By Rabbi Josh Wander

Years ago, Rav Nachman Kahana shlit”a made a statement that sounded almost absurd when I first heard it. He said that the day would come when living in Eretz Yisrael would become so difficult that only those with an “irrational love for the country” would choose to remain.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that his statement is really the story of this week’s parshah. The meraglim were not simple people. They were the gedolim of their generation, the leaders of the tribes, men handpicked by Moshe Rabbeinu himself. Yet after touring Eretz Yisrael, ten of the twelve reached a conclusion that has echoed throughout Jewish history. The risks were too great, the enemies were too strong, the future was too uncertain, and the challenges were too overwhelming. Their argument was logical, measured, and practical. In fact, from a purely rational perspective, it was difficult to argue with their assessment. Their mistake was not that they lacked information. Their mistake was that they viewed Eretz Yisrael through the lens of logic alone.

The sin of the meraglim was not that they misunderstood the facts. They understood the facts perfectly. They saw the giants. They saw the fortified cities. They understood the military realities on the ground. Their mistake was that they viewed Eretz Yisrael as a practical decision rather than a covenantal one. They treated the Land like a business proposition. They conducted a cost-benefit analysis, weighed the risks against the rewards, and concluded that Jewish destiny would be safer somewhere else. In doing so, they fundamentally misunderstood what Eretz Yisrael is.

This struggle did not end in the wilderness. It has accompanied us throughout Jewish history. For two thousand years Jews have perfected the art of explaining why now is not the right time to live in Eretz Yisrael. One generation feared the Crusaders. Another feared the Ottomans. Another feared poverty. Another feared the Arabs. Today people point to missiles, terrorism, political instability, housing prices, economic uncertainty, social tensions, and endless internal divisions. The reasons constantly change, but the calculation remains remarkably similar.

The meraglim were not punished because they hated the Land. On the contrary, they were among the greatest Jews of their generation. Their failure was that they loved logic more than they loved the Land. They allowed rational calculations to override a fundamental truth that transcended those calculations. Yehoshua and Kalev saw the very same giants, heard the same reports, and understood the same dangers. Yet they reached a completely different conclusion because they were asking a different question. The meraglim asked whether entering the Land was practical. Yehoshua and Kalev asked whether the Land belonged to the Jewish people. Once that question was answered, all the others became secondary.

There is a beautiful insight brought by Rabbi Kook tz”l regarding the battle against Sichon, king of the Emori. Before entering Eretz Yisrael, Bnei Yisrael were required to defeat Sichon at the city of Cheshbon. On a simple level, Cheshbon is the name of a place. But in Hebrew, cheshbon also means a calculation, an accounting, a rational assessment of gains and losses. Perhaps there is a profound lesson hidden here. Before one can merit entering the Land, one must first conquer Cheshbon. One must overcome the tendency to view everything exclusively through the lens of calculations, probabilities, and practical considerations. Eretz Yisrael is not acquired through spreadsheets, strategic forecasts, or cost-benefit analyses. It requires a willingness to transcend pure logic and attach oneself to a reality that is larger than logic. Before entering the Land, the Jewish people first had to conquer the mindset of the meraglim.

That is why Rav Kahana’s observation is so unsettling. He would often add that in the final stages of redemption, Hashem is choosing who He wants on His team. As the pressure increases, people reveal who they truly are. Some will look at the mounting difficulties and conclude that they would rather watch Jewish history unfold from a safe distance. Others will hold on even tighter precisely because of those difficulties. Challenges do not merely test people; they expose them.

We may already be witnessing the beginning of that process. Despite war, terrorism, international pressure, economic challenges, and seemingly endless political turmoil, there are Jews who cannot imagine living anywhere else. Not because Israel is easy. Not because Israel is comfortable. Not because life here always makes sense. They remain because this is their home. They remain because this is where Jewish history is unfolding. They remain because this is the place that Hashem promised to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov. They remain because the idea of voluntarily returning to exile feels more frightening than anything they face here.

Ask such a Jew where he would move if conditions deteriorated further and the question itself sounds strange. Move where? Back to the countries our ancestors spent centuries praying to leave? Back to communities being hollowed out by assimilation? Back to lands that were never truly ours? Back to a galus that Jewish history has spent two thousand years trying to escape? For such a person, the suggestion itself sounds irrational. Perhaps that is exactly the point. Throughout history, Jews have repeatedly demonstrated what the world considered irrational devotion. They risked their lives to keep Shabbos. They endured persecution rather than abandon Torah. They crossed continents to preserve Jewish life and identity. Jewish survival has never been explained by logic alone. There has always been something deeper driving the Jewish story, something that cannot be quantified, measured, or reduced to practical calculations. This is precisely why Chazal teach אין מזל לישראל. The destiny of the Jewish nation is not bound by the normal rules of history and nature. We operate on a different plane. As Shmuel HaNavi declared, נצח ישראל לא ישקר.

Perhaps the final stage of redemption requires that same quality. Not blind faith, but a faith that sees beyond the headlines. Not ignorance of reality, but a deeper understanding of reality. A recognition that despite the hardships, despite the uncertainty, despite the dangers, and despite the noise, this is where Hashem is writing the final chapter of Jewish history.

The generation that left Egypt failed the test of irrational love. They preferred certainty over destiny, comfort over covenant, and logic over faith. They stood at the threshold of redemption and convinced themselves to turn back. Our generation may face a remarkably similar challenge. The meraglim saw giants and retreated. Yehoshua and Kalev saw the same giants and moved forward. The difference was not what they saw. The difference was what they loved. Perhaps that is what Rav Nachman Kahana meant all those years ago. The final test of redemption may not be military, political, or economic. It may be a test of love. A love so deep that it survives every calculation. A love so powerful that it remains intact even when logic points elsewhere. A love that the world may call irrational. In the end, those who inherit the Land may be precisely those who love it irrationally.