By Rabbi Josh Wander

Something remarkable is happening around the Temple Mount. The number of Jews ascending Har HaBayit has grown dramatically, and what was once regarded as the activity of a tiny fringe is increasingly entering the religious mainstream. Jews are ascending after immersion in a mikvah, following carefully delineated routes and relying upon respected rabbinic authorities who have studied the complex halachic and geographic questions involved. Yet as the movement grows, so does the intensity of the opposition.

That opposition recently reached an extraordinary level when former Chief Rabbi Yitzhak Yosef publicly attacked Rabbi Dov Lior, one of the most respected senior rabbis of the Religious Zionist world. Rabbi Yosef invoked the Steipler, Rav Shach, Rav Elyashiv, Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, Rav Ovadia Yosef, Rav Ben Zion Abba Shaul and Rav Moshe Feinstein as authorities who opposed ascending the Mount. But he went much further, saying that Rav Lior “does not come up to the ankles” of those rabbis and dismissing rabbis who permit ascent as second- and third-tier authorities.

There is a genuine halachic dispute here, and intellectual honesty requires acknowledging it. Great Torah authorities have prohibited Jews from ascending Har HaBayit because of the severity of entering prohibited sanctified areas in a state of ritual impurity. Conversely, serious Torah scholars maintain that after proper preparation Jews may enter specifically identified permitted areas. Among the most prominent was Rav Shlomo Goren, former Chief Rabbi of Israel and Chief Rabbi of the IDF, an enormous Torah scholar who devoted years to studying the halachic geography of Har HaBayit and encouraged properly prepared Jewish ascent to permitted areas. Rav Dov Lior and other respected authorities have likewise permitted ascent under carefully defined conditions. The Mishnah itself describes ascending levels of spatial kedushah, and Har HaBayit is not halachically identical to the more sanctified areas within the Temple precincts. This is not a dispute between Torah and rebellion against Torah. It is a dispute within Torah.

The permissive position is also broader than many realize. Rabbanim from different segments of the Torah world have supported forms of ascent under defined halachic conditions, increasingly including Haredi and Hasidic figures. One may strongly disagree with their psak, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to dismiss the permissive position as the province of religious radicals or second-tier Torah scholars.

One frequently hears that the extraordinary opposition is understandable because entering certain prohibited areas in a state of tumah can carry karet. That is certainly serious, and no responsible advocate of ascending Har HaBayit should minimize it. Anyone ascending the holiest place on Earth should do so with tremendous awe, proper preparation and meticulous adherence to competent halachic guidance. But does karet alone really explain the ferocity?

Karet is hardly unique to the Temple Mount. Intentionally eating chametz on Pesach can carry karet. Relations with a niddah can carry karet. Indeed, the opening Mishnah of Masechet Keritot lists thirty-six offenses associated with karet. Yet disagreements involving these areas of halacha do not normally produce the kind of public fury sometimes directed at Jews ascending Har HaBayit according to the rulings of their rabbis, or result in respected Torah scholars being publicly diminished for permitting them to do so. Karet explains the caution, but it does not fully explain the passion.

Perhaps something deeper is happening. Chazal give us an almost breathtaking image of the paradox between kedushah and spiritual resistance. The Gemara in Yoma 69b relates that when the אנשי כנסת הגדולה — “Men of the Great Assembly” pleaded with Hashem to deliver the yetzer hara for idolatry into their hands, a fiery lion emerged from the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies itself. Of all places, this manifestation of the yetzer hara emerged from the holiest point on Earth.

The Gemara is certainly not suggesting, God forbid, that the Kodesh HaKodashim lacked kedushah. Rather, it presents a striking contrast: tremendous holiness and tremendous spiritual opposition can meet on the same battlefield. Indeed, the yetzer hara described there is specifically the inclination toward avodah zarah — idolatry. The place representing humanity’s purest service of the One God becomes the battleground against false worship. The greater the spiritual stakes, perhaps the greater the resistance. If Chazal could describe the yetzer hara emerging from the Kodesh HaKodashim itself, perhaps we should not be surprised to find an extraordinary spiritual battle surrounding the Makom HaMikdash today.

At its core, kedushah represents attachment to Hashem. If so, the significance of the Makom HaMikdash becomes almost overwhelming. It is not merely another holy location or even simply Judaism’s “holiest site.” It is the physical focal point of our connection with the Almighty in this world, the place Yaakov Avinu called שער השמים — “the gateway to Heaven.” Jews everywhere direct their prayers toward it three times every day. For thousands of years, the spiritual compass of the Jewish people has pointed toward one tiny location on Earth.

This was the place of the Beit HaMikdash, the Avodah, the korbanot, the Sanhedrin and the manifestation of the Shechinah. It is from there that Divine instruction is destined to radiate outward, as Yeshayahu declares, כי מציון תצא תורה ודבר ה׳ מירושלים — “For Torah shall go forth from Zion, and the word of Hashem from Jerusalem.” If there is anywhere in the physical world where we should expect an enormous spiritual struggle, it is precisely there. We are not merely arguing about access to a mountain; in a profound sense, we are struggling over the gateway between Heaven and Earth.

This raises an uncomfortable question. If the ferocious opposition to Jewish ascent is motivated primarily by reverence for the kedushah of the Makom HaMikdash, where is the comparable outrage when that kedushah is openly disregarded? Soccer, picnicking, sleeping and littering have been documented on Har HaBayit. There is even video footage showing what appears to be a funeral procession carrying a covered body across the Temple Mount plaza in the vicinity of the Dome of the Rock. Whatever the precise route or halachic boundaries involved, the contrast is jarring. A corpse represents the most severe source of ritual impurity, avi avot hatumah — “the ultimate source of ritual impurity.” Yet where is the thunderous public outcry over the dignity and sanctity of Judaism’s holiest place?

I find the asymmetry deeply troubling. A living Jew can immerse in a mikvah, remove his leather shoes, approach in awe, carefully avoid prohibited areas and rely upon a respected posek, yet his presence can provoke extraordinary rabbinic fury. Meanwhile, soccer games, recreational activity and even footage of an apparent funeral procession across Har HaBayit seem capable of passing without anything approaching the same reaction. This does not mean that someone else’s desecration permits a Jew to violate halacha. Of course not. But if our concern is genuinely kavod HaMikdash — “the honor of the Temple,” surely that concern cannot begin and end with keeping observant Jews away.

Perhaps we need to reconsider an assumption inherited from two thousand years of exile: that reverence for extraordinary kedushah is sometimes best demonstrated through distance. There is a fascinating precedent in the earlier debate over the first Aliyah. Tosafot in Ketubot 110b records in the name of Rabbeinu Chaim HaKohen that in his time one should not move to Eretz Yisrael because of the many mitzvot and punishments associated with living there, “for we are unable to be careful regarding them and fulfill them.” The very sanctity of Eretz Yisrael, and the obligations flowing from it, could thus become a reason to remain outside it. The parallel to Har HaBayit is striking: the greater the kedushah, the greater the consequences of getting something wrong, and therefore holiness itself can paradoxically become an argument for staying away.

For much of the long Galut, such a posture toward Har HaBayit was understandable. We could not control the Mount, protect its sanctity, restore the Avodah or rebuild the Beit HaMikdash. Reverence therefore became expressed primarily through absence: don’t go there, don’t touch it, and wait for the future. But Jewish sovereignty has created a new question. At what point does reverence expressed through distance need to make room for reverence expressed through responsibility? Does kavod HaMikdash mean only keeping Jews away from prohibited areas, or does it also require assuming responsibility for the dignity, sanctity and future of the place itself?

In 1967, Jewish soldiers suddenly stood on Har HaBayit. The question was no longer whether Jews dreamed about returning there, but what Jews would actually do once Hashem returned Jerusalem and the Temple Mount to Jewish sovereignty. Dreaming about Geula is comfortable; actually living through Geula can be terrifying. Over the past century, a scattered and powerless nation returned to its ancestral homeland. Hebrew returned as a spoken language. Jewish sovereignty was restored. Jerusalem was reunited. Millions of Jews returned home. A Jewish army arose, and Torah flourished in Eretz Yisrael on a scale unimaginable only generations ago. Now Jewish attention is inevitably moving toward the place at the center of everything.

One of the most remarkable signs of this transformation is simply to look at who is ascending today. Not so long ago, the stereotypical Jew ascending the Mount was portrayed as a radical hilltop settler, political provocateur or rabble-rouser from the ideological fringes. Today that stereotype is increasingly difficult to maintain. We see a much broader spectrum of Jews ascending, including Haredim and even Hasidic rabbis. Black hats, long beards, frock coats and payos are appearing in a place many assumed those communities would never approach. When knitted kippot, black hats, shtreimels and payos can all be seen looking toward the same mountain, perhaps we are witnessing something much larger than the growth of a Temple Mount movement. Perhaps the Jewish people are slowly rediscovering their center.

And here I see an extraordinary parallel between two Aliyot. The first is the great Aliyah of the Jewish people from the nations back to Eretz Yisrael. The second is the increasingly literal Aliyah of Jews ascending to Har HaBayit. They are obviously not identical phenomena, but both represent movement from the periphery toward the center: first the Jewish people return to their Land, and then their attention moves toward the spiritual heart of that Land.

With the benefit of hindsight, it is easy to forget just how fierce rabbinic opposition to the first Aliyah and the Zionist movement once was. A century ago, opposition was hardly confined to a few marginal rabbis. A formidable roster of leading Torah authorities opposed political Zionism, sometimes in extraordinarily strong language. Mitnagdim and Hasidim participated in that resistance. To many sincere Torah leaders, Zionism appeared secular, dangerous, messianically presumptuous or threatening to traditional Jewish life. The intensity of that opposition was every bit as real to the Jews living through it as the controversy over Har HaBayit is to us today.

I am not suggesting that the halachic questions surrounding Har HaBayit are identical to the theological and political questions surrounding Zionism. They clearly are not. But the historical pattern is striking. Then, as now, a movement of Jewish return was portrayed as radical and dangerous. Then, as now, prominent rabbanim warned of grave consequences. Then, as now, something that had remained safely within prayer and messianic aspiration was becoming a practical reality.

Yet history continued moving. Jews came home by the millions, Jewish sovereignty was restored, and Torah life flourished in Eretz Yisrael. Today roughly half of world Jewry lives in the Jewish homeland. Many descendants of communities that once fiercely opposed Zionism now live in Jerusalem, Bnei Brak, Beit Shemesh and throughout Eretz Yisrael, building yeshivot and raising their children in a Jewish society whose very existence was once the subject of ferocious dispute. Whatever arguments remain about Zionism, the historical battle over whether the Jewish people would return en masse to Eretz Yisrael has effectively been decided by reality.

Perhaps the battle line is now moving inward. First the Jewish people return from the nations to Eretz Yisrael. From throughout Eretz Yisrael we ascend toward Jerusalem. Jerusalem itself directs our eyes toward Har HaBayit and the Makom HaMikdash. The linguistic parallel is striking: we make Aliyah to Eretz Yisrael, and we are oleh to Har HaBayit. The first battle was over Aliyah to the Land. I would argue that battle has largely been won. Roughly half the Jewish people are already home. Perhaps the next great battle is the second Aliyah: Aliyah to the Mountain.

There is another lesson from that first great debate over Aliyah that may be particularly relevant today. Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik came from a distinguished rabbinic family whose orientation toward Zionism was deeply skeptical. He later described the difficulty of his own movement toward Mizrachi and of departing from the outlook in which he had been raised. Ultimately, the unfolding events of Jewish history forced him to reconsider inherited assumptions. He came to see Divine Providence as calling upon Jews not merely to observe the return to Zion but to participate in it.

That idea is captured magnificently by the words of Shir HaShirim, קול דודי דופק — “The voice of my beloved knocks.” Rav Soloveitchik famously used this image to describe the extraordinary events surrounding the rebirth of Jewish sovereignty. His challenge was not merely to admire miracles after they occurred, but to recognize the knock while it was happening. When Hashem opens doors in Jewish history, the Jewish people must possess the spiritual sensitivity to hear Him knocking.

Perhaps we need that same sensitivity today. History does not override halacha, and the growth of Jewish ascent to Har HaBayit does not resolve the legitimate halachic dispute surrounding it. But once great Torah authorities such as Rav Shlomo Goren, Rav Dov Lior and others have established a serious halachic basis for properly prepared Jews entering permitted areas, another question becomes unavoidable: Are we listening for the knock?

For generations we prayed toward Har HaBayit while remaining physically separated from it. Then Hashem returned the Jewish people to Eretz Yisrael. He restored Jewish sovereignty. He returned Jerusalem to Jewish hands. Jewish soldiers reached Har HaBayit. Now increasing numbers of Jews from increasingly diverse parts of the Torah world are ascending in purity and reverence, studying the laws of the Mikdash and turning their attention toward the place that stood at the center of Jewish consciousness for thousands of years. Rav Soloveitchik taught us that a Jew must at least possess the spiritual sensitivity to ask whether history itself is knocking on the door.

There is also a haunting warning in Shir HaShirim. The tragedy is not that the beloved never knocked. He knocked, and there was hesitation in answering. By the time the door was finally opened, דודי חמק עבר — “my beloved had turned and gone.” Opportunities in Jewish history do not necessarily wait until every debate has been settled and everyone feels comfortable. Sometimes Hashem opens a door and leaves us with the responsibility to recognize the moment. Rav Soloveitchik ultimately recognized the Jewish return to Eretz Yisrael as a knock that could no longer be ignored. Perhaps our generation must ask whether another knock can now be heard—not merely from the Land, but from the Mountain.

Not everyone is comfortable with the speed and intensity with which the Geula appears to be unfolding, and I don’t blame them. The spiritual and physical world is turning upside down before our eyes. Things Jews relegated to the siddur for two thousand years are suddenly becoming practical questions. That can be frightening even for prominent rabbis, perhaps especially for those deeply rooted in established institutions whose natural role is to preserve continuity and stability.

None of this means that a rabbi who prohibits ascending Har HaBayit is somehow serving the Sitra Achra. God forbid. A rabbi may oppose ascent entirely leshem Shamayim — “for the sake of Heaven,” sincerely believing that Jews risk violating extraordinarily serious Torah prohibitions. We must distinguish between individual intentions and the larger spiritual forces operating through history. Good and sincere people can resist historical change without recognizing the larger role their resistance may be playing.

Perhaps Har HaBayit represents the next great psychological frontier because it forces us to confront a startling possibility: maybe the Geula isn’t waiting for us anymore; maybe we are trying to catch up with it. Chazal describe redemption as unfolding קימעא קימעא — “little by little.” But little by little does not necessarily mean slowly enough that everyone remains comfortable. Gradual change can eventually reach critical mass.

The growing Jewish presence on Har HaBayit must therefore be approached with tremendous awe, humility and halachic seriousness. Nobody should casually wander onto the holiest place on Earth. Anyone who ascends must understand where he may walk, how he must prepare and which competent halachic authority he follows. But neither should we pretend that nothing extraordinary is happening. Increasing numbers of Jews are purifying themselves and ascending toward the place where Avraham bound Yitzchak, where Yaakov encountered the gateway to Heaven, where David purchased the site and where Shlomo built the Beit HaMikdash.

The Makom HaMikdash is becoming real again. For two thousand years it was safely contained within our prayers. We could cry over it on Tisha B’Av, mention it at weddings, face toward it three times every day and repeatedly ask Hashem to rebuild it without confronting what rebuilding Jewish life around the Makom HaMikdash would actually mean. That luxury may be disappearing. Perhaps another barrier of exile is collapsing before our eyes.

We are living through an unprecedented period of Jewish history. The Jewish people are home. Jewish sovereignty has been restored. Jerusalem is ours. Torah flourishes throughout the Land, and places that existed for generations primarily in our prayers are becoming practical realities. The first great Aliyah brought the Jewish people back to the Land. Perhaps the next is drawing us from the Land toward Jerusalem, and from Jerusalem toward the Mountain at its heart. None of this releases us from halacha; on the contrary, approaching the Makom HaMikdash demands greater halachic seriousness, humility and awe. But fidelity to Torah also requires us to look at the world Hashem has placed before us.

For two thousand years we asked Hashem to return us to Jerusalem, and He did. We asked Him to restore Jewish sovereignty, and He did. We asked Him to gather the exiles, and He is. Rav Soloveitchik taught a generation that Divine Providence can knock upon the door of Jewish history and that Jews must be capable of hearing it. Today Jews are once again ascending Har HaBayit, and even communities that once seemed completely removed from the idea are beginning to turn their attention toward the Makom HaMikdash. The knocking seems to be growing louder. The question is no longer whether Hashem is knocking. The question is: are we listening?

ps A day after writing this article, Rav Eliyahu Webber gave a powerful talk (in Hebrew) on the Temple Mount on this very topic. Here’s the link for your viewing pleasure: https://youtu.be/H_RVeZzKbBw?si=bJm__Ih5Xst2iXtl