I returned this evening from several days at the beach. Over the course of two long evenings, I watched the first five episodes of John Adams, the biopic (though that word does not confer the respect or admiration that the work commands) of the man who, more than anyone, lobbied endlessly for the colonies to become independent; who became the first US Ambassador to Britain, the first Vice-President and the second President of the United States of America.

I confess that I am consumed with curiosity as to how our founding fathers did it, how they “brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” How did they have the courage, stamina, vision, daring, stubbornness, faith to break from the past, at the peril of their lives, and create what has never been, yet at the same time display the humility, respect or political savvy to compromise with their compatriots and share the power and the place of wisdom and knowledge with others who may on occasion (perhaps on many occasions) opposed them?

Even more, what does it feel like to know that you are not just making history but that you are history; that your life is bigger than you; that you are living both for the moment and for all time, that your life and your choices will be laid bare before the eyes of posterity?

The exquisite joy and pain of such consciousness must be like grasping the end of a live wire. You are both all lit up and unable to let go.

Why do I tell you all this? Because we are living in such radical, revolutionary times. Just as there was no neutral stance in our war against England, there is no neutral stance in our fight for survival today. Our lives will be laid bare before the eyes of posterity.

Our fossil fuel world is coming to an end and what we do now will determine the trajectory of life for centuries to come. Our innocent, inefficient and increasingly destructive ways of powering, feeding and moving our society by burning yesterday’s sunlight cannot endure. The oil, coal and gas will end. The only question is, which will come first: our successful transfer to clean, renewable forms of energy or the depletion of affordable, accessible stores of fossil fuels, along with the degradation of the only atmosphere that ever nurtured human life?

In truth, this should not be a question. As long as we have to give up fossil fuels, let’s hurry it up.

It is in this light that we need to imagine ourselves as the founding fathers and mothers of a new world, as daring and bold and visionary in our quest for new life as were the founders of America.

Revolutions are not quiet; they are not easy; they are not accidental; they are not incremental. They are, however, invigorating, renewing, at times like these - necessary, and always intentional. It is only now that I understand a lovely but somewhat opaque text in the Pirket Avot, the so-called “ethics of our fathers.” Pirkei Avot is a collection of aphorisms (somewhat like Ben Franklin’s Poor Richard’s Almanac of sayings) from the earliest rabbinic period some 2,000 years ago. The one mishnah that has taken on new meaning for me over this last little while as I have been immersing myself in the green revolution is the following (Pirkei Avot 3:18): Rabbi Akiva said: Beloved is humanity, for they were made in the image of God. Doubly beloved is humanity for it was made known to them that they were made in the image of God, as it says: in the image of God did God make the human. (Genesis 9:6)

According to the rabbis, Adam and Eve knew they were part of remarkable enterprise. Their every act was notable, consequential. And not only did they know that, we know that too. And not just about them, but about us as well. Our acts are wildly consequential. Especially during this demanding, challenging time. We are a chosen generation, for better or for worse. And if we did not know that or believe that before, we should know that and believe that now.

What we eat, how we build, what we make, all are either life-affirming or life-destroying.

The early rabbis too were part of a revolutionary generation. They had witnessed the destruction of the Temple and instead of just praying and waiting for its return, they determined that they were going to remake a vibrant Judaism in a new form, cast from their own imaginings. They knew this could be seen as either horrific blasphemy or creative piety. They meant it to be the latter, and defended it no doubt by claiming blessing in their self-aware daring. “Doubly beloved are we, knowing that we are made in God’s image. (And therefore authorized to keep our covenant with God alive in the best way we can imagine.)”

Like our founding fathers, these early rabbis were exquisitely aware of their place in history; of the need for bold action; of the power of their words (they determined the authentic, authorized method of recording); of the enduring nature of their behavior.

We too live in such an historic moment. There is no neutral now. Everything we do either heals or wounds the earth; either supports or fights our move toward a renewable-energy-driven world. We need to wean our generation, our world, off our dependence on the falsely generous largesse of millions of years of buried energy and water. We need to cease making toxins that the earth and our bodies cannot absorb. We need to dare to guide this fragile world through this hard time of transition.

What if we truly imagined ourselves as founders of a new world; as rabbis rebuilding without a blueprint in the shadow of the fallen Temple; as a congress of confederates pledging to transform this world so dangerously at odds with nature into a world once again in sync with nature?

What would that feel like? What would our lives, our days, look like? How will we feel about ourselves as our time comes to an end? And what will those who come after us think and say about us?

God put the choice of life or death before us, and bade us: “Choose life.” We dare do no less.