever anger begins to swell, whenever we feel compelled to prove ourselves right, we might pause for just a moment and whisper inwardly,

"Wait... I could be wrong."

If those words truly became part of us, arrogance would give way to humility, anger to understanding, and conflict to genuine conversation. Surely the world would become a kinder and more gracious place. Perhaps that is what it truly means to be civilized.

Tonight I want to stand before the mirror and quietly ask myself:

Do I merely know that I could be wrong?

Or am I actually living that way?

From this day forward, I hope to carry that sentence deep within my heart. Even in those moments when I am convinced—one hundred or even one thousand times over—that I am right, I want to leave one small door quietly open.

For beyond that little door, there may be a beautiful truth I have not yet seen.

Written at the foot of Hallasan Mountain, Jeju Island