The splitting of the Red Sea, according to Jewish tradition, is the greatest miracle ever performed.  It is so extraordinary that on that day even a common servant beheld more than all the miracles witnessed by the prophets Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel combined.  And yet we have one midrash that mentions two Israelites, Reuven and Shimon, who had a different experience.

Apparently the bottom of the sea, though safe to walk on, was not completely dry but a little muddy, like a beach at low tide. 

Reuven stepped into it and curled his lip. "What is this muck?"

Shimon scowled, "There's mud all over the place!"

"This is just like the slime pits of Egypt!" replied Reuven.

"What's the difference?"  Complained Shimon.  "Mud here, mud there; it's all the same."

And so it went for the two of them, grumbling all the way across the bottom of the sea.  And, because they never once looked up, they never understood why on the distant shore, everyone else was singing and dancing. For Reuven and Shimon the miracle never happened. (Shemot Rabba 24.1)

While the sea had parted for Reuven and Shimon, the miracle never made it's way into their heart, or their life. This is a story about the permission to look up. Because there is something about the blinders we choose to wear that not only affect our vision, but our capacity to risk or embrace or celebrate or sing and dance or praise or venture or love wholeheartedly.

I just spent the weekend on retreat with 85 men in the desert--at The Casa--near Phoenix. (Why the Arizona desert in August you may wonder? I said there were a lot of us; I didn't say that we were the sharpest knives in the drawer.) Our theme: Male Spirituality. In my first lecture, I noted the irony that many of the men were there because their spouse made them attend. I'm just saying...

The dialogue during our retreat? How do we move from a paradigm of seeing our spiritual journey with our head, to seeing it with (and living it from) our heart? How do we hear the music and not just play the right notes?

We've conditioned ourselves to believe that solutions are contained in correct answers.

Or accurate theology.

All we need is the right advice or prayer or detailed guidance.

As if enlightenment is a kind of technique or skill set. In our minds Reuven and Shimon missed it because they failed to attend the workshop on "looking for miracles."

There's a story in the New Testament where Jesus cures ten lepers. The ten go on their way, pretty tickled (I would suppose) with their good fortune. One of the ten returns and prostrates himself at Jesus' feet, as a way of saying thank you.

What's the point of the story? Were ten made clean?

Yes. Ten were made clean.

But only one received a miracle.

Here's the deal: A miracle is not defined by an event. A miracle is defined by gratitude. A miracle is not the wave of a magic wand. It does not remove us from danger or future loss. However, a miracle alters our heart and changes the way we live out the rest of our days... even if our days are numbered.

Kate Braestrup observes that all ten lepers "went on to live whatever new life was afforded them thereby. We can be confident that all ten suffered other wounds, for life is wounding, and that all ten died, for life is also terminal.  Sometimes the miracle is a life restored, but the restoration is always temporary.  At other times, maybe most of the time, a miracle can only be the resurrection of love beside the unchanged fact of death."

I had a first this week--a Haboob. At the retreat, we're sitting by the pool and we see a dust cloud fill the horizon to the south and east, moving rapidly our direction. Common sense says, "Move... as in now!" (I was gawking because I assumed such storms existed only as special affects for movies like Ghost Protocol.)

What I do know is that our visibility changed dramatically. Which takes me back to Reuven and Shimon. And it occurs to me that I spend a good deal of energy making my own internal haboob--through distraction or self-pity or presumption or superciliousness. And the landscape of my life--and my relationships--becomes predicated on my clouded vision. When this happens, I miss the miracle every time. As if that's not enough, I live my days and my life constricted. And without gratitude I miss the resurrection of love.

I don't know what happened to Reuven and Shimon when they made it to the other side of the Red Sea. But I do know that those who crossed with a heart of gratitude, found their world changed. 

There is a temptation to want the miracle and also hope for some warranty against future danger. Kate Braestrup again (talking about her children), "Don't drink and swim. Wear a helmet... as if I can hector them into a lifelong immunity from fear and pain. As a mother, I pray for miracles of the most ordinary kind of their behalf: I want their hearts to keep beating.  I want them to live. But then, a grateful heart beats in a world of miracles.  If I could only speak one prayer for you, my children, it would be that your hearts would not only beat but grow ever greater in gratitude, that your lives, however long they prove to be and no matter how they end, continue to bring you miracles in abundance."

So. Just look up. Let yourself be delighted.

That's it? Can it be that simple?

The short answer is yes.

The long answer is yes.

What will I see? I won't know until I look up.

This isn't about completing a task or checking an obligation off a list. It's about recognizing and embracing the gift of grace that is already there.

One thing about a Haboob is that it leaves particulate in the air, and gives the sun a reason to put on a show as the curtain of night falls. Above the horizon is a layer of deep tangerine. It reminds me of that scene in Out of Africa, when Karen is leaving the farm, and her faithful servant Farah asks her to build a fire, so he will know where to find her. She says that she will.
"Then you must make this fire very big Sabu," Farah tells her.

Someone in heaven made a "fire" that allowed me to stop, long enough to pay attention, and be grateful. And maybe, just maybe, that's our job with one another. To build the fires that remind us, that this sacred moment may be hidden until we look up.