Parashat Shlach Lecha: The Perspective That Shapes Destiny

This week we read how ten spies—“explorers,” some translate—returned from the Promised Land in fear, while two—Joshua and Caleb—saw beyond that fear.

What made the difference?

Everyone saw the same thing, but not everyone interpreted it the same way.

We are living in a war. No, I’m not speaking metaphorically. This is a real, concrete, and cruel war. Every day, Israeli families send off their children, parents, and unit comrades into conflict. Iran is launching ballistic missiles with genocidal intentions. And at the same time, innocent civilians on both sides suffer—some trapped by Hamas’s terror, unable to escape.

In this context: How do we read Shlach Lecha?

“When Moses sent them to scout out the land of Canaan, he said, ‘Go up into the Negev and the hill country, and see what kind of land it is… Are its inhabitants strong or weak… Is the land good or bad… Are the cities open or fortified… Is the land fertile or poor? Are there trees?’ And be courageous: bring back some fruit of the land.” – Numbers 13:17–20

In short, Moses asks them to assess the land by observing:

• Whether the inhabitants are strong or weak (though he doesn’t say how to judge strength).

• Whether they are few or many.

• Whether the land is good or bad (again, no concrete criteria).

• Whether the cities are open or fortified (something visible to the eye).

• Whether the land is fertile or barren, if it bears trees (another visible clue).

  
  

These are somewhat ambiguous directives if one expects a purely objective report.

Our sages offer deeper insight:

Midrash Bamidbar Rabbah 16:12 teaches: When Moses said, “you shall see the land,” he repeats the question three times: what is the land?

First: “Look—see if it produces strong or weak people, abundant or few.”

Second: “Is it open? If openly inhabited, the residents are strong and confident; if behind walls, they are weak.

Third: “Check fertility—the soil and rocks. Good, healthy soil yields fat fruits; poor, clay soil yields meager fruit.”

In other words, the land itself shapes its people—not by weaponry or size, but by the spirit it cultivates.

Ovadia Sforno (15th–16th c.) adds:

We must observe both the land and its inhabitants to judge whether the climate and ecology support a thriving city life. Doctors would send the sick to climates that encouraged health. You could tell by seeing strong, robust people with good posture and many children. That, he says, means the land fosters flourishing life.

And the Netziv (Naftali Zvi Yehudah Berlin, 19th c.) adds a final, powerful note:

“Strong or weak refers to the strength of their ideas, of their hearts—not their physical might or weaponry.”

What relevance does the spies’ story hold when blood flows and grief is daily?

Perhaps the answer lies in how differently they responded to the same reality.

All saw the same: strong enemies, fortified cities, fertile but challenging land.

What differed was not reality, but interpretation.

Ten brought a demoralizing report tinged with fear, distrust, resignation.

Two held fast to their mission, to the promise, to the people.

Today, voices still echo this split: many speak from fear or cynicism, while others—among the few, but unwavering—continue to believe in life’s value, in the justice of our cause, and in redemption’s possibility.

The parashah’s question becomes ours:

From where will we see? From the vantage of those who saw themselves as powerless locusts, crushed by threat?

Or from the posture of those who insist: “We can face this. We can overcome. We can rebuild, over time, effort, and dedication—a people whole again, respected among nations, rooted in the State of Israel, sustaining our right to self-determination.”

Had the people listened to the fearful ten, the mission failed, and the price was forty years in the wilderness—an entire generation denied entry.

Today, the narrative we choose is not neutral. We are shaping both present and future. This doesn’t mean denying pain or falling into hollow triumphalism. It means bearing responsibility: refusing to let hope perish, holding fast to ethics, not letting suffering rob us of our humanity, demanding the return of every hostage, embracing grief while staying the course. It means echoing Caleb, who declared: “It is still possible!”

Shlach Lecha warns us of our collective soul’s fragility—how one narrative can poison a nation’s spirit. It reminds us that a strong leader can also lead astray, and that a courageous minority can, with time, integrity, and perseverance, hold onto the promise of a better future.

We stand at the edge of a new front in a war layered upon another—exhausted from peering through spyglass technologies, media noise, marches, counters, rising antisemitism, injustice, barbarism, and corruption all at once.

The skies fill with death threats, hearts quake with fear, shelters overflow, casualty lists climb—and on the other side, tunnels remain with hostages, fallen soldiers, bombs that make no distinction. We all die. We all lose. A hopeful future seems to vanish.

Singer-songwriter David Broza captured it long ago:

“The jester became king; the prophet became fool'.

Everything’s mixed up, everything’s upside-down. That’s our time.”

Too many days of battle... too much pain for our human souls to bear. Too many children out of school, too much fear in hearts, too much uncertainty, too many reports measuring death tolls—too much.

What we need now is simple: a little calm, a little peace, a return to daily life—play in the park, books, conversations without fear.

Ihié Tov—It will be good.

If we choose to stand as Caleb and Joshua did—Gam ze yaavor—this, too, shall pass.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Gustavo Geier