Parshat Shelach: Best to Stay Grounded in the Truth

Driving to a routine wellness appointment, I barely noticed police cars lining my block. I was already late and flustered —on the phone with my doctor’s office trying to get a referral faxed over to the imaging center, all while mildly speeding and praying I wouldn’t get pulled over.

Why wasn’t the referral where I’d left it? I blamed my mother (silently but definitively) for moving it when she helped set up for my daughter’s graduation party. And now, sandwiched between frustration and stress, and being late (again), my phone buzzed with a robocall: “This isn’t good news. There’s been vandalism in your neighborhood. If you have any leads, call the police.”

I was halfway to the appointment at this point. My heart sank. I imagined the worst. As a rabbi, in a time when antisemitic and anti-Zionist rhetoric are running hot, I was convinced this act of vandalism had been targeted… at me. 

I called my daughter: “Be careful when you go home. Maybe go to a friend’s house.” I texted everyone I could think of to get more information about the vandalism: in-the-know neighbors, synagogue security, police- adjacent friends. No definitive answers. Meanwhile, arriving at the clinic, I  check in for my appointment, still clutching my phone, anxiety mounting – about the referral, about the vandal, about the state of the world…

The receptionist smiles. “No need for the referral. You’re covered.”
My cortisol drops a little. The world rights itself, just a bit. But the fear lingers. When I am called back for the appointment, I feel the need to tell the technician what’s going on in my neighborhood so she doesn’t judge me for having my phone out. She gets the chills, she says.  She hopes it will be alright, but proceeds to torture me with the intended examination anyway.

The appointment goes smoothly, all things considered. But on my way out the door, I am already back on the phone. I’m looking into upgrading my home security. I call a friend to arrange a visit to the shooting range. I’m spiraling.

Returning to my neighborhood, I pull up to the last remaining police car on the block. I walk over to him determined to get some dreaded answers. I wave, and the officer rolls down his window. I am quick and to the point: “Was the vandalism antisemitic?” I ask.

He shakes his head with calm authority. “No, no, Ma’am (It’s always “ma’am” in the South). An unstable person broke into a vacant home, threw paint around, broke locks, and flooded the pool. We have some leads.”

My immediate reaction? Relief. Immense relief.  But also… how embarrassing! I blurt out “I’m Jewish, so, I was concerned about the motives.” He nods kindly with no trace of judgment. “It is a vacant home. They broke in.” Unusual, but not unheard of. 

The fear I felt had some basis. We are living in volatile times. But looking back on that hour, I see how quickly I allowed my imagination to lead me into chaos. I broke a commandment (honoring my mother), I drove distracted, I unnecessarily alarmed my daughter, and sent out fear-fueled messages to friends and congregants—all because I created a story in my head before knowing the facts.

In this week’s Torah portion, Shelach, twelve leaders are sent to scout the Promised Land. What begins as a fact-finding mission quickly devolves into a crisis of imagination.
The spies return with fear in their voices:
“We saw giants there… and we were like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we were in theirs.” (Numbers 13:33)

They weren’t just afraid of the physical giants. They became small in their own eyes.
Their fear wasn’t just about reality—it was about what they told themselves about that reality.
And the people panicked. The imagined disaster became more powerful than the truth. A whole generation was derailed—not because of the enemy outside, but because of the story they created inside.

I can relate.

In moments of fear, I, too, let my  imagination outrun the facts. I project danger. I create a false narrative, even when it has a grain of truth.

The spies remind us how easy it is to amplify our fear. To catastrophize. To spiral. But also, how essential it is to resist that urge.

Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav teaches:
וְדַע, שֶׁהָאָדָם צָרִיךְ לַעֲבֹר עַל גֶּשֶׁר צַר מְאֹד, וְהַכְּלָל וְהָעִקָּר שֶׁלֹּא יִתְפַּחֵד כְּלָל.
“And know: a person must cross a very narrow bridge, and the most important thing is not to make oneself afraid at all.”
— Likutei Moharan Tinyana 48

This teaching is often mistranslated as “have no fear at all.” But that’s nearly impossible. Fear is human. The Hebrew is more nuanced: don’t make yourself afraid. Don’t amplify it. Don’t turn a flicker into a flame. Resist the urge. Rebbe Nachman offers timeless advice.

We are surrounded by a media ecosystem designed to provoke emotional response, to stoke fear. The fear is real and there is a lot of information bearing down upon us all the time. But what we can do is resist the urge to catastrophize every unknown. We can slow down the spiral. We can pause, breathe, and ask: “What do I know for sure right now?” This doesn’t mean sticking our heads in the sand. There is plenty to be afraid of in this moment. But when fear isn’t warranted, we do well to stand down—so we can be more present, more useful, more grounded for the times when it is.

We’re not all in bomb shelters. Some of us are in waiting rooms, or carpool lines, or scrolling at 1:00 AM because we care deeply. If we can practice the discipline of emotional regulation—if we can build the muscle of calm—we’ll be stronger when our communities need us most.

In this moment, when the world feels narrow and uncertain, let’s walk that bridge with steadier, thoughtful steps. Yes, we are having a moment. It is hard.  But, let’s try our best to not make it worse.