The world was engulfed by a torrential flood. Humanity vanished beneath the waters, and creation was reshaped. Never before had such an apocalyptic force swept the earth. The overwhelming presence of the Divine surged through the chaos, leaving no refuge, no escape. Mankind could not withstand the celestial storm that reclaimed the world and began it anew.
Yet one family was miraculously sheltered from the devastation. Hashem instructed Noach to build an ark to survive the cataclysm. For 120 years he prepared, warning his generation and readying his vessel. Through divine instruction and tireless effort, Noach safeguarded his family from the waters that consumed the world.
Even though Noach built the ark with his hands, it could have been torn apart by the rains and the earth’s eruptive forces. Hashem sustained the ark and preserved the lives of Noach and his family. Noach became the first in history to be surrounded by divine miracles that shielded him from certain death.
Silence After the Flood
Yet when Noach emerges from the ark, he is strikingly silent. He offers no words of thanks, no blessings for his miracles. Though he offers sacrifices upon an altar, they are unaccompanied by verbal expression of gratitude or recognition. His silence echoes louder than his offerings.
Rather than channeling his thankfulness into renewal, he turns to wine and drunkenness, wasting the precious opportunity before him Noach had the chance to restore creation to Eden, and to guide humanity toward perfection—but he falters. His silence and indulgence mark the beginning of decline. In his ingratitude, the first cracks appear in the new world, and hope for moral ascent begins to slip away.
Gratitude toward Hashem’s care forms the pulse of religious identity, yet in Noach, it is absent. Emerging from the ark into a renewed world, he offers a korban, but his gesture feels hollow— a ritual observance rather than heartfelt devotion
When Death Released Its Grip
Our people have been granted a divine miracle. None of us could have imagined that all the living hostages would return alive—without our army retreating from critical positions that safeguard our defense. Twenty souls, once buried in a dark dungeon and subjected to hellish torment, have been restored to life and reunited with their families. It feels like techiyat ha-meitim—a resurrection from the depths of despair, a moment when death released its grip.
On a broader level, over these past two years, we have been privileged to witness divine care and affection. None of us can fully grasp the darkness of October 7th, nor can we explain why Hashem allowed such barbarity to unfold. We have no answers for the tragedy and pain that have shadowed our people since that day. Yet even amid the anguish, we cannot ignore the miracles. We cannot overlook 27,000 missiles launched at our nation and the remarkable way in which, by and large, our lives were spared. We cannot disregard the collapse of armies that once threatened the existence of the Jewish state.
How do we express our gratitude to Hashem? We all feel grateful, but how should that gratitude shape and transform our lives?
Gratitude to Those Who Serve
Before discussing our gratitude to Hashem, it is self-evident—but worth emphasizing—the gratitude we feel to His messengers: the scores of soldiers and their families who sacrificed so much for these miracles, particularly for the release of the hostages. The release of the hostages remained the central mission for these soldiers, guiding every decision and risk they took. Had we not focused on the hostages, the war could have been prosecuted with less danger to our troops. This focus reflects everything pure and noble about Israeli society—our reverence for human life, loyalty to one another, and our shared historical bond in the joint project of nation-building. So many families paid a heavy price in this war. As the conflict shifts, possibly into a more moderate phase, their sacrifice must not be forgotten amidst the euphoria of the miracles.
Turning back to divine gratitude, what responsibilities follow for someone Hashem has performed a miracle for?
The Voice of Gratitude
Firstly, we must express our gratitude. Internal acknowledgment, while important, is far less powerful than articulating or vocalizing our thanks. Speaking our gratitude makes it vivid, compelling, and real. Noach may have sensed gratitude, yet it never surfaced—it lay dormant and left little impact. Hundreds of years later, Leah vocalized her gratitude to Hashem by naming her fourth son Yehuda, conveying her praise even though her life was far from perfect and his birth did not change the fact she would always play second to Rachel. Yet she recognized the miracle and thanked Hashem.
Miracles need not be perfect for us to express our gratitude. Some miracles are decisive: we cross from one side of the ocean to the other while witnessing the vanishing of our enemies. More often, miracles are not so clear-cut. We continue to face complex challenges, both in Gaza and the larger international arena. Yet voicing our gratitude—through chapters of Tehillim that celebrate Hashem’s wonders, through invoking His name when recounting our victories—is the first and essential responsibility of anyone who has benefited from a miracle. To speak gratitude, both to Hashem and to the many who sacrificed for this miracle, is to give it its living voice.
Duty
The Hebrew word for miracle is nes, which literally means “a pole.” To receive a miracle is to be lifted upon a pole, elevated beyond danger, and placed into a safer reality. Yet once we are lifted, we confront a new horizon of responsibility, a call to live in accordance with the gift we have been granted.
For an individual, translating a miracle into personal duty is more straightforward. If Hashem has spared me, what does that entail? What does He expect from me? Hashem does not perform miracles without intention. While it may be difficult to determine specific expectations, future responsibilities can often be articulated in personal terms.
For a nation, understanding the duties that arise from a miracle is far more complex. Each individual is unique, and there are few duties that apply universally.
Perhaps these miracles create a collective responsibility for our nation to recognize this moment in history. The drab routine of day-to-day life can obscure the larger historical narrative in which we live. A miracle breaks through this monotony, granting us the vision to see that we stand at the precipice of history. This perspective can galvanize us, lifting us above our pettiness and internal divisions. History elevates us, and the memory of this historic moment should expand our hearts and actions. We must be larger than our smallness.
Faith
Miracles should serve as wells of faith for the future. Before we begin our daily prayers, we recall past miracles and past redemptions. By retelling these wonders, we summon the confidence to believe in the possibility of future miracles and trust that Hashem will answer our prayers. Without this confidence, prayer risks becoming hollow.
History contains dark moments that severely test our faith. October 7th was one such moment. We hope for a bright future, yet there will inevitably be challenges that strain our trust. The miracles we have witnessed in recent years should fortify our faith, making it resilient even in dark times. If Hashem intervened over the past two years—most notably in the release of our four hostages—we know He acts in ways that surpass human understanding. Miracles remind us that the divine is never distant.
The writer, a rabbi at the hesder Yeshivat Har Etzion/Gush, was ordained by Yeshiva University and has an MA in English literature. His books include To Be Holy but Human: Reflections Upon My Rebbe, HaRav Yehuda Amital.
