When Seeing Is Not Believing

Crisis and Clarity of Vision

A tragic thread runs through Parashat Sh’lach (Numbers 13:1–15:41), beginning with what appears to be a simple scouting mission into Canaan by twelve of Israel’s leaders. After forty days, the spies return. Two of them—Caleb and Joshua—deliver a faithful report:

“The land that we traversed and scouted is an exceedingly good land. If God is pleased with us, He will bring us into that land, a land flowing with milk and honey, and give it to us.”

But the other ten bring back fear. What they report is not merely military concern, but a kind of spiritual slander:

“The land… is a land that devours its inhabitants.”

The result is national hysteria (except among the women of Israel) and divine wrath. What could have been a swift entry into the Promised Land becomes a 40-year trek, a year for every day spent scouting the land—with an entire generation condemned to perish in the wilderness.

The parasha begins with a curious phrase:

“Send for yourself men to scout the land…” (Num. 13:2)

Rashi notes that God did not command this mission—He merely permitted it. "Send for yourself" implies: This is your initiative, not Mine. The people wanted to see for themselves—not out of strategy, but out of suspicion. The Talmud (Sotah 34b–35a) calls this a tragic concession.

Sforno deepens the indictment: the spies’ sin wasn’t fear—it was their rejection of the Land itself. They did not speak of Canaan as a divine inheritance, but as a threat. They saw not with prophetic vision, but with eyes clouded by fear:

“We were like grasshoppers in our eyes—and so we were in theirs.” (Num. 13:33)

This single sentence lays bare the crisis. The spies didn’t just see giants; they saw themselves as insects. Chazal explain this as a collapse of collective identity. If we see ourselves as small, others will follow our lead.

The punishment is swift: the generation that refused to enter the Land would not live to inherit it. Only Caleb and Joshua, who held fast to God's promise, would survive to enter. The sin here was not a military failure—it was spiritual treason. Immediately afterward, a faction of Israelites attempts to invade the Land on their own—a tragic episode known as the Ma’apilim (Num. 14:40–45). This time, they charge forward without divine sanction. Unsurprisingly, they are routed.

Chazal (Bamidbar Rabbah) interpret this as a sin of impulsive zeal. Just as refusing to go is rebellion, so is going when God has not commanded. Timing, it turns out, is part of faith. The Torah changes tone. We read laws about offerings, libations, challah, and forgiveness for unintentional sin—“when you come into the Land.”

Why now?

Rashi calls it a glimmer of mercy: Though this generation will not enter, the covenant endures. Their children will inherit the Land. Let them prepare now.

These laws are tied to the Land and serve as the path to spiritual and national recovery:

• Grain and wine offerings sanctify the Land, and daily life.

• Challah reminds us that sustenance begins with gratitude.

• Forgiveness laws distinguish between honest error and arrogant defiance.

• The Shabbat violator (15:32–36) reminds us how seriously we must guard the covenant.

And then, at the close of Parashat Shlach comes a commandment that ties it all together:

“Speak to the children of Israel, and tell them to make tzitzit on the corners of their garments… and when you see them, you will remember all the commandments of the Lord.” (Num. 15:38–39)

It is the antidote to the sin of the spies.

They saw what they wanted to see—giants, death, doom. Jewish men are commanded to wear these knotted fringes—one of them dyed with tekhelet, the heavenly blue—as a daily reminder: See the world through the lens of Torah.

As I write these, we are witnessing a dramatic reversal of the sin of the spies in our own time.

Israel is engaged in an existential conflict with Iran—a regime that looms large, a modern-day "giant" boasting threats, proxies, and nuclear ambitions. But the army of Israel does not cower before imagined strength. Rather, it sees a just cause: to protect the lives and dignity of its people and land.

And what is perhaps most striking—we are seeing a generation of Israeli soldiers returning to Torah precepts.

Within the ranks of the IDF, there has been a powerful movement: soldiers requesting and wearing tzitzit in numbers not seen before—reminding of them of who they are, whose mission they represent. Of whose Land they defend.

The generation of the wilderness failed because they saw only with their eyes. This generation may yet succeed because they have learned to see with something deeper.

The tzitzit remind them daily: you are not grasshoppers. You are children of the Most High. And the Land is very, very good.