There’s no shame in admitting what you don’t know. The only shame is pretending you know all the answers. -- Neil deGrasse Tyson
In a rare departure from its typical anti-Semitic, vitriolic drivel, the New York Times recently published a noteworthy interview with Qualcomm CEO Steven Mollenkopf, with the byline, “If You Don’t Know, Just Say So.” Among the wisdom Mollenkopf has garnered as CEO of one of the largest telecommunications companies in the world, is this nugget: “The more senior you get, the less concerned you are with saying, ‘I don’t know the answer here.’ You realize that you’re not supposed to know all the answers. Your job is to surround yourself with people who can help you figure out the answers. You don’t realize that when you’re starting out.”
These days, confessing a lack of knowledge is a rarity. Just look at the United States government in recent weeks. It claimed to have the answers to Ebola; it did not. It claims to have the answers to ISIS; it does not. In fact, the government only seems to disclaim knowledge when it comes to the whereabouts of Internal Revenue Service e-mails or when it tries to distance itself from the politically inexpedient (As in Nancy Pelosi “not knowing” Obamacare architect Jonathan Gruber, who professed the “stupidity” of the American public. But I digress.). This is due, at least in part, to the government’s unprecedented arrogance and hubris, and because it perceives the words “I don’t know” as manifesting weakness.
But the Torah teaches just the opposite.
After giving Yaakov the birthright blessings, Yitzchak sent Yaakov to live with Lavan, “brother of Rivka, the mother of Yaakov and Esav” (Bereishis 28:5). Now, everyone knows that Rivka was “the mother of Yaakov and Esav.” So why repeat it?
That’s a good question. So good, in fact, that even Rashi comments, “I do not know what this teaches us” (Rashi ad loc.). But, as Mark Twain would say, “If you have nothing to say, say nothing.” So why does Rashi go out of his way to declare, “I don’t know”? Why comment at all?
Offering fuller context for Rashi’s comment, the Sifsei Chachamim explains that Rashi had several explanations for the Torah’s repetition of the words “the mother of Yaakov and Esav”—all of which, rest assured, were eminently acceptable. Rashi simply was not sure whether any of his explanations was the straightforward meaning of the verse. Rather than offering an answer that might not be the truth in its purest form, Rashi preferred to concede a lack of knowledge.
This was no anomaly for Rashi. In fact, Rashi made quite a habit of admitting “I don’t know” when he did not, doing so no fewer than 20 times in his commentary to the Torah, and another 43 times in his commentary to the Gemara (Gilyon HaShas, Berachos 25a; S’dei Chemed, K’lalei Poskim 8:11; Likutei Sichos, Volume 5, Page 1 n. 2). If Rashi could, how could we not?
The tale is told of a small nineteenth century Polish village, whose local governor arranged a challenge between a cunning priest and the Jews of the nearby shtetl. The priest challenged: “Have your greatest scholar meet me on the bridge over the raging river tomorrow at noon. Each of us will have a heavy weight tied to his foot, and the first one stumped by a question about the Torah will be cast into the river.”
The Jewish community was in no position to refuse the ultimatum, so they gathered anxiously to appoint a representative. “Who can we send? Who will be able to answer what promises to be dastardly questions? Who will stand up to the priest?”
Unsurprisingly, there were no volunteers. At least not until Yankel stepped forward.
“I’ll do it,” declared Yankel, a decidedly unscholarly fellow—but the only candidate. The Jewish community agreed: Yankel would be their representative.
And so, at the appointed time, Yankel and the priest took their positions on the bridge, heavy weights attached to their feet. Throngs of their respective supporters lined the river banks.
Sizing up Yankel as a simpleton, the priest offered Yankel the first shot.
“What is the meaning of ‘aini yode’a’?” Yankel called out.
Without pause, the priest declared triumphantly, “I do not know!”
The crowd gasped and Yankel unceremoniously shoved his opponent off the bridge and into the raging waters below.
Back at the shtetl, the community congratulated Yankel for his brilliant ruse. “How did you devise such an idea?” they asked.
Yankel explained that it wasn’t all that difficult. “I was reading Rashi and came across the words ‘aini yode’a.’ I didn’t know what the phrase meant so I looked it up in the ‘teitch’ (Yiddish translation of Rashi’s commentary), which showed the words ‘ich veist nisht’ (‘I do not know’).
“So I figured,” Yankel continued, “if the holy ‘teitch’ didn’t know what the words meant, surely the priest would not!”
We are advised to “teach your tongue to say, ‘I do not know’” (Berachos 4a). When asked about a particular subject of which we lack knowledge, it is not enough to simply stay quiet—one must be forthright in admitting, without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment, “I do not know” (K’risos 3:7 and Tiferes Yisroel ad loc.).
“Don’t be embarrassed to say, ‘I do not know’” (Derech Eretz Zuta 2), “lest you…be ensnared in your [uninformed] words” (Derech Eretz Zuta 3; Kalla Rabasi 4). A person’s ability to admit, without embarrassment, that they do not know is a hallmark of wisdom and greatness (Yerushalmi, Nedarim 10:8; Yerushalmi, Chagiga 1:8; Avos 5:7). In fact, the willingness to admit a lack of knowledge is such a fundamental trait that it is enumerated in the Noam Elimelech’s Tzet’l Koton—his 17-point guide to being a good Jew.
Nowadays, however, it has become de rigueur to proffer uninformed opinion as unassailable fact. To be sure, there is nothing wrong with opinion. And, of course, we need not—and perhaps should not—say we don’t know when we do (Tosfos, Kiddushin 30a; but see Bava Metzia 23b). But Rashi’s modest example is one we would be wise to emulate.
Our innate reluctance to concede a lack of knowledge stems from the belief, conscious or otherwise, that doing so signals weakness or ignorance. It does neither. On the contrary, only someone with the ability to say “I don’t know” can truly be in the know. As one wise man put it, “One who doesn’t know that he doesn’t know, doesn’t know” (Mishmeres HaBayis[1] 31b).
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Philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau once opined, “I do not know is a phrase which becomes us.” Too often we fear uttering these words, convinced that doing so will diminish us or undermine our status. In reality, these words liberate and empower. Being human necessarily involves not knowing. The more comfortable we become with this truth, the more completely and unabashedly we grow, gaining a fuller appreciation for what we already know and what we have yet to discover.
As for ISIS and Ebola?
Don’t ask me. I don’t know.
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[1] The Mishmeres HaBayis was published anonymously by the Rashba in defense of his own work, Toras HaBayis.