The Meron Tragedy and “Haredi Idolatry”

[1] Among the numerous responses to the terrible disaster that occurred at the 2020 Lag Ba’Omer Meron celebration, two predominant voices stood out. One expressed wonder: “How could it be that Hashem does this to His faithful servants?” The other hurled accusations: “How could this negligence have not been addressed until now?” The headlines of two newspapers on the Sunday after the event tell the different narratives. The headline of Yediot Aharonot screamed in bold red letters against a black background: “Take Responsibility!” By contrast, the Yated Ne’eman headline, also red on black, declared: “The fire that Hashem ignited.” One disaster, two very different outtakes. One assumed human failure and demanded responsibility. The other is a Divine setting, like the Heavenly fires of the Temple. Perhaps, like Aharon in the face of his burned children, it demanded silence.

These viewpoints do not conflict with each other. They emphasize different aspects of the public’s attitude toward the event. If we lend an ear to Haredi and non-Haredi media channels, it seems there is broad agreement on both points: on the one hand, Meron is an event of utmost Jewish importance; on the other, it was conducted with gross negligence. Alongside theological reflections, Haredi media outlets will discuss failures and those responsible for them. Secular media, alongside the search for those to blame, presents a broad consensus that the event is sacred. It would be unthinkable to cancel it.

I wish to challenge these two assumptions and point out the connection between them. In my understanding, the disaster is not the result of a “failure,” something that went wrong. It was born from the systemic conditions that define Meron, without which the specific form of celebration would never have taken place. As everybody who has been to Meron on Lag Ba’Omer can attest, had the state taken charge of the celebration fifteen years ago (when the option was raised), turning the area into a well-organized national park, the celebration would have lost all its charm.

My claim in this article is not that the Meron celebrations are idolatry in the full sense of the word. My claim is that they are too close for comfort

Why is this the case? Well, it’s because the charm of Meron is not related to what we typically refer to as avodas Hashem, worship of Hashem. The reason masses flock to Meron on Lag Ba’Omer is not a desire to do the good and the just but a darker and more primal passion: the urge to merge into a crowd and feel the immense power of tribal belonging.

Though painful, I believe this analysis is necessary to draw the correct lessons from the tragedy. Talking about “failure” misses the root cause that led to the disaster, and considering the celebration as an “act of Divine service” reflects the malignant disease that has been spreading in recent years within Haredi society. It is a disease with a well-known and ancient name: idolatry.

My claim in this article is not that the Meron celebrations are idolatry in the full sense of the word. My claim is that they are too close for comfort.

 

The Tribal Bonfire

The Meron celebration has become the ultimate tribal bonfire of Haredi society. The expression medurat hashevet, “the tribal campfire,” has been popularized by Israeli media as a reference to television news broadcasts in terms of bonfires around which ancient tribes would gather for communal rituals. Each ancient tribe had its bonfire, and each modern sector gets the news from its own TV station. In the case of Meron, the bonfire is not merely metaphorical. The actual, tangible fires of Lag Ba’Omer serve a social role very similar to that of ancient tribes.

The individual experiences a sense of ecstatic elevation, transcending the confines of personal existence and integrating into the immense crowd that, for a moment, becomes one. This is the true magic of Meron

The importance of the bonfire stems from two significant, interconnected elements: its centralizing role and its elevating role. The bonfire gathers the public around a single focal point. It draws all together to a single place and time, which becomes sanctified by being the point of pilgrimage. In so doing, it makes the community tangible and empowers it. The moment of lighting the bonfire is a transformative moment from individuals to a collective “we,” from isolated people to a tribe – an entity greater than the sum of its parts. The gathering thus establishes tribal consciousness, providing a powerful experience. The individual experiences a sense of ecstatic elevation, transcending the confines of personal existence and integrating into the immense crowd that, for a moment, becomes one. This is the true magic of Meron.

While there are other events of Haredi tribalism, Meron has become its undisputed pinnacle. Every Hassidic court strives to ensure its own lighting ceremony, its own special corner, making the ceremony a moment laden with tribal pride. Yet, this experience is not reserved for Hassidim alone. Many guests also get to taste the experience of losing themselves in the crowd. The Litvish Yeshiva students who flee their Yeshiva institutions for one day (or night) – in the past, participation was generally outlawed in the Litvish Yeshivot – to merge with the crowds at the ceremonies or be swept by the masses up the holy mountain also taste the inevitable force of a huge crowd focused on a single goal. As many who were there told me, “I felt Rabbi Shimon touching me, I can’t describe it in words.”

The individual surrender before the vastness of the moment is, indeed, a powerful experience.

 

“Which I Had Not Commanded”

Many identify the feelings described above with the service of Hashem: the sense of losing oneself amid a sea of people is akin to prayer, observing Shabbat, and other Torah mitzvot. Standing pressed on the bleachers, swept up in overwhelming devotion among tens of thousands of voices singing songs of longing, the moment captures a powerful sense of holiness. Visitors are convinced that this is a revelation of the Divine Presence. It is a microcosm of the singing of the Levites in the Temple, a modern version of the Kedusha we once experienced at the Mikdash. The experience of pushing through the crowd into the “inner sanctum” and standing before the “holy tomb,” perhaps even managing to touch it, becomes the epitome of sublimation. No experience is more exalted. Understandably, many Meron visitors would treat the claim that the experience involves the worship of a tribal idol rather than Hashem, God of Israel, as total heresy.

However, while I am reticent to hurt the holy feelings of some of my friends, there is no way to avoid stating the simple and clear truth: there is nothing holy about this and similar experiences. Spiritual excitement is not evidence of a connection to the Holy One, Blessed Be He, and His Torah. Please forgive the analogy, but I am certain that child sacrifices to Baal in the days of the prophets were also incredibly powerful experiences. They included drums, dances, wild ecstasy, and an indescribable energy; all those who participated would have sworn they had never experienced anything like it and testified that an elevated holiness had illuminated them and redeemed them from the hell in which they lived. I have no doubt about this, for the simple reason that it takes something very powerful to make a person sacrifice his own child, heaven forbid such evils, as a burnt offering. If Baal had not delivered, people would not have paid the price.

[I]t takes something very powerful to make a person sacrifice his own child, heaven forbid such evils, as a burnt offering. If Baal had not delivered, people would not have paid the price

However, the sparkle of heavenly lights and a tangible elevation do not testify to the manifestation of the Divine Presence. The Torah teaches that we must exercise supreme caution before identifying something as sacred. Not everything that glitters is gold, and not everything that excites is holy. The Torah has very specific conditions for the manifestation of the sacred, and when these are not met, we must fear that it is the magic of the Golden Calf rather than a revelation of the Divine Presence.

The first lesson that the Torah teaches regarding the sacred, as we learn from the chapters in Sefer Vayikra, is that approaching it requires great caution and preparation. In fact, approaching the Holy of Holies is only possible once a year, and only for the Kohel Gadol, after extensive preparation and purification. Even then, it can only happen from within the Divine Mist. The rest of the people cannot even approach; they are required to stand at a distance.

Another point the Torah teaches concerning the sacred is the need for a clear distinction between the Holy and the mundane. This particular distinction prohibits a person who is intoxicated from approaching the sacred. They must be sober and clear-headed, able to discern carefully between the sacred and the mundane, between the pure and the defiled. Similarly, approaching the sacred requires staying away from contact with the impurity of death. It is forbidden to approach the sacred while one is ritually impure due to contact with a corpse. Holiness and death do not go hand in hand. The scent of death cannot penetrate the Holy, regardless of the righteousness of the deceased.

Finally, the most important point regarding the sacred is that after the restrictions applied to Mount Sinai and three days of preparation, after a revelation of thunder and lightning, fire and smoke, what ultimately appears is the Torah. Ultimately, the purpose of the sacred is the giving of the Torah. The Mishkan is the place from which Hashem speaks to Moshe and commands him to teach the Children of Israel. The revelation of the elevated Divine Presence on Sinai is the place where Moshe and the nation hear the Ten Commandments and enter into a covenant with Hashem to observe them.

The holiness within the Torah is intangible. It cannot be touched, felt, or sculpted into an image. It cannot be approached because there is nowhere to approach; access to it is blocked. “Set limits for the mountain and sanctify it.” Holiness does not manifest in the ecstasy of sensory confusion, in shouts and drums and dances, in pushing through crowds and losing oneself in a human sea, but rather in “when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance.” It is present in the internal motion of distance and awe.

However, these demands are not easy to meet. It is hard for us to handle a holiness that cannot be touched. The people desire a more tangible, colorful holiness. When Moshe disappeared for forty days leaving behind nothing but a promise to return, the Children of Israel were unable to withstand the temptation. They desired a power that could be felt, experienced, and touched. Thus, they came to Aharon and demanded, “Come, make us a god.” Aharon knew they referred to the God that redeemed them from Egypt. Yet, in order to worship Him, they needed an immediate, palpable, tangible experience. They needed something to dance around – a “tribal bonfire.” Aharon threw the gold into the fire and out came the Calf, at which the Israelites engaged in their disastrous revelry. They did not mean to worship the calf itself, and they carried their prayers to the Master of the World – yet they sinned in idolatry.

Holiness is not found here. The dances and revelries around a man-made deity provide a powerful experience, yetan unholy one. “Not a sound shouting strength nor a sound shouting weakness; a sound of distress do I hear!” The experience of the Golden Calf is a pure kol anot, a kind of “self-response” or echo chamber that the crowd directs to itself. It is not the empowerment of the crowd for the purpose of war, nor the echo of collective submission while fleeing, but the reverberation of the masses affirming themselves, hearing their own call in the surety that the returning echo is the voice of Hashem.

The Lag Ba’Omer celebration at Meron is, as mentioned at the outset, too close for comfort.

 

Keeping Meron Heimish

I do not pretend to understand the ways of Hashem and how the tragedy in Meron came upon us. However, I want to point out how the institutional conditions required to enable the Meron experience were directly connected to the disaster. If Meron had looked like the Kotel, a Holy Site managed by the State of Israel, it would not be possible to reach the sublime lights, the Orot HaKodesh. And the exact conditions required to create the Meron experience are what made the place so dangerous.

In order for the Meron celebration to become the domain of the Haredi tribe, the event must possess a heimish atmosphere, which is characterized by two main features.

First, you can’t have state control over the place. It is important to emphasize that this is not related to the secular nature of the state but rather to its being a governmental authority. The state is an institutional body. If the state were to take control of Meron, the various Chassidic courts would not be able to find their own space there. Meron does not belong to a specific court, but it also does not belong to the state—it belongs to the tribe. The difference between a tribe and a state is not in the number of people associated with them but in the institutional structure. A state is an entity that towers above the tribe, a “neutral” institution. The state, even a democratic one, is not identical to the electorate. It is a public authority. On the other hand, the property of the tribe belongs to the community. A tribe includes a set hierarchy, clans, and insiders; it thrives on the distinction between “us” (undzerer or anash) and those who are not. You can’t light a tribal fire at Meron if the tribe is not responsible for the lighting. Thus, the first condition for turning Meron into a focal point for pilgrimage, the “tribal bonfire,” is its belonging to the tribe rather than the state.

The second condition for making Meron heimish is its spontaneous and non-institutional nature. The warm meals and coffee distribution, the disposable cups rolling in every corner, the local memorial ceremonies and prayers for departed loved ones, the stalls selling pictures of tzaddikim, the brochures of Kupat Ha’ir and the smell of milk wafting through the entire compound—these are not flaws or failings, but essential, inseparable parts of what makes the place so attractive. Moreover, dilapidated corridors, makeshift additions to the construction, worn-out caravans, and rickety bleachers—are also part of the heimish atmosphere. If the state were to organize the place, it would no longer be heimish. It would no longer be Meron. It would, God forbid, turn into a “national recreation area and tourist site.” It would become too institutionalized. It would no longer be able to serve as the tribal bonfire.

A significant part of the experience is the crowding, the pushing, the feeling of being choked and the pressure of the crowds. The frequent fainting experiences at Meron are an inseparable part of the event, a feature rather than a bug

Indeed, even the force of the crowded masses and the scintillating hint of imminent danger are an integral part of the charm of Meron. If everything in Meron were organized, orderly, totally safe, highly accessible, and convenient—it would no longer be Meron. A significant part of the experience is the crowding, the pushing, the feeling of being choked, and the pressure of the crowds. The frequent fainting experiences at Meron are an inseparable part of the event, a feature rather than a bug. If there were no fainting, it wouldn’t be Meron.

Being at Meron requires stepping outside one’s comfort zone and relinquishing the strong instinct of self-preservation. This relinquishment does not come easily. It requires exposure to some form of danger. It demands that one compromise on what would not ordinarily cross the mind: to be tightly packed with an overwhelming crowd of people, swept along by an inevitable and uncontrollable human tide. If someone were to approach us too closely in line at the supermarket or at the bus station, we would become flustered and move away. But at the gathering around the tribal bonfire, we must resign this instinct in total submission.

The second condition for turning Lag BaOmer in Meron into a pilgrimage is thus the crowding, spontaneity, and lack of personal security characteristic of mass events. And these, of course, are the conditions that invited disaster. Year after year, organizers would speak of the “Miracle at Meron”—the miracle that no disaster took place. But as the halacha teaches, one is not permitted to rely on miracles.

Approximately a decade ago, when the government sought to transfer authority for managing Meron to its control, the Haredi public protested that this would turn the place into a “national tourist site.” Broadsides went up, Haredi politicians voiced their strong objections, and the plan was abandoned. But what was the concern? Is it not the responsibility of the state to take charge of the place? The state would decide what to build and what to demolish, who could enter and who could not; it would have cleared out the vendors roaming the area, prevented unauthorized events, and generally made the place much more accessible, orderly, and clean. The site would continue to function as a place of prayer, but without the attendant filth. What’s wrong?

The price of government regulation is the loss of tribal character and the heimish atmosphere

Part of the answer is small interest groups and organizations, matters of corruption, bribery, power, and money. Another part is the state’s refusal to respect the different Haredi players involved. But the bigger answer is that it was not a “failure.” If you ask the community, you’ll get the answer (and the one I received): “Are you crazy? Do you want Rabbi Shimon’s tomb to look like the Kotel?!” The price of government regulation is the loss of tribal character and the heimish atmosphere. The Kotel has become a public place belonging to the state rather than the people. Meron could not suffer the same fate. Without the Hachnasat Orchim buffets and Seudot Mitzvah, without soda fountains and charity boxes, and most importantly, without the warmth and crowded atmosphere, it would simply not be Meron.

 

Remove the Foreign Gods From Among You

The celebration at Meron seems to me more akin to the revelry and dances around the Golden Calf than to an act of drawing near to the Divine. The crowding, the heimishkeit, the noise and commotion, the pushing and intense sensory experience, the urge to touch, the rush to feel, the crowding around the fire and the flame—all these seem distant and detached from the service of Hashem. Our tradition does not know it. It is not a voice of strength nor one of weakness but a Haredi tribal bonfire in which the masses celebrate their own existence and worship their reflected image.

Similar self-worship can be found at other events, too: election rallies, funerals of Gedolim, and other mass events. What they have in common is the crowding around a sacred object and the urge to see it, touch it, feel it, and approach it. This object can be living or dead, but it is not the Almighty. Hashem cannot be seen or touched. Jewish holiness always remains distant and beyond comprehension. The object of Haredi worship is the tribal totem, around which the public congregates to feel its own strength and power.

This was not the face of Haredi Judaism until recently. The story of the Haredi masses which transform rabbinic leaders into holy icons (or a tribal totem) is a new phenomenon. It has no connection to the respect for Torah scholars, certainly not to honoring them. Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky, for instance, used to instruct every clean-shaven young man who came to see him to grow a beard. This instruction is an explicit halachic ruling. Whether one agreed with Rav Chaim’s halachic position or not, there is no doubt that he saw growing a beard as a halachic obligation. Yet, this halachic halachic opinion was of no interest to those who worship the “Reb Chaim” idol. His rabbinic authority is not the reason they come to him, and his instructions were often ignored. What interested the masses was the adoration of the tribal totem, not compliance with halachic authority. It is the Torah scholar, rather than his Torah, which has become the tribal sacred item.

What interested the masses was the adoration of the tribal totem, not compliance with halachic authority. It is the Torah scholar, rather than his Torah, which has become the tribal sacred item

This “idolatry” consumes us from within. It leads to internal corruption and the deterioration of fundamental values, most prominently through nepotism fueled by exploiting the innocent blood of the poor. In matters of justice, the fair distribution of resources among people, our situation is dire. Often, too often, it seems that the only law governing us is power. If someone wants to expand their apartment, enroll their child in an educational institution, secure a job for themselves or their relatives, or arrange a match for their children, the question of justice is totally irrelevant. The only question is whether they have enough power to achieve their heart’s desire: money, connections, and the ability to exert coercive manipulation on those involved. This holds true both on personal and societal levels. The powerful exploit the weak and cater to those close to them. There is no justice, no accountability, and no awareness of Hashem in the Land. Generally, it seems the most important thing for the captains of the Haredi ship is the strength of the tribe, meaning the power of tribal leaders. And the Haredi masses dutifully follow and idolize the tribal idols because they want the powerful feeling of “belonging.”

The connection between idolatry and moral corruption recurs countless times in the words of the prophets. “Your princes are rebellious and associates of thieves; each of them loves bribes and pursues payments. They do not render justice to the orphan; the grievance of the widow does not come to them,” says Yeshayahu. “Like a cage full of fowl, so their houses are full of deceit; thereby, they have grown great and wealthy. They have grown fat and corpulent, and also transgressed through wicked deeds; they did not rule justly—[even] the claim of the orphan—to enable them to prosper; and they did not judge the judgment of the poor,” echoes Yirmiyahu. What sustains such a social order? How do people accept such corrupt leadership yet remain convinced that they are righteous, as described by the prophets? Yeshayahu tells us how devout the people of that generation were, until Hashem cried out to them: “Who sought this from your hand, to trample my courtyards?” And Yirmiyahu speaks of those who worshipped Baal, confident that they were serving Hashem and calling out, “The Sanctuary of Hashem, the Sanctuary of Hashem, the Sanctuary of Hashem!” How can this be explained?

The answer is that these people were confused between serving Hashem and idolatry. They believed that Hashem was their tribal idol. They equated the worship of their tribe’s totem, which was solely their own self-interest, with the worship of Hashem, the God of the universe whose purpose is to “undo the bonds of injustice and let the oppressed go free.” One who serves Hashem seeks to do the good and the just; he does not covet the powerful sense of “I am part of the tribe.” He does not turn Torah scholars into holy mascots and their word into the Word of Hashem. He serves Hashem, for whom the Torah is His only concern, not the community, its leaders, and their injustices.

Just as in ancient times, tribal feelings that strive to touch the sacred continue to support a social structure that enables injustice, crime, exploitation, and oppression. The holy worship of the tribe’s idols empowers those who wield community power to oppress, crush, and suppress the weak beneath them. Why? Yirmiah’s cry, which we read in the Haftarah of Masei, resonates today more than ever: “What wrong did your forefathers find in Me, that they distanced themselves from Me, and pursued futility, and became futile?” Why have we forsaken the Source of Living Waters to dig for ourselves broken cisterns?

I do not know what can be done. It seems that the followers of this new idolatry are numerous, and they threaten anyone who opposes them. Their power is great, and Torah institutions are subject to their manipulation and exploitation. We have no one to rely on but our Father in Heaven, who will grant courage and wisdom to the remaining faithful Jews to whom Hashem calls, so that they may be strengthened to fight against this phenomenon and return to Him in repentance. May the verse be realized in us: “Hashem, your God, will circumcise your heart and the heart of your offspring, to love Hashem, your God with all your heart and with all your soul, that you may live.”

 

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[1] This article was written shortly after the tragedy at Meron, but I did not see fit to publish it while the blood of the victims was still fresh. These days, the days of mourning for the destruction of the Temple, the distress of exile, and the accountability for the sins that led to them, are more appropriate for introspection into our actions, and to remember and recall the disasters that have befallen us.

 

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