When a Personal Miracle Becomes a Turning Point in Faith

When Moshe Rabbeinu was about to leave this world, he shared a message with the people of Israel: “And now, Israel, what does Hashem your God ask of you? Only to fear Hashem your God.” The Talmud asks: Is fear really such a small matter? How can it say Hashem only asks us for something so big?

Rabbi Yosef Karo, the author of the Beit Yosef, comments on this verse. He focuses on the words “And now, Israel.” What does “and now” mean?

He explains that when the Jewish people were in the desert, surrounded by open miracles, clouds of glory, Heaven-sent food, and a miraculous well, it was much easier to recognize Hashem and to respect Him. But even though we no longer see those kinds of miracles today, the Torah is eternal. The commandment to respect Hashem is just as important now as it was then.

So how can we build that deep awareness of Hashem in our own generation?

Rabbi Ephraim Borodiansky once shared a moving story. “I was riding in a taxi with a driver who didn’t seem religious,” he said. “In the middle of the ride, the driver turned to me and said, ‘Rabbi, want to hear a story about divine providence?’ I nodded.”

The driver began. “I was a soldier in the army. One night, we had to sleep out in the field, in sleeping bags. Two soldiers stayed awake to stand guard, and the rest of us slept. Early in the morning, one guard carefully woke the soldier next to him and whispered, ‘Don’t move. There’s a venomous snake resting on your leg. If you move even slightly, it could bite.’”

They tried to find a safe way out, but nothing seemed possible. Finally, the commander suggested something risky, shoot the snake from up close. The soldier might lose his leg, but it was better than risking his life. The soldier agreed.

As the sharpshooter prepared to aim, the soldier lying there whispered from the depths of his heart: “Master of the Universe, if the snake leaves me unharmed, I will return to faith.”

“And then,” said the driver, “right after he made that heartfelt promise, the snake slowly backed away and slithered into the bushes. It was like a miracle in front of our eyes. And my friend kept his word. He returned to Torah and mitzvot and is now a serious Torah scholar. He has a family that follows halachah down to the smallest details.”

Rabbi Borodiansky nodded. “That’s a beautiful story,” he said. “And what about you? Did you return to Torah and mitzvot too?”

The driver smiled sadly and shook his head. “No, Rabbi. I didn’t have a snake on my leg…”

This answer may sound light, but it speaks to something deeper. Why do we wait for dramatic moments to open our eyes? The Ramban (Nachmanides), at the end of Parshat Bo, teaches us something profound: Through the big, open miracles, we are meant to recognize the small, hidden ones. Everything that happens in the world whether to a group or to a single person, is under Hashem’s constant care. Nothing is random. It’s all a miracle.

The oil that burns in a lamp doesn’t burn on its own. As Rabbi Chanina ben Dosa once told his daughter when she accidentally used vinegar instead of oil for Shabbat candles: “The same One who told oil to burn will tell vinegar to burn.”

That’s the lesson. Even what we call “nature” is really Hashem’s will in action.

The Beit Yosef reminds us that when we see miracles, it becomes easier to feel yirat Shamayim, awe of Heaven. Like that soldier who returned to Torah, real fear of Hashem means following His ways, even when it takes effort.

And if we think miracles don’t happen anymore, we’re mistaken. They do. All the time. But we need to open our eyes and notice them.

A heart that’s connected to Hashem is something many people long for. Some say it’s hard to achieve. Even the Talmud said so. But if we look at the world around us, the wonders of nature, the complexity of the human body, the survival of the Jewish people despite so many threats, we’ll realize that Hashem is always here. Watching. Guiding. Protecting.

When we see the world that way, feeling connected to Hashem becomes not only natural, but something our souls long for.