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Yeshivat Har Etzion

PARASHAT SHELACH

By Rav David Silverberg

Rashi, in his opening comments to Parashat Shelach, explains (based on the Midrash Tanchuma) the relationship between the final episode of Parashat Beha'alotekha – Miriam's tzara'at for speaking improperly about her brother – and the beginning of Parashat Shelach – the narrative of the spies. According to Rashi, the juxtaposition between these two events serves to emphasize that the scouts should have taken example from Miriam and avoided the transgression of lashon ha-ra – negative speech. Miriam's punishment should have reinforced in the people's minds the consequences of this sin. The scouts, however, failed to learn the lesson, and they, too, became guilty of this grave transgression.

Several questions arise from Rashi's comments. Firstly, the association drawn between Miriam's disrespectful attitude towards her brother and the rebellion triggered by the scouts requires some explanation. Would we actually classify their transgression as "lashon ha-ra"? Did it not involve a much broader and fundamental issue, of Benei Yisrael's destiny in their ancestral homeland, and the question of faith in God's ability to assist the nation in battle? Secondly, does this connection of lashon ha-ra alone warrant this juxtaposition between the two events?

We might suggest a more specific connection between Miriam's tzara'at and the incident of the spies, which, admittedly, does not appear to accommodate Rashi's formulation, but is worth considering in its own right. In truth, Miriam did not violate the standard prohibition of lashon ha-ra, which involves speaking disparagingly about another. As we cited yesterday from the Rambam (in the closing passage of Hilkhot Tum'at Tzara'at), Miriam merely sought to equate Moshe's prophetic stature with that of others: "Has the Lord spoken only with Moshe? Has He not spoken through us as well?" (12:2). God responds to Miriam (and Aharon) by emphasizing Moshe's unique level of prophecy and the direct mode of communication through which he hears the divine word (12:6-8). Miriam seems to have erred not in speaking negatively about Moshe, but rather in challenging the unique stature he had assumed. Indeed, Chazal explain that Miriam criticized Moshe's decision to separate from his wife, which he – correctly – deemed necessary by virtue of his unique level of prophecy.

God's immediate and drastic reaction to Miriam's remarks was perhaps intended – if only in part – to restore Moshe's preeminence in the people's eyes. It was absolutely critical for the nation to understand that Moshe's leadership and instruction represented precisely the divine command, that he served as the conduit bringing God's word to the people. The moment Miriam challenged this unique role of Moshe, Benei Yisrael's firm belief in, and obedience to, Moshe's authority was endangered. God therefore punished and even humiliated Miriam – the nation's travel was delayed for a week until her full recovery (12:15), such that everybody was fully aware of what had happened to her. In this way, Moshe's singular stature would be reaffirmed, and the people would be made aware of the consequences of questioning his role as direct transmitter of the divine word.

This, perhaps, is the lesson that the scouts failed to learn. This episode reveals that the scouts entertained doubts as to the viability of the entire destiny Moshe had charted for them when he first approached them in Egypt. What perhaps allowed these doubts to surface, to the point where the scouts decided that Benei Yisrael could not possibly enter the land, was the incident of Miriam. Miriam's argument, that Moshe was no different than other prophets, may have triggered these sentiments in the scouts' (and perhaps all the people's) minds, the question of whether they could trust Moshe with their national future. Suddenly, the prospect of returning to Egypt, where at least their basic survival was guaranteed, appeared more secure and comforting than the uncertain future in Canaan, which entailed placing their trust in a prophet whose own sister felt capable of challenging.

Thus, the theme of lashon ha-ra shared by these two unfortunate incidents – Miriam's remarks about Moshe and the sin of the spies – is actually a very particular manifestation of lashon ha-ra – challenging the authority of Moshe. The questions raised by Miriam may have faded the mystique surrounding Moshe's unparalleled stature. The spies were to have taken note of her harsh punishment and thus reminded of Moshe' singularity and unquestioned role as transmitter of the Torah. Instead, they chose to ignore God's warning and continued to entertain doubts regarding the destiny towards which Moshe led them. These doubts erupted in the form of panic and hysteria that overcame the spies and which they in turn engendered within the hearts of the rest of the nation.

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The Torah tells in Parashat Shelach of the public debate between Kalev and the other scouts upon their return from their excursion in Canaan. In response to Kalev's insistence on Benei Yisrael's ability to triumph over the indigenous Canaanite population, the others retorted that the campaign is doomed to failure, "ki chazak hu mimenu" (13:31). The simple reading of this phrase yields the translation, "it [the nation living in Canaan] is stronger than us." Rashi, however, based on the Gemara in Masekhet Sota (35a), notes that mimenu may be read also as "than him." Accordingly, Rashi writes, this verse may be taken to mean that the spies saw the Canaanite peoples as stronger than the Almighty Himself, as it were. They argued not only that Benei Yisrael themselves could not defeat the nations of Canaan, but that God Himself was inferior, Heaven forbid, to those nations in terms of military strength.

On what basis would the scouts reach such a drastic conclusion? While we can perhaps understand their hesitation regarding Benei Yisrael's independent military capabilities in comparison with those of the Canaanites, what did they see during their excursion that cast doubts on God's ability to wage war successfully in Canaan?

We might suggest that the scouts were struck by the sharp contrast between the life to which they had grown accustomed in the wilderness, and the developed civilization they encountered during their visit to Canaan. In direct contrast to their life of cultural isolation, simplicity, and supernatural means of survival, the people of Canaan lived in a developed country with a flourishing agricultural infrastructure and advanced weaponry and defense systems. In this light, perhaps, we might understand the scouts' comments reflecting upon their thoughts upon beholding the Canaanite giants: "we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them" (13:33). Upon coming in contact with the developed culture and infrastructure of Canaan, the scouts felt inferior and outmatched. Their desert existence suddenly appeared crude and undeveloped, hardly worthy of competing with the fortresses and military sophistication of Canaan.

This attitude may have likely affected their theological thinking, as well. They perhaps felt that God could sustain them and protect them only in the wilderness, in isolation, away from civilization. The way of life He mandated was perhaps suitable in the wilderness, away from the so-called "real word" and centers of civilization. But the Almighty's teachings, they concluded, could not possibly help them in Canaan, where they would confront a developed and sophisticated civilization, culture and industry. The God of Sinai, the scouts suddenly feared, might be just that – the God of Sinai, whose power is limited to the isolated desert regions. But neither His Torah nor His promises could be sustained once Benei Yisrael would arrive in the heart of a foreign, far more advanced culture and lifestyle.

This argument, of course, has repeated itself in several different forms throughout the centuries. On several occasions, Jews questioned whether the Torah retains its relevance amidst a culture and civilization they perceived as more refined and sophisticated. (One example might be the situation of the Jews in Persia around the time of the Purim story; see Rav Moshe Lichtenstein, "Purim: Holiday of Covenant and Salvation," at www.vbm-torah.org/purim/pur63-ml.htm.) In these instances, the voice of "ki chazak hu mimenu" was sounded once again; the argument was advanced that the God of Sinai is of no relevance to the current circumstances. Fortunately, "Kalevs" arose during these situations, as well, to insist that "yakhol nukhal la," that Torah can and must endure even when it confronts a foreign and dominant culture and doctrine. Jewish practice and beliefs thrive not only in isolation, but also during periods of cultural confrontation; its importance and truth transcend time and place, and continue to guide Benei Yisrael along every station throughout its long history.

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Earlier this week, we discussed Rashi's remarks with which he opens his commentary to Parashat Shelach. Rashi, based on the Midrash Tanchuma, seeks to explain the juxtaposition between the incident of Miriam's inappropriate speech about Moshe, recorded at the end of the previous parasha, and the narrative of the scouts, with which Parashat Shelach begins. He explains that the scouts should have taken note of the severe punishment Miriam suffered on account of her negative talk about Moshe, and thus refrained from speaking negatively about Eretz Yisrael. Tragically, the spies failed to learn the lesson of Miriam, and were guilty of a similar offense.

One obvious question must be asked concerning this entire discussion. Why must Rashi (or the Midrash) struggle to find a logical basis for the sequence of the Biblical narrative? Intuitively, we would have assumed that the Torah tells the story of the scouts immediately after the account of Miriam's improper conduct because the events unfolded in this sequence. What gave rise to Rashi's question in the first place? (Rav Chayim Chavel, in his notes to Rashi's commentary that are printed in the Torat Chayim edition of the Chumash, cites the work Sefer Ha-zikaron as addressing this question and suggesting an entirely different reading of Rashi's comments.)

The simplest way of resolving this difficulty, it would seem, is to negate the assumption that the Torah's presentation follows the chronological sequence of events. Indeed, Rav David Mandelbaum, in his Pardes Yosef He-chadash, cites a commentary to Pirkei Avot entitled Yein Levanon that documents a debate among earlier scholars regarding this very point. According to some writers, Korach's rebellion against Moshe, which is recorded later, in Parashat Korach, actually preceded the incident of the scouts, and occurred in between the story of Miriam and the debacle of the spies. What more, Rav Mandelbaum convincingly demonstrates that Rashi himself appears to be of this view. Commenting on the first verse of Sefer Devarim, Rashi writes that both the incident of Miriam and Korach's uprising occurred in a place called Chatzerot. Now the final verse of Parashat Beha'alotekha, which is, of course, the verse immediately preceding the incident of the spies, tells that after Miriam's recovery from her illness Benei Yisrael traveled from Chatzerot to the wilderness of Paran. And we know from the narrative of the scouts that it was from Paran that Moshe dispatched the scouts (13:3,26). Necessarily, then, if Korach's insurrection took place in Chatzerot, it must have preceded the incident of the spies.

For good reason, then, Rashi found it necessary to provide an explanation as to why the Torah records the narrative of the scouts here, immediately following the story of Miriam. Since, as we demonstrated, the Torah here deviates from chronological sequence, some connection must exist between Miriam's misdeed and that of the scouts, thus warranting their juxtaposition. Accordingly, Rashi explains that Miriam's punishment should have served as a warning signal against the negative outlook that precipitated the scouts' discouraging prognosis. They should have learned from Miriam to focus on the positive elements of the situation, rather than limiting themselves to the less encouraging aspects. The Torah emphasizes this failure by reversing the chronological sequence, and presenting the narrative of the scouts prior to that of Korach's revolt.

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We read in Parashat Shelach of the negative report brought back by the scouts after their excursion to Canaan. Among the frightening pieces of information they convey to Benei Yisrael in an attempt to dissuade them from proceeding to Canaan involves the presence of giants – "nefilim" and "benei anak" – in that country (13:33). Who were these giants? Rashi writes that these men descended from the nefilim described towards the end of Parashat Bereishit (6:4), who, as Rashi tells based on the Midrash, appeared on earth during the time of Enosh, Adam's grandson, and during the subsequent generations. From the context of the verse in Parashat Bereishit, it appears that these nefilim were terribly corrupt and were at least partially responsible for society's moral degeneration that reached its peak during the time of Noach, thus warranting mankind's destruction.

The question, however, arises as to why and how nefilim still roamed the earth at this time. The deluge destroyed all human life with the exception of Noach and his sons, who, as far as we know, did not belong to this race of giants. How, then, did there remain nefilim in Canaan at this point in history?

Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch, in his commentary to this verse, suggests that this reference to the nefilim lends support to the view recorded in the Talmud (Zevachim 113a), that the flood did not affect Eretz Yisrael. The waters ravaged the entire inhabited earth, with the exception of the Land of Israel, which would be later assigned to God's chosen nation. Accordingly, the antediluvian giants of Canaan survived the flood and lived there until Benei Yisrael's conquest at the time of Yehoshua. This would perhaps account for the scouts' terror upon seeing these giants in Canaan. These men were of an entirely different race, descendants of a different stock than the rest of mankind. The scouts tell that upon seeing the nefilim they felt like "grasshoppers," reflecting their perception of the nefilim as a different type of creature, and a much more powerful one at that.

Rav Hirsch adds some insightful comments as to the significance of this theory, that the deluge somehow skipped over Canaan. If, indeed, Canaan remained intact even during the deluge,

then the land could have kept some of the original strength of the earth which under a Canaanite people showed itself only in production of bodily greatness. But it could also have made it suitable to be the soil for the People of God, who, by fulfilling the Torah of God, strive to achieve the ideal of spiritual and moral greatness, and who were thereby to begin a Paradise-like rejuvenation of the world.

Eretz Yisrael, unlike every other territory on earth, remained in its original form and composition, as it has escaped the long-term geological effects of the deluge. In this sense, Rav Hirsch comments, it serves as a symbol of the world's "Paradise-like rejuvenation," the ability of mankind to restore the world's primordial state of perfection. By sparing one country the effects of the flood, God provided man with a tangible representation of the ideal of moral and spiritual greatness, the absence of which brought on the destructive waters. Benei Yisrael's life in this land was to bring them and the world at large back to its ancient state of perfection, before it was corrupted by the generation of the flood. But the scouts, unfortunately, lost sight of this unique privilege, and could not see beyond the practical difficulties posed by the presence of the nefilim. Rather than seeing these giants as symbols of the antediluvian world which they were given the opportunity to restore, they questioned God's ability to bring them to the land, and decided not to proceed towards the destiny for which He had chosen them.

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Earlier this week, we discussed the connection between the sin of the scouts, with which Parashat Shelach begins, and the incident of Miriam, the final narrative of the previous parasha, Parashat Beha'alotekha. Rashi, as we saw, famously comments that the two incidents are juxtaposed in the Biblical narrative because the scouts should have learned from Miriam's harsh punishment about the severity of negative talk about others. But rather than learning this lesson, they, too, committed a similar offense – speaking wrongly about the Land of Israel, convincing Benei Yisrael that they should not bother to attempt to capture it.

Many writers have tried to identify the precise point of similarity that Rashi detected between these two incidents. If, indeed, Rashi attributes the scouts' negative report about the land to their failure to inculcate the lesson of Miriam, then presumably these two wrongs share a particular common factor.

Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, suggests focusing on the inconsequentiality of Miriam's remarks on her brother's feelings. Moshe paid no heed to his sister's critical comments, and in fact he appealed to God for compassion on her behalf. In our S.A.L.T. series last week, we cited the Rambam's assessment of Miriam's lashon ha-ra in his closing comments to Hilkhot Tum'at Tzara'at, where he emphasizes the fact that Moshe was not distressed at all by what Miriam said. According to the Rambam, the Torah indicates Moshe's disregard for his sister's censure when, immediately after recording Miriam's remarks, it describes Moshe's unparalleled humility. This description is meant to inform us that Moshe paid no attention to what was said of him, given his singularly humble attitude.

It was this lesson, suggests the Yalkut Yehuda, that the scouts failed to learn. Negative talk is wrong regardless of any hard feelings it engenders. They should have thus realized that even land should be spoken of respectfully. True, rocks and soil experience no shame or emotional distress. But just as Moshe, who, in this respect, resembles rock and soil, must not be spoken of in a negative light, so must care be taken to talk positively about inanimate objects.

The debacle of the spies serves as a particularly drastic example of the potentially catastrophic results of inordinate criticism. The Ramban famously identifies as the scouts' sin their inaccurate description of Eretz Yisrael as a land that "consumes its inhabitants" (13:32), meaning, as a place deadly by nature. It would appear that their ominous reports of the power and might of the Canaanite armies could have been justified, given the truth and, in fact, relevance of this information. But the moment they spoke too critically of the land's inherent properties, the message was conveyed that it is simply not worth fighting for. The frightening descriptions of the Canaanite fortresses and artillery might not have themselves dissuaded the nation from proceeding. It was when Benei Yisrael heard that the land is not worth such risks in any event that they "sounded their voices" and "cried that night" (14:1).

Though this situation of course represents a particularly extreme expression of this theme, the basic principle remains: careful consideration is required before uttering critical comments about anything, regardless of their direct impact on the subject. As in the case of the scouts, unwarranted criticism can affect attitudes and decisions that often far exceed any foreseen consequences.

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Though the bulk of Parashat Shelach deals with the incident of chet ha-meraglim – the sin of the scouts – the latter part of the parasha presents several mitzvot which, at first glance, bear little relevance to the chet ha-meraglim narrative. Many attempts have been made to identify possible relationships between the laws presented in Parashat Shelach and the sin of the spies. Already the Ramban (15:2) notes that at least some these commandments apply only in Eretz Yisrael, and thus perhaps served as a source of encouragement to the younger generation, assuring them that despite their parents' failure, the children will eventually enter the Promised Land. Still, later writers insisted on searching for a more specific point of connection between these mitzvot and the debacle of chet ha-meraglim.

Today we will discuss the particular mitzva of chala – the requirement to allocate a small portion of one's dough for a kohen (15:17-21). Rav Eliyahu Baruch Shulman of Yeshiva University (www.yutorah.org/showShiur.cfm?shiurID=706153) suggests the following approach to the relationship between this obligation and the incident of the spies. The Sifrei, cited by Rashi (15:18), notes that the Torah introduces the mitzva of chala with a slightly different formulation than it employs in the context of other mitzvot ha-teluyot ba-aretz – mitzvot that apply specifically to the Land of Israel ("be-voa'khem," as opposed to "ki tavo'u"). On this basis, the Sifrei establishes a unique feature of chala, namely that it took effect immediately upon Benei Yisrael's entry into Eretz Yisrael, as opposed to other land-oriented obligations, which became binding only after the process of conquest and distribution (kibbush ve-chiluk). The difference in formulation alludes to this difference in application.

Rav Shulman suggests explaining this halakha based on another detail of chala, namely, that the minimum shiur (amount) of dough subject to this obligation is the volume of an omer. Perhaps not coincidentally, we are told in Parashat Beshalach (Shemot 16:16) that the daily portion of manna that fell for each member of Benei Yisrael was an omer. Bearing in mind that the manna, which sustained Benei Yisrael throughout their years of travel in the wilderness, stopped falling immediately upon the nation's entry into Canaan, a powerful and compelling theme surfaces: the chala separated from one's dough "replaces" the manna. Whereas in the wilderness God gave Benei Yisrael an omer of bread from the sky, in Eretz Yisrael they take an omer of their bread and give it to the Almighty, as it were. Chala, then, serves as a meaningful expression of gratitude for the ability to produce one's own bread, to till the land and transform its raw produce into nourishing food. The individual thanks the Almighty for enabling him to symbolically give bread to the heavens, rather than depend on the heavens for his daily ration. This mitzva therefore took effect as soon as Benei Yisrael entered Canaan, at which point the manna stopped falling from the skies.

Herein, perhaps, lies the point of connection between chala and the spies. One approach to the sin of the scouts (found mainly among Chassidic thinkers) claims that their mistake lay in their refusal to fuse Torah observance with the mundane realities of Eretz Yisrael. Having grown accustomed to the supernatural existence of the wilderness in which they accepted and began practicing God's commandments, they were not prepared to apply those commandments to the "real world" they would have to build for themselves and live in once they entered the land. They could imagine Torah life in the wilderness, but not as farmers in Canaan. They were not willing to accept this challenge, and were therefore denied the opportunity and privilege associated with it.

Appropriately, then, shortly after this tragic incident Benei Yisrael are presented with the mitzva of chala. This ritual underscores the privilege of serving God in a state of self-sufficiency, under normal conditions, of living a spiritual life even while putting in a long workday. The mitzva of chala demonstrates that waking up to a heavenly bowl of manna does not represent the ideal, while producing bread is, insofar as it allows one to elevate the mundane world and infuse it with a spiritual dimension. The generation of the spies refused to accept this formidable challenge, and were therefore destined to perish in the same wilderness whose conditions they perceived as the ideal setting for avodat Hashem. Only the younger generation would accept the fusion between natural existence and spirituality, and would proudly give thanks for the end of the manna era, and the dawn of Torah practice in a state of self-sufficiency.

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The final two sections of Parashat Shelach deal with the mekoshesh eitzim (Shabbat violator; we will not discuss which particular forbidden activity he performed), and the obligation of tzitzit. To explain the connection between these two adjacent topics, the Yalkut Shimoni records a dialogue between God and Moshe in the aftermath of the Shabbat desecration of the mekoshesh. Moshe seeks to mitigate the violator's blame by noting that on Shabbat, one does not wear tefillin, which would remind a person of his religious duties. Without this constant reminder on his body, Moshe argued, the mekoshesh lost sight and focus of his obligations. In response, God presented to Moshe the mitzva of tzitzit, which is meant to ensure that "you will remember all the commandments of the Lord and perform them" (15:39).

It seems odd, at first glance, that Moshe would cast the blame for the Shabbat desecration on the absence of tefillin. Would wearing tefillin have indeed protected the mekoshesh from sin? And would the mitzva of tzitzit ensure that such an offense would never recur?

We might venture an allegorical reading of this Midrash, which, though admittedly speculative, could perhaps help explain what this exchange was all about.

A different passage in the Midrash (cited by Tosefot, in Masekhet Bava Batra 119b) comes to the defense of the mekoshesh, claiming that he found it necessary to commit a grave violation – and suffer the consequence – to dispel a mistaken notion that had taken root among the people. In the aftermath of the sin of the scouts, which resulted in the divine decree that the parent generation would perish in the wilderness, many in the nation figured that Torah observance was no longer necessary. Since they in any event are not proceeding to the land to realize their national destiny, the covenant is annulled, and the Torah's laws no longer applied. To dispel this notion, the mekoshesh committed a violation and allowed himself to be punished, thus confirming the relevance of mitzvot even after the debacle of the spies.

Clearly, the passage Yalkut Shimoni does not accept this vindication of the mekoshesh. Its account has Moshe defending the mekoshesh only on the grounds that he did not have an effective reminder; he said nothing about noble intent and motive. Possibly, according to this view, the mekoshesh was himself guilty of this misconception. He perhaps committed this violation to demonstrate his conviction that Torah observance was no longer of any relevance to Benei Yisrael. If so, then we might arrive a new understanding of Moshe's argument, that the mekoshesh did not have tefillin to remind him of Shabbat. Tefillin is referred to as an ot – a sign of the covenant between God and Am Yisrael. What Moshe was arguing, perhaps, is that the covenant appeared to the mekoshesh as no longer relevant; he did not have a sign of this covenant, because God had, after all, destined that generation to death in the wilderness, rather than fulfilling the ultimate goal and objective of the berit.

In response, God commanded Moshe with regard to the obligation of tzitzit. This mitzva symbolizes the fact that a Jew is surrounded by God's commandments at all times. The fringes remain on one's garment as a constant reminder that under all circumstances, he is in the service of God. Thus, tzitzit was the appropriate response to the mekoshesh eitzim. The Torah remains in full force even when one cannot see the tefillin, when the nation's covenant with God comes under question and challenge. We carry God's commands like the tzitzit, as if they are in our pockets, and they remain with us regardless of the condition and circumstance.