The irony could not be more stark or more stunning: on the very day that celebrates the end of the disastrous plague that killed 24,000 students of Rabbi Akiva, the worst civil disaster in Israel’s history resulted in the deaths of 45 worshipers. Many of them died from asphyxiation, essentially the same cause of death that the Talmud identifies with Rabbi Akiva’s students.
And, to make it even more tragic, this all happened at the grave site of Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai (Rashbi), known as a miracle worker who protected his followers, and the entire nation, from harm.
Almost immediately, the blame game began, as a horrified nation struggled to identify what went wrong and who was at fault.
Was it the police, who failed to hold back the crowds and prevent panic? Was it the organizers, who did not provide ample and easily accessible exits for the massive crowd to use in case of an emergency just like this? Was it the government, which was warned on numerous occasions by experts in crowd control that this was a disaster waiting to happen, and yet granted the permit? Was it the haredi members of the Knesset who insisted that unlimited access be given this year to all those who wanted to participate in the festivities, particularly since last year’s attendance was severely limited by corona restrictions?
Or was it even the fault of the worshipers themselves, who, after surviving the crisis of COVID, did not heed the Torah’s mandate to “guard your souls” by avoiding inherently dangerous situations that could lead to injury or death?
And hovering over all of these human issues is the most pervasive question of all: Why did God allow this to happen? If God is all-knowing, all-seeing and all-powerful, why would He not protect His children who, after all, were joyously participating in a religious festival? Does the Talmud not say that “no one so much as cuts his finger in the world below, unless it is so ordained in the world above”?
It seems almost cruel that Lag Ba’omer and Mount Meron would be the time and the place where so many of the faithful – young and old, Israelis and visitors from abroad – would meet their fate in such a frightening fashion.
And, conversely, if God is not eternally vigilant, if He is not kind and compassionate and just – as so many of our prayers proclaim – the implications of that are even more unnerving.
ON A mortal level, we can and should address the tragedy and learn from it; we can take responsibility at many levels to institute measures to help ensure that such a disaster will not repeat itself in the future: The compound surrounding Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai’s grave can be expanded to allow more space; exits can be increased; participants can be allowed to enter in shifts, rather than all at once; and safety inspectors can be given the last word before anyone can enter the area.
Yet on a spiritual level, answers are much harder to come by. Since the dawn of time; since Adam, by tradition, was stripped of his immortality as a result of his sin, and life became finite, we have struggled mightily with the concept of death. Why does God create that which is doomed to extinction from the very moment it comes into being? Why do some live long and healthy lives, while others truncated, sickly ones? Is there a direct correlation between observing the commandments, doing acts of kindness, exhibiting morality and extending charity, and the length of our days? Or does randomness reign, as it so often appears?
Our greatest minds have debated this thorniest of questions and failed to resolve it. Moses pleaded for an answer; King Solomon, said to be the wisest of all men, grapples with it in Ecclesiastes and expresses his own sense of frustration. Even Rashbi, who authored the Zohar and enlightened the world with the wisdom of Kabbalah – thus the bonfires – could not solve this puzzle. Perhaps the bottom line is given by Rabbi Yanai in Ethics of the Fathers 4:19, where he says succinctly, “It is not in our human hands to comprehend the serenity of the wicked or the suffering of the righteous.”
I suggest that the only answer to this question is no answer at all, for if we truly could provide a definitive answer, we would be sitting up there, rather than down here.
Yet while a resolution may elude us, we are not altogether powerless – we have a response. And that response is faith.
Faith is what happens when powerful questions plague our souls, and still we maintain our connection to God.
Faith is what occurs when misfortune, pain, disappointment and tragedy invade our peaceful lives, and yet we increase our devotion to the Almighty.
Faith is what we call the ability to believe in the future, even when events are trampling our present. Faith succeeds where answers fail.
As the Jewish nation contemplates the enormity of this past week, we close the reading of the Book of Leviticus on Saturday with a most appropriate double portion, Behar-Behukotai. “Behar” means, literally, “on the mountain,” while “behukotai” relates to the concept of the hukim, statutes whose underlying reasons are known only to God.
What occurred on Mount Meron is, for us, a hok, unknowable in its essence, the province of a Higher Power. Yet, heartbreaking as it is, it will not prevent us from continuing on our journey and maintaining our faith.
The writer is director of the Jewish Outreach Center of Ra’anana. jocmtv@netvision.net.il