Ten

The fifth chapter of Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of the Fathers, begins with a celebration of the number ten.

It recounts how the world was created with ten utterances; what ten things were fashioned just after creation; how there were the ten miracles in Egypt and ten at the Red Sea; ten generations for one historic era and ten generations for another.

But my favorite celebration is the ten miracles that occurred at the Temple in Jerusalem - every day and at every pilgrimage holiday, when the city was bustling and bursting with pilgrims.

The mishnah lists them, ticking them off one by one (click here for the whole text):

• no woman ever miscarried from the smell of the sacrifices
  
• no flies were seen in the slaughterhouse
  
• the smoke from the altar never got in anyone's eyes
  
• no one was ever bitten by a scorpion
  
• the rains never extinguished the sacred fire, and, my favorite,
  
• despite the holiday crush of crowds when the population of the city swelled beyond its earthly capacity, no one ever said: "There is no room for me to lodge in Jerusalem."

After the awesome acts of creation, the Exodus from Egypt, and the splitting of the Red Sea, these so-called "miracles" look very tame indeed. Why, then, would the rabbis catapult these mundane events to such a lofty heights?

Perhaps to teach us to celebrate the miracles of everyday life, when bad things do not happen, when the dog does not bark, when the power does not go out, when we do not cut our thumbs making dinner or trip on the way to bathroom, when life goes merrily on its way.

Every moment that life just does what life can do without a mishap or nuisance or pain or tragedy, that too is a miracle on par with Creation.

And perhaps even more, the rabbis want to teach us to open our eyes, and hearts, and see. See broadly. For what is every bit as astonishing as the fact that no fly buzzed around the sacred meat was that someone, anyone, noticed.

How often do we pay attention to the absence of a nuisance, the absence of pain, the absence of discomfort, the absence of tragedy? Not just for ourselves alone but in aggregate, for all those around us?

Imagine, in this light, the immensity of miracles we witness when we just walk down the street. That we are able to walk, that so many others are able to walk; that we are not beset by marauders or plague; that we know how to share space and do not bump into one another; that life flows and greetings are exchanged and commerce happens; that no one says there is no room for me on this sidewalk - all these are everyday miracles.

Ten years ago, for a few brief moments, the miracles stopped. And the world, momentarily, seemed to come to an end. There were flies that sought to destroy our Jerusalem. There were rains that sought to extinguish the sacred fires of America. There were those who did try to say there is no room for us in this world.

But out of the ashes, the miracles stirred, and came to life once again. People opened their doors to those who were stranded; heroes rushed in where angels dared to tread; strangers embraced strangers; we remembered, as a nation, the best of who we could be, and the gifts and blessings we can bring to this world.

Today is a national day of remembrance. Even as we recall the tragedy and the losses, even as we acknowledge the pain that will never go away, may we notice the everyday miracles that keep us going, the majesty of the human spirit, and that, if we will it, there is room for all.