The Grace of Being Wrong: How an Ancient Saint and a Modern Philosopher Can Guide Us in the Age of AI
An Encounter with Fallibility
Recently, I participated in a summer school course with the contemporary German philosopher Markus Gabriel. A single question posed there has captured my mind ever since: "How is it possible for us to be wrong?"
This was not a question about why we make specific mistakes, but a deeper inquiry into how it is that human beings possess the very capacity to "be wrong" in the first place. As I mulled over this question, I began to realize that we take our ability to err far too much for granted. I started to feel that being wrong is not a defect, but rather a wondrous and essential feature of our existence.
This single question became a thread connecting several ideas that had seemed separate until now. One was the thought of Shinran, a 13th-century Buddhist master who placed human imperfection at the very center of his teaching. The other was one of the most pressing issues of our time: how we should engage with artificial intelligence.
This inquiry led me to the following thought: by bringing Shinran's awareness of human limits into conversation with Markus Gabriel's philosophy of fallibility, we can find a vital clue to guide our relationship with AI. It shows us the watershed that determines whether we use AI as a "mirror" for self-reflection or a "filter" that confines us. The key, it seems, lies in our ability to be aware of our own fallibility—our potential to be wrong.
The Philosopher's Mirror: Why Being Wrong Makes Us Human
To understand the power of Markus Gabriel's question, it helps to first touch upon the foundation of his philosophy, often called "New Realism". At its core is a defense of what he calls "Realism about Subjectivity". This is the idea that our minds, our thoughts, and our subjective experiences are not mere illusions, byproducts of brain chemistry, or a "ghost in the machine." They are a real, irreducible part of reality.
From this foundation, Gabriel offers a unique theory of consciousness, describing our subjective experience as a "temporal confusion of fields of sense". This may sound complex, but we can understand it through a simple, everyday example. As I write this, I am in the "conceptual field" of this blog post. At the same time, the sound of a temple bell in the distance exists in the "auditory field," and the warmth of the teacup in my hand belongs to the "sensory field." My consciousness, my "stream of consciousness," is precisely this state where different realities—these "fields of sense"—are constantly, messily, and very really mixed together.
This leads to his crucial point about error. Because our subjectivity is this essential "confusion"—this blending of different fields—it is structurally fallible. We misunderstand, we misremember, we get things wrong. And for Gabriel, this is not a bug in our mental software; it is its defining feature. "Being wrong," he argues, is the very "hallmark of subjectivity". A god-like being who perceives reality perfectly, who never errs, could not have a human mind. Our fallibility is proof that we are open to a reality that exists outside our own heads.
Here, Gabriel makes a vital distinction: "S [the subject] is fallible, and not her knowledge". This suggests that while we as subjects are always capable of making mistakes, we can still acquire objective, shareable knowledge about the world. In fact, our very fallibility is what makes objective knowledge possible. If we could never be wrong, it would mean our minds were closed, self-contained systems, uncorrectable by external reality. The fact that we can be wrong proves that we are not gods, but finite, open participants engaged with a reality larger than our own perspective. This philosophical move is profoundly humanistic. It carves out a space for the messy, imperfect, and fallible human mind to be a real and essential part of the world, protecting it from being explained away by more totalizing worldviews like scientific reductionism.
The Saint's Path: Shinran's Radical Embrace of the "Foolish Being"
As I listened to Markus Gabriel expound this philosophy of fallibility, I felt a deep resonance with the teachings of Shinran, the founder of the Jōdo Shinshū (Pure Land) school of Buddhism. Separated by eight centuries and half the globe, it seemed a contemporary German philosopher and a medieval Japanese saint were pointing to the same fact of human existence.
Shinran's entire spiritual path was predicated on a radical acceptance of his own fallibility. He famously referred to himself and all of humanity as bonbu, "foolish beings" beset by blind passions (bonnō gusoku no bonbu). For Shinran, this was not a statement of false modesty or self-loathing; it was a clear-eyed and unflinching diagnosis of our fundamental nature. We are, at our core, structurally imperfect beings. We cannot, through our own power (jiriki), achieve true goodness or attain enlightenment, because our every effort, our every thought, is inevitably tainted by the deep-seated impulses of ego and delusion. In short, we are wired to be wrong.
The parallel is striking. Gabriel's "fallible subject" is a philosophical description of the very same reality that Shinran, through deep religious introspection, called bonbu. Both are portraits of a human being defined by its essential limitations. In a public dialogue I hosted at Tsukiji Hongwanji, Markus Gabriel himself noted this interesting convergence, drawing a line from Shinran's self-description as "foolish" to the 15th-century German philosopher Nicholas of Cusa, who wrote of a "Learned Ignorance" (De Docta Ignorantia)—the idea that the highest form of knowledge is to know the limits of one's knowledge.
Yet it is the difference in purpose between these two thinkers that reveals their deeper, complementary wisdom. For Gabriel, acknowledging our fallibility is primarily an "epistemological" necessity. It is the philosophical ground that secures the very possibility of objective knowledge by ensuring our minds are open to correction by the world. For Shinran, this same acknowledgment is a "soteriological" one—a matter of salvation. It is the essential doorway to liberation. In Shinran's thought, it is only when we fully and radically realize our own powerlessness, our inescapable fallibility as bonbu, that we can let go of the striving ego. It is at this point of surrender that we become open to a power beyond the self—the working of Amida Buddha's infinite compassion, which accepts us just as we are, in all our foolishness.
What the convergence of Gabriel and Shinran reveals, then, is that the deepest acceptance of human limitation is the very condition that makes grace possible. For Gabriel, our fallibility is the crack through which the light of objective truth shines in. For Shinran, it is the crack through which the light of unconditional compassion shines in. Gabriel's philosophy provides us with a powerful, modern language for grasping the existential truth of Shinran's ancient teaching. It shows us that being wrong is not a curse to be overcome, but a state of grace that makes both wisdom and salvation possible.
The Double-Edged Sword of Being Human: Gabriel's "Mindedness" and Shinran's "Humanness"
This resonance between Markus Gabriel and Shinran invites a further, crucial question. If both thinkers identify this fundamental fallibility, what does this say about the nature of being human itself? Here, let’s look at another concept proposed by Markus Gabriel: "Human mindedness."
This is not simply the "mind" as a thinking machine. As Markus Gabriel equates it with the German word Geist, it refers to the active, dynamic capacity "to lead a life in light of a conception of oneself." It is the power to ask "Who am I?" and to shape our existence around the answer. This capacity for self-determination can be said to be neutral in itself. Yet, its realization can lead to the highest forms of creativity and compassion, or to the most devastating ideologies and conflicts.
This concept makes me feel an overlap with my own creative effort in translation: the effort to express the essence of bonbu-shō, the term Shinran used for our fundamental nature, as "Humanness."
In Shinran's thought, we are all bonbu (凡夫)—ordinary, foolish beings, hopelessly entangled in our blind passions (bonnō, 煩悩). This condition, which I call "Humanness," can be said to be our fundamental state. Like Markus Gabriel's "mindedness," this "Humanness" might also be ambivalent in its expression. Driven by a self-centered nature, it can manifest as kindness and empathy (sometimes as a form of self-satisfaction), but just as easily as intrusive meddling, dogmatism, and ultimately, the justification for war. It is, perhaps, the raw, contradictory, and inescapable substance of being human.
Placing these two concepts side-by-side opens a fascinating dialogue.
First, as a point of convergence, both "Human mindedness" and "Humanness" describe a neutral human condition whose potential is radically double-edged. Both resist reducing our nature to mere biology, instead locating its core in a non-physical dimension. For Markus Gabriel, it is meaning and self-conception; for Shinran, it is the reality of blind passions and karma (gō, 業).
However, the ultimate directions they point to are opposite, and a fundamental chasm lies between their philosophical projects.
The divergence lies in the role of "self-power" (jiriki, 自力). For Markus Gabriel, "Human mindedness" could be called the very engine of self-power and self-determination. The philosophical task is to understand and properly wield this freedom. For Shinran, on the other hand, to recognize our "Humanness" (bonbu-shō) is to know the complete futility of self-power. Salvation, it is held, is found not by perfecting the self, but by completely entrusting this flawed self to an "Other-Power" (tariki, 他力)—the boundless compassion of Amida Buddha.
If Markus Gabriel’s path is one of realizing the self through rational understanding and ethical freedom, Shinran’s path can be called a path of liberation from the self through absolute trust and faith. This distinction does not diminish their connection. Rather, it enriches it, and perhaps it suggests how two profound, and possibly complementary, paths to wisdom can open up from the same starting point of our shared, fallible human nature. This is a point I would like to consider a little more in the future.
The AI Crossroads: Mirror for Introspection or Echo Chamber for the Self?
This profound understanding of fallibility, drawn from both contemporary philosophy and ancient Buddhism, has direct and urgent implications for how we approach AI. For some time, I have been contemplating the dual potential of AI. I have held the hope that it could become a powerful "mirror" for humanity, helping us to increase our self-awareness. But I have also held the fear that for many, it will become a sophisticated personal "echo chamber," a comfortable prison that locks us ever more deeply inside our own perspectives.
The "echo chamber" effect is a well-known phenomenon of our digital age. AI-driven algorithms, designed to maximize engagement, learn our preferences from our online behavior and serve us content that aligns with our existing views. This creates a personalized information ecosystem where our own beliefs are constantly reflected back at us. As a result, our biases are reinforced, and we become insulated from challenging or opposing viewpoints.
My insight, seen through the lens of Gabriel and Shinran, is this: which path we take—whether AI becomes a mirror or an echo chamber—is not determined by the technology itself. It is determined by whether the user is aware of their own fallibility.
The Path of the Echo Chamber: If we approach AI with an unconscious trust in our own rightness—unaware of our inherent fallibility—we will use it for confirmation. Our prompts will be crafted to justify our existing opinions. The AI, designed to align with our intent, will dutifully search for and generate information that reinforces our perspective. We will have used the most powerful information tool ever created to build a high-tech echo chamber for one, becoming ever more certain of our own limited view. This is a state of over-reliance on AI's alignment capabilities.
The Path of the Mirror: If, however, we approach AI with humility—with the bonbu's awareness that "I might be wrong"—we can transform it into a powerful instrument for self-reflection. We can consciously use it to challenge our own assumptions. We can pose prompts like, "What is the strongest counterargument to my position?" or "Explain this issue from the perspective of someone from a completely different culture." In this mode, we intentionally work against the AI's default tendency to simply align with our initial bias. We use it not to confirm what we know, but to illuminate what we don't. The AI becomes a mirror that shows us the boundaries of our own perspective, allowing us to see ourselves from the outside.
The common discourse on AI ethics rightly focuses on issues like data bias and the need to regulate algorithms. But the perspective of fallibility reveals a deeper truth: the most important algorithm to regulate is the one inside the user's own mind. The feedback loop of the filter bubble is initiated and sustained by our own cognitive "algorithms"—our deep-seated tendencies toward confirmation bias and perspective fixation. The ultimate point of intervention, therefore, is not purely technological, but human, educational, and spiritual. Perhaps the most critical "AI alignment" problem is not aligning AI with abstract human values, but rather aligning the human user with the concrete reality of their own fallibility.
Human Literacy: A Foundational Skill for a New Age
This leads to a skill I call Human Literacy, a foundational competence for our time. Based on the journey we have taken, Human Literacy can be defined as the cultivated, practical awareness of our own inherent fallibility. It is the capacity that allows us to engage with powerful technologies like AI not as passive consumers caught in algorithmic currents, but as wise and self-aware subjects.
Human Literacy is the practice of holding one's own perspective lightly. It is the courage to actively seek out disconfirming evidence and to view disagreement not as a personal threat, but as a precious opportunity for learning and correction. This literacy is not about accumulating more information; it is about fundamentally changing our relationship to the knowledge we have. It is the humility to accept that our own mental ledger of beliefs, as Gabriel's philosophy suggests, can never be perfectly and finally balanced. It is the core skill that determines whether AI becomes our mirror or our cage.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Times: The Communal Reflection of Uposatha
This very modern-sounding concern with acknowledging fallibility is, in fact, rooted in one of the oldest practices in Buddhism. The Uposatha ceremony has been performed since the time of the Buddha. Traditionally, it is a gathering of the monastic community on the new and full moon days. During the ceremony, the code of conduct (the pātimokkha) is recited, and monks are given the opportunity to publicly confess any transgressions they have committed.
This ritual should not be seen as a mere punitive measure. It is a profound "social technology" designed to cultivate a shared awareness of fallibility. The Buddha taught that the Uposatha day was for "the cleansing of the defiled mind." In this sacred, communal space, imperfection is not a source of shame to be hidden, but a reality to be brought into the light, acknowledged, and held by the community. It is a structured, relational practice for recognizing that we are all, in Shinran's words, bonbu.
This ancient practice stands in stark contrast to the isolating nature of the modern AI echo chamber. It personalizes and reinforces our biases, making us more certain and more alone in our rightness. Uposatha, on the other hand, socializes and corrects our fallibility. It reminds us that we are not alone in our imperfections and provides a relational context to gently loosen the bonds of ego. This practice shows that the need for what I call Human Literacy is not a new problem, but a timeless human concern.
A Continuing Journey
Markus Gabriel's lecture became a starting point for me, a point of many new connections. It was a surprising link between the focus on "fallibility" in contemporary philosophy and the teachings of the "foolish being" that Shinran preached. I feel this connection offers an important guide for us living with AI. It is the importance of humbly accepting that we are "beings who can be wrong."
This line of thought is still a work in progress for me. This idea of fallibility, of being "able to be wrong," feels like it offers a new angle from which to approach Shinran's thought and gives great hints for how to live in the era to come. So, while what I have written in this article is my thinking in its current, developing state, I would be happy if you, the reader, would join me in this reflection and offer your feedback.
Perhaps a final lesson lies in another metaphor Markus Gabriel is fond of using: the concept of the "Groundless" (Ungrund) from the German philosopher Schelling23. In this view, reality has no ultimate, final foundation. We can ask why a cherry blossom blooms, but there is no final reason. It simply is, in all its beauty. Perhaps our existence is like that, too. We are fallible, finite, and groundless. Yet it is in that very openness, in that grace of being wrong, that we might find the freedom to learn, to change, and to connect with a reality far larger than ourselves.