Ho hum: taking God’s miracles for granted

Picture this: A politician is campaigning in a small Midwestern town, shaking hands like his career depends on it (because it does). He spots one of his longtime supporters and says, “Joe, buddy, can I count on your vote this time?”

Joe looks him dead in the eye and says, “Nope.”

The politician is stunned. “What? After everything? Remember when your farm was about to go to the sheriff’s sale, and I pulled strings for that government loan to save it?”

Joe nods slowly. “Yeah, I remember.”

“And when your son got drafted—I got him that hardship exemption so he didn’t have to go.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“And your mom? The nursing home said no way at first, but I made a call and got her in.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“So why won’t you vote for me now?”

Joe shrugs. “So, what have you done for me lately?”

Classic. We laugh because it’s painfully human. But flip the script: That’s exactly how we sometimes treat God. We recite the Splitting of the Red Sea in our prayers three times a day—every single day. Yet after a while, it becomes background noise, like that one song on your playlist you skip because you’ve heard it a million times. “Yeah, yeah, sea split, walls of water, Pharaoh’s army goes for an unplanned swim. Old news.”

But here’s the heart of it: Imagine God, patient as ever, looking at us the way that politician looked at Joe—kind of bemused, maybe a little wistful—and saying, “After everything? I parted an entire sea for you. I turned walls of water into a safe highway, let you walk through on dry ground while the biggest army in the world got swept away behind you.

And now you’re quietly wondering, ‘Okay… but what have You done for me lately?’”

We take miracles for granted because familiarity breeds… well, scrolling past them.

Helen Keller, who knew a thing or two about not taking senses for granted, put it beautifully: “I who am blind can give one hint to those who see: Use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be applied to the other senses. Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf tomorrow. Smell the perfume of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense; glory in the beauty which the world reveals to you… But of all the senses, I am sure that sight is the most delightful.”

She’s basically saying: Stop treating the sunrise like it’s just your phone alarm going off. Treat it like it’s the greatest special effect ever—and tomorrow the director might yell “Cut!” forever.

Now, let’s talk Napoleon, because every good sermon needs a cameo from a short guy with big ego issues. In 1798, Napoleon rides up to the Red Sea, wants to check out the “Fountains of Moses.” Low tide, he crosses on horseback—dry land, no problem. Visits, chills, then heads back as the sun sets. Tide starts rising fast. He ignores his guides (“What do they know?”), takes a wrong path, horse starts struggling, and suddenly Napoleon’s in deep water—literally. His giant bodyguard hauls him out just in time. Napoleon later supposedly mused that if a priest had been there, it would’ve made a killer sermon illustration.

Imagine: The future emperor almost gets Pharaoh’d by the same sea that God parted for a million ex-slaves. If that’s not divine irony, I don’t know what is. Napoleon gets a near-miss “miracle” escape and thinks, “Whew, lucky.” The Israelites get walls of water, dry ground, and a soundtrack (they even brought tambourines—talk about planning ahead), and we’re like, “Cool story, but can we get manna delivery today?”

The truth is, miracles haven’t stopped; our wonder-meter has just been calibrated way down. We live in a world where we can video-call someone on the other side of the planet while eating sushi flown in from Japan, yet we yawn at a heartbeat. The Siddur reminds us to thank God for every breath, every pulse—continuous, low-key miracles we ignore because they’re on autopay.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe once nailed it: Scientists look for the natural explanation behind the supernatural. Religious people look for the supernatural inside the natural. Same event, different lens. One sees “tidal resonance” or “strong east wind” (scientists have theories about how the Red Sea could part naturally). The other sees God winking through the laws of physics.

And here’s a new point to chew on: The Midrash says when the sea split, all the waters in the world split—in half. Someone sipping soup? Split pea soup. Licking an ice cream cone? Instant banana split. The whole planet got a cosmic pun. God didn’t just save the Jews; He made sure the entire world had something to talk about over dinner. Talk about going viral before Wi-Fi.

We doubt miracles today because if it happened now, we’d say, “Nice CGI, Hollywood.” Or “Probably wind setdown and a reef.” But the real question isn’t “Why don’t big miracles happen anymore?” It’s “Why have we lost the muscle for radical amazement?” A child’s birth isn’t “just biology”—it’s supernatural poetry. A sunset isn’t “atmospheric scattering”—it’s God painting the sky for free.

Maimonides called miracles “Eternity breaking into time.” Franz Rosenzweig tweaked it: Nothing is miraculous about a miracle except the timing. The sea could’ve split anytime. It split then, when escape looked impossible, because God has impeccable comedic timing.

So next time you see a sunrise, hear a bird, or just take a breath without thinking, pause. Whisper, “What have You done for me lately?” Then answer your own question: Everything. Literally everything.

I believe in miracles. And I believe we can train ourselves to spot them again—before the tide comes in and we’re left wondering why we didn’t notice sooner.

Shabbat shalom—and may your week be full of split-pea-soup-level wonders.
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Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California.