CAN YOU SEE THE SEVEN WONDERS?

The Torah's portion for this week, Beshalach, describes the splitting of the sea: "And the Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and their left."

But later, after the miracle has concluded, as the Jewish people sing the “song of the sea,” they state:

For the horses of Pharaoh, with his chariots and horsemen, went into the sea; and G-d turned back on them the waters of the sea, but the Israelites marched on dry ground amid the sea.

The way the miracle is described as it happened and the way the Jews sang about it differs subtly but significantly. The first time around, they “went into the sea, on dry ground.” In the song afterward, they describe the experience in the opposite order: “They walked on dry land, inside the sea.” Why?

Here is a marvelous Chassidic insight,

Reb Meilech, as he is known, was a disciple of the Maggid. Later he became one of the most renowned Chassidic masters in Poland. Rebbi Elimelech authored the classic work Noam Elimelech.

On one occasion, Rabbi Elimelech and his brother Reb Zushya were staying at an inn. Each night, gentile peasants would enter their room and jestingly beat the one who lay nearest the fireside, Reb Zushya. One night, Rabbi Elimelech offered to change places with his brother so that he could take the beatings instead. Suggesting that Reb Zushya had suffered enough, the agreement was made, and Rabbi Elimelech lay next to the fire instead. That night, the common gentiles again entered to begin their jest. This time, however, one of them said that the one by the fire had taken his fair share of the treatment, and now it would be better to jest with the other one! Again, Reb Zushya took the beatings. Afterward, he told his brother, “If you are meant to get it—you will get it!”

The purpose of the splitting of the sea was not just to create a stupendous miracle for the Jews at that moment, so they could pass through, and their foes would drown; it was to create a paradigm shift in the Jewish psyche for eternity—that the world and all of nature belonged to

G-d; the One who formed Earth into a habitat for man and beast, is the same One who formed the seas as the habitat for marine life, and if He willed so, the sea could be transformed into a home for humans and mammals.

The splitting of the sea, in other words, was there to teach them that walking on dry land was no less a miracle than walking amidst the sea—both were creations of G-d, and both were equally miraculous. If I saw a sea split, creating a path for me to walk, I would be overwhelmed. When I walk, though, on earth, I don’t even take notes. But why? Does it make sense that out of nowhere, just randomly, this entire earth formed, allowing me to walk on it comfortably?

This was the purpose of the splitting of the sea, to shift our perspective on those segments of life’s story when water remains water, dirt remains dirt, the earth remains earth, when every pattern of nature goes on singing its same old song and all the players on the stage keep fastidiously in character—yet, when all is said and done and properly in place, something wondrous and unexpected has emerged. Something that looks suspiciously deliberate and sneakily invasive. G‑d sneaked in when nobody was looking, and we still couldn’t find the crack, but the evidence was in every nuke and cranny.

The Baal Shem Tov once said that the greatest miracle is nature. Only it is a miracle that keeps on repeating itself.

We recite every morning a blessing: “Blessed are You, Hashem, our G-d, King of the universe, who spreads out the earth upon the waters.” We do not take for granted that Earth was formed, and we can walk on it, and live on it, while nearby there are awesome bodies of water that allow Earth to produce life and sustain life. As I get out of bed and take my first steps on earth I pause and express gratitude for that miracle, akin to the splitting of any sea.

Junior high school students in Chicago were studying the Seven Wonders of the World. At the end of the lesson, the students were asked to list what they considered to be the Seven Wonders of the World. Though there was some disagreement, the following places received the most votes:

1. Egypt's Great Pyramids

2. The Taj Mahal in India

3. The Grand Canyon in Arizona

4. The Panama Canal

5. The Empire State Building

6. Australian’s barrier reef.

7. China's Great Wall

While gathering the votes, the teacher noted that one student a quiet girl had not turned in her paper yet. So, she asked the girl if she was having trouble with her list. The girl replied, "Yes, a little. I couldn't make up my mind because there were so many." The teacher said, "Well, tell us what you have, and maybe we can help."

The girl hesitated, then read:

"I think the Seven Wonders of the World are:

1. to touch...

2. to taste...

3. to see...

4. to hear... (She hesitated a little, and then added...)

5. to feel...

6. to laugh...

7. and to love.

The room was so quiet; you could have heard a pin drop.

Coincidence is G-d’s way of remaining anonymous, Albert Einstein said. Our job in the world is to serve as whistle-blowers to reveal that every moment, every event, every experience is flowing with new Divine energy.

Don't wait for miracles; your whole life is a miracle.

Now we will appreciate the above change in language. First, the Torah describes the narrative: “The Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and their left.” This was the miracle, they entered the sea, and it turned into dry land.

But after the event happened, as the Jewish people are recounting the miracle, they express themselves in a way that demonstrates that they did not only appreciate the miracle as a one-time event but that they internalized its message for the rest of history: “They walked on dry land, inside the sea.” From that moment on, their paradigm shifted. Whenever they would walk on dry land, they would perceive it as a miracle akin to walking inside a sea!

A regular stroll on the street would be appreciated and celebrated as a stroll inside the sea. Every step they’d take would be the miracle of the splitting of the sea.

Bob Dylan has a son-in-law, Peter Himmelman, who grew up as a very secular Jew in Minnesota. By nature, he is very cynical and very spiritual and idealistic. He has simply seen lots of hypocrisy in Jewish life when he was growing up. In the early 1980s, a friend invited him to a weekly Torah class in Crown Heights given by Rabbi Simon Jacobson.

Peter, described the scene: “It was getting late. As Simon spoke about a Judaism I never heard of, I kept looking up at the oil paintings of Shtetl life and the Rebbe hanging on the walls. I was prodded more by fatigue than bravado when I finally asked, ‘What’s the deal with those pictures of the Rebbe? They seem sort of cultish to me.’

“Simon was not at all defensive. ‘I like the pictures,’ he said, ‘To me, the Rebbe is a very inspiring human being and I get a lot out of reflecting on the things he says and the way he lives his life.”

Simon continued: “There are people for whom there is no sense of ego. People called Tzadikim. A Tzadik lives only to serve others. And they can defy nature.”

This is where Peter jumped on him. “Really? Can the Rebbe fly?” he asked in obvious disdain and mockery.

“Simon did not lose it or get angry. “‘I’ve never seen the Rebbe fly,’ he answered. “But for a Tzadik, the act of walking on the ground is perceived as the same miracle as flying would be.”

Peter told me: “This idea stunned me. Not because it was new. The things that move us most are things we already know, beliefs that are buried away inside us. Of course, when you stop and think about it, there’s no difference between the weights of the two miracles, walking and flying. It’s just that we, non-Tzadikim, get so tired of the one that happens all the time. We forget to take a deep breath and marvel at the miracle of every step we take on dryland.”

Or to quote again Professor Albert Einstein: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

One day, the Baal Shem Tov arrived at a small crossroads inn. He was warmly invited in and served a refreshment by the innkeeper's family. "Where is your father?" he asked the children. "He's praying," they replied, and Rabbi Israel settled down to wait for his host.

In the late afternoon, the innkeeper emerged from his room. After greeting his guest, he apologized for his long absence. "I am an ignorant Jew," "I can barely pronounce the words from the prayerbook. So, I have no choice but to recite the entire prayerbook, from cover to cover, every day."

For the next hour, the Baal Shem Tov sat with the innkeeper, patiently instructing him on the proper use of the prayerbook. On small slips of paper, he wrote out, "morning prayers," "grace after meals," "afternoon prayers," "evening prayers," "for Shabbat," "for Rosh Chodesh," "for Rosh Hashanah," and so on, and inserted them to mark the proper place in the innkeeper's prayerbook. "Thank you so much," said the innkeeper, when the Baal Shem Tov took leave to resume his journey. "Now I can begin to pray like a proper Jew."

But the innkeeper's joy was short-lived. Later that day, the prayer book inexplicably fell from its shelf, and every slip of paper inserted by the Baal Shem Tov fluttered from its pages. "Woe is me!" cried the innkeeper. "Who knows how many months will pass until a learned Jew will again come this way?" Determined not to let this opportunity to begin praying properly escape him, he grabbed the prayer book and the notes and ran off in the direction his guest had gone.

After several miles of brisk walking, he finally sighted the Baal Shem Tov far ahead. From the distance, he saw Rabbi Israel reach a river. "How will he cross?" wondered the innkeeper. "This time of year, the water is too deep and swift to ford." He was about to shout a warning when he saw the Baal Shem Tov spread his handkerchief on the water, step onto it as if it were the sturdiest raft, glide smoothly across, and disappear into the woods on the opposite bank.

In a flash, the innkeeper was at the water's edge. Spreading his handkerchief on the water, he stepped onto it and glided across, and ran down the path the Baal Shem Tov had taken. "Wait, Rabbi!" he called. "Wait! You cannot go until you mark my prayer book again! All your notes have fallen out!"

Hearing the man calling out to him, the Baal Shem Tov stopped and turned, to see his recent host running toward him, clutching his prayer book in one hand and the slips of paper in the other. "How did you get here?" asked the Baal Shem Tov in amazement. "How did you cross the river?"

"With my handkerchief, same as you," replied the simple Jew. "By the way, that's some trick you've got there. I never would've thought it could be done that way."

"I think," said the Baal Shem Tov slowly, "that G‑d is satisfied with your prayers as they are. Perhaps you should continue to pray the way you have until now."

You see? If you walk on dry land as though you are walking in the sea, then you can walk in the sea as though you are walking on dry land.

It’s the same miracle; the same reality; the same G-d.

This coming Shabbat, 10 Shevat 5785 (Feb 8, 2025), the Jewish world celebrates 75 years of the Rebbe’s leadership. People often ask me: In the absence of the Rebbe’s physical presence, what inspires Chabad? What holds it together? What motivates it? What keeps it focused and united? How long can it continue?

But the Rebbe’s name was "Menachem," and he embodied the vision of the state of redemption for the entire world. The Rebbe did not seek people who would submit to him—even as a person dedicated completely to G-d and His Torah. The Rebbe did not even want to mold followers. The Rebbe aspired to create leaders, who identify within themselves the power and confidence to change the world.

The Rebbe urged his students to be more independent, ambitious, individualistic, creative, revolutionary, and innovative. He loathed when people squandered their talents and gifts, and truly believed in the infinite power of each individual to compose his or her unique song that will set the world on fire. I still recall a public address of the Rebbe, in the summer of 1988, when he expressed frustration that some of his followers felt inept to become the authors of their biographies and were always waiting for orders.

And I know of no other leader who urged all his students to go live amongst people who will challenge their beliefs daily, to build bridges between all Jews, and introduce every soul to the depth and love of Judaism.

The Rebbe keenly understood that you can’t transform a world with followers, only with leaders.

The late Yehudah Avner, a veteran Israeli diplomat, served as an adviser to four Israeli prime ministers: Golda Meir, Yitzchak Rabin, Menachem Begin, and Shimon Peres. He was also Israel’s ambassador to Ireland and Australia. Once, he related, during a conversation with the Rebbe, who spoke of his work.

"Let me tell you what I am trying to do. Imagine you're looking at a candle. What you are seeing is a mere lump of wax with a thread down its middle. When do the thread and wax become a candle? Or, in other words, when do they fulfill the purpose for which they were created? When you put a flame to the thread, the candle becomes a candle."

"The wax is the body, and the wick the soul. Ignite the soul with the fire of Torah and a person will then fulfill the purpose for what he or she was created. And that is what I try to do – to ignite the soul of our people with the fire of Torah."

"My candle – has the Rebbe lit it?", Yehuda Avner asked.

"No," the Rebbe said, clasping Avner’s hand. "I have given you the match. Only you can light your candle."

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky