Parashat Shelach: Hakaras Hatov and the Failure of the Meraglim

Transcript

The Question of the Meraglim

The episode of the Meraglim ends in an astonishing descent. They began as nesi’im, distinguished leaders of Klal Yisrael, yet they ultimately declared, “Ki chazak hu mimenu”—“For it is stronger than us” (Bamidbar 13:31). Chazal understand the word mimenu as an insinuation directed even against Hashem: as though the inhabitants of the land were stronger than Him, chas veshalom (Sotah 35a).

How did such men fall so far?

The difficulty begins with the very opening of the parashah. Hashem tells Moshe, “Shelach lecha anashim”—send men for yourself (Bamidbar 13:2). Rashi explains: “Leda’atcha”—according to your own judgment. Hashem was not commanding the mission or giving it an unqualified endorsement. He was leaving the decision to Moshe (Rashi to Bamidbar 13:2).

How, then, could Moshe proceed? The Torah testifies concerning him, “Bechol beisi ne’eman hu”—“In My entire house he is trusted” (Bamidbar 12:7). Moshe Rabbeinu did not merely obey Hashem in a general way. He perceived and transmitted the ratzon Hashem with absolute fidelity. If the words “leda’atcha” carried a reservation, how could Moshe send the Meraglim?

Rashi further brings that Hashem said He would give the people room to err through their own decision (Rashi to Bamidbar 13:2). Was this warning spoken directly to Moshe? It is difficult to imagine that Moshe heard clearly that the mission would become a stumbling block and nevertheless sent them. Nor can one say that Moshe failed to understand Hashem’s words properly; such a suggestion would contradict the Torah’s testimony concerning Moshe’s nevuah.

Perhaps that statement was not part of the direct command to Moshe, but a declaration, so to speak, before the heavenly court. Yet the question remains: what did Moshe understand, and why did he believe that sending the Meraglim was correct?

This question stands at the entrance to the entire parashah.

Why Were Klal Yisrael Blamed?

A second question is equally powerful. Ten nesi’im returned and described the dangers of Eretz Yisrael. These were not ordinary men. They were gedolei Yisrael and leaders of their shevatim. How could Klal Yisrael be condemned so severely for listening to them?

One might answer that Moshe Rabbeinu stood above the nesi’im. He was the leader of Klal Yisrael and the head of the Sanhedrin. When Moshe’s judgment opposed theirs, the people were required to follow Moshe. This point is especially clear in Sefer Devarim, where Moshe recalls that he urged them not to fear and reminded them that Hashem would fight for them (Devarim 1:29–33).

Nevertheless, the emotional difficulty remains. The people heard respected leaders report what they claimed to have witnessed with their own eyes. Why was following those reports treated as such a grave rebellion?

We must also ask whether the Meraglim lied. Many of the Rishonim understand that the basic facts they reported were true. The cities were fortified, giants lived there, and the fruit was unusually large. Their error was in the interpretation. They had been sent to gather and report information. They were not authorized to decide that conquest was impossible or that Hashem’s promise could not be fulfilled.

Yet perhaps the deeper failure was not simply that they interpreted. Human beings naturally interpret what they see. Their failure was that they interpreted everything lera’ah rather than letovah. Every fact became evidence of danger. Every unusual circumstance became a reason to retreat.

The fundamental lesson of the Meraglim may therefore be hakaras hatov—recognizing the goodness of HaKadosh Baruch Hu. A Jew is called a Yehudi because he is modeh: he acknowledges, thanks, and recognizes the truth. Since Hashem is the ultimate Meitiv, the Meraglim were required to look at what they saw and ask: Where is Hashem’s goodness within this?

Had they begun from that premise, the same facts could have produced an entirely different report.

Hashem’s Record of Goodness

When a situation is ambiguous, the Torah commands, “Betzedek tishpot amisecha”—judge your fellow righteously (Vayikra 19:15). Chazal likewise teach, “Hevei dan es kol ha’adam lekaf zechus”—judge every person favorably (Avos 1:6). When there is no history to guide us, favorable judgment may demand special generosity. But when someone has repeatedly demonstrated goodness, the past itself obligates us to interpret the present accordingly.

HaKadosh Baruch Hu had an overwhelming history with Klal Yisrael. They had witnessed Yetzi’as Mitzrayim, Kri’as Yam Suf, the manna, the well, the clouds, and constant protection in the Midbar. Hashem had shown Himself again and again to be HaKel hatov, the Giver of goodness and chesed. Therefore, when the Meraglim entered Eretz Yisrael and encountered something they did not understand, their obligation was to search more deeply for the chesed hidden within it.

Instead, they interpreted the unknown against Hashem.

Chazal reveal another element in their failure. The Mesillas Yesharim explains that the nesi’im feared losing their positions once Klal Yisrael entered the land (Mesillas Yesharim, ch. 11). That motive itself reflected a lack of hakaras hatov. They had already been privileged to serve as leaders. A person who recognizes goodness says: “Hashem gave me this position for the time that it was mine. I am grateful for what I received.” He does not turn yesterday’s gift into today’s grievance because it may not continue tomorrow.

This is the ordinary form of kefiyas hatov. There is a pathological ingratitude in which a person denies goodness even while receiving it. But there is also the more common failure: as soon as today is difficult, the person forgets every kindness he received yesterday.

The word kafui suggests covering. The good is still there, but the person places something over it and refuses to see it. He remembers what is presently missing and erases years of devotion, help, and blessing.

That was the inner condition with which the Meraglim approached the land. Because they did not hold tightly to Hashem’s established goodness, they became capable of interpreting His greatest gifts as threats.

When Fear Becomes Rebellion

This failure appears clearly in the words, “We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we were in their eyes” (Bamidbar 13:33).

The two clauses are not identical. “We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes” expresses fear and diminished self-perception. A person can become frightened. He may fail to reach the level of bitachon expected of him. That is a spiritual weakness, but fear itself is not yet open rebellion.

The second statement was far more serious. Rashi explains that the Meraglim heard the inhabitants describing them as tiny creatures moving among the vineyards (Rashi to Bamidbar 13:33, based on Sotah 35a). That perception was itself part of Hashem’s protection. The inhabitants failed to recognize the Meraglim properly. Hashem concealed them in plain sight.

The Meraglim took that miracle and turned it into evidence against Hashem. Instead of saying, “Look how Hashem protected us; they saw us but did not identify us as dangerous men,” they said, “Even they viewed us as insignificant grasshoppers.” A manifestation of chesed became part of their complaint.

That is why the Torah later separates two warnings: “Only do not rebel against Hashem, and you—do not fear the people of the land” (Bamidbar 14:9). Rebellion and fear are not the same thing. “Do not fear” addresses the absence of complete bitachon. “Do not rebel” addresses the corruption of Hashem’s goodness into an accusation against Him.

A person may say, “I am frightened. I have not yet reached the required level.” He must work on his emunah, but the struggle is understandable. What cannot be accepted is taking the very kindness through which Hashem protected him and using it to justify mistrust.

The Meraglim did more than fail to see a miracle. They saw the miracle, renamed it as danger, and then used it to spread fear through Klal Yisrael. This was the meridah at the heart of their report.

A Gift Turned Against Its Giver

The distinction between fear and rebellion also explains the unusual punishment that followed. The Torah states that Klal Yisrael raised their voices and wept that night (Bamidbar 14:1). Chazal teach that the night was Tishah B’Av, and Hashem declared: “You cried a baseless cry; I will establish for you a crying for generations” (Taanis 29a).

Why did the decree focus upon the crying? Their report contained kefirah, distrust, and rejection of Eretz Yisrael. Why identify the tears as the decisive offense?

The answer is that tears are not merely a physical reaction. They are one of Hashem’s gifts to the human being. A person experiences pain that cannot be contained within words, and Hashem gives him the capacity to cry. Through the tears, pressure is released, the heart opens, and the person receives a measure of consolation.

An oral Midrashic teaching traces the first human tears to Adam HaRishon after his expulsion from Gan Eden. Broken by what he had lost, Adam was given the ability to weep and thereby survive his pain. The exact source of this teaching requires verification, but its lesson is profound: crying was created to help a person carry genuine suffering.

The generation of the Meraglim took this elevated gift and used it for a bechiyah shel chinam. They cried over the prospect of receiving the land Hashem had promised them. They employed the instrument of consolation to reject a kindness. Their tears themselves became another example of using Hashem’s goodness against Him.

This was not merely an absence of bitachon. It was the same pattern that defined the entire sin. Hashem gave them protection, and they interpreted it as humiliation. Hashem gave them Eretz Yisrael, and they described it as danger. Hashem gave them tears to endure real pain, and they cried over imagined tragedy.

Therefore, the correction would also have to come through tears.

The Tikkun of Tears

The decree of bechiyah ledoros may therefore be understood not only as punishment, but as tikkun. Klal Yisrael misused tears by crying against Eretz Yisrael. Across the generations, they would be given the opportunity to cry correctly—for Yerushalayim, for the Beis HaMikdash, for exile, and for their distance from the land.

Those tears restore crying to its proper purpose. They emerge from genuine loss and direct the heart back toward Hashem.

Chazal teach: “Whoever mourns for Yerushalayim merits and sees its consolation” (Taanis 30b). The wording is striking. It does not merely say that he will merit consolation in the future. By mourning properly, he already “merits and sees.” The Chasam Sofer is quoted as explaining that every tear contributes, so to speak, another stone to the rebuilding of the Beis HaMikdash. The exact location of this teaching requires verification.

There is another dimension as well. The tears themselves are a form of consolation. A Jew who can still cry for Yerushalayim demonstrates that the Mikdash remains alive within him. The relationship was not severed. The very pain proves the bond.

This idea illuminates the Torah’s description of exile after the failure to observe shemittah: “Then shall the land be appeased for its sabbaths” (Vayikra 26:34). How is Eretz Yisrael appeased when its people are expelled? The land is not seeking revenge or a physical vacation.

A teaching attributed to the Chiddushei HaRim explains that while Klal Yisrael lived in the land, they failed to appreciate its sanctity properly. Once exiled, they began to miss it. They cried, longed, and prayed to return. That longing restored the honor that had been denied to the land while they possessed it. The exact source of this attribution requires review.

Thus, exile and tears are not arbitrary retaliation. The original sin was a failure to recognize the goodness of Eretz Yisrael. The tikkun is to discover its goodness through longing. The original generation cried because they did not want to enter. Their descendants cry because they yearn to return.

Bechiyah shel chinam is corrected by bechiyah with purpose.

Eretz Yisrael in Birchas Hamazon

The same principle may explain the structure of Birchas Hamazon. We begin by thanking Hashem for sustaining the entire world with goodness, grace, kindness, and mercy. Immediately afterward, we thank Him for Eretz Yisrael. Chazal teach that Moshe instituted the blessing of Hazan when the manna descended, and Yehoshua instituted the blessing for the land when Klal Yisrael entered Eretz Yisrael (Berachos 48b).

Why must Eretz Yisrael be mentioned whenever a Jew eats bread—even when the bread was produced outside the land?

Because Eretz Yisrael represents the fullest expression of Hashem’s gift of sustenance to Klal Yisrael. The land was meant to nourish them through its grain, fruit, and produce, together with the mitzvos of terumah and maaser. Food would not be experienced merely as physical survival. It would reveal the holiness, generosity, and closeness of Hashem.

The Meraglim carried back the extraordinary fruits of the land, but they interpreted their size as a warning. The very produce that should have displayed the richness of Hashem’s gift became part of their campaign against entering. They looked at the evidence of tov and called it ra.

Moshe Rabbeinu believed that Klal Yisrael needed more than an abstract belief that Eretz Yisrael was good. They needed to encounter the land and recognize that goodness personally. This may be part of the meaning of “leda’atcha”—according to your judgment (Rashi to Bamidbar 13:2). Hashem had already promised that the land was good. From the perspective of pure emunah, no investigation was necessary. Moshe, however, understood that experiential hakarah could deepen their gratitude. Let them see the land, taste its fruit, and return speaking of Hashem’s chesed.

Moshe accepted a risk because he believed that direct contact with Eretz Yisrael would awaken recognition. He could not imagine that a person would stand before such concentrated goodness and deliberately reinterpret it negatively.

The mission was therefore intended to produce hakaras hatov. Its tragedy was that the Meraglim used the experience to produce the opposite.

Why Moshe Prayed for Yehoshua

Moshe believed that the goodness of Eretz Yisrael would be self-revealing. Once the Meraglim saw it, they would return transformed. Yet before they departed, Moshe changed Hoshea’s name to Yehoshua and prayed, “Kah yoshiacha mei’atzas Meraglim”—May Hashem save you from the counsel of the Meraglim (Rashi to Bamidbar 13:16).

Why did Moshe pray specifically for Yehoshua and not for Kalev?

Perhaps Yehoshua possessed a unique negiah. He was Moshe’s devoted talmid. When Eldad and Meidad prophesied, “Moshe will die and Yehoshua will bring Israel into the land,” Yehoshua reacted fiercely in defense of his rebbe (Sanhedrin 17a). His love for Moshe was so great that he did not desire the leadership that would follow Moshe’s passing.

Entering Eretz Yisrael meant that Yehoshua would eventually assume Moshe’s position. It is possible that this love could unconsciously make him receptive to delaying the entry. Moshe therefore prayed that even this noble negiah should not cloud Yehoshua’s vision. Kalev did not carry that particular concern and did not require the same tefillah.

This also illuminates the unusual punishment of the Meraglim. Chazal teach that their tongues extended to their navels and were consumed by a plague (Sotah 35a). The tongue clearly corresponds to their lashon hara. But why the navel?

Perhaps the navel symbolizes continuous, unseen sustenance. Before birth, the child receives air and nourishment from his mother constantly, without effort and without interruption. The connection remains marked upon his body after birth.

Klal Yisrael in the Midbar lived in a similar condition. Hashem supplied their food, water, protection, and direction continually. They survived only because He sustained them in a wilderness where ordinary human life was impossible. Their entire existence testified that they were being carried.

Yet with their tongues they denied the goodness of the One Who had sustained them. The tongue reached the navel, measure for measure: the organ of accusation confronted the sign of total dependence.

Do you not remember Who has fed you until now? Do you not recognize the constant chesed that made every step possible?

The punishment revealed the precise goodness they had refused to acknowledge.

“They Are Our Bread”

Kalev urged Klal Yisrael not to fear: “Their protection has departed from them, Hashem is with us; do not fear them” (Bamidbar 14:9). He also declared, “Ki lachmeinu hem”—“For they are our bread.”

What does bread have to do with conquering fortified nations?

The Ramban explains that the inhabitants would be easy to overcome, like bread that is ready to be eaten, because their strength and protection had departed (Ramban to Bamidbar 14:9). Yet perhaps Kalev’s image of bread carried another message directed specifically to the generation of the Midbar.

What was “our bread”? Their bread was the manna. Hashem said, “Behold, I shall rain bread for you from heaven” (Shemos 16:4). The manna was an open miracle, yet it arrived every day with such consistency that it became ordinary life. Each morning a person went outside and found his food. The impossible had become routine.

That itself was an extraordinary chesed. Hashem did not sustain them through occasional, dramatic rescues that left them frightened and uncertain. He created a miraculous system so reliable that it felt almost natural. The same wonder that would have overwhelmed another generation became their breakfast.

This may be what Kalev meant: “Lachmeinu hem.” Look at our bread. It descends from heaven, but Hashem gives it to us with the simplicity and regularity of nature. In the same way, He can deliver the inhabitants of the land into our hands without chaos or terror. What appears impossible to the world can become, for Klal Yisrael, as straightforward as eating bread.

Kalev was not claiming that Klal Yisrael possessed superior natural power. He was reminding them of the pattern they were already living. Hashem’s miracles did not merely occur around them; they had become the stable structure of their lives.

The navel and the bread convey the same message. Hashem had nourished them continuously, quietly, and completely. Their past should have taught them how to read the future.

Instead of saying, “The next miracle is impossible,” they should have looked at the manna in their hands.

When Ingratitude Reverses Reality

The manna reveals how a miracle can become so constant that a person stops seeing it. Klal Yisrael did not hold an elaborate celebration every morning when food appeared. They collected it as part of the day. The greatest chesed had become familiar.

That familiarity should have strengthened them. If Hashem could sustain an entire nation daily through bread from heaven, why should the conquest of Eretz Yisrael be beyond Him? Moshe Rabbeinu believed that once the Meraglim saw the land, they would recognize the same pattern of goodness. He could not imagine that they would look directly at Hashem’s gift and return describing only danger.

A Midrash Tanchuma cited in the shiur records an astonishing claim made by the people: the nesi’im were concerned for their welfare, while Moshe was not. The precise location requires verification. The statement demonstrates how far kefiyas hatov can distort judgment.

What had the Meraglim done for them? According to the explanation that their report was driven by fear of losing their positions, they were protecting themselves. Moshe, by contrast, had sacrificed his entire life for Klal Yisrael. He had confronted Pharaoh, led them from Egypt, pleaded for them after their sins, taught them Torah, and carried their burdens. Moreover, Moshe knew that the entry into the land would lead to Yehoshua’s leadership and the end of his own mission. His insistence that they enter could not be explained by personal ambition.

Yet ingratitude reversed the entire picture. Those who were acting for themselves were described as caring leaders. The person who had given everything was accused of lacking concern.

This is the disease of kefiyas hatov. It does not merely forget favors. It rearranges reality. The benefactor becomes the enemy, while the self-interested voice becomes trustworthy. Yesterday’s devotion is erased because today’s message is difficult to hear.

The Meraglim first failed to recognize Hashem’s goodness. They then transmitted that way of seeing to the nation. Once the lens of ingratitude took hold, even Moshe Rabbeinu’s selflessness could be recast as indifference.

That is how a nation surrounded by chesed became convinced that nobody was acting for its good.

Without Hashem, the Midbar Is a Grave

Hashem pronounced the decree: “In this wilderness your carcasses shall fall” (Bamidbar 14:29). The expression is unusual. Why say “your carcasses shall fall” rather than simply, “You will die in the wilderness”?

Perhaps the wording exposes what human life in the Midbar truly was. A wilderness without food, water, shelter, or a natural means of survival is a death sentence. Klal Yisrael lived only because Hashem continuously sustained them. Without that chesed, a person in the Midbar was already a lifeless body waiting to fall.

The decree may therefore be understood not only as an active punishment, but as the removal of the very kindness they denied. Hashem was saying: You insist upon viewing yourselves without My protection. Then see what that reality means. If I am not feeding, sheltering, and carrying you, “pigreichem yiplu”—the body simply collapses.

Chazal describe how, during the years following the decree, members of that generation would prepare graves on the night of Tishah B’Av, and each year those whose time had arrived did not rise. The exact Midrashic location of the full account requires verification. The image reinforces the pasuk: the Midbar itself had become the place where the unsupported body returned to the earth.

This pattern began with Adam HaRishon. Hashem said, “I will make for him a helper corresponding to him” (Bereishis 2:18). The creation of Chavah was the Torah’s first explicit presentation of a gift intended for man’s good. After the sin, Adam responded, “The woman whom You gave to be with me—she gave me from the tree” (Bereishis 3:12). Chazal identify this as kefiyas hatov (Avodah Zarah 5b).

The first clearly described kindness was turned into the first accusation against the Giver.

That is the pattern repeated by the Meraglim. Hashem gave protection; they called it humiliation. He gave tears; they used them to reject Him. He gave extraordinary fruit; they presented it as danger. He sustained them in the Midbar; they claimed He was bringing them to destruction.

A person who opens his eyes sees chesed at every turn. A person who refuses can take the same chesed and construct a complaint from it. When the gift is denied, Hashem need not create a new punishment. The absence of the gift reveals what was sustaining the person all along.

Seeing the Good of Eretz Yisrael

Eretz Yisrael requires trained eyes. The Torah says of the land, “The eyes of Hashem your God are always upon it, from the beginning of the year until the end of the year” (Devarim 11:12). Dovid HaMelech says, “Urei betuv Yerushalayim”—“See the goodness of Yerushalayim” (Tehillim 128:5). It is not enough to stand in the land. One must learn to see its good.

A story is told of the Boyaner Rebbe that while traveling through Eretz Yisrael, he spent the journey looking through the window rather than conversing with the chassidim accompanying him. They asked why he was not using the limited time to speak with them. He replied that the Torah says Hashem’s eyes are directed toward Eretz Yisrael, and he wished to place his eyes where Hashem places His. The exact biographical source requires verification.

The depth of the story is not merely that the land deserves to be viewed. Hashem’s gaze represents His special hashgachah and concentrated chesed. Eretz Yisrael gathers within it kedushah, blessing, sustenance, and closeness. Its unusual fruit was not evidence of danger; it reflected an unusual concentration of goodness.

Moshe Rabbeinu pleaded, “Let me cross over and see the good land” (Devarim 3:25). What would seeing add? Moshe wanted to encounter and absorb the tov Hashem had placed there. To see Eretz Yisrael was to see another revelation of Hashem’s greatness and kindness.

This was what Moshe hoped the mission of the Meraglim would accomplish. They would travel through the land, observe its strength and fruitfulness, and return as witnesses to Hashem’s goodness. Instead, they came back with the same sights and an inverted interpretation.

That is the enduring lesson. A person can receive chesed and overlook it. He can benefit from a miracle and call it nature. He can take a gift and transform it into an accusation. Or he can open his eyes and ask, at every step: Where is the tov of HaKadosh Baruch Hu here?

The sin of the Meraglim was not merely that they saw frightening things. It was that they refused to see the goodness contained within what Hashem showed them.

Our avodah is “urei betuv Yerushalayim”—to see, recognize, and live with the tov.