Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove
October 07, 2006

There is a story told of a scientific – archeological conference. A representative from each country was given the opportunity to share findings from recent excavations. The American archeologist stood up and declared that they had dug 500 feet beneath the earth’s surface to find traces of copper wire which he claimed, proved that our founding fathers already had phone technology in place. The British archeologist approached the podium and announced that they had dug 500 meters beneath Westminster Abbey, to discover remnants of fiber optic cable, which demonstrated clear evidence that the great kings and queens of England already had broadband cable. The Israeli archeologist approached the lectern to announce that they had dug 5000 meters beneath the site of the Temple in Jerusalem, and had found… absolutely nothing. This proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that our matriarchs and patriarchs were already using cell phone technology.
Sometimes it is hard to declare ignorance. Our world does not look kindly on pronouncements of uncertainty. To admit doubt, to confess ignorance is seen as a weakness. We are a society that is committed not only to the search for truth, the whole truth, but is unforgiving when it comes to admitting lack of knowledge. To say, “I don’t know,” is to fall short somehow, to admit defeat.
So it may surprise you to know that according to our tradition, admitting ignorance, strange as it sounds, is considered a virtue. In the first few pages of the Babylonian Talmud (Brachot 4a), we are taught “Teach thy tongue to say “I do not know” lest thou be led to falsehoods and be caught out.”

For the Rabbis of our tradition, to declare that one does not have an answer, to admit that certainty eludes you is not only desirable and a sign of integrity, but a prerequisite to being a good teacher. No where does one see this principle exemplified more than by the greatest of all medieval commentators, Rashi, who wrote a comprehensive commentary on the Bible and the Talmud. A later exegete R.Akiba Eger (1761-1837) the author of the Gilyon Hashash, gives a list of almost forty places in Rashi’s comprehensive commentary to the Talmud where Rashi confesses ignorance on what the meaning of a phrase or expression may be. Rashi, who had an uncanny knack of anticipating students’ questions, on many occasions would simply concede a real difficulty which obliges him to leave an issue unsolved. Rashi, knew what all good educators know – that to say “I don’t know” is not just a rhetorical tool of a teacher, but an important statement of the limits of human knowledge.

I will always remember one of my teachers in Rabbinical school Eliezer Slomovic, a landsman of Elie Wiesel, who grew up in the bosom of the Eastern European Yeshiva world. As students we joked that in his later years Professor Slomovic had forgotten more than most of us would ever know in our lifetime. One day he noticed that we sat befuddled by a Talmudic problem and our difficulty was aggravated as it became clear that the matter was, to him, rather basic. He stopped the class and looked at us, saying, “If you were to take what I know and what you know and compare them, indeed I know more, but if you were to take what I don’t know and what you don’t know, well then, there really isn’t much difference at all now is there? Professor Slomovic knew everything, and like Rashi, he was not afraid to say what he didn’t know.

Today, we begin the festival of Sukkoth. It is a festival which directs our attention to the temporary and tentative nature of our physical surroundings. We take ourselves outside into the elements as a reminder that we dare not grow too attached, to too fixed. Like the Exodus generation, we always retain some of the gritty wilderness experience, pitching tents, putting them up, taking them down and marching to a new location.

To translate the message of Sukkoth into spiritual language, its message is clear enough. The refreshing meaning of Sukkoth is to allow for the possibility that our faith, our beliefs, may be slightly more tentative than we would otherwise care to admit. The Zohar develops the idea of Sukkah as tzila d'mehemnuta, the canopy of faith. Our faith, is not a structure so sturdy that it doesn’t shake a little. The schach on top never completely covers the roof, there is always an interplay of light and shade, shadows of doubt. On Sukkoth we joyfully welcome in a spirit of doubt into the religious equation. We allow for the possibility that our beliefs, while sacred, may wander a bit.

The feeling of Sukkot stands in sharp contrast to the High Holidays, with its daunting images of the Book of Life, the clanging of the gates of Neilah, Abraham’s unshakeable faith on Mount Moriah. Just consider the book Kohellet, Ecclesiastes, which we will read later this week.
To everything there is a season, a time for being born and a time to die, a time for planting and a time for uprooting

Kohellet tells of our ongoing search for wisdom. Each and every chapter proposes a new suggestion for a life well lived, a search for wealth, then wisdom, then power and each chapter dismissing the previous proposal as futility and vanity. The glaring inconsistencies from chapter to chapter have prompted some to suggest that it is a composite work. The great Biblicist of the Seminary Robert Gordis, argued that it is the very inconsistency which is the very point of the book. Kohellet is itself an exercise demonstrating the elusive nature of truth, it is always tentative. Kohellet is an exercise which teaches us how to, in Bertrand Russsel’s words, “to live without certainty.” We find an answer, we hold onto it for a bit, it falls short, we throw up our hands, and we move on. Kohellet, Sukkot remind us that in spite of the absolutes spoken on the high holidays, to doubt, to say “I don’t know” is not only allowable, but refreshing.

In the spirit of Sukkoth, I want to suggest this morning, that a confession of ignorance may ironically be one of the most powerful and necessary elements we have in our religious repertoire. The biblicist Jon Levenson once explained that embedded in the word “religion,” are the letters “lig” the same root as “ligament,” meaning the act of connecting one thing to another. But, in the case of religion, what we would do well to remember, what far too many people have forgotten, is that the thing which religion connects is our experience here on earth and that which we don’t know – the goings on in heaven. I don’t want to go over all the dangers which fundamentalism have wrought on our world. Suffice to say that we need to encourage a spirit that insists that every conversation, especially every religious one, is imbued with a dose of doubt. Just think about the effect it would have on a world intoxicated on its own certainty. If doubt does anything, it affirms that one is not God and, therefore, may be mistaken.

I can think of no example more instructive than that of the arguments of Hillel and Shammai, the two finest Mishnaic scholars of their day. The rabbis went on to say that when there was matter of dispute in Halakha, both the opinion of Hillel and Shammai were of equal merit. And yet, the rabbis went on to explain that ultimately it was Hillels’ arguments which would become codified as law. And why, if both these and those are words of God should Hillel always have carried the day? It wasn’t due to the substance, rather it was due to style. The Talmud explains that Hillel would always state his opinion by first stating the opposing view, the view of Shammai, and only then stating his opinion. The strength of an opinion, strange as it sounds, is founded on the concession that the bearer of that opinion has considered other views, thus allowing that he or she could be wrong. To say that you have your doubts doesn’t mean that you don’t hold ideas sacred, it doesn’t mean that you can’t tell right from wrong. To admit to doubt signals that you have considered the range of opinion, you acknowledge that you can see alternatives, and that your conclusion is neither flip nor easily come by.

But there is more to it. To admit doubt is more than just a polite tactic when engaged in debate. The irony of doubt is, that doubt is actually the best strategy to bolster your own beliefs. I will always remember my first year of rabbinical school, the dean, Rabbi Elliot Dorff, required all of us to go to an interfaith seminarians weekend. He explained that as future Jewish leaders, in order to be able to express our own faith, you need to understand the claims of other people of faith or, as Arthur Hertzberg wrote “One cannot affirm one’s own certainties without understanding the counter –certainties of others.” And long before Dorff and Hertzberg it was Socrates who argued that an unexamined life is not worth living. Socrates meant that it was incumbent upon every person, within reason, to hold a creative doubt about one’s fundamental value beliefs. As long as there has been a Judaism, Jews have argued over “what” a Jew must believe, and the answer to that question remains elusive. But I do think that there is an answer to the question of “how” a Jew should believe, and part of that answer is that you are morally justified in holding a belief only to the extent that it can be justified after critical assessment.

Somewhere along the way, we have lost the ability to be a partisan critic. We have woken up to believe that to be critical is somehow antithetical to being supportive. One can and should have doubts about just about anything, but that doesn’t mean your love and affection are any less fierce. Whether you are talking about America, Israel, God or yourself, to ask critical questions at decisive junctures is not just possible, not just a virtue, but an obligation. Beliefs need to be challenged continually if they are to remain alive and vigorous. Doubt is the act of turning over the top layer of dirt to yield the fertile under soil of faith. A belief which isn’t tested runs the risk of being an idol - cold, lifeless and rote. Faith is only a living faith when it has been tested, challenged and made vital.

There is a story told of R. Eisel Shapiro of Slonim, a renowned nineteenth century Lithuanian Rabbi. Reb Eisel, went on a visit to Volozyhyn and set a halakhic problem to the students of the great Yeshiva. He declared that whoever solved it would be worthy enough to be become his son-in-law. Reb Eisel stayed in the city as the most brilliant students came to his door with proposed solutions, but were dismissed one by one. Eventually, it seemed, the students gave up and Reb Eisel, packed up and mounted his carriage to be on his way. Just as he was leaving the city gates, a student came running up and called on the carriage to stop. “Ah,” said Reb Eisel, “you found the correct answer?” “No,” replied the student, “I have no idea, but please, Rebbe, before you leave, I beg you, tell me the solution.” At which point Reb Eisel smiled and replied, “You are the one.”

As we celebrate Sukkoth, as we begin the new year, I can think of no greater blessing that to encourage all of us, to live in the shadowy canopy of faith. Anshe Emet, by its very name, is a community which sets truth at the forefront of who it is. But we would do well to remember, both individually and as a community, that truth is not a destination, but an ongoing quest. Our quest for truth is no less pressing by holding our own claims out for consideration. And whatever the issue is, no matter how contentious, no matter how subtle the particulars may be, we will be a stronger community for having conducted the conversation in such a way. Strange as it may sound, the message of Sukkoth is that the most important thing for a religious community of faith is to be filled with doubt, the ability to say “I don’t know”. Of course…I could be wrong and I suppose that is the whole point.