Every once in a while we all just need to shut up. Be still. And listen.

This week it’s my turn. (But first I’ve got a few things to say.)

There’s been a boat load of emotional and inflamed rhetoric bandied about these past few weeks – among friends and family and complete strangers. I’ve read and heard my fill of over-blown and misinterpreted messages and finger-pointing and name-calling and super-charged accusations of hate, and fear-mongering and ignorance.

And with political races just heating up, I don’t suspect the climate will get any more civil.

We all want to be right. And we all think we’re right. That’s normal. That’s human. Even the saints among us have the same insatiable desire to have everyone agree with them.

St. Augustine used to pray, “O Lord, deliver me from this lust of always vindicating myself.”

That’s become my mantra lately. Because even though I’ve got as good of a chance as anyone of being wrong about anything, I still want to argue my case and talk things out so that everyone understands me. And I often find that I just plain talk too much. And regardless of my rightness (or perceived rightness), sometimes the more I talk the worse things get. Sometimes it’s best to shut up.

I picked up a fascinating book this week titled “Being Wrong” by Kathryn Schulz. Her labor of love has become the study of our wrongness. She calls herself a wrongologist. And she gives a compelling presentation on the topic (here’s the link).

She holds up the mirror so we can see that we all hold fast to some sort of convictions – religious, political, scientific, or perhaps a simple allegiance to a sports team. That’s human nature. Convictions are good; they give us guidelines and purpose, until somebody challenges them. But, Schulz argues, trusting too much in the feeling of being on the correct side of anything can be very dangerous. Once we start thinking that we’re right and everyone else is wrong – look out! And there are thousands of years of anecdotal history to support this premise.

She points out that when people disagree with us, we are prone to immediately assume that they are ignorant or idiots or just plain evil. Otherwise, why would they disagree?

It rarely occurs to us that there might just be a slim chance that we are the ones who are wrong.

I think that if we’re honest about our feelings and look at things even a tad bit logically and compassionately, then we can get to a point where people can disagree with us and that’s OK.

The good news? It’s actually good to be wrong, because that’s how we learn and grow and find creative solutions to big issues.

“Unlike God, we don’t know what’s going on,” Schulz writes. “Like all other animals, we are obsessed trying to figure it out. This obsession is the source and root of our creativity and productivity.”

Another famous St. Augustine quote is: “Fallor ergo sum.” I err therefore I am. In other words, my wrongness is my humanity. It’s not an embarrassing defect or something to overcome. It’s something to embrace and is fundamental to who we are.

So, the fact that we make loads of mistakes is not the issue, it’s our inability to face our humanity and admit when we are wrong that becomes problematic.

My father taught me the importance of owning mistakes and admitting them. He was a hotheaded Irishman who excelled at yelling (often, ironically, because he felt it was too loud in our house full of eight kids). He was a man of convictions and stubbornness, but he always admitted when he was wrong. I have vivid memories of my childhood self, huddled beneath my covers with a tear-stained face after some heated and unfair reprimand from my father. I could hear him trudging meekly up the stairs to my room. I’d feel him sit down next to me and he would say, “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

If only we heard those words more often in our lives, from those we love and from those in whom we place our trust, and, most important, out of our own mouths.

If we did, we’d be less averse to taking risks. We’d start being wrong more often. That’s where creativity lives. That’s where we discover wonder. That’s where meaningful dialogue starts with those we love.

I’m here to tell you that I’m regularly wrong. And I admit that I don’t know much, but one thing I do know is that I might be wrong about all of this. So, I’ll shut up, now.