I personally detest the word ‘frum.’
There are few words within the Jewish world more shamelessly and flagrantly misused and abused than this evocative little adjective. Attempting to define the term is as inevitably offensive as complimenting your great aunt’s cooking. Why? Because it is necessarily, essentially exclusive. Stereotyping and snubbing en masse, the word has been assigned a rather hefty and presumptuous task: to define religious superiority. And, just between you and me, that’s a rather tricky job.
I recall a recent conversation I had with a friend. Though I risk making myself appear the brooding intellectual, several thoughts, religious in nature, had been weighing on my mind. I had taken to questioning several fundamentals of Judaism I had hitherto taken for granted. While I felt the journey worthwhile and necessary, doubt is nevertheless exhausting. I voiced some of these feelings and concerns to my friend. She listened and responded empathetically, encouraging me to deal with the questions head-on, rather than letting them sit and expand. You have to be secure with yourself, and work these things out. Think about it—would you ever want to date a guy who has these questions?
The question caught me off guard, and made me consider deeply.
My conclusion: yes. Having questions does not put a dent in your religious armor. I’m not sure when the term ‘frum’ became conflated with an absolution of religious doubts, but it’s a confusion that is unfair to any seriously truth-seeking individual.
Questions—and I’m talking about big questions; deep, fundamental religious questions that strike at the core of our faith and daily practice as observant Jews—are ok. Questioning means thought, movement—dissatisfaction with stagnancy; a real, aching desire for intellectual honesty and a life full of meaning, not just motions. As one high school teacher so eloquently warned me, “Stay away from people who claim to have all the answers.” Those who admit to having questions, who acknowledge having difficulties, and doubts, are not the ones to fear. The intellectual bravery to face big questions should be commended.
I have found, among friends and further, that many are afraid to admit they have deep, religious questions. Questions reveal insecurities, and we’re scared, deeply scared, that others won’t want that. So we try to patch up the holes, so that when we do present ourselves to the world, it will be with an unblemished veneer of security and stability. It’s the front we present to our NCSYers—teenagers still allowed to have fundamental, looming questions. We reference books we may never have read and assure them of answers we don’t necessarily know, or fully buy. The more intellectually honest among us are bothered by the disingenuousness of the matter. But we ignore the accusatory finger of hypocrisy, and keep on.
We don’t just pretend to our admiring teens. We pretend to our dates, men and women both guilty. In a world where we size up someone’s ‘frumness’ with a quick once-over, any sign of existential angst could be a deal-breaker. A scorebuster. So we keep it to ourselves—for the time being, that is. Until we’re secure enough to admit to the other person that we’re not perfect, even religiously. Even though we spent a year or so in a seminary or yeshiva, and some of the best names at that.
A recent dating anecdote (and I do try to keep these to a bare minimum): the evening is going great. Conversation flowing, the works. I’m not sure how the topic came up, but he mentioned to me, off-handedly, that he had a “love-hate” relationship with Torah. I am not one to judge. I let the comment rest, but brought it up later that evening, looking for further explanation. So, by the way, I was just wondering what you meant by that comment before? He reeled from the discomfort of the question, misinterpreted as an accusation, and I watched the date unravel before my eyes.
Why have we come to associate no questions with piety? Why have we come to expect religious impeccability, when we’re forgiving of other human imperfections?
I write to reach out in solidarity to a community of questioners. It’s a community that exists, even if its members have not yet admitted it to others, or to themselves. And, it is no community of which to be ashamed. Questions do not show weakness—questions show bravery, thought, and honesty.
One important point of clarification: questions do not excuse commitment. For those who have chosen to shirk the observant lifestyle because questions run too deep, I do not pass judgment. But that is not the audience I primarily address. I address those who, despite questions, have not disavowed themselves of the halakhic code. It takes maturity to realize that you may never have all the answers. A committed, consistent lifestyle does not stipulate omniscience. While the search for answers may be part of living, you can’t forget to live while you search.
It’s worth taking a moment to acknowledge that questions should be getting harder, more complex, as we get older. Why can’t we take a moment to forgive ourselves—forgive others?
Recognize: questions don’t make us weak. They make us human.