A “stiff necked people”, Hashem calls us. And then, when He tells us of His plans to give us His special land, we don’t count our lucky stars that He chose us. Instead, we say, “Let’s check it out first and see if it’s worth the fuss.” We send our spies, and we all know how that turns out. We totally blow it. Ten of the twelve spies come back with a horrifying report. The other two claim that “The land is very, very good.” What did they each see that resulted in these conflicting assessments?

Israel has always been a land of dichotomy. Everywhere you go, opposites abound. Ancient and modern. Religious and secular. Love and Hate. And they are extremes, these paradoxes. Seemingly at odds and irreconcilable, and still, they coexist.

Israel is a global leader in technology, and yet milk here is still sold in bags. We rank at the top in worldwide medical innovations, and nevertheless, in Israel, a craftily knotted roll of gauze passes as a perfectly acceptable sling. Our highway lanes are filled with the latest electric car models, but traffic will still come to an abrupt halt when a shepherd and his flock of 200 goats suddenly decides to cross the road. A completely secular newscaster who mid-broadcast hears of the latest miracle, will put on a kippa and recite מזמור לתודה. Nothing is ever only as it seems.

The spies saw the land, saw the dichotomies, and panicked. Where Yehoshua and Kalev saw magic, the rest of the spies saw madness, and that is what they communicated. That tragic day that they returned with their account became a day designated for calamity, the source of all subsequent devastation. But there is hope. We are told that in the future this day will cease to be tragic. It will be the day when we usher in the third and final בית המקדש. From devastation to good fortune. It’s ironic really. Another set of opposing realities, on the same day.

They say that opposite extremes are really two different expressions of the very same thing. Take hot and cold for example. We relate to them as separate and contrary, when in reality, they are both at their essence, merely temperatures. Something hot can become cold, and something cold can become hot. In either case, they will at all times remain temperatures.

Most people flee from a country under attack. But Israelis aren’t any people and Israel isn’t any country. And so we come running home. Most people get lost in devastation when their house is blown to bits by a rocket. My people will calmly sit amongst the rubble and sing songs of optimism and praise to Hashem. Most people will selfishly run to shelter under the threat of rockets, but not my people. My people will invite strangers, even Arab ones, into their shelters.

They’re a stiff necked nation, my people. Hard pressed to agree on much, this is one thing we all have in common. We are stubborn. We always have been and always will be. But with regard to this land, we’ve swung our stubborn pendulum to the other side. We no longer see ארץ ישראל as a threat or as madness. We see this land as a haven, as a gift. We see our privilege to protect it and to fight for it. We see the magic.

Hashem, look at my people. Your people. We’ve done it. We are not complaining. We are not scared. We trust You. We see the magic. We’ve learned our lesson from the two righteous spies. We are channeling Kalev as “Am Kilavi,” and so Hashem, please channel Yehoshua, and save us as You always do.