Shelach: Truth Weaponized Then, As Today

Big, bold lies are blunt instruments. They’re usually easy to spot, easy to dismiss.
Who knows where we will be when this is published, but Iran’s regime has just announced that they have shot down 28 Israeli jets in the last 24 hours. That, I think, is a big, bold lie—one most people can see through.

But subtle mistruths? Those are far more dangerous. They slip under the radar, they sound reasonable, they feel familiar. And because of that, they shape our beliefs, our fears, and our decisions—often without us even realizing it. They allow us to believe what we want to believe.

This week’s Torah portion, Shelach, is a masterclass in the power of subtle distortion and its gravity and consequences. The sin of the ten spies wasn’t a brazen fabrication. They didn’t invent a fantasy. They shaded the truth, exaggerated the danger, and played into the people’s deepest insecurities.

“We are not able to go up against the people, for they are stronger than we.”
“The land devours its inhabitants.”
“We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we were in theirs.”

These weren’t fabrications. They were fears, dressed up as facts. And for that, the punishment was immense: forty years of wandering in the desert.

Why so harsh? Because the punishment fit the crime. The spies wanted to stay in the desert, under G-d’s direct protection, rather than face the uncertainty of the Promised Land. So that’s exactly what they got—just not in the way they imagined. They remained in the desert, and they got what they asked for, but it became their downfall.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l offers a powerful insight here:

“The spies were not afraid of failure. They were afraid of success.”
– Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, “Two Kinds of Fear”

Success would mean leaving the spiritual cocoon of the wilderness—where they lived on manna, drank from a miraculous well, and dwelled in the presence of the Shechinah—and entering a world of responsibility, struggle, and uncertainty. So they bent the story to fit the narrative they wanted to hear. They masked their fear of change in a tale of giants and danger. And the people believed them—because it was easier to believe than to confront the truth.

Rabbi Immanuel Bernstein adds another layer to this. He notes that the spies misinterpreted what they saw in the land. According to the Midrash, G-d caused many Canaanites to die during the spies’ visit so the locals would be too distracted to notice them. But the spies saw the funerals and concluded, falsely, that “the land devours its inhabitants.”

“They interpreted it negatively… Yet if the correct interpretation was so obvious, what led them to draw the opposite conclusions? The answer is that, for various reasons, the spies did not want the people to enter the land.”
– Rabbi Immanuel Bernstein

This wasn’t a lie—it was a distortion, shaped by fear and agenda. And that’s what made it so dangerous.

This story feels eerily familiar today.

We live in a world saturated with subtle mistruths. Social media is a master of this art—bending facts, framing narratives, feeding us what we want to hear rather than what we need to know. The onslaught of misinformation about Israel is rarely made up of outright lies. It’s the half-truths, the selective reporting, the emotionally charged framing that does the damage.

The Iranian regime, too, has long sold itself a story of greatness, of invincibility. But when you start believing your own propaganda, you lose touch with reality—and that’s a dangerous place to be.

In business, I’ve seen this too. One CEO once told me, “I’m right about 80% of the time and you’re right maybe 20% of the time—but that’s 20% more than anyone else is willing to say out loud. That 20% is golden to me.” He said he too often hears a narrative being told with an agenda, which is why he appreciated my advice—even when it challenged his assumptions. That honesty, even when uncomfortable, was precious to him.

Telling someone a truth they don’t want to hear is hard. Admitting a truth to yourself is even harder. But that’s exactly what Shelach demands of us. It asks us to confront the stories we tell ourselves, to question the narratives that feel good but may not be true.

The Torah doesn’t punish the people for the Golden Calf with 40 years of wandering. But for this? For a distorted report about the Land of Israel? That’s the moment that changes everything.

Because it wasn’t a lie. It was something far more dangerous.

And perhaps the most enduring lesson is this: truth is not just about content—it’s about delivery. The spies didn’t just say the wrong thing; they said it in a way that sowed fear, not faith. Their words were laced with anxiety, their tone with defeat. And that made all the difference.

In our world—whether in leadership, business, or personal relationships—how we say something often matters as much as what we say. Body language, tone, timing, even the intention behind our words—these shape how truth is received. Honesty isn’t just a statement. It’s a posture. A presence. A complete concept.

The spies failed not only because they distorted the truth, but because they delivered it in a way that undermined trust and courage. Let us learn from their mistake—not just to speak truth, but to embody it.

In our times, where even the most basic facts are adapted to fit a narrative, we must understand the impact of this distortion. A recent statistic showed that over 90% of people in the West Bank and Gaza believe that no civilians were attacked on October 7th. That’s not just misinformation—it’s a reshaping of reality with devastating consequences.

As with the war, we see this dynamic in our own national debates—whether on the draft, judicial reform, or other deeply divisive issues. If we are ever to solve these challenges, we must take heed of the message of this parshah and learn to develop an authentic, truthful, and respectful language—one that seeks to objectively find a solution that is best for Israel and the Jewish People according to G-d’s wishes, not just to spin our narrative. It is going to be so hard—and the Torah acknowledges that difficulty by making such an example of it in this parshah.

As we raise our children, speak to our spouses, and strive to work ethically, we must remain attuned to the power of narrative, the weight of our words, and the responsibility that comes with them. The impact—and the consequences—can be profound.

Let’s choose to speak truth with courage—and with care.