The Torch explores gender and religion in the Jewish community. Named for Deborah the Prophetess, "the woman of torches," the blog highlights the passion and fiery leadership of Jewish feminists, while evoking the powerful image of feminists "passing the torch" to a new generation. Disclaimer: All posts are contributed by third party authors. JOFA does not assume responsibility for the facts and opinions presented in them.
I took a deep breath and looked around the room. There were more faces looking back at me than I had ever seen in my living room previously. Bodies overflowed into the dining room, kitchen, and hallway. Many of the people were familiar, but many were new; friends and family who heard about our megillah reading.
I felt my stomach knot up. This was the sixth year that we were hosting a Megillat Esther reading, and no matter how many times I have done this and how much time I spent preparing the first chapter, I always forgot the nusach (tune) of the brachot (blessings) said before the reading. Each year I would run over to someone and have them sing the blessings to me before beginning. This year had been no different.
With my friend’s voice fresh in my mind, I opened my mouth and began, making sure to be loud enough to be heard in the other rooms. I said the first bracha (blessing)–al mikrah megillah (on the reading of the megillah)– and heard a resounding amen. “Close enough,” I thought of my rendition. I took a breath and began again, the second bracha— she’asa nissim l’avoteinu (who performed miracles for our ancestors)– rushing through the myriad of words in the hopes of masking the fact that I did not know the tune. The blessing was met with another loud amen. I thought to myself, “two down, one to go” and I began the third bracha— the shehechiyanu (who has given us life). Somewhere in the midst of saying the blessing, my tune began to change. As I sang the final words, I realized that I was singing them to the tune traditionally used on Hanukkah.
I listened to the final amen resonate throughout the rooms of my home, and I laughed quietly to myself. I immediately felt my stomach unknot and my shoulders relax. I smiled. I had done it. I had made the first mistake of the evening. And with it out of the way, we were now ready for any mistakes that might follow. And thus I began leyning (reading) the first chapter of Megillat Esther.
To be sure, the goal of our megillah reading is not to make mistakes. Everyone who leyns practices long and hard to try to avoid errors as much as possible. But we all do make mistakes. And for me, that is the beauty of our megillah reading. It is about creating a warm, welcoming, safe space for anyone who wants to read from the megillah— male or female, young or old, experienced or novice. It is about a space where anyone is welcome and everyone can participate. It is about individuals being empowered in their own Judaism, to engage with the faith and ritual directly and make it personal and meaningful for them.
As I finish the final words of my chapter, “umedaber k’lishon amo,” I reflect on the meaning of the words, “and speak the language of his own people.” In the context of the story of the megillah, these words are not favorable– they reflect a policy in which men are given supreme authority over their wives and can speak a language that might be foreign to their partners. But as I step aside to allow the next reader to begin his chapter, the words take on different meaning for me. I watch reader after reader step forward to leyn the chapters they had prepared. I listen to ancient words chanted b’khol lashon— not in every language, but in every voice. The lilt of each voice is different, the tunes of the trop (cantillation) change slightly, pronunciations vary. But the words are the same as they have always been. In this moment, they are ours; truly ours. It is powerful. And it is beautiful.