Twenty years ago, I was president of a congregation in Sacramento. My term was almost over. And then suddenly I got a phone call. It was 5am on a Friday morning, and one of my congregants was frantic. “Did you hear the news?,” he said. “There have been firebombings in three Sacramento congregations.”

The rest of the day was a blur. I called the rabbi and asked him put our Torah scroll somewhere safe. And then there were hours of calling the small congregations in the Sierra foothills, helping them strengthen security, and more calls to the URJ arranging for materials to comfort children. And all the while, I was thinking, “What about Shabbat?”

The rabbi and I were in a daze. All we knew was that somehow, Shabbat would come. We had scheduled a special service for that night to honor graduating High School seniors – something we had never done before. And there was talk of a Sacramento-wide community service. And, horribly, there was the work of lending siddurim to the congregations whose prayer books had been burned. 

Around two in the afternoon, there was a phone call from the FBI, asking if the rabbi and I could attend a meeting in their Sacramento headquarters. At the meeting, the FBI, the Sheriff, and the state and local police all expressed their support and their determination to protect us. And then finally, they got to the real purpose of the meeting. “We need your contact information so that we can put unmarked cars in front of your houses,” they told us. “Your lives may be in danger.”

The rabbi and I rode back to the schul together, and I asked him a rhetorical question. “It’s almost Shabbat,” I told him. “How are we going to soothe the congregation? How are we going to help them find hope?” We rode back in silence and went to our homes for Shabbat dinner, each of us searching for an answer to my question.

I got back to the synagogue before the start of the service and found the rabbi crying in his office. “I took the Torah out this morning like you asked me to,” he said, “and put it in my car. I can’t bear to do the service without the Torah, and I can’t bear to sneak it in.”

And then the rabbi told me his plan. He would start the service with a niggun, and then he would lead the congregation out to the parking lot. We would go out to the parking lot, and the rabbi would take the Torah scroll out of the car and give it to me, and I would carry it in.

The service started, and we went out to the parking lot, feeling totally exposed. We were a store-front shul back then, and the parking lot was in a strip mall in the middle of redneck country. If this was going to be an attack in the Sacramento region, this is where it would happen.

I stood in the parking lot, cradling the scroll in my arms. There was a police car a few feet away from me, and the FBI had warned us about snipers. I knew that if there was a sniper, he would aim for the person holding the Torah. But I held the scroll lovingly as the rabbi led the Shema. And I kept saying the same prayer again and again: God, I pray that no else will ever have to stand here, with police watching on. But if someone had to do this particular mitzvah, thank you for letting it be me.

We went inside and I passed the Torah scroll to the president of the youth group. As I passed him the Torah, I apologized for giving him such a broken world and told him that he and his generation could repair it. I’ll never forget the look in that boy’s eyes – the sadness, the hope, the realization of what was being passed to him.

It was the most difficult Shabbat I have ever known. But perhaps, it was also the most joyful. Looking at that boy’s face, I knew that Judaism would go on. For one day, at least, we had done our part to bring about a future redemption. Those teens would continue the work for us.

Fast forward twenty years, to another Friday morning. I woke up a week ago to find that Roe had been overruled. Like most of you, I was filled with emotions. Anger, sadness, tears. And in the week since, things have gotten worse. The Court has made disastrous decisions about freedom of religion, the environment, and other issues.

But I’ve been around longer than most, and I’ve learned one thing. The world really does change. I’ve seen the end of the war in Vietnam, the fall of the Berlin wall and the liberation of Jews in the former Soviet Union. And I’ve had a hand in all of those things. But to quote one rabbi, “God only helps those who vote.” All of us have to do our part to fight for democracy, to restore Roe, to protect religious freedom.

There’s an old story about a man who is drowning in a storm. The man prays to God, asking God to save him. Eventually, someone comes along in a boat, but the man refuses help. “God will save me.”, the man says. And then a helicopter comes along and drops a rope. Again, the man refuses help. “God will save me,” he says. And finally, as the man is drowning, he yells out to God, “Why didn’t you save me?” “What do you mean?” says God, “I sent the boat and the helicopter.”

It’s a corny story, but I think we miss the point. There’s a storm out there. The entire country is drowning, and we are the ones who can save it. Write letters, give money. Do everything you can. Get your boat out and save someone.

It’s time to be God’s partners in completing the act of creation.

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Our tradition says, “Acquire yourself a teacher and make yourself a friend.” As we go forward with the work of restoring democracy, many of us are going to need teachers and friends – people who and experienced doing this kind of work. The National Council of Jewish Women is a good place to start.