Parashat Shelah – 5785

A D’var Torah for Parashat Shelah

By Hazzan Rabbi Luis Cattan

Nahbi and Geuel had grown up in the brickyards of Egypt, where children learned to whisper dreams only in the dark. They shared the same clay dust, the same lash, the same bitter herbs—but never friendship. Nahbi, son of Vophsi of the tribe of Naphtali, was careful and calculating, known for his smooth tongue and cautious mind. Geuel, son of Makhi from the tribe of Gad, was shrewd and ambitious, always watching from the shadows. They admired each other’s strengths in the way adversaries do—always measuring, never trusting.

Now, with the miraculous Exodus behind them and the covenant of Sinai fresh in their memories, they were suddenly leaders—appointed chieftains of their respective tribes. And rivals once more.

As the twelve chieftains stood before Moses, the air was thick with anticipation and uncertainty. His instructions were precise, devoid of sentiment:

“When Moses sent them to explore the land of Canaan, he said to them, ‘Go up there into the Negev and on into the hill country, and see what kind of country it is. Are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many? Is the country in which they dwell good or bad? Are the towns they live in open or fortified? Is the soil rich or poor? Is it wooded or not? And take pains to bring back some of the fruit of the land.’” (Numbers 13:17–20)

There was no ambiguity. This was not a mission of conquest or diplomacy. It was reconnaissance. A sacred task.

But already, unspoken tensions brewed. As the scouts prepared to depart, whispers swirled around Hoshea, son of Nun. Moses had just renamed him “Yehoshua” —adding the letters “י” and “ה”, invoking the name of God. A protective gesture, some said. A public endorsement, others thought. Either way, it stung. Especially for those like Nahbi and Geuel, who had expected greater roles in Israel’s future. They exchanged glances—carefully neutral, betraying nothing.

Moses never imagined they’d remember, but the memory of Joseph’s betrayal at the hands of his brothers, as if ingrained in their genes, still lingered in their descendants’ souls. After all, it was jealousy that had sent Israel to Egypt in the first place. (See Parashat Vayeishev)

The land was everything God had promised. Fertile valleys with vines. Hills abundant with golden grains. Figs the size of fists. Pomegranates bursting like rubies. They cut down a single cluster of grapes, so massive it had to be carried on a pole between two men. (“They came to the Wadi Eshkol, and there they cut down…”)

But the land’s beauty could not hide the ugly fear in their hearts.

Two camps emerged.

Some, like Yehoshua and Caleb, saw promise and purpose. The others saw giants—literally and metaphorically. Their own stature shrank in comparison. They felt like grasshoppers, and imagined that’s how they were seen. Although they walked side by side, they no longer shared the same mission. What Yehoshua saw as opportunity, Nahbi saw as threat. What Caleb saw as destiny, Geuel interpreted as suicide.

Yet for a short moment, there was unity.

Even Geuel, Amiel, and Gadiel—men whose names bore the letters of God, felt the weight of purpose. “Ruah Elohim” rested upon them as they looked across the hills of Hebron. It was said that those whose names bore God’s name were capable of rising above fear. For a minute they almost did. It wasn’t enough.

Back in the Israelite camp, the scouts’ return was met with cheers and music. The people gathered, eager for an optimistic report. At first, the report was glowing. “It is indeed a land flowing with milk and honey…” (Numbers 13:27)

But when the subject turned to its inhabitants, something shifted. Fear invaded them and dominated.

“But the people who inhabit the country are powerful, and the cities are fortified and very large.” They said. (Numbers 13:28).

Voices rose. Disagreement turned to argument. The crowd murmured. Panic arose.

Nahbi hesitated, then crossed a line he could not uncross.

“They are stronger than we are,” he declared. “We cannot ascend.” (Numbers 13:31)

He did not believe it—at least not completely. But he feared being isolated. He feared the humiliation of failure more than the pain of regret.

Geuel followed. Then Gadiel. Even Amiel—who had once prayed beside Yehoshua—chose the safety of consensus over the courage of conviction.

Yehoshua stood alone.

Not because he was wrong. But because he believed more than they could bear. And nothing pains more than watching someone believe what you’ve already abandoned.

Then, a voice emerged through the chaos.

Caleb, son of Yephunneh, a man of quiet strength, stepped forward. His eyes—bright with resolve—swept over the crowd. Without waiting for permission, he raised his voice:

“!עָלֹה נַעֲלֶה וְיָרַשְׁנוּ אֹתָהּ”

“Let us go up at once and take possession of it!”

(Numbers 13:30)

The camp fell silent. For one still, breathless moment, the future teetered on a word.

It was the fifth day of the second month—a date remembered not for what was done, but for what would have been. The day faith was offered, and fear refused it. For now.

Later generations would read this tale not only as history, but as a mirror. A caution against collective doubt. A reminder that sometimes, the most endangered spies are not the ones sent into foreign lands, but the ones who betray their own values.

And yet, because of Yehoshua and Caleb, hope was not extinguished. Just delayed.

For every generation, the voice that says !עָלֹה נַעֲלֶה, “Let us go up!” keeps the message alive.

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Rabbi Ḥazzan Luis Cattan

(AJR ’20) is currently serving at Sutton Place Synagogue in New York City. He is the Immediate Past President of the Cantors Assembly. As a native Uruguayan, he attended the Catholic University of Montevideo receiving his BA in Social Communication Sciences with a major in Advertising. He sought private instruction under the tutelage of renowned local teachers. Upon returning from Israel, where he spent a year studying, he started his Ḥazzanut training with different mentors in Uruguay and Argentina as well. He became the Head Ḥazzan at the NCI (the largest Conservative Synagogue in Uruguay). He also served as International Vice President of Mercaz Olami (Zionist Conservative Movement) as one of the founders of the Uruguayan Branch.