Rekindling Faith
D’var Torah for
Parashat Sh’lach L’cha
By Rabbi Boaz D.
Heilman
This week’s portion, Sh’lach
L’cha (“Send forth unto yourself,” Numbers 13:1-15:41), recalls a much
earlier parasha, Lech L’cha, where the first ancestor of our people, Abram, receives
a call from God to go forth, to set out for a land which God “will show you”
(Gen. 12:1).
In both portions, the ultimate direction is the Promised
Land. But whereas Abram perceived the purpose
and resolve behind the command and set out without hesitation, Moses knew
otherwise. As a prophet, he knew in
advance that the mission of the twelve spies that he was to send out to scout
the Promised Land was doomed. In an ancient midrash
(Midrash Tanhuma, rabbinic commentaries going back to the third century),
Moses asks God about the purpose of such a mission.
God’s response is that there is a lesson to be learned here;
the people had not yet learned about the consequences of slander. This would be their lesson.
Sure enough, ten of the twelve spies come back with
slanderous reports, and the people believe them. The lies spread like wildfire throughout the
camp, causing much mourning and bewilderment.
It isn’t that the land is bad. In fact, the land itself is bountiful. As evidence, the spies show a single cluster
of grapes so big that it takes two men to carry it. There are other fruit as well, each a symbol
of the land’s fertility and abundance.
The life-giving force embedded in the land is clear. It runs with rivers of milk and honey.
No, it isn’t the land.
Rather, it is its inhabitants who cause the people to tremble with such
uncontrollable fear. The ten spies
describe the men who inhabit Canaan as giants who wield iron swords and spears
and dwell in huge, fortified cities.
Among them live Amalekites, the Torah’s standard-bearers of evil. Chariot-driving Canaanites control the
plains.
By comparison the Israelite spies saw themselves as
grasshoppers about to be squashed under foot.
The hyperbolic report discourages and dismays the
Israelites. In their usual fashion, the
people bemoan and bewail a fate worse than slavery—led astray by God and Moses,
abandoned to die in the uncharted wilderness.
Yes, two of the twelve men who had been sent to explore the land, Joshua
and Caleb, come back with positive reviews, but their voices are not heard and
the people threaten to pelt them as well as Moses and Aaron with stones.
The open rebellion is soon quashed, as God appears in a
cloud before all the Israelites, and the punishment is soon decided and
announced. For forty years—a year for each of the 40 days the spies spent in
the Promised Land, the Israelites would have to wander in the desert. All the adults, the generation born in Egypt,
would die out, and only those born in freedom would be allowed to enter the
Promised Land. All that is, except for
Joshua and Caleb, the two spies who never lost faith in God. Joshua would lead the conquest and bring the
people in, while Caleb would receive as his reward the city of Hebron.
It’s a harsh lesson and even harsher retribution. God is portrayed here as quick to anger and overly
zealous. Why such extensive
punishment? Would it not be enough to
punish the unreliable spies? Why must
the rest of the people, who merely responded to what they heard, be punished?
What’s more, both God and Moses knew from the start that the
mission was doomed. Why would God even
suggest it, let alone command it? Is it
fair to penalize the people when the whole situation is such an obvious setup?
The midrash
suggests that the lesson contained in this parasha
is of the consequences of slander. Yet there
might be another moral here. Like Lech L’cha, the story of Abram setting
out in search of God and the Promised Land, this portion, too, is really about
faith in God. As they begin their
journey home, the Israelites’ fear isn’t only for their own safety; they are
afraid for their wives and children, fearful that they would be taken prey. They
had not yet learned to trust this God who, for four hundred years seemed to be
absent from their lives. Now, in
response to their fears, God vows to take them under God’s own, personal
protection. It is the children, the tender
and gentle children for whose safety we fear, who in forty years, strengthened
by their unsullied faith in God, will inherit the land.
Memories of past terrors hold too much power over us. In our imagination, they loom bigger than
life, appearing in our darkest moments, when we are most given to despair. At such times, instinct takes over as we
scramble for cover and safety. Yet that
may not be the best response. It isn’t
the real danger that makes us rush so, but rather the exaggerated, nightmarish
apparition that lies deep within us.
When such night terrors attack, hiding under the bed is
hardly the best response. Turning on the
light might be a much more effective solution.
And light—as the Torah would have us remember—is the beginning
of God’s sacred work of creation. As we
light a candle, as we say a blessing over the flickering light and watch it
grow, so also do we allow the glow of God to expand within us. Faith is our inner light, and it can ease our
minds and souls just as the radiance of the candle dispels the darkness around
us.
In this parasha we
are given a promise: God will take care
of our children. The knowledge that it
will be their blessing to enter and live in the Promised Land is enough to
restore our faith so that we can continue on our journey, no matter how arduous
it is.
In Sh’lach l’cha we
are granted, for at least a moment, a glimpse of the future. In this portion we can see the many tumbles
and falls that lie ahead, but along with these we can envision the ultimate
victories that also lie ahead. The road
to the Promised Land may be blocked—at least for the moment—by giants and
forces beyond our control. But our
faith—the faith we teach our children and which they in turn will teach to
their children—will ultimately lead us home, to dwell in peace where once there
was war, to bring about holiness where once evil reigned.
It is this taste of the future that has sustained our people
for thousands of years. Our refrain,
“Next year in Jerusalem,” was—and still is—on our lips every Passover,
reminding us that our journey is not yet over, but that our goal looms closer
with every generation; that with every new, innocent soul that awakens to the
dream and hold fast onto it, we are brought one step closer to the Land of Milk
and Honey.
That is our belief.
That is our faith.
© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman
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