In June 2013, Yeshivat Maharat graduated its inaugural cohort in a historic ceremony. It was the first time Orthodox women were being ordained publicly and with the backing of an institution. Adding to the festive mood was the fact that all three graduates already had jobs lined up: one at a synagogue in Washington, D.C., and two at a synagogue and school in Montreal. Despite all the invective the Orthodox establishment had hurled at the maharat program, it turned out that community leaders were willing — even thrilled — to hire its graduates.

“I saw it as a great opportunity to service the spiritual needs of the congregation,” says Rabbi Shmuel Herzfeld, who hired Maharat Ruth Balinsky Friedman to work at Ohev Sholom, his Orthodox synagogue in D.C.

Herzfeld says his congregants were “incredibly supportive” of Friedman’s appointment. He counters the notion that a woman serving as spiritual leader is at all problematic. “This is very natural and in accordance with halacha,” he says, referring to Jewish law. “In our community, it makes perfect sense. Women are leaders in every single aspect of their lives, and then when it comes to spirituality, you’re going to say, ‘You can’t be a leader’?”

Impressed with Friedman’s work, Herzfeld has become an outspoken ally for her colleagues. “The maharat has done such an amazing job that I find myself telling other congregations, ‘I cannot imagine now how a synagogue cannot have a maharat.’”

Echoes of this positive reception have made their way to Yeshivat Maharat, bolstering its dean. “Since the graduation this past June, there’s been a shift,” Hurwitz says. “There’s been a newfound sense of confidence. We’re establishing facts on the ground, and it’s changing the Orthodox community.”

This change isn’t completely without historical precedent: Non-Orthodox Jewish denominations have been ordaining women for decades, starting with the Reform and Reconstructionist branches in the 1970s and continuing with the Conservative movement in the 1980s. Even in Orthodox Judaism, there have been a few women throughout the ages who effectively acted in rabbinic roles, though they were never officially ordained. Take the Maiden of Ludmir, who became a Hasidic rebbe in the 19th century. Or Marat Osnat, who took over from her father as head of the Yeshiva of Kurdistan in the 16th century. These women are the real role models for Yeshivat Maharat’s graduates, all of whom are determined to start serving their communities now, even if those communities aren’t quite ready to recognize them as rabbis. Though they may chafe at Orthodoxy’s careful, plodding, slow-to-evolve system, the graduates also revere and trust it fully; after all, it’s what has preserved Jewish tradition across the centuries. Instead of jettisoning it, they want to push it from within.

How the Orthodox movement will respond to the graduates remains to be seen. “It’s hard to know if they’re perceived as mainstream," Hurwitz says. "I feel mainstream, and I feel like they should be.” She embraces the word “feminist,” but bristles at words like “reformer” and “trailblazer” — and says the three maharats out there would probably do the same.

But the maharats-in-training, it seems, have a bit more fire. Dasi Fruchter, who at 24 is one of the yeshiva’s youngest students, is easy to spot as she sits poring over a Talmud in the beit midrash: She’s the one wearing bright red lipstick. When I ask her if she considers herself a feminist reformer of Orthodox Judaism, she simply says, “Yes.”

She also tells me that, whereas the inaugural cohort of graduates has to be somewhat careful, because “whatever they do will be much more scrutinized,” the next generation of maharats “will have the luxury to ask harder questions.” It’s like a chess game, where each tiny strategic advance lays the groundwork for the next, more daring move. For Fruchter, the fact that the religion is slow to change isn’t annoying; it’s comforting. “I love the molasses nature of Orthodoxy,” she laughs. “It’s sweet and gooey and slow and rich.”

Fruchter isn’t sure what honorific she’ll get when she graduates in 2016. Whether Weiss will once again be willing to give out the title of rabba by that point, she can’t say. For now, she notes, he’s “definitely picking his battles.” And the term “rabba” is clearly still embattled: Asked whether he would hire a woman who came with that title, Herzfeld declined to answer, saying, “I’ll leave the semantics game to other organizations to work out.”

In the meantime, the contrast between Fruchter’s demeanor and Hurwitz’s is striking. “I don’t feel lonely,” Fruchter says. “Because we’re a community now, challenges from the outside don’t feel so scary or threatening.”

This confidence owes itself, of course, to Hurwitz, who fought the initial battle and created Yeshivat Maharat so that the women who came after her wouldn’t have to go it alone the way she did. Fruchter says that leaves her and her peers with a serious responsibility: “Our job as students is to make sure that what happened to Rabba Sara never happens again.”