IN SARAH’S TENT – THE WOMEN SPEAK
A Sacred, Immersive Reader’s Theater Experience for Shabbat on Rosh Hodesh Kislev
Written and Directed by Laurie Sherman
Music Arranged and Directed by John M. Evans
ORDER OF VOICES / CAST OF CHARACTERS — IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE
(Each appears within the sacred circle of the Tent. All remain present throughout unless otherwise noted.)
ARC ONE — Roots & Light
Rebekah – Voice of Welcome – Martha Fine
Marcia Falk – Voice of Blessing and Orientation – Joyce Finkelstein
Eve – Voice of First Woman – Shelly Rothstein
Lilith – Voice of First Rebellion – Heidi Winer
Bruriah – Voice of Wisdom – Jo Legat
Judith Plaskow – Voice of the Question – Sherry Hoffman-Blum
ARC TWO — Voices of Creation & Memory
Esther – Voice of Courage – Joyce Finkelstein
Rachel & Leah – Voices of Sisterhood – TBD
The Seeker – Voice of Longing – Sherry Hoffman-Blum
Bella Abzug – Voice of Justice – Jo Legat
Naomi – Voice of Covenant – Ricki Letowt
Ruth – Voice of Covenant – Shelly Rothstein
ARC THREE — Exile & Return
Anne Frank – Voice of Remembrance – Esther Brill
Hannah Szenes – Voice of Remembrance – Martha Fine
Henrietta Szold – Voice of Healing and Peace – Marlys Fiterman
Grace Aguilar – Voice of Faith and Reason – Devi Kasson
Maria the Alchemist – Voice of Transformation – Ricki Letowt
ARC FOUR — Dream & Revelation
Debbie Friedman – Voice of Song and Healing – Marlys Fiterman
Barbra Streisand – Voice of Laughter and Legacy – Heidi Winer
Barbara Walters – Voice of Laughter and Legacy – Joyce Finkelstein
Dr. Ruth Westheimer – Voice of Laughter and Legacy – Esther Brill
Charlotte – Voice of Art and Illumination – Esther Brill
Golda Meir – Voice of Leadership – Ricki Letowt
ARC FIVE — Ascent & Blessing
Rabbi Tirzah Firestone – Voice of Sacred Healing – Devi Kasson
Letty Cottin Pogrebin – Voice of Valor – Marlys Fiterman
Jessica Meir – Voice of Ascent – Martha Fine
Orli bat Neshamah – Voice of the Future – Shelly Rothstein
Sarah (Matriarch) – Voice of Welcome and Understanding – Heidi Winer
PRE-SHOW — WOMEN OF WELCOME
(Before the Prelude begins.)
Setting:
Outside the Tent flaps, six Women of Welcome stand in two receiving lines.
Each holds a small candle or tea light and a stack of programs.
Soft piano or violin music plays — wordless, calm, inviting.
Purpose & Flow:
The Women of Welcome greet participants quietly and warmly.
Their words are improvised — spoken gently, not performed — but should convey these ideas:
- Welcome to Sarah’s Tent.
- Please take a program; you’ll need it throughout the evening.
- You may take a small light if you wish — a symbol of your inner flame.
- Enter the Tent in silence and reflection. Whisper if moved: Hineni — I am here.
They guide participants through the entrance one by one, helping to quiet the space and shift it from ordinary to sacred.
When most are seated, the music softens.
Two Women of Welcome move to the Tent flaps and hold them open.
Stage Direction:
Through the softly lit opening, Rebekah enters, carrying the Seret Or — the living ribbon of light.
She pauses in the threshold; the Women of Welcome close the flaps behind her and quietly move to their own tables to take their seats.
The sanctuary is dim and expectant.
The table candles remain unlit until Rebekah’s cue within the Prelude.
PRELUDE — GATHERING THE TENT
(Lighting: dawn-gold, a soft flame growing toward morning. A low heartbeat drum begins beneath the stillness.)
ENSEMBLE
Hineni…
We arrive…
We remember…
The Tent begins to glow…
We carry them…
We are here…
(A hush. REBEKAH rises like a bride.)
ARC ONE — ROOTS & LIGHT
Scene 3 – Rebekah — Voice of Welcome
(Lighting: first-light gold. The Seret Or drapes from her hands like a river. Soft piano begins beneath the stillness.)
REBEKAH
I am Rebekah —
runner at the well, listener at the threshold,
the one who watered thirst and answered strangers with bread.
I carried jars that bruised my shoulders
and a promise that softened my heart.
I learned the sound of oasis in the dark,
the feel of future in a stranger’s name.
They will tell you I went quickly.
They will not tell you that I heard —
the wind in the tent’s veil,
the hush before a blessing lands,
the small yes that becomes a tribe.
(She bows her head, lifts one flame, and lights her own candle — the first light of the evening.)
The Tent begins to glow.
Let us begin the blessing.
(The six candle-leaders move to their tables. Each lights her candle from Rebekah’s flame as the blessing is spoken together.)
ALL TOGETHER – CANDLE BLESSING
בָּרוּכַ אַתְּ שְׁכִינָה אֱלֹהֵינוּ רוּחַ הָעוֹלָם
Baruch At Shekhinah Eloheinu, Ruach ha-Olam,
who sanctifies this moment of light.
POETIC ENGLISH (softly joined by all)
Blessed is the Source of Light within us and around us.
(The Tent glows fully amber; music holds and then fades.)
REBEKAH
I have opened the Tent before.
I open it now.
Come in, beloved ones —
come in, seekers and wanderers.
The blessing begins.
(Lights steady; Rebekah steps back. End Scene 3.)
Scene 4 – Marcia Falk — Voice of Blessing and Orientation
(She steps forward into the circle of warm candlelight. Soft piano continues, quieter, like breath.)
MARCIA FALK
I am Marcia Falk — a poet of prayer reborn through women’s voices.
You have entered Sarah’s Tent — a place of story, song, and re-creation.
Tonight we pray with new language for ancient truths.
The prayers in your program may look different.
Their order may surprise you.
You’ll see Hebrew beside English, and sometimes poetry in place of law.
That is our intent.
Here we honor Shekhinah — the indwelling Presence — not as King, not as Lord,
but as Source of Life, as Breath that moves through each of us.
You may read aloud when moved, or listen in silence.
You may whisper the Hebrew words you remember,
or answer in your own tongue: Hineni — I am here.
There is no single way to pray in this Tent — only presence, only love.
(She looks gently around the room.)
Welcome, beloved ones.
You are in Sarah’s Tent, and tonight the Shekhinah dwells among us.
(Music fades to silence; light settles for Eve & Lilith.)
Scene 5 – Eve & Lilith: A Dialogue of First Women
(Lighting: candle-gold with soft undertones of crimson. Two women rise from opposite sides of the Tent, circling slowly toward center. The music is minimal — a faint heartbeat drum beneath silence.)
EVE
I am Eve.
I touched the fruit — not for defiance, but for knowing.
They told me I was made from him,
but I know I was formed from the same clay,
breathed into by the same mystery.
LILITH
I am Lilith.
I would not lie beneath him.
I rose on the wind and fled the garden
to claim the body that was mine.
EVE
They said I brought death.
They forgot I also brought birth.
They made me mother of sorrow,
but I remember the taste of possibility.
LILITH
They said I was a demon.
They forgot I was the first to name myself free.
I became the wind that howls at the edges of the world,
the voice that refuses silence.
(They circle one another — cautious, curious, the first mirror.)
EVE
I saw you once — in a dream —
wild hair, fire eyes, unafraid.
I envied you.
LILITH
And I saw you, too — tender hands, full heart.
I wept for you.
EVE
What did we learn, sister?
LILITH
That knowledge is a kind of exile.
That freedom is a kind of loneliness.
EVE
And yet — we would choose it again.
(They face each other, palms meeting — flame reflected in their eyes.)
EVE & LILITH (together)
We are the beginning.
We are the question.
We are still here.
(Heartbeat drum resumes faintly; a hum rises through the ensemble — half song, half breath. The light warms.)
ENSEMBLE (softly, overlapping)
In the beginning… light…
In the beginning… she spoke…
In the beginning… we began again.
(They slowly step back, leaving the circle luminous. Silence settles.)
Scene 6 – Bruriah: Voice of Wisdom
(Lighting: golden-white, like parchment in candlelight. The hum fades to a quiet stillness. A small scroll rests in her hands. Soft violin begins — a single sustained note.)
BRURIAH
I am Bruriah —
teacher, scholar, wife of Rabbi Meir.
They remembered his wisdom and forgot mine.
I studied the sacred texts until they sang.
I argued with angels and men alike.
I taught that compassion is stronger than law —
and that anger is a fire one must extinguish with understanding.
When they mocked me, I answered with Torah.
When they silenced me, I laughed —
and learned louder.
The letters of my name
spell light within a lamp.
Each question I ask is a wick.
Each word — a spark.
(She unrolls a small scroll and reads aloud, voice deep and deliberate.)
Do not pray for your enemy to die,
but for your hatred to die within you.
That is justice.
That is faith.
(The ensemble begins a low hum — a sound of awe.)
ENSEMBLE (whispering, overlapping)
Hineni… She teaches… She burns bright…
BRURIAH
Yes.
I burn — but not with fury.
I burn with knowing.
The Shekhinah dwells where we question and still believe.
(She lifts her eyes toward heaven, then to the circle of women.)
Ask, and you will find not answers — but presence.
Argue, and you will hear the echo of God learning, too.
Faith is not certainty.
Faith is courage with a question mark.
(She closes the scroll gently, the violin sustains, then fades.)
ENSEMBLE (softly, overlapping)
She burns bright…
She burns bright…
(Light narrows to a warm gold halo around Bruriah. Silence.)
Scene 7 – Judith Plaskow: Voice of the Question
(Lighting: soft rose and parchment gold. A subtle echo of Bruriah’s violin fades; a heartbeat drum returns, slow and steady. Judith steps forward into the circle beside Bruriah, scroll still faintly glowing in her hands.)
JUDITH PLASKOW
I am Judith Plaskow.
I asked the question that would not stay quiet:
Where is woman in our story?
I listened for an answer —
and when none came,
I wrote one.
For generations, our voices hovered
between the lines of men’s midrash.
We were the silence under the text —
the missing vowels of God’s own name.
I stood on Sinai in my imagination
and heard the commandments whispered again —
not as orders, but as invitations.
(She turns toward the audience.)
And so I ask you now:
Where are you in the story?
What scripture will you write with your own life?
What revelation waits for you to say yes?
(The heartbeat drum softens. The ensemble begins to hum — a low note, then harmony. Judith lifts her voice gently above it.)
JUDITH
Every generation must reimagine Sinai.
Every voice must stand in the circle of revelation.
There is room for you — all of you — here.
(She steps back slightly; the ensemble takes her final line and weaves it.)
ENSEMBLE (layered, whispering)
There is room… for you… here.
Here.
Here.
(The sound fades into silence. The light deepens to rose, signaling transition.)
Transition to Arc Two
(ENSEMBLE moves forward, passing the Seret Or again. The ribbon glows like breath between their hands.)
ENSEMBLE (softly, overlapping)
The Tent breathes.
The veil lifts.
We enter the next story…
(Music underscore rises — piano and drum — as light shifts toward earth-gold and sky-blue.)
ARC TWO — VOICES OF CREATION & MEMORY
Scene 8 – Queen Esther: Voice of Courage
(Lighting: deep gold and royal violet. A distant echo of Persian melody — flute or violin — curls through the air. The Tent glows as if from within a jeweled palace.)
ESTHER
I am Esther —
the orphan who became a queen,
the quiet woman who learned to roar.
I was told to hide my name,
and I did — until my people were threatened.
Then I stepped through fear’s gate
and stood before the king.
I remember the weight of silk on my shoulders,
the tremble in my knees,
the silence of the court —
and the sound of my own breath saying,
If I perish, I perish.
(She walks slowly to the center of the Tent, holding a small scroll or ring, a symbol of authority reclaimed.)
They said I was chosen for beauty.
They did not see the fire beneath my skin.
They said I was lucky.
I say I was sent.
“Perhaps,” they told me, “you were born
for such a time as this.”
And I say — perhaps we all were.
(She removes her veil. Light floods her face. The ensemble leans forward, breath held.)
Courage is not the absence of trembling —
it is trembling and stepping forward anyway.
(A soft bell chime sounds. The ensemble answers in a murmur.)
ENSEMBLE (whispered)
For such a time as this…
(Esther bows her head slightly, as though blessing them all.)
Scene 9 – Rachel & Leah: Voices of Sisterhood
(Lighting: warm dusk gold shifting to indigo. The hum of ancient wind — desert flute, low and tender. Two women rise from opposite sides of the Tent, mirroring Eve and Lilith, but slower, heavier with time.)
LEAH
I am Leah — the weary-eyed one.
They said Jacob did not love me.
They never asked what I loved.
I woke beside a man
who thought I was someone else.
I bore sons into silence,
each birth a question:
Will this one make me seen?
RACHEL
And I am Rachel — beloved, barren, waiting.
I watched you give him sons
while I gave him longing.
My name was whispered in his dreams;
yours was called out in labor.
LEAH
We were two halves of a single ache —
one fertile, one favored.
Neither free.
RACHEL
They call us rivals.
They do not know we met in the night,
our hands trembling,
trading places so the world could go on.
LEAH
You gave me laughter in secret.
I gave you my wedding veil.
Between us — a covenant of survival.
(A pause. They reach toward one another; the Seret Or threads between their hands, glowing softly.)
RACHEL
Sister —
they used us to build a nation.
But it is our tears that watered it.
LEAH
And our sons — and daughters — who carried it forward.
(The ensemble breathes in, almost a sigh.)
ENSEMBLE (softly, overlapping)
Leah wept… Rachel waited…
The mothers still cry… the mothers still sing…
RACHEL
Let the world remember —
that holiness was born from women’s pain
and women’s choosing.
LEAH
And from the love between two who refused to hate.
(They join hands fully now. The light around them warms again, like dawn through a tent flap.)
RACHEL & LEAH (together)
We are the mothers of Israel.
We are still here.
(The hum rises gently; the Seret Or ripples once between them and stills. They step back into the circle.)
Scene 10 – The Seeker: Voice of Longing
(Lighting: soft silver over desert blue. A single chair stands near the edge of the circle. The Tent grows quiet. The heartbeat drum slows, almost imperceptible.)
THE SEEKER
I am the one who stands at the edge —
too shy for the center, too hungry to leave.
I have tried every doorway.
I have smiled when I wasn’t welcome.
I have sat in pews, in circles, in silence,
waiting for a word that would open the gate.
I am too smart, too shy, too something.
I read footnotes for comfort.
I watch candles from the sidewalk.
They say “tradition.” I hear “story I am not in.”
They say “belonging.” I hear “prove it.”
Still — I come.
I come with questions and a beating heart,
with a prayer I don’t know the words for,
with a hope that refuses to quiet.
(She looks slowly around the Tent — at Rebekah, at Rachel, at Lilith — each woman meeting her gaze.)
Is there a place for me in this Tent?
(A long silence. The ensemble breathes once, deeply.)
ENSEMBLE (softly, certain)
Yes. There is.
THE SEEKER
Then teach me your names for the Holy,
and I will answer with mine.
Make me room beside your bread and wine,
and I will open my hands.
If there is a door, I will knock.
If there is no door, I will stand here
until this longing becomes a song you recognize.
(She steps forward into the candlelight; her shadow joins the others on the wall.)
ENSEMBLE (whispering)
She knocks… she waits… she is heard.
(A faint violin note rises; it blends with breath — a sigh, a prayer, a beginning.)
THE SEEKER (quietly)
Hineni. I am here.
(The light warms slightly. Silence.)
Scene 11 – Bella Abzug: Voice of Justice
(Lighting: sharp amber and bright white. A swing of jazz trumpet or clarinet cuts the silence — brassy, playful, alive. Then she strides in, hat first, voice booming.)
BELLA
I’m Bella Abzug — call me Bella!
They said a woman couldn’t run for Congress — so I ran.
They said she couldn’t win — so I did.
They said I was too loud —
and I said,
“This is my natural tone of voice!”
(Laughter ripples through the Tent.)
I was born on the Lower East Side,
and I carried its grit like a badge.
My mother ran a basement market;
my father taught Torah between customers.
He told me:
“Justice, Bella, is not polite. It is persistent.”
(She points toward the audience, eyes blazing.)
I’ll tell you what Zionism is.
It’s a liberation movement for people
who have been persecuted all their lives
and throughout human history!
(A brief cheer rises, then stills.)
I fought for women, for workers, for the world.
For peace, for civil rights, for equality —
and yes, for chutzpah.
If you want to change the world,
you don’t whisper from the sidelines.
You put on your hat, you walk in, and you speak.
(She adjusts her trademark hat with a grin.)
They said, “Bella, you talk too much.”
I said, “Then listen harder.”
(The ensemble chuckles softly — rhythmically, affirming.)
ENSEMBLE (rhythmic, overlapping)
She knocks — she enters —
she brings the world with her!
(Bella smiles, softer now.)
You know, I never did learn to whisper.
But I did learn this —
every voice raised in justice
is an echo of Sinai.
(She steps forward, lowers her hat slightly, then raises her chin.)
And if you’re lucky,
someone, someday,
will call you too loud.
(The ensemble bursts into warm laughter, applause rising in energy but quickly subsiding into reverence.)
ENSEMBLE (softly, almost as a benediction)
Justice… justice… you shall pursue it.
(Bella nods once — proud, tender, unbowed. Lights soften back to gold.)
Scene 12 – Naomi & Ruth: Voices of Covenant
(Lighting: gold fading into indigo. A hush settles; the sound of desert wind. Two women face one another, hands joined by a ribbon of light — the Seret Or.)
NAOMI
Maybe now, my child, a lesson.
There are loves that survive the wilderness.
There are bonds that do not break.
RUTH
Where you go, I will go.
Where you live, I will live.
Your people will be my people,
and your God — my God.
(Naomi smiles, drawing Ruth close.)
NAOMI
Then listen, beloved one — these are the words we teach our children.
(Soft chant begins — the V’ahavta in feminized form. The Hebrew rises gently behind them.)
NAOMI (teaching)
וְאָהַבְתְּ אֶת יְיָ אֱלֹהַיִךְ בְּכָל לְבָבֵךְ וּבְכָל נַפְשֵׁךְ וּבְכָל מְאֹדֵךְ
V’ahavta et Adonai Eloheich b’chol levaveich, u-v’chol nafsheich, u-v’chol me’odeich…
RUTH (softly, in English)
You shall love the Source of Life
with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your might.
(They weave the ribbon between their hands; the glow spreads through the Tent.)
NAOMI
When you forget, the words will remember you.
RUTH
And when you are lost, love will find you again.
(They raise their joined hands; the ensemble breathes in unison.)
ENSEMBLE (softly)
The covenant lives in love.
The Tent shines with light.
(Music swells — a gentle violin theme interwoven with Naomi’s voice.)
NAOMI
Your story is mine now, my child.
And mine is yours.
(They embrace. The light deepens to amber stillness.)
ARC THREE — EXILE & RETURN
Scene 13 – Anne Frank & Hannah Szenes: Voices of Remembrance
(Lighting: twilight blue, soft as memory. Three glass yahrzeit cups glow at center — each with a flickering tea light, pre-lit.
The Tent feels suspended between worlds. A violin holds one long trembling note.)
ANNE
I am Anne Frank.
I wrote because everything around me was vanishing,
and I needed to leave a trace of light.
I once said, “I still believe, in spite of everything,
that people are truly good at heart.”
Even now — I do.
(She looks to the candlelight, not the darkness.)
HANNAH
I am Hannah Szenes.
I fell from the sky into my people’s anguish.
I was captured, beaten, but I did not betray.
Before I went, I wrote:
Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.
Blessed is the flame that burns in the heart’s secret places.
(Her voice grows quiet, almost prayerful.)
And once, in silence, I prayed:
My God, my God, I pray that these things never end —
the sand and the sea,
the rush of the waters,
the crash of the heavens,
the prayer of the heart.
(A pause. The three flames flicker; the women face one another.)
ANNE
These candles burn for the living and the lost —
one for you,
one for me,
and one for all who cannot stand here tonight.
HANNAH
For those who perished in the Shoah,
for those who have fallen in war,
for every innocent whose name we do not know.
(They lift their hands above the flames — not touching, only blessing.)
ANNE
May these lights be remembered as lives, not only as losses.
HANNAH
May they teach us that even one small flame can outshine fear.
ANNE
If I had lived,
I would have grown old, told stories to my grandchildren,
watched the moon rise over Jerusalem.
HANNAH
If I had lived,
I would have sung at your wedding,
written poems of dawn instead of sorrow.
ANNE
But we live in them now —
every girl who keeps a diary,
every woman who dares to hope.
HANNAH
Every human being who still believes
that goodness can survive the night.
(They step back together. The three yahrzeit flames glow on.
Thirty whispered names — historic, personal, contemporary — rise in reverence.
The violin holds the final note, and fades into stillness.)
Scene 14 – Henrietta Szold: Voice of Healing and Peace
(Lighting: soft gold with a faint blue halo, as if dawn has touched the edge of sorrow.
The Seret Or reappears, rippling faintly between Anne and Hannah’s still-burning lights.
Henrietta steps into its glow — calm, luminous, maternal.)
HENRIETTA
I am Henrietta Szold.
I gathered the lost children of Europe,
taught them Hebrew songs and the meaning of home.
When war burned the world,
I sent nurses instead of soldiers.
When despair filled our lungs,
I built hospitals and named them for hope.
(She lifts one of the yahrzeit candles gently, holding it between her palms.)
My hands trembled when I signed my mother’s name
to save another’s child.
That is what peace requires —
to make every child one’s own.
(A soft violin enters; she breathes deeply.)
I have walked the streets of Jerusalem at dawn,
and I have seen how light spills down the hills like mercy.
Peace is not an end.
Peace is a discipline.
(She looks outward — to the audience, to the heavens.)
Grant us peace,
Thy most precious gift,
O Source of Peace.
Let peace descend upon Israel,
upon all lands,
upon every heart.
May healing come swift,
and love take root in the ruins.
(She lowers the candle back to the table. The ensemble breathes with her, softly.)
ENSEMBLE (gently, like a sigh)
Peace… peace… shalom.
(A hush. The violin transitions seamlessly into the motif of “Oseh Shalom.”
Henrietta steps back into the circle, her face aglow with quiet strength.)
Scene 15 – Grace Aguilar: Voice of Faith and Reason
(Lighting: warm amber and candlelight. A single classical guitar note sounds, gentle and steady.
Grace steps forward, poised, luminous — a writer from another century who still feels utterly present.)
GRACE
I am Grace Aguilar —
a daughter of Sepharad,
born in London but rooted in Spain,
where my ancestors whispered blessings behind closed doors.
I wrote when women were not meant to speak of God.
They called me sentimental —
I called it prayer.
I sought harmony between faith and reason,
between the mind and the soul.
They are not rivals, I said —
they are twin lamps that illuminate one another.
(She looks upward, then to the women around her.)
When the world shut its doors to us,
I wrote to remind it that Jewish women still lived —
thinking, teaching, believing.
I wrote so that our daughters
would see themselves not as shadows,
but as light refracted through time.
(She opens her hands; the glow around her deepens.)
I believed that a woman’s pen
could heal what centuries had wounded.
That every word written in faith
is an act of defiance against despair.
(The ensemble hums faintly — soft as turning pages.)
ENSEMBLE (whispering)
She writes… she heals… she returns.
GRACE
Yes — we return.
Across oceans, across silence, across forgetting.
Our names are not lost;
they are waiting to be spoken again.
(She closes her small book gently and holds it to her heart.)
May every woman who writes, sings, or prays
know that she is part of our unbroken chain —
a thread of gold woven through exile and return.
(She bows her head; the guitar fades into stillness.)
ARC FOUR — DREAM & REVELATION
Scene 16 – Debbie Friedman: Voice of Song and Healing
(Lighting: silver and rose, like moonlight reflected on water.
The Tent feels open, breathing.
A piano arpeggio begins — the faintest hint of “Mi Shebeirach.”
Debbie enters with her guitar, warm smile, gentle authority.)
DEBBIE
I am Debbie Friedman.
I sang healing into the cracks of our people.
I was not trained to be a rabbi —
but I taught Torah in melody.
They said women could not lead from the bimah.
So I wrote songs that led the people anyway.
(She strums a single, shimmering chord. The sound fills the Tent like breath.)
When I sang Mi Shebeirach,
it wasn’t for others — it was for all of us.
For every body aching,
for every soul uncertain,
for every heart still learning how to hope.
(Her voice softens.)
When my own strength failed,
I sang it for myself:
May the One who blessed our mothers,
bless us,
bless this moment of becoming whole.
(The ensemble begins to hum — a soft, rising harmony. Piano supports gently.)
And then —
they sang it back to me.
A thousand voices,
one prayer.
(She looks outward — smiling, tears glinting.)
That’s when I understood:
We are all healers.
The song never ends.
(She gestures for the ensemble to join in; their hum becomes a tender refrain.)
ENSEMBLE (humming softly)
Oh God of healing… renew our strength…
Mi Shebeirach…
(Debbie lays a hand on her heart.)
DEBBIE
May the light of healing reach every place we’ve ever been broken —
and every place still waiting to sing.
(Her final chord lingers. The hum fades into silence. The Tent glows softly in silver light.)
Scene 17 – Barbra Streisand, Barbara Walters & Dr. Ruth Westheimer: Voices of Laughter and Legacy
(Lighting: warm amber and white — a glow of glamour and wit.
Piano shifts from “Mi Shebeirach” into a lively, jazzy motif.
Three women enter — radiant, iconic, utterly themselves.)
BARBRA STREISAND
I’m Barbra. With an “a.”
I kept it that way — why change perfection?
I sang because my voice was my face,
and my face was my truth.
(The ensemble chuckles softly — affectionate.)
BARBARA WALTERS
And I’m Barbara — no “r” dropped.
I asked questions no one else would ask.
When they said women didn’t belong on the news desk,
I sat down anyway — in front of America.
DR. RUTH WESTHEIMER
And I am Dr. Ruth!
Short — but dynamite!
When I spoke of love and sex,
I spoke with joy —
and a thick German accent.
(They laugh together, three generations of chutzpah and charm.)
BARBRA STREISAND
We made them listen.
BARBARA WALTERS
We made them laugh.
DR. RUTH
And we made them blush!
(Laughter ripples through the Tent — real, cleansing, sacred.
The ensemble joins in softly, rhythmic and warm.)
ENSEMBLE (rhythmic whisper)
She laughs — she leads — she lives.
We laugh — we lead — we live.
(The three women take each other’s hands, their joy palpable.)
DR. RUTH
Let us name the others —
the bold, the funny, the unforgettable.
BARBRA WALTERS
Bette Midler.
BARBRA STREISAND
Golda Meir.
DR. RUTH
Gilda Radner. Joan Rivers. Mae West!
(Each name spoken with delight, each woman remembered as light.)
ENSEMBLE (soft, overlapping)
We hear them.
We see them.
We are them.
(Laughter softens to awe. The Tent glows golden again.
Barbra, Barbara, and Dr. Ruth bow their heads — grateful, radiant.)
DR. RUTH (gently)
To laugh is also to pray.
And to love is the holiest study of all.
(They exit slowly, light following them.
The last echo of laughter becomes a heartbeat of joy.)
ARC FIVE — ASCENT & BLESSING
Scene 18 – Rabbi Tirzah Firestone: Voice of Sacred Healing
(Lighting: deep indigo shading toward silver-white.
The Tent breathes. A faint drumbeat returns — like a heartbeat.
Tirzah enters slowly, wrapped in a flowing blue and white tallit.
Her presence is quiet but commanding, her gaze steady.)
TIRZAH
I am Rabbi Tirzah Firestone.
I walk the bridge between past and healing.
Our people have carried trauma for centuries —
in our bones, in our blood, in our breath.
It lives beneath the surface of our stories,
in the pauses between our prayers.
But I have seen what happens
when we listen to the wisdom of the body,
when we honor the soul’s migrations.
(She closes her eyes; breathes deeply.
The sound of a heartbeat drum expands, steady and low.)
The Shekhinah —
the indwelling Presence —
moves through exile and return,
through dream and through the trembling body of prayer.
Healing is not forgetting.
It is transforming.
It is memory made merciful.
(The ensemble hums a slow tone — “Mi Shebeirach” rising like breath.)
ENSEMBLE (softly, in waves)
Heal us.
Restore us.
Renew our days.
TIRZAH
Let the breath of the mothers restore us.
Let the tears of our ancestors water the soil beneath our feet.
Let us remember — even what hurts —
and let the remembering make us whole.
(She lifts her shawl, letting it unfold like wings.)
Let the Tent be our refuge.
Let it also be our doorway.
We are not alone.
We are never alone.
(She bows her head. Silence.
Then a soft wind chime sounds — clear, tender.
The light brightens to a soft silver dawn.)
ENSEMBLE (whispering)
The Tent glows from within.
The breath returns.
The healing begins.
(Tirzah stands in stillness — radiant, transformed — as the light holds her.)
Scene 19 – Letty Cottin Pogrebin: Voice of Valor
(Lighting warms to sunrise gold. Tirzah steps back into the circle as Letty moves forward — calm, grounded, luminous.
All other Voices remain present, surrounding her in gentle light.)
LETTY
I am Letty Cottin Pogrebin —
a daughter of Judaism,
a feminist,
a witness to what happens
when women claim the sacred for themselves.
When I wrote Deborah, Golda, and Me,
I was searching for my foremothers —
and found them reflected in my own life.
(She gazes around the circle — seeing them all.)
Tonight, I see them again:
Deborah. Ruth. Hannah. Bella. Grace. Judith. Miriam.
And you — each of you.
Each woman who has lifted a candle,
each soul who whispered Hineni,
each hand that passed the ribbon of light.
(She turns gently toward the audience.)
Who can find a woman of valor?
She is already here.
She rises before dawn,
she feeds the world with her light,
she laughs without fear of the future.
She opens her hand to the poor,
her heart to the broken.
Strength and beauty are her garments,
wisdom and kindness her adornment.
For from her comes compassion,
and in her name, we call peace.
(The ensemble echoes softly.)
ENSEMBLE (gentle, reverent)
Amen.
(Letty nods — then gestures to the central table, where wine and challah await under a white cloth.)
LETTY
Let us sanctify this moment —
the blessing over wine and bread,
spoken in the language of our mothers.
(She lifts the cup; the light reflects in it like flame on water.
All Voices and congregation rise.)
ALL TOGETHER – KIDDUSH (Poetic English)
Blessed is the Source of Life,
the wellspring of joy and renewal.
We lift this cup in gratitude,
and drink to the light that endures through darkness.
(They sip. Letty uncovers the challah.)
ALL TOGETHER – MOTZI (Poetic English)
Blessed is She who brings forth bread from the earth,
who nourishes us with the work of many hands.
May this bread remind us that we are one body —
whole and holy.
(Soft piano begins the melody of “Lechi Lach.”
The bread is broken and passed symbolically from hand to hand through the Tent.)
LETTY (smiling, softly)
In this bread, we are bound.
In this light, we are one.
(She steps back; the light transitions toward a silvery blue glow.)
Scene 20 – Jessica Meir: Voice of Ascent
(Lighting: silver-blue, vast as sky.
The soft piano motif from “Lechi Lach” lingers like breath.
Jessica steps into the circle — calm, radiant, filled with wonder.
Her voice is steady, awe-struck, reverent.)
JESSICA
I am Jessica Meir.
When I looked down at the Earth from space,
I saw no borders — only breath and blue.
I thought of my ancestors,
wandering beneath desert stars.
I thought of you,
lighting candles in Sarah’s Tent.
We are the same species of hope.
(She looks upward; her hands open slowly, palms up.)
Out there, above the world, the silence is immense —
but it hums.
And in that hum, I heard you —
every woman who ever said Hineni.
(Soft hum builds from the ensemble — a quiet choral pulse.)
We are stardust remembering we were clay.
We are clay remembering we are light.
(Music swells gently; she turns toward the congregation.)
ENSEMBLE (layered, softly)
We rise.
We shine.
We are the light.
JESSICA
Lechi lach — go forth,
to a land that I will show you.
Lechi lach — to your own becoming.
For wherever you journey,
the Shekhinah goes with you.
(She pauses, hands extended in invitation.
A younger woman — Orli — steps forward through the circle of light.)
Scene 21 – Orli bat Neshamah: Voice of the Future
(Lighting: white and gold, as if dawn has arrived inside the Tent.
Jessica steps aside. Orli, youthful and radiant, steps forward.
A silken ribbon of light — the Seret Or — is wound around her wrist.)
ORLI
I am Orli bat Neshamah —
the granddaughter not yet born.
I have heard your stories in my bones.
I have carried your breath in my dreams.
You lit candles.
You sang.
You believed.
And because of you — I live.
(She looks slowly around the Tent, eyes shining.)
Now whisper the names of your ancestors.
Let them fill the air.
Let them bless the future.
(The ensemble hums softly as audience members whisper names.
The sound swells like wind through trees — sacred, alive.)
ENSEMBLE (softly)
We remember…
We bless…
We begin again…
(“Lechi Lach” builds softly beneath her words.)
ORLI
We are the thread.
We are the blessing.
Amen.
(Music swells — “Lechi Lach” sung by all Voices and audience together.)
ENSEMBLE & AUDIENCE (singing softly)
Lechi lach — to a land that I will show you,
Lech lecha — to a place you do not know…
Lechi lach — and I shall make your name great.
Lech lecha — and all shall praise your name.
(Lighting expands to fill the Tent.
The circle of women raises their hands toward the heavens.
At the center, a new figure begins to rise: Sarah, the matriarch — the final Voice.)
Scene 22 – Sarah: Voice of Welcome and Understanding
(Music from “Lechi Lach” softens into a shimmering sustain.
The circle of women remains standing; ribbons of light surround them.
From within the circle, SARAH rises — steady, radiant, timeless.
Her voice carries warmth, humor, and wisdom.)
SARAH
I am Sarah —
the first to laugh at the promise of life,
and the first to open the tent.
I am the mother who waits by the door,
who keeps the lamp burning for whoever might arrive.
You have heard their voices —
the wise, the bold, the broken, the whole.
They have crossed deserts, oceans, centuries —
and tonight, they found you.
Perhaps you felt one of them stirring in your own heart.
(She looks around the Tent — slowly, tenderly — seeing each face.)
Each story you’ve heard is a mirror.
Each flame you’ve seen is a soul.
This Tent is not built of fabric or poles —
it is made of memory, courage, and light.
And now that you have entered it,
it lives inside you.
(A pause. She breathes, deeply and fully.)
When we dreamed of this night,
we wanted you to remember that holiness is human.
That justice and joy are not opposites.
That laughter can be revelation.
(She smiles — half sacred, half mischievous.)
And because I am Sarah — and I am Jewish —
I must say the holiest words of all:
Come. Eat.
(Laughter ripples through the Tent — light, relieved, holy.)
Eat, my loves —
because you have been brave enough to feel.
Eat, because you have carried the light of every woman who came before you.
Eat, because to feed one another is the oldest prayer we know.
(She raises her hands in blessing.)
May your hands be strong for blessing,
your mouths for truth,
your hearts for compassion.
(A hush.)
And when you leave this Tent tonight,
take its glow with you —
into your kitchens, your friendships, your dreams.
May the Shekhinah walk beside you,
as softly as candlelight in the wind.
May the laughter of your mothers become your song.
And may you always find your way home —
to this Tent,
to this people,
to this peace.
(She smiles again — gentle, wise, unshakable.)
Now… go. Eat. Bless. Live.
(She lifts her hands; the ensemble echoes her final word.)
ENSEMBLE (softly, overlapping)
Live… live… live…
(The music of “Lechi Lach” swells — full and radiant.
The Tent opens toward the doors as ushers guide the congregation
into the candlelit Oneg — Sarah’s Feast.
The lights shimmer, then fade to gold.)
