This is What Sanctuary Looks Like

On a trip to Minneapolis in late January, this week’s Torah portion came to life for me in an entirely new way.

Parashat Terumah brings us the ultimate invitation to communal generosity in the Torah. God commands the Israelites to bring “terumah,” meaning “gifts” (literally, “something raised up”), for the construction of the Mishkan, the desert tabernacle, “from every person whose heart is so moved.” (Exodus 25:2) The people contribute many belongings, including works of their own hands, to provide for the construction of the Mishkan. God says, “Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25:8)

The people step up with a remarkable array of objects — striking, given that they had just come out of slavery in Egypt — and fashion them just as they were commanded. These gifts contribute to the construction of a beautiful altar and for the indwelling of the Divine Presence amid the Israelite community. Eventually the people must be told to stop bringing gifts because no more donations are needed.

In a totally different context, I saw an extraordinary outpouring of personal gifts among the people of Minneapolis in January. The explicit goal was not to build a sanctuary or create space for the Divine, but to push back against the cruelty and dehumanization enacted by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement in their city since early December. The declared intention was to communicate that Minneapolis residents would not tolerate the demonization and abduction of their neighbors including those without legal status, those with pending or full legal status and naturalized citizens. The people of Minneapolis vowed to say “no” to ICE’s ruthless and mendacious onslaught, insisting on a return of humanity and the rule of law. 

The gifts that were brought were expressions of love. I learned that wide swaths of Minnesotans were buying and delivering groceries for families afraid to leave their homes, accompanying school children whose parents were afraid to step outside, patrolling areas around schools to try to prevent the abduction of parents and staff, driving around neighborhoods to alert neighbors when ICE vans approached, fundraising to support families whose primary breadwinner has been detained or deported, and much more. I know of one person that identified an underused apartment in their family and offered it to an immigrant who felt unsafe to return to her own home.

I heard of new no-cost medical clinics that were set up for immigrants in the basements of churches. I met a pastor, himself an immigrant, leading his church of mostly immigrant congregants to help one another to maintain a sense of joy and abundance. This church periodically has dance parties, to invite people out of fear and degradation and into joy.

We learned that virtually every neighborhood has its own WhatsApp group, enabling neighbors to coordinate the needs of immigrant families and their neighbors’ desire to help. Through these hyperlocal WhatsApp groups, a system was self-organized to coordinate those willing to follow large black vans with tinted glass and out-of-state license plates roaming the neighborhoods. 

A driver would text the license plate number of the van in front of them to a dispatcher, who could confirm from an improvised database whether or not this van was ICE. If it was, the driver would honk repeatedly, get out of the car and begin to whistle in order to alert immigrant neighbors (or those who might be mistaken for immigrants) to be careful, to stay inside and keep their kids safe until ICE had moved on. In one case, a young volunteer was happy to say that his intervention had allowed a woman and her young son to run into their home before ICE could reach them.

There were seemingly endless stories about the remarkable outpouring of love and care being offered by otherwise “ordinary” people to those closest to the pain. It was awe-inspiring and uplifting.

We went to synagogue on Shabbat morning on Jan. 24. It was clear that our friends were exhausted, traumatized and deeply in need of support. And then the news surfaced that the Veterans Administration nurse Alex Pretti had been shot to death by ICE that morning. The rabbi gently announced the news and led us in song and prayer. Looking around the sanctuary, I saw that many people were crying. Pretti was not Jewish nor, to my knowledge, the co-worker of anyone in that room. But in that sacred space, there was no separation. Everyone felt deeply connected to him and his family and to everyone else. The air was thick with love, anguish and prayer.

After Shabbat, we were invited to a small gathering in our son's neighborhood. About 40 people stood in a circle around a fire in the frigid cold, singing and expressing gratitude for one another. There was a request for songs, so I led “This Little Light of Mine,” my 6-year-old granddaughter’s suggestion. The Shechinah, the Divine Presence, was palpably with us.

The people of Minneapolis built a beautiful sanctuary, which I was fortunate enough to visit, in the midst of the reign of ICE. They built it with their time, their care for their neighbors, their idealism, their humanity. Even in the midst of saying a resounding “no!” to ICE’s callous disregard for human life and the rule of law, they said “yes!” to their neighbors, to love and community. I will never forget the sacred scenes I witnessed there.

Adapted from column posted at J Weekly https://jweekly.com/2026/02/19/in-minneapolis-average-citizens-built-a-sanctuary-of-a-different-kind/