By Rabbi Josh Wander

This year, many Jews around the world received an unusual gift: a double dose of Parshat Shlach. Because of the calendar split created by the second day of Shavuot in the Diaspora, Jews in Eretz Yisrael and Jews in Chutz LaAretz found themselves reading different Torah portions. While those in Israel moved ahead, much of the Jewish world remained one week behind. As a result, many Jews outside of Israel will hear the story of the meraglim twice. Perhaps that is exactly what we need. After all, if there is one message that the Jewish world seems determined not to hear, it is the message of Parshat Shlach itself.

This week I was driving a couple of seminary girls in my car. It was their final day of school after spending an entire year in Eretz Yisrael. As we drove, they discussed a lecture that had been given the previous evening. Curious, I listened carefully. One of them mentioned that the title of the lecture was, “How to Bring the Kosel Home With You.” I sat there stunned. Out of all the lessons that could be taught to young Jewish women after a year immersed in the Land of Israel, this was the message being emphasized during the week of Parshat Shlach.

Immediately, my mind wandered back thousands of years. I imagined the meraglim returning from their mission to scout the Land. The nation gathers anxiously around them, eager to hear their report about the future that awaits them. Then someone asks a question: “Now that you have seen the Land, what is the best way to bring part of it back with us to the Midbar?” The image is almost comical. The entire purpose of the journey was to enter the Land, not to find ways of recreating it somewhere else. Yet that absurd conversation may not be as far removed from our modern reality as we would like to believe.

The tragedy of the meraglim was never that they failed to appreciate Eretz Yisrael. On the contrary, they spent forty days touring it. They saw its beauty, admired its abundance, and even carried back its magnificent fruits. Their failure was that they viewed the Land as an object of observation rather than a place of destiny. They saw a country to visit, not a home to build. They admired it from a distance while simultaneously constructing arguments for why they should remain where they were. Their mistake was not a lack of appreciation for the Land. Their mistake was a refusal to commit themselves to it.

Unfortunately, that same mindset continues to shape much of Jewish education today. An entire year spent studying in Eretz Yisrael should naturally culminate in one question: “How do I remain here?” Instead, many students are encouraged to focus on how they can preserve the inspiration of Israel after returning to life elsewhere. Embedded within that question is a profound assumption that often goes unchallenged: that returning to exile is normal, expected, and even desirable. Israel becomes a spiritual experience rather than a permanent destination. It becomes a classroom rather than a home.

I do not blame the students. They are תינוקות שנשבו. They have inherited an educational framework that often presents Torah as though it exists independently of the Land where it was meant to be lived. Students can spend years studying Avraham Avinu without seriously confronting the fact that Hashem’s central promise to him was a land. They can learn about Yehoshua without considering the implications of Jewish sovereignty. They can pray daily for kibbutz galuyot while planning their futures thousands of miles away from the very place to which those prayers are directed. They have been taught many things, but too often they have not been taught to see the Torah as a living national mission unfolding in Eretz Yisrael before their eyes.

The irony is particularly striking because these young women had just completed a transformative year in the very land promised to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, and Leah. They walked the streets of Jerusalem, breathed the air of the Land, and witnessed firsthand the miraculous ingathering of exiles that previous generations could only dream about. Yet instead of being challenged to consider whether they belong here permanently, they are often given tools to emotionally cope with leaving. The educational focus shifts from building a future in the Land to preserving memories of it from afar.

Parshat Shlach is ultimately the story of a generation that could not transition from a Torah of the wilderness to a Torah of redemption. The Midbar was familiar. The Midbar was comfortable. The Midbar required no responsibility for building a nation, cultivating a land, defending borders, or creating a society based upon Torah values. Entering Eretz Yisrael demanded all of those things. Faced with that challenge, the people chose the comfort of what they knew over the destiny that awaited them. The result was one of the greatest national tragedies in Jewish history.

Perhaps that is why so many Jews outside of Israel are receiving a second reading of Parshat Shlach this year. Maybe Hashem is giving us another opportunity to hear a message that remains as relevant today as it was thousands of years ago. The challenge facing our generation is not whether we love Israel. Millions of Jews proudly support Israel, visit Israel, donate to Israel, and pray for Israel. The real question is whether we are prepared to see Israel as our home. The meraglim loved what they saw. Their failure was that they did not want to live there.

The lesson of Parshat Shlach is not how to bring the Kosel home with us. The lesson is that we are supposed to bring ourselves home. במקום אשר יבחר ה׳. The Kosel does not belong in Lakewood, Monsey, Antwerp, London, Melbourne, or Toronto. It belongs in Jerusalem. The question confronting the Jewish people today is the very same question that confronted the generation of the wilderness: Are we content to admire the Land from a distance, or are we finally prepared to enter it? Perhaps this year’s double dose of Parshat Shlach is Hashem’s way of asking us that question one more time.