The Temple Mount and Religious Division: Between Faith and Identity

Since the beginning of the modern resettlement of the Land of Israel, ascending the Temple Mount has been considered strictly out of bounds. Those who defied the prohibition were deemed fringe figures and broadly condemned. Even prominent individuals such as Moses Montefiore, who ascended in 1855, and Baron Rothschild, who did so in 1914, were sharply criticized. Montefiore was nearly placed under a ban until he issued a retraction, and Rav Kook publicly rebuked Rothschild in strong terms. The ban, which was led by Rav Kook and enjoyed near-universal consensus, has, however, steadily eroded among Religious-Zionist rabbis, some of whom now not only permit ascent but encourage it, and even ascend themselves. In contrast, Charedi rabbinic leadership has remained firmly opposed.

While Charedi rabbinic figures maintain the traditional posture of national mourning, many Religious-Zionist leaders have begun to question the continued relevance of the fasts and customs observed during the Three Weeks

Surprisingly, while Religious-Zionist attitudes toward ascending the Mount have grown more permissive, the same community has grown increasingly ambivalent toward mourning for the destruction. While Charedi rabbinic figures maintain the traditional posture of national mourning, many Religious-Zionist leaders have begun to question the continued relevance of the fasts and customs observed during the Three Weeks. These divergent shifts suggest a more profound difference in how the two communities perceive the very meaning of the Temple and its place in contemporary Jewish life.

This essay examines the contemporary significance of the Temple through the lens of these diverse perspectives. I should note at the outset that I speak in broad strokes. There are, of course, Charedim who share the Religious-Zionist orientation, and Religious-Zionists who align with the Haredi view. The lines are not rigid. Yet, it remains worthy of deeper analysis and explanation.

 

Between Faith and Action

At first glance, the difference might appear to be one between faith and action. Religious-Zionism emphasizes emunah as the bedrock of Judaism, and thus places national redemption at the center of its religious experience. Redemption, in this view, is a theological principle that expresses Hashem’s closeness to His people. Accordingly, ascending the Temple Mount becomes a practical expression of Divine intimacy, while mourning customs that obscure the redemptive process are deemphasized. Charedi Judaism, by contrast, is grounded primarily in halacha. From its vantage point, the longstanding rulings of halachic tradition dictate present-day practice, prohibiting entry to the Mount and requiring mourning for the destruction.

Yet, I believe this distinction is not merely one of ideology or theology. It is primarily political: political in the sense of collective self-identity and the way each community positions itself vis-à-vis secular Israeli society. Both communities are rooted in faith and observance; in both, Jewish belief and halacha are central pillars. The core difference lies in the contrast between a conservative society and a revolutionary one.

Again, this is a generalization. Not all Charedim are conservatives, nor are all Religious-Zionists radicals. These tendencies relate to sociological and cultural dynamics, not individual dispositions. The distinction I wish to draw concerns the collective self-understanding of the two groups: whether faith is seen as a default inheritance or as a reaction to secularism. In the Charedi world, faith is traditional and self-evident—it is not up for debate. As a conservative community, it sees itself as preserving the religion of its ancestors, and emunah is its default stance. Its encounter with secularism is largely practical: it sees a society that violates halacha.

By contrast, the Religious-Zionist community, while also deeply committed to Torah and mitzvot, does not share the same conservative reflex. It draws intellectual and cultural inspiration from the hegemonic secular world around it. In this context, the default is atheism, and faith becomes a conscious response, a counter-stance. For this reason, many Religious-Zionists prefer to describe themselves not as “religious” but as “people of faith.”

In the Charedi world, faith is not threatened by secular atheism because it does not engage with it directly. As a result, it feels no compulsion to validate all forms of religious expression

This contrast influences how each community perceives expressions of faith. In the Charedi world, faith is not threatened by secular atheism because it does not engage with it directly. As a result, it feels no compulsion to validate all forms of religious expression. It is capable of being critical, of distinguishing between forms of faith, encouraging some and disapproving of others. Most notably, it accepts a restrained and modest expression of religious feeling.

For Haredim, ascending the Mount is a desecration of holiness. For Religious-Zionists, it is a religious obligation, and failure to do so is negligence in fulfilling the mitzvah of rebuilding the Temple

In the Religious-Zionist world, however, which exists in constant dialogue with a secular, unbelieving culture, faith must be asserted and affirmed. This leads to a non-critical embrace of all expressions of faith, regardless of their form. A pilgrimage to Uman, dancing in the streets, ecstatic rituals: all are embraced insofar as they reflect belief.

To the Charedi eye, such a posture appears naive, even dangerous. To the Religious-Zionist, by contrast, Charedi faith often seems cold or stunted. This difference in religious sensibility plays out strikingly in the matter of the Temple Mount. For Haredim, ascending the Mount is a desecration of holiness. For Religious-Zionists, it is a religious obligation, and failure to do so is negligence in fulfilling the mitzvah of rebuilding the Temple.

 

The Ascent to the Temple Mount

From a halachic perspective, ascending the Temple Mount has always been fraught with difficulty. With the exception of a minority view, the overwhelming majority of early authorities hold that the Temple Mount—including the areas of the azarot and the location of the Mikdash itself—retains its sanctity even today. As such, entry to the Mount, even beyond the central precincts, remains forbidden for those who are tamei (ritually impure):

Although the Temple is now destroyed due to our sins, one is still obligated to revere it as one would in its built state. One may only enter those areas that are permissible to enter, one may not sit in the Azarah, nor act casually facing the Eastern Gate, as it is written: ‘You shall observe My Sabbaths and revere My Sanctuary’—just as Sabbath observance applies eternally, so too the reverence for the Mikdash applies eternally; for although it is destroyed, its sanctity remains. (Rambam, Hilchos Beis HaBechirah 7:7)

The Temple Mount is more sanctified than the surrounding areas, for one who is a zav, zavah, niddah, or yoledet may not enter. However, a corpse itself may be brought into the Temple Mount, and certainly someone who is tamei met. (ibid., 7:15)

The Ezras Yisrael is more sanctified than the Women’s Courtyard, for one who is lacking atonement (mechusar kaparah) may not enter. One who is impure and enters is liable to karet. (ibid., 7:18)

Technically, entering the area outside the cheil (a low boundary wall that encircled the inner sanctum) is permitted after immersion in a mikvah. Yet since the precise boundaries of the azarot and the sanctified areas of the Mount are not known with certainty, the accepted custom was to forbid entry to the entire area of the Mount. While the present-day enclosure reflects the Herodian-era retaining walls, Chazal describe the sanctified area as measuring 500 cubits by 500 cubits. From west to east, the dimensions align with this measurement, but from north to south they extend beyond a thousand cubits—leaving uncertainty about which portions of the Mount lie within the original sanctified zone. Some authorities maintain that the beit din of the Mikdash may have extended the sacred area beyond the standard measurement.

Though many accept that the Even HaShetiah (the Foundation Stone) beneath the Dome of the Rock marks the spot of the Kodesh HaKodashim, this cannot be stated with full certainty. Rabbi Shlomo Goren, for example, held that the Holy of Holies was located north of the stone; Rabbi Tuvia Sagi, by contrast, places it to the south. Given that entry to the Ezras Yisrael is forbidden for those who are tamei met and carries the penalty of karet, and that its boundaries are not definitively known, ascending the Mount risks a transgression of the gravest severity.

Even if experts who have purified themselves can confidently navigate the permitted periphery, the masses (who enter in growing numbers) are liable to enter areas forbidden to all opinions. It was on this basis that the leading Torah sages of the nineteenth century issued strong prohibitions against entering the Mount, a position reaffirmed after the liberation of Jerusalem in 1967.

Religiously, they invoke the historic failure to ascend to Eretz Yisrael for two thousand years out of passive reliance on the coming of Mashiach; today, they argue, the same mistaken passivity prevents ascent to the Temple Mount

Until this point, the halachic considerations appear relatively clear. Yet, those who do ascend rely on fragmentary testimonies and thin traditions from the past. Their motivations are both religious and political. Politically, they argue, refraining from ascent effectively abandons the Mount to the control of the Islamic Waqf, and those who oppose ascent are likened to Zechariah ben Avkulas, whose misplaced humility contributed to the Temple’s destruction. Religiously, they invoke the historic failure to ascend to Eretz Yisrael for two thousand years out of passive reliance on the coming of Mashiach; today, they argue, the same mistaken passivity prevents ascent to the Temple Mount. They call for redemption through natural means. “Behold, we are here, and we shall go up to the place that Hashem has spoken of, for we have sinned.” In their view, the dispute centers on the contemporary mission of the Jewish people—whether the redemptive process of our time (geulah de’ishtadlut) calls for a proactive stance.

But is this truly the question?

I wish to propose that before we ask whether to ascend the Temple Mount, we must first ask a deeper question: What is our relationship to kedushah? How do we perceive the Divine, and how do we understand the place of human beings in relation to Hashem’s Presence? The dispute between the Charedi and Religious-Zionist communities, I will argue, is not fundamentally about theology—it is about religious identity in a secular world.

 

Ascent to the Mount – A Religious Vulgarity

The Torah, more often than not, distances man from the Mikdash. That very distance is what instills awe and reverence in the heart. As the Rambam writes—and as Sefer HaChinuch echoes in the context of the prohibition “he shall not come at all times into the holy place”—the sacred is honored by restraint. Rav Kook articulates this principle clearly in Mishpat Kohen:

Just as reverence for God’s Name is maintained through refraining from invoking it in vain—‘You shall fear Hashem your God’—so, too, reverence for the holy place is preserved through distancing, not by frequent access. We do not cultivate fear through closeness and casual mention, but through restraint and limitation.

In this passage, Rav Kook distinguishes between reverence that emerges from distance and that which seeks proximity. He argues that Chazal advocate for a mode of holiness rooted in distance. Just as we preserve the sanctity of God’s Name by avoiding its casual utterance, so must we preserve the sanctity of His House by avoiding uninvited or unworthy entry.

Reverence in the face of holiness reflects humility and an understanding of the sacred as exalted and untouchable. Approaching the holy can be dangerous, and taking initiative to draw near is not encouraged

This approach is rooted directly in Scripture. The Torah portrays Moshe averting his gaze when confronted with the Divine Presence in the burning bush. Chazal teach that he was rewarded for this restraint:

Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachmani said in the name of Rabbi Yonatan: In reward for three actions, Moshe was granted three things: for ‘he hid his face,’ he was granted radiant countenance; for ‘he was afraid,’ he was granted that others were afraid to approach him; and for ‘he did not gaze,’ he was granted the privilege of ‘the image of Hashem he beheld.’ (Berachot 7a)

Reverence in the face of holiness reflects humility and an understanding of the sacred as exalted and untouchable. Approaching the holy can be dangerous, and taking initiative to draw near is not encouraged. Time and again, the Torah warns against unauthorized closeness. The premature and unbidden approach of Nadav and Avihu brought about their death, “when they drew near before Hashem” (Vayikra 16:1). From then on, Aharon was warned: “Let him not come at all times into the holy place… lest he die” (ibid. 16:2), and even when entry is permitted, it must be carefully prescribed: “With this shall Aharon enter: with a bull for a sin-offering and a ram for a burnt-offering” (16:3).

Even acts seemingly meant to honor the sacred can result in tragic consequences. Uzza, who reached out to steady the Ark of the Covenant when he feared it might fall, was struck dead on the spot: “Hashem’s anger flared against Uzza, and He struck him there… and he died beside the Ark of God” (II Samuel 6:6–7). His mistake lay in his presumption of closeness, his breach of distance.

Overfamiliarity is not just irreverent; it is dangerous

The sacred, then, is magnified through distance. Overfamiliarity is not just irreverent; it is dangerous. The existential gap between man and God must be reflected also in physical boundaries; one must not treat the holy as readily accessible. Chazal underscore this in their commentary on deveikut—clinging to God:

“You who cleave to Hashem your God are all alive today”—is it possible to cleave to the Divine Presence? Has it not been said: “Hashem your God is a consuming fire”? Rather, one who gives his daughter in marriage to a Torah scholar, or engages in commerce on behalf of Torah scholars, or supports them with his wealth—it is considered as if he cleaves to the Divine Presence. (Ketubos 111b)

Fear of Heaven is rooted no less in an awareness of distance than in a longing for closeness. Recognizing that God is a consuming fire, that He is utterly transcendent, and that though “close to all who call upon Him in truth,” He is also infinitely beyond our grasp, is at the heart of true faith.

The desire to draw close and “touch the holy” ignores this gap, this essential separation. To speak plainly: the drive to ascend the Temple Mount from religious motives reflects a form of spiritual arrogance, a vulgarity of the sacred. This is what Rav Kook and the leading Torah sages of his time meant when they opposed ascent, a position they reaffirmed after the Six-Day War.

What, then, lies behind the support of leading Religious-Zionist rabbis such as Rav Dov Lior, Rav Yaakov Medan, Rav Eliezer Melamed for ascending the Mount? Am I accusing them of religious vulgarity? Heaven forbid. That charge, when applicable, belongs more readily to elements on the fringes of Breslov. The Religious-Zionist stance is rooted in distinct premises.

In my understanding, the debate between these Torah scholars and their Haredi counterparts reflects a deeper divergence in how each community constructs its religious identity. It is a political disagreement, but not in the sense of power or policy. Rather, it is about how religious identity is organized in the context of a secular society. The believing Jew’s self-understanding within a largely non-observant environment differs in Religious-Zionism from that in the Haredi world.

 

Communal Identity and the Formation of Minority Consciousness

Social historians have long noted a pattern among minority communities: to solidify their identity in the face of a dominant culture, they often adopt a communal and oppositional stance. This process, known as the “socialization of identity,” involves shifting private religious acts into the public domain to forge a visible, shared identity. One example is the migration of private mitzvot such as Birkot HaShachar, candle lighting, and brit milah into the synagogue during medieval times. What once took place in the home became a communal ritual, collectively declaring the Jewish faith in the face of the Christian majority. Religion thus becomes not only a spiritual path, but also a tool of social formation: a means for shaping individual identity through collective belonging, and for granting new meaning to the community as a whole.

Political theorists have similarly addressed the need for individuals to locate themselves within communities of affinity. The individual’s bond with the nation-state, they argue, is often too abstract to foster a deep sense of self. Recognition of intermediate affiliations such as religious communities, ethnic groups, or cultural networks enriches one’s personal identity. Religious groups, for instance, tend to gravitate toward communal frameworks and shared rituals that foster a sense of belonging and purpose. This insight gave rise, in the 1980s, to the political theory of communitarianism, which posits that the self is forged not only in relation to the state but through meaningful identification with a community.

Applying this insight to Israeli society reveals just how central the logic of communal identity and its oppositional reference point is in shaping the inner world of religious Jews. In this regard, we find a meaningful divergence between the Haredi and the Religious-Zionist communities. Both are religious minorities in a hegemonically secular society. Both construct their identities in contrast to that society. But they differ in how they perceive the threat of secularism itself: Charedi society focuses on halachic laxity, while Religious-Zionism zeroes in on a crisis of faith.

The Haredi concern is with secularism as the abandonment of halacha: a failure to keep Shabbos, observe kashrus, or maintain the Jewish way of life. Rav Shach’s famous “Rabbit Speech” exemplifies this critique. In Haredi discourse, the secular Israeli is one who desecrates the Torah—not necessarily one who denies God. The primary fear is disregard for halacha, not atheism.

Religious-Zionism, by contrast (again, speaking in generalizations), is animated by a struggle over faith itself. Its battle is not just about Jewish practice, but about belief in emunat Yisrael—the eternal covenant between God and the Jewish people. Hence, the increasing use of the phrase “Jews of faith” as opposed to simply “religious.” Some even resist framing Judaism as a “religion” altogether, seeing the term as too closely linked to legalistic observance. In this view, the halachic framework becomes an obstacle to a more essential religious identity centered on emunah.

Since Israeli society remains broadly traditional and spiritually inclined, defining oneself as a person of emunah allows Religious-Zionists to cast their identity in broader, more national terms

This distinction yields a critical sociological implication: the place of cultural boundaries. For the Charedi world, where the primary threat is halachic laxity, spiritual protection demands robust walls—clear lines of separation. But for Religious-Zionists, whose primary concern is atheism, emunah is seen not as a source of separation but of inclusion. Since Israeli society remains broadly traditional and spiritually inclined, defining oneself as a person of emunah allows Religious-Zionists to cast their identity in broader, more national terms. Thus, many seek to draw secular Israelis into this shared identity of faith. Although this framing often appears to be directed outward, it actually functions inwardly, as a means of reinforcing Religious-Zionist identity itself. Halacha becomes the boundary line; emunah, the bridge.

This, in turn, explains the proliferation of discourse around “religious on a spectrum,” “invisible kippot,” and other inclusive frameworks aimed at creating one expansive “faith-based society.”

 

Halacha, Faith, and Ascending the Temple Mount

Let us now return to the question of ascending the Temple Mount. For the Charedi community, which grounds its identity primarily in halacha, the very notion of ascending the Mount evokes visceral unease. The concern is not only about religious arrogance or spiritual overreach, but first and foremost about halachic violation. In the Charedi view, ascent to the Temple Mount reflects a profound disregard for the severity of the prohibition—a surrender of halachic rigidity in favor of redemptive religious fervor.

In contrast, within Religious-Zionism, halacha has gradually lost its place as the anchor of communal identity. In its stead, emunah has become the focal point of religious self-definition. As a result, proximity to the holy becomes the most potent vehicle for expressing that faith. The more sacred a place, the stronger its symbolic power as a site of belief. Thus, ascending the Temple Mount becomes not only a religious act, but an existential declaration: a way for the “faithful” to proclaim their emunah at the holiest of sites. The Temple Mount becomes a mirror in which the Religious-Zionist community sees and asserts its religious selfhood. Within a hegemonically secular society, Religious-Zionists cling to the horns of the altar, not to transgress halacha, but to anchor their contested identity in divine presence.

The Temple Mount and the Mikdash have thus become more than sites of longing or eschatological hope. They have become symbolic axes dividing two religious identities

This, perhaps, explains why the debate between these two communities over the Temple Mount so often feels like a conversation between the deaf. Charedim, on the one hand, cannot fathom the casual dismissal of a halachic prohibition, let alone the institutionalization of such transgression. Why, they ask, create a new domain of religious compromise? Religious-Zionists, on the other hand, cannot comprehend how one could turn away from the kodesh, from the very heart of faith itself. Each camp accuses the other of lacking essential Jewishness: the Charedim charge the Religious-Zionists with contempt for halacha; the Religious-Zionists see in the Charedim a cold, even faithless religiosity.

The Temple Mount and the Mikdash have thus become more than sites of longing or eschatological hope. They have become symbolic axes dividing two religious identities. This is not a debate over how deeply one yearns for the Temple, but over what kind of Judaism one inhabits. Is it a Judaism defined by fidelity to a halachic way of life in the face of a liberal secular order, or one defined by passionate emunah in the face of an atheist society?

 

Mourning the Destruction

Having explored the roots of the dispute over ascending the Temple Mount, it becomes easier to understand a parallel debate: the question of preserving traditional mourning practices for the destruction of the Temple. The Talmud notes that the fast days established in halacha will ultimately be transformed into days of joy: “When there is peace—they shall be days of joy and gladness; when there is no peace—they remain fasts” (Rosh Hashanah 18b). Most Rishonim interpret “peace” to refer to the rebuilding of the Temple (see Rabbeinu Chananel and the Ramban), while Rashi explains it as a time when “the nations do not dominate over Israel.” Based on the Rambam, Rabbi Yosef Karo rules that only the rebuilding of the Temple can be defined as a time of peace:

And what our teacher wrote, that there is no peace because the Temple is destroyed, and there is no Jewish rule over a defined place in the Land… therefore, all are obligated to fast by rabbinic decree and prophetic ordinance. This is the language of the Ramban in Toras HaAdam… So too wrote the Maggid Mishneh (Hilchos Ta’aniyos 5), that now all have the practice to fast these fasts, and they are obligatory upon all Israel until the Temple is rebuilt. (Beis Yosef, Orach Chaim 550)

I can no longer mourn the destruction. We have the power to rebuild the Temple. The hand of Israel is strong today, and yet we refrain. Why do you cry to Me? Speak to the Children of Israel and let them go forward!

This halachic determination appears simple. In the absence of a Temple, there should be no discussion about suspending the fast days or the mourning rituals for the Churban. Yet, in recent years, voices have emerged within Religious-Zionist circles, some among its leading rabbis, calling for a reevaluation of these observances. “How can we recite Hallel and give thanks on Yom HaAtzmaut,” they ask, “and then mourn on Tisha B’Av and the 17th of Tammuz?” They seek to rule according to Rashi. One prominent Religious-Zionist rabbi even told me, “I can no longer mourn the destruction. We have the power to rebuild the Temple. The hand of Israel is strong today, and yet we refrain. Why do you cry to Me? Speak to the Children of Israel and let them go forward!”

But this provokes a fundamental question: why should it matter? The Temple, after all, has not been rebuilt. Shouldn’t Religious-Zionists—those who believe the means are already in our hands—be the first to feel the absence, to grieve the void? Even if we suspend all political considerations and imagine the State of Israel could indeed rebuild the Temple at a moment’s notice, the fact remains: it has not. Is that not sufficient reason for mourning?

But if we recall the underlying dynamic described above, the yearning is not truly for the Temple itself, but for the struggle over its meaning. What matters is not the Mikdash, but the battle to affirm it within a faithless world. The dispute over the Temple Mount and the rejection of mourning practices are two expressions of the same impulse (even if carried out by different individuals). What is at stake is not ritual, but religious identity. The Temple becomes a symbol in the cultural and theological contest with secularism. The aim is not the offerings, the incense, or the Levitical song, but the assertion of faith through struggle. And thus, mourning becomes unnecessary. The religious gesture is not inward and brokenhearted, but public and assertive.

What is at stake is not ritual, but religious identity. The Temple becomes a symbol in the cultural and theological contest with secularism

In the Charedi world, this attitude is met with bewilderment. For them, the destruction of the Temple remains a central pillar of religious expression. The grief is not abstract; it is the absence of the sacrificial order, the lack of a full halachic life. The Charedi community does not see “redemption” in the battle for faith; its fight is for the observance of mitzvos. Halacha prohibits entry to the Temple Mount in a state of impurity, and commands the offering of sacrifices when the Temple is rebuilt. It is a conservative society fighting to preserve a halachic Jewish life within a dominant liberal culture. The Charedi struggle is not for belief, but for practice.

The debate, then, is not simply religious but rather political, in the more profound sense. It is about how each community understands its religious identity in relation to modernity and secularism. Charedim are puzzled why Religious-Zionists do not join them in the fight for Shabbos observance, while Religious-Zionists are frustrated by the absence of Charedim on the Temple Mount. Each struggles for what it deems essential.

This article has intentionally set aside another crucial aspect of this conversation: the explicitly political. I will not address that dimension here. Instead, I will close with this: a religious worldview defined primarily by self-identity is necessarily narrow in scope. It fails to consider the broader ramifications of its own symbolic politics—its international consequences, its theological implications for Judaism itself, its religious and social maturity. It focuses exclusively on the battle for minority identity, and is willing to “die with the Philistines.” And in this, Chazal have already warned us: “Fortunate is the one who is always fearful; but one who hardens his heart will fall into evil” (Mishlei 28:14).