No longer cursed but not quite the revolution we planned

Thirty-five years ago, the first Australian women’s prayer group met in my parents’ home. Two rabbis called to curse me, to frighten me out of doing it, and I had only myself to blame.

At every opportunity, I had been speaking about a new American phenomenon: Orthodox women gathering for prayer and Torah. My proselytizing provoked a flurry of young voices asking for women’s prayer in Sydney. I hesitated, I debated, I anticipated a tumult, but I wanted to pass on a little of what the women of America had given me.

Even before I could walk, my father had taken me to shul, where I watched men’s prayer coming together so effortlessly, so naturally. Every day, twice a day, a boy waits for his chance to lead, while his sister waits at home. Every day, a boy attends to the performance, ready for the moment when the baton passes to him.

Creating a service for ladies who are chatting in shul and not paying attention to what’s going on in the men’s section because they will never participate, is like conducting an orchestra of kindergarteners. You might lose a few notes.