We can be wrong
Men can be irrational creatures, to say the least. One of the more bizarre evidences of weird life on planet male is our deep reluctance to believe what the petrol gauge on our car is desperately trying to tell us. Despite the ominous sight of the white needle hovering just above the ‘E’, the yellow flashing light in the shape of a petrol can, and (in the case of some higher end European luxury cars) the terrifying voice of a German woman booming words like Achtung through our car stereo and barking that we are getting low on fuel, somehow we take this as a personal challenge and do everything we can to get home without taking the two or three minutes needed to do the obvious – and fill up with fuel. So it was for me during a family holiday with friends. We were in the West Country, and we were about to venture onto Dartmoor. Despite the fact that we were moving into foggy, treacherous territory where the Hound of the Baskervilles roams free, I decided to ignore the fact that we had only had a quarter of a tank left.
But that was but my first mistake of the day – there would be a trinity of errors. The second lash-up came, when, unsure about our route once we were actually on the moor, I took a turning that I felt convinced was right (because I have an intuitive sense of direction, not), and one that took us down what felt like a waterlogged pot-holed farm track, which was probably because it was a waterlogged pot-holed farm track. We then found ourselves in an area which sported lots of red flags that fluttered bravely along the roadside. We marvelled that it was lovely that the locals got together for frequent fetes and carnivals, and then realised that we were slap bang in the middle of an army firing range. My confidence that we were on the correct road had led us into a place where we could easily end up in the sights of a goggle wearing military man in a tank; a chap with a lifelong ambition to fire an armour piercing shell at a moving target. Like us.
And so now, we were lost on the moors, with the petrol gauge on E, praying that the Lord would miraculously provide us with a large petrol station (and preferably one that served cappuccinos) and stranded in the middle of a potential war zone. But there was yet more to come.
We finally made our way back to civilisation (and filled up with petrol), and then noticed a house for sale. We stopped and eagerly jumped out of the car, and wandered up to the For Sale sign, which also contained some leaflets that showed the price. Thinking of myself now as an expert in the UK housing market, I turned to my friend and made a solemn declaration of absolute certainty. ‘Mark my words, this house will never, ever sell. It’s just priced way above the market. These sellers are crazy’.
At that exact moment, a car drew up that had an estate agents sticker on the driver’s door. A suited man hopped out and walked swiftly over to the ‘For Sale’ sign, and tacked a huge ‘Sold’ board over it as I looked on haplessly.
It was then that I realised once again a truth that is unpalatable to most of us, and quite unthinkable to some: and that is, that we can be wrong.
Perhaps we get used to the feeling that we are in the right. The fact that we hold a Bible in our hands, which we rightly insist is the inspired word of God, gives us a sense of consistently being in the know. And then we
rush to the conclusion that our choice of music, our understanding of the bible, our brand of church, and our entire worldview on life – that in all of these areas we are basically in the right, most, if not all of the time. And while we stubbornly insist on being experts, our churches implode, our marriages erode, and others around us take a vow of silence rather than take us on.
Take notice of the fuel gauge. Read the map. Don’t jump to swift conclusions about property prices. In short, know this, and it might just prevent you from getting shelled by a British army tank: you could be wrong.