In A Woman's Voice: Some Personal Reminiscences

Hazzan Erica Lippitz

Oheb Shalom Congregation
South Orange, New Jersey
1987 graduate

This 20th anniversary of the investiture of women cantors brings me a rush of memories. The years I spent at the Jewish Theological Seminary were challenging, inspiring, and rich with learning and encouragement. Although I entered the Seminary College of Jewish Music (now the H. L. Miller Cantorial School) in 1983, four years before women would be recognized officially with a diploma and a title, the mood among students and faculty was optimistic and determined. Instructors, some more open to this change than others, all understood that women who eventually would be hired in Conservative pulpits had to be trained properly. And I do want to emphasize that even those who personally objected to the change on halakhic grounds were respectful and professional and they taught us well.

And yet, at JTS, the Cantors Assembly, and the Rabbinical Assembly, as in the congregations of our movement, there was great debate. The RA’s Committee on Jewish Law and Standards had been discussing the role of women on the bimah since the 1950s, issuing teshuvot that permitted women to read Torah, take an aliyah, and be counted as part of a minyan. But changes in practice came slowly. In many regions, derogatory remarks and expressions of fear were all too commonplace. Observant, learned women who were devoted to am Yisrael, to the people of Israel, were accused of being the destroyers of tradition.

In 1977, JTS Chancellor Gerson D. Cohen appointed a commission to study the question of ordaining women as rabbis. In 1983, the JTS faculty voted to affirm the commission’s recommendation to ordain women, but the investiture of cantors was left unaddressed. That process continued to be full of complexities until women were inducted into the Cantors Assembly as full members only in 1991. What I recall of that period is not the frustration but rather the passion of the women and men who rose to debate and defend the justice of this cause. In letters, petitions, and late night meetings, women and men linked their convictions and their courage in order to make history in our day.

In July 2006, I marked 20 years of service to Oheb Shalom Congregation in South Orange, New Jersey. Many years later, the words that Hazzan Marla R. Barugel wrote thrill me just as much as they did on the day that they were written, the day on which we, the first women graduates of the cantorial school, were inducted into the Cantors Assembly:

“We applaud the leadership of the Cantors Assembly for having taken a great step forward by voting to admit qualified women to its ranks. We are elated to be accepted into this organization, and know that we have significant contributions to make. The Conservative movement [has come] to terms with one of the most fundamental issues of contemporary Jewish life.”

Hazzan Alisa Pomerantz-Boro

Congregation Beth-El
Cherry Hill, New Jersey
1991 graduate

I am often asked when and why I decided to become a hazzan. I usually joke that I knew prenatally. I cannot remember a time when my life did not revolve around the shul. As the daughter of a Conservative rabbi and a Jewish educator, I was instilled with a love of Judaism and of music. I remember my grandfather, a talented hazzan and a truly learned man, a talmid chacham, singing as my grandmother played the piano. I was davening, singing in the choir, reading Torah, and teaching other students since childhood.

I am fortunate that the timing of my career worked out so perfectly. It was during my senior year of college, 1987, that women first were allowed to graduate from the seminary with the diploma of hazzan. When I was invested in 1991, I was among the first group of 14 women inducted into the Cantors Assembly.

When I think about being among the first female hazzanim, I am struck by the awesome responsibility of serving as a role model. I am the hazzan of a large, haimish, traditional, and relatively newly egalitarian shul, and this affords me the opportunity to open doors for women of all ages. One of my greatest joys is teaching my Chanter with the Cantor class. I have helped to build a cadre of capable men and women Torah readers and I am awestruck every time one of them first reads from the Torah. Although learning to chant from the Torah is a challenging and somewhat daunting task, many of the men read when they became bar mitzvah; some learned from a cassette tape or a vinyl record. Most of the women, on the other hand, had never known the satisfaction of performing this mitzvah.

I am similarly delighted to teach our adult bar and bat mitzvah class. Many of our female congregants never had a religious ceremony to mark becoming bat mitzvah. Some never considered wearing a tallit, donning tefillin, or reading from the Torah prior to my arrival.

On Sunday mornings, the boys and girls studying to become bar or bat mitzvah come to a tallit and tefillin class. We daven, study, and hold discussions with them and their parents, and then, of course, we serve breakfast. During my first year, the girls were somewhat put off that I encouraged them to don tefillin; they had never seen a woman wear them. They thought it too odd to try. It was not my intention to pressure them, but we discussed the emotional and religious reasons why they might consider it. During the second semester, several girls and even some of their mothers tried it. By the third group of students, every girl in the class was eager to try the mitzvah of tefillin. Now it is as if it has always been this way. Ironically, the younger girls may never recognize that religious equality ever was denied to them. Many don’t realize that doors ever were closed to them. Recently, I was talking to a bright and talented boy with a magnificent voice who comes to synagogue every Shabbat. When I suggested that he might consider becoming a hazzan one day, he asked, “Can a boy be a hazzan too?”

Being a female hazzan has been groundbreaking and exciting. There are those who say that congregations are going to rediscover hazzanut through women’s voices. But when I reflect on what is different about being a female hazzan, I think it may be that we can bring to the role the sensitivity and compassion of a mother. Many women feel comfortable coming to me for counseling, talking with me about health and marital issues and personal problems that they may not wish to discuss with a male rabbi.

I am also often asked what it’s like being a female hazzan. That’s hard to answer – I have no idea what it is like to be a male hazzan – but I do know that I love being a hazzan. It is thrilling to serve as the shlichat tzibur representing my congregation in prayer, striking the balance between congregational singing and cantorial chanting, between the traditional and the modern, all the while preserving the nusah (the traditional musical modes for specific seasons, days, and holidays). It is about keeping the kavanah (intention) of our prayers focused and spiritual. Some of my favorite moments are when 1,000 people join in Avinu Malkeynu at the end of Yom Kippur, the silence during my Hineni, or the rousing spirit we share during a Carlebach niggun. It is rewarding, often exhausting, enlightening, and truly an honor for me. In truth, it makes no difference whether we are male or female, as we are all human beings created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God.

Hazzan Marcey Wagner

Jewish Congregation of Brookville
Muttontown, New York
1999 graduate

When I was growing up, becoming a cantor was the furthest thing from my mind. Yes, I did sing in my synagogue’s choir and I did attend services regularly. But back in the 1970s, no women were counted in the minyan, much less considered for the clergy.

Thanks to a very progressive rabbi in my Conservative synagogue, I may have been the first woman to read Torah at a confirmation there. I remember the strange way the regulars looked at me, and how my knees quaked. But mostly I remember how thrilled I felt, a feeling that would have to lie dormant for many years.

Fast-forward a decade. I am a mother of three, settled in a suburban community with a fully egalitarian synagogue. Women gradually have begun to participate in services, but I still have not gotten up the courage to do so myself. But when the sisterhood sponsored a class on chanting the book of Ruth for Shavuot, I signed up eagerly. The cantorial student who taught the class, Lorna Wallach (now Lorna Wallach Kallet), had a profound effect on many of the women of the class and congregation.

During that Shavuot service, members of the class huddled together in our pew, giving each other supportive hugs. Memories of my confirmation came flooding back, those same feelings of joy and spiritual fulfillment. I knew that I wanted to repeat the experience.

A few more years passed. I got divorced and started teaching Hebrew school. I spent a summer directing plays at Camp Ramah where I saw women leading services and chanting Torah and haftarah. I was befriended by Cantor Joel Caplan and his wife Nancy, who gave me a sense of what a cantor’s life was like. As I began to consider the profession for myself, Cantor Caplan suggested that I speak to some women who were already in the field. They talked to me of both the challenges and the rewards of the cantorate for a woman and mother.

Finally, after long and hard deliberation, at the age of 38, I decided to take the plunge. For five years, I commuted 11/2 hours each way to the H.L. Miller Cantorial School at JTS. In order to attend the required minyan, I had to be on the 5:48 train every morning. My days were a balancing act between three active children and my schoolwork. I carried a siddur or tikkun (biblical text with vowels and trope) everywhere I went, so that even as I watched my daughters at skating lessons, I could learn to chant megillat Esther or some other part of the nusah.

I loved every minute of cantorial school. Learning as an adult is a great luxury. I was able to study with some of the great teachers and scholars at the seminary and I took as many education courses as I could.

I graduated in 1999 and have been a practicing cantor in a wonderful congregation ever since. I look forward to going to work every day. One day is never like the next and each brings new challenges and triumphs. I get to sing, teach, and be creative. It is never too late to pursue your dream and passion.

Hazzan Deborah Bletstein

Tifereth Israel Synagogue
Des Moines, Iowa
2007 graduate

There comes a point when you cease being a cantorial student.

I would not let anyone call me up to the Torah with “HaHazzan” in front of my name until I received my diploma. That’s how I felt up until my grandfather passed away on a Shabbat just weeks before graduation, while I was on a job interview weekend.

Over the next days I received many calls from my father looking for guidance in making the appropriate arrangements. I arrived home only the night before I was to co-officiate at the funeral, the first I’d ever done. At the funeral home I went to see my grandfather, left the room, and cried very hard. Then I dried my eyes and composed myself because I had to go to the podium to sing the opening psalm. At the end of the service, with my grandfather in my thoughts, I poured my heart into the chanting of El Malei Rachamim. When I sang the last note of “amen,” I felt like a cantor for the very first time.

My grandparents were both learned Jews, liberal and ahead of their time. They were pioneers for women’s rights in their Conservative synagogue in Pontiac, Michigan, long before it was politically correct. Perhaps that is why it has always seemed natural to me that anyone with a love for and commitment to Judaism, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, should have the opportunity to be a leader in our communities.

The Orthodox rabbi who had delivered the eulogy said some amazing things to us throughout the course of shiva. On the last night, he asked me to lead mincha because he had already davened, but he said that he would lead ma’ariv. After mincha, he shared some words of Torah and then said: “People often ask me if I’m Orthodox, and I always say, af eyn zeit, on one side. I’m going to ask Debbie to lead ma’ariv because I really enjoy her davening.”

Traditional rules and regulations went out the window; an Orthodox rabbi and a female Conservative cantor became partners in that moment. Two Jews from two different worlds put aside their differences and worked together to provide guidance and comfort to a family in mourning.

I’ve been thinking about some of the comments I heard while interviewing for jobs, things like, “We usually don’t like a lady hazzan but we like you,” or my favorite, “You’re the closest thing to a man that we’re gonna get.” (There’s a compliment in there somewhere.) After the initial shock wore off, I realized that I had reached these people in some way, regardless of any preconceived notions they might have had. We have the ability to break down barriers, and we can have a tremendous impact on people even when we don’t recognize that we do. Gender has nothing to do with it; being clergy is about being a good dugmah, a role model. We can never stop learning, educating, or sharing the gifts that make each one of us unique, so that we may open the hearts and minds of those in our midst. We do what we do for the love of Torah, for the love of God, and for the love of the Jewish people.

If you had told me ten years ago that I was going to be a cantor, I never would have believed it. But after my grandfather’s death not only was I a daughter, granddaughter, sister, and a niece, I was a cantor, a hazzan, and in the most important way – in service to my own family and to the blessed memory of my grandfather, who showed by example what it is to lead a meaningful Jewish life.

Deborah Bletstein was chosen to speak at the dinner honoring JTS graduates in May 2007. These remarks were adapted from that talk.