Once, there was a woman who was living in a small city that was suffering from heavy storms. The flooding and rain had become very bad, but she resisted leaving her house. Eventually the conditions were so bad that she was unable to leave her house. She had to wait to be rescued. However, she had great faith in God, and believed that God would come rescue her. As the floodwaters kept rising, she was forced to move to the second floor of her house. Outside the second bedroom window, she saw a canoe float past, and some of the folks from her town were in it. They yelled for her to come with them.

She responded, "No, you go ahead. I know I'll be rescued." So the canoe paddled away in the torrential downpour. The waters rose even more, and soon she had to move to the attic. Not long after she moved, she heard a powerboat outside the window, and the president of her congregation encouraged her to get in.

She responded, "That's OK, really. I believe God has a plan for me." So the president shrugged his shoulders and motored away in the stormy night.

Not long after that, a helicopter arrived and hovered over her house. The pilot yelled over a microphone that they were going to drop a rope, so she could take hold of it to be pulled to safety.

However, she waved them off shouting: "Help someone else. My faith is strong and God will rescue me."

Well, that was the last vehicle to come by, and sadly, not long after that, the woman drowned. When she got to heaven, she had a chance to meet God, and challenging God, she said, "What's the big idea? You told me you were going to rescue me, save me. Why did you fail and let me die?"

And God replied: "Fail you? Fail you!! First I sent a canoe, then a boat. I even sent the helicopter. But no, you refused. Fail you? What did you expect, a miracle?"

To me, this joke is so funny because it speaks truth. The irony is that this woman looked at God three times and couldn't see it. She couldn't see it-because she was looking for something out of the ordinary, something supernatural. When she saw friends and strangers it was too ordinary—it couldn't be God. Miracles, she believed, had to be bigger than that.

In ancient times, miracles were a symbol of God's power, a manifestation of the immanence of God. They originally happened publicly, through one person's actions—such as Moses parting the Red Sea. They were experienced by many, and they inspired faith. Slowly the power of miracle making passed into human hands, and miracles became a private experience to prove a prophets' power, connection to God, and to reinvigorate faith in a chosen audience.

Even to today, our definition of miracles has continued to evolve. For many, miracles are experienced in every day life, and they allow us to see and experience the world in a whole new way: A parent after the birth of their first child. A rainbow in the sky after a rainstorm. A newfound friend that helps you see the world more clearly. A near miss from an accident. A recovery from a disease.

Yet, one can dispute all of these so-called miracles, claiming that they can be explained through the genius of science. Each one of the examples of above, which have been cited by many as miracles, have rational explanations.

Childbearing is a science—to an obstetrician, they can see the science of our bodies every day. Pregnancy can be explained with scientific words and theories. It's not a miracle.

A scientist can explain the phenomenon of a rainbow. They can instruct us on the chemicals, and wind pressures—on whatever is necessary to be in place to make that rainbow appear. It's not a miracle.

When a car swerves into the wrong lane, missing you by a millimeter, one can reconstruct the scene to understand how it happened that these cars were able to avoid colliding. That's not a miracle.

We can explain many of the "extraordinary ordinary" events around us. Does that mean they aren't miracles, just because we can find a rational explanation?

Steven Z. Leder recently wrote a book in which he talks about miracles, called the Extroadinary Nature of Ordinary Things. He defines miracles as the "extraordinary ordinary". In Rabbi Leder's contemporary commentary, miracles can, and do, happen all around us. Miracles are a sign of faith in ourselves, in others, and in the Divine. Rabbi Leder writes, "The miraculous is the common and the constant: birth, teaching, our breath. The miraculous is everywhere, though we sometimes fail to see it."

It's not about whether miracles are true or not. It's about what miracles do for us. Miracles help us to see the world in a new way. They help us keep faith in ourselves, in this world, and in the Divine. Nahmanides, a medieval commentator, taught that the purpose of overt miracles is to draw attention to hidden miracles around us all the time.

The story of Hanukkah provides the perfect example of this principle. When the Maccabees began the process of cleaning the Temple to rededicate it after the Greeks desecrated it, they needed oil for the eternal light. However, there was only enough oil for one day, and the messenger would take at least eight days to bring more. And there is the miracle of Hanukkah with which we are all so familiar: the tiny bit of oil lasted for the necessary eight days.

But here is the clincher to the story: that story is found in Talmud. There is documented proof that the miracle of Hanukkah as we have been taught it never happened. It's a made up story, from the Talmud.

Even the miracle of Hanukkah can be explained. We can find its' roots, and understand where this story came from. It's not a miracle. But isn't it?

The miracle of Hanukkah has sustained Jews for generations. It inspires children toward their faith, it inspires us to look for miracles in our lives. As children in our Religious School begin to learn about Hanukkah, and learn about the oil, their eyes light up. They are filled with hope and pride and joy. As our ancestors suffered under tyrannical leaders in Europe, the eternal light became a symbol of hope, of strength. For them, the idea of a small light in the darkness, lasting against all odds, was the perfect symbol. It gave them courage. It gave them faith. It provides a symbol of the struggle to remain Jewish against all odds. Even today, the story of Hanukkah illumines within us a sense of pride, of heritage, of inspiration. It helps us believe in the power of our spirits.

How can we say that the miracle of Hanukkah was not a miracle? The light of this tiny flame kindled in thousands a new, and brighter way to see the world. It is indeed the extraordinary ordinary.

All of our examples from above—A rainbow in the sky after a rainstorm, a newfound friend that helps you see the world more clearly, a near miss from an accident, a recovery from a disease—can be explained, like Hanukkah. But, indeed, they are the extraordinary ordinary. We rise from these occasions with new eyes. Are they not miracles?

The title of this sermon is: Are there really miracles? I believe that answer is: yes. When we experience something that changes the way we see the world, that's a miracle. May the lights of the Hanukkiah illumine in us the ability to see the miracles that surround us.

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