Should we fear getting too close to the sacred? Should the sense of awe, so fundamental to our service of Hashem, lead us to keep our distance from the Temple, or ought it to impel us to draw nearer, with love and a sense of responsibility? This is the crux of a quiet but critical debate surrounding ascent to the Temple Mount. On one side stands the concern over transgressing laws of holiness, while on the other stands the deep yearning for closeness to Hashem and to the place where His Name dwells—a yearning that the Torah and Chazal portray as one of the highest aspirations of the human spirit.
This path prefers the dangers of drawing near to the safe distance of reverent detachment, so long as our nearness is undertaken with care and halachic integrity
In what follows, I seek to illuminate this question of proximity to the Mikdash through close readings of key biblical and rabbinic sources. I hope to suggest an alternative to the contemporary approach of withdrawal and avoidance. This path prefers the dangers of drawing near to the safe distance of reverent detachment, so long as our nearness is undertaken with care and halachic integrity.
The Sin of the Golden Calf and the Meaning of Closeness
The sin of the Golden Calf, as the Torah presents it, did not stem from a simple desire to worship a foreign god. Rather, it reflected a deeply human and religious impulse: the need for a tangible intermediary in the service of Hashem. When Moshe, the prophet of God who mediated between the nation and its Creator, disappeared from view, the people—still shaped by their Egyptian experience, in which the divine is embodied in physical form—sought a replacement. They cried out for “gods who will go before us,” a visible surrogate for the now-absent Moshe.
When Aharon saw the people bowing before the calf and declaring, “This is your god, O Israel,” he responded not by condemning them, but by building an altar and announcing, “Tomorrow is a festival to Hashem.” The intention, it seems, was to serve Hashem, albeit in an improper and forbidden way.
Service of Hashem through any physical form is strictly prohibited, even when driven by pure intentions. The cheruvim (cherubs) atop the Ark of the Covenant, for instance, do not symbolize God Himself, Heaven forbid, but rather His presence riding upon them—a symbolic representation of His mastery over nature and His miraculous intervention on behalf of His people.
Still, despite the prohibition and the severe punishment that followed the sin of the Calf, the episode teaches us something profound: even when misdirected, the longing for closeness to Hashem remains a powerful expression of the soul’s search for the divine. The real question is how to engage with the risks inherent in such closeness. How does Hashem Himself relate to the possibility of His Presence dwelling among the people after such a breach?
The Torah’s answer lies in the unfolding of the narrative itself.
In the aftermath of the Calf, Hashem tells Moshe that although He will still bring the people to the Promised Land, He will not dwell in their midst. Instead, He will send an angel to lead them, “for I will not go up in your midst… lest I consume you on the way.” This promise raises a textual difficulty, for Hashem had already spoken (in Parashas Mishpatim) of sending an angel before the people. What, then, is new here?
The simple explanation is that the identity of the angel remains unchanged; what shifts is the intimacy of Hashem’s Presence. The question is whether Hashem Himself will dwell within the camp or remain at a distance.
Ordinarily, sanctity is fixed in a stationary temple atop a mountain; here, Hashem chooses to travel with His people, accompanying them from station to station
This moment reveals a deep theological drama. The very notion of the Shechinah dwelling within the Israelite camp during their desert journey, in a mobile Mishkan, is unparalleled among the nations. Ordinarily, sanctity is fixed in a stationary temple atop a mountain; here, Hashem chooses to travel with His people, accompanying them from station to station. But in the wake of the Calf, Hashem proposes to forgo this proximity, as a precaution rather than a punishment. Given the people’s spiritual volatility, another misstep could trigger His wrath and destroy them. The people will travel on without the Divine presence; it will rejoin them only after the permanent Mikdash is built in Jerusalem.
Yet, Moshe refuses the offer and beseeches Hashem to return His presence to the people, notwithstanding the danger and responsibility. Hashem accepts his plea, and the message is clear: Closeness to Hashem is the ultimate value, even at the cost of danger that demands careful awareness and attention.
Closeness to God: A Perilous Privilege
Chazal taught that the Ark would cause the death of the Levites. Again, this is not a punishment, but rather an inevitable consequence of unregulated proximity to holiness. Those charged with carrying the Ark had to adhere to its laws with extreme precision; even a minor deviation placed their lives at risk. This is what befell Uzza, who, in a moment of instinct, reached out his hand to steady the Ark when it seemed about to fall. He died on the spot.
King David, witnessing this, was gripped with fear. He halted the journey and placed the Ark in the house of Oved-Edom. Only after learning that the household had been blessed on account of the Ark did David resume its transfer to the City of David, this time ensuring full compliance with the Torah’s command: the Ark was to be borne on the shoulders of the Levites, not transported on a cart.
David did not recoil. On the contrary, his yearning for closeness to the Ark, despite the risks involved, only increased
David’s words to the Levites were telling: “At first it was not you [who carried it]; Hashem our God burst out against us because we did not seek Him according to the law” (Divrei HaYamim I 15:13). The episode underscores the demands of sacred proximity. Yet David did not recoil. On the contrary, his yearning for closeness to the Ark, despite the risks involved, only increased. He embraced the responsibility that comes with drawing near to holiness, for the blessing and the longing were worth the fear.
The pursuit of closeness to Hashem, in all its risk and rigor, is the very essence of Avodas Hashem
This same pattern appears in the Torah’s own framing of the tribe of Levi. “At that time, Hashem set apart the tribe of Levi to bear the Ark of the Covenant of Hashem, to stand before Hashem to serve Him, and to bless in His Name.” The first and foremost privilege listed is the carrying of the Ark—an honor of the highest order, even when it involves mortal danger. The pursuit of closeness to Hashem, in all its risk and rigor, is the very essence of Avodas Hashem.
A similar idea appears in the Midrash concerning Esav’s words at the sale of the birthright. Esav asks Yaakov what the service of the Mikdash entails (which, at that time, was to be performed by the firstborns), and Yaakov answers by listing the many instances in which even a slight deviation from the law renders one liable to death by Heaven. Esav responds, “Behold, I am going to die,” which the Midrash interprets as an admission that he is bound to fail in some halachic detail and be punished with death, and thus concludes: “Of what use is this birthright to me?” But the Torah calls this attitude “Esav spurned the birthright.” Yaakov, by contrast, does not recoil from the birthright because of its risks. He approaches it with reverence and rejoices in the privilege of such closeness to Hashem.
Choosing Closeness
Today, there are those who claim we are unworthy of the Beit HaMikdash, unfit to ascend the Temple Mount. The fear of violating the sanctity of the place, of incurring the punishment of karet, or even discomfort with the idea of korbanot, leads to emotional and physical distance. Even among those who ascend, some insist on staying at the perimeter or limiting their visits to rare occasions, citing a pious fear of the holy.
But a sincere reading of Scripture reveals a different vision—one not of retreat but of approach. The Torah ideal is not to flee from holiness, but to draw near it with love and awe, with yearning and fear, passion and responsibility. Yes, there is danger in drawing close. But there is no greater privilege.
When Hashem told the nation that He would not dwell among them, “lest I consume you on the way,” Moshe Rabbeinu thus insisted on Divine closeness, on Hashem’s presence that was worth the risk of failure. “Better that He dwell among us,” Moshe effectively said, “even if we sin and are punished.” How much more so regarding the permanent Temple in the Land of Israel, which is fixed and enduring. There is not only no justification to distance ourselves from it; there is a clear obligation to draw near, to labor for its rebuilding, and to restore the Avodah in its courtyards. A low spiritual level does not mean that we must refrain from approaching the Holy. We are not always worthy of it; yet, when it is possible, we must ensure our closeness.
The call to holiness is not one of distance but of daring. The risks are real. But so is the greatness. The choice of kedushah is never safe. It is simply right
So too with Yehoshua. Late in his life, Yehoshua gathered the tribes of Israel in Shechem. After recounting the miracles from the days of Avraham through the Exodus and the conquest of the Land, he laid a stark choice before the people: will they serve Hashem and accept the burden of holiness, or will they turn to the gods of the nations? Will you draw close to Hashem, even if such closeness is dangerous?
The people responded with conviction: “We too will serve Hashem, for He is our God.” But Yehoshua continued with a warning, sharp and uncompromising: “You will not be able to serve Hashem, for He is a jealous God… If you forsake Hashem and serve foreign gods, He will turn and do you harm and consume you.” Failure, he told them, comes at a price. You cannot draw close to holiness unless you are prepared to bear the weight of its responsibilities. Yet the people insisted: “No, for we will serve Hashem!” Betrayal of the commitment would come at a heavy cost; nevertheless, they accepted the risk.
As Tanna Devei Eliyahu explains, Yehoshua was not trying to dissuade them from serving Hashem. On the contrary, he was deepening their understanding of what such a commitment entails: that proximity to the sacred demands integrity and accountability. The same is true for us. We must grasp the nature of holy closeness, but we must not be frightened of it. The call to holiness is not one of distance but of daring. The risks are real. But so is the greatness. The choice of kedushah is never safe. It is simply right.
Ascent to the Mount
Many objections are raised today against ascending the Temple Mount: We are unworthy; one might stumble and sin; such holiness is too dangerous—better to stay away. Some even argue that morah mikdash—reverence for the Temple—means maintaining distance. These claims do not stem from apathy but from a deep appreciation of the weight of holiness. And yet, this is not the path shown to us by the Torah, nor by the prophets and sages of Israel.
The Torah teaches that proximity to the holy is fundamental to avodat Hashem—even when it carries risk. The privilege granted to the tribe of Levi to draw near the Ark of the Covenant came with the danger of death, as seen in the story of Uzza. And yet, that proximity was preserved as a supreme privilege. King David himself did not shy away from it. On the contrary: having come to understand its weight, he insisted on bringing the Ark back to his city, yearning to draw the holy near. It never occurred to him to banish it.
The same is true today. While proximity to holiness entails halachic and spiritual responsibility, and we must approach it with care and precision, this is not a reason to avoid it. Quite the opposite: we must draw near with reverence, humility, and fierce love for the place where Hashem has placed His Name.
David HaMelech gave voice to this longing in eternal words: “One thing I asked of Hashem, that shall I seek—that I may dwell in the House of Hashem all the days of my life…” This is not a poetic metaphor for a study hall. The House of Hashem is a real place, the seat of the Divine Presence, the focal point of the heart’s desire. “But as for me, closeness to God is my good.” This is both physical and spiritual closeness, and the Mikdash is its living center.
As long as the place lies desolate, so too do our hearts. But when our hands are able to draw near, this is not a danger to avoid but a duty to fulfill
So too with the sons of Korach in Tehillim: “Send forth Your light and truth; let them guide me to Your holy mountain, and to Your dwelling-place.” Or: “How beloved are Your dwelling-places, Hashem Tzevaot! My soul longs, indeed it faints, for the courts of Hashem.” These verses speak of real ascent to a real Temple. Their longing is not abstract.
Even the birds find their place by the altar—“Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself.” And we? We are the nation to whom this house was given. As long as the place lies desolate, so too do our hearts. But when our hands are able to draw near, this is not a danger to avoid but a duty to fulfill.
A House of Prayer
The primary function of the Mikdash, as expressed in the prayer of Shlomo, is to be a place of prayer. “They shall pray and plead before You in this house—and You shall hear…” Whether one prays within its walls or, when that is not possible, in its direction, this is the place where the relationship between Israel and its God takes form. It is not only a house of sacrifices; it is the house where Israel stands, pleads, speaks, and draws near.
Today, with Jerusalem and even the Temple Mount in our hands, those who stand at a distance may be tempted to say: “Reverence for the Temple means not entering it.” But its deeper, biblical meaning is just the opposite: to enter in awe, not to remain outside in fear.
The call to cross the threshold of holiness is not a political provocation. It is an ancient prayer, born of a nation’s thirst for its God. It is a call to renew the covenant with the sacred place, to rekindle the spirit, and to return the Shechinah to its home. Not fear, but love. Not hesitation, but vision. Not withdrawal from holiness but a careful, responsible, and passionate approach.
Can it be that Hashem has returned us to His land, granted us once again Jerusalem, His city and the resting place of His glory, and yet we would hold back, refusing to enter His Temple to bow, to pray, and to serve before Him? Shall we distance ourselves from the Mikdash, foregoing the very service of Hashem that He explicitly commanded us and the profound closeness to the Divine that it affords, out of fear that some among us might fail in preserving its sanctity? Shall we nullify this entire dimension of Divine worship because of the concern, “lest I consume you on the way”?
Children of Israel, return to Hashem, the God of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yisrael, and He will return to the remnant that remains for you…
Do not be like your fathers and your brothers who acted unfaithfully toward Hashem, the God of their fathers, so that He made them a horror, as you yourselves see.
Now, do not stiffen your necks like your fathers.
Extend your hand to Hashem and come to His sanctuary, which He has sanctified forever, and serve Hashem your God, and His fierce anger will turn away from you.
For if you return to Hashem, your brothers and your children will find compassion before their captors and return to this land.
For Hashem your God is gracious and merciful, and He will not turn His face from you—if you return to Him.
Photo: Andrew Shiva / Wikipedia
