The Empty Plaza & The Open Gates (A Journey)

 ׁלֹשׁ פְּעָמִים בַּשָּׁנָה יֵרָאֶה כָּל־זְכוּרְךָ אֶת־פְּנֵי ה’ אֱלֹקיךָ

בַּמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר יִבְחָר —

בְּחַג הַמַּצּוֹת, וּבְחַג הַשָּׁבֻעוֹת, וּבְחַג הַסֻּכּוֹת;

וְלֹא יֵרָאֶה אֶת־פְּנֵי ה’ רֵיקָם

Three times a year all your males shall appear before Hashem your God,

in the place that He will choose—

on Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot;

and he shall not appear before Hashem empty-handed.

This year, I was in Jerusalem. On Pesach.

But it felt different.

Let me go back for a second.

I made a quiet little deal with Hashem.

Over the past decade, I’ve developed a real passion for the Beis HaMikdash—the third one. It came from a place of longing. I remember being in San Diego right after my 20th birthday, thinking to myself, I should really be in Israel. And regretting that when I had been there for a year in yeshiva, I didn’t fully embrace the idea of living there.

That feeling stayed with me.

I became passionate about the mitzvah of Yishuv Ha’Aretz. That led me to deeper questions—why don’t more people move? What’s holding them back? Are there systemic things in Israel that make it harder than it should be? Could there be another way?

At the same time, I kept coming back. Visiting often. Eventually living there for a year and a half from 2022 to 2023. Going to keverei tzaddikim. Walking through places layered with history.

But one question kept pulling me in deeper:

Why don’t we just build the Beis HaMikdash?

The Temple Mount is right there. It’s a breath away.

I went down the rabbit hole. Found organizations whose entire mission is to rebuild it. I even started thinking in that direction myself—put together ideas, a think tank, even a fund.

But eventually I had to pull myself back.

I realized there are things I need to fix within myself before expecting the world to be fixed.

Still… the longing never left.

The image of the Kohen Gadol walking into the Azarah on Yom Kippur, the entire nation watching from the hills surrounding Har HaBayit—that stayed with me.

So I made a quiet deal with Hashem.

“I’ll come to Israel three times a year… You build the Beis HaMikdash.”

That was last year.

Since then, I’ve come three times. But this trip… was different.

I had to fly into Egypt. Then take a caravan through the Sinai Desert to the Taba border. Cross by foot. Make my way to Eilat. Then Tel Aviv.

A 36-hour journey.

And the next day, straight to Jerusalem. To the Kotel.

Before the trip, I started questioning it. I saw missiles landing in the Negev—right along the path I knew I’d be traveling. And I thought… maybe this deal was too much. Maybe I should just relax.

It reminded me of the story of Moshe Rabbeinu, begging to enter Eretz Yisrael. Hashem tells him to stop—that if he would pray one more time, he would enter… but then he would build the Beis HaMikdash, and it would be eternal. And later, when the Jewish people sinned, Hashem wouldn’t destroy the Temple—He would destroy the people instead.

Everything happens in divine timing.

And I started thinking—maybe my little “deal” was interfering with that. Maybe this war, this reality… maybe, in some way, I was pushing something I wasn’t supposed to push.

So I asked. My brother-in-law, a rabbi. My rabbi in Brooklyn. Rebbetzin Devorah Wilhelm.

The answer was clear: Go.

“In the words of the Rebbe—Israel is the safest place for a Jew.”

And with that, I felt at peace.

But I took back the deal.

I said, “Hashem, I’m going because I know being in Eretz Yisrael brings me closer to You. I want the Beis HaMikdash more than anything… but not at the cost of anyone else. Not because of something selfish in me.”

So I went.

And when I got to Jerusalem… I was shocked.

The Kotel was closed.

Most times I come, I go straight there first. Out of respect. To not forget Jerusalem. But this time—the entire plaza was empty.

Completely empty.

I went up to the Rova and found a place overlooking the Kotel where I could pray.

And I cried.

I couldn’t help it.

Seeing it empty felt… wrong. Especially right before Pesach, when it’s usually filled with families, with people from all over the world, all longing for the same thing.

And I kept thinking about the pasuk:

“וְלֹא יֵרָאֶה אֶת־פְּנֵי ה’ רֵיקָם”

Do not appear before Hashem empty-handed.

But this time—it felt like we left Hashem empty.

The Kotel. Empty of His people.

The same people who said Naaseh v’Nishma.

The same people promised this land from Avraham Avinu.

It felt like there was a message.

Hashem was saying—not this time.

This Pesach won’t feel like the others.

This time, you’ll feel My pain.

The pain of waiting.

Of longing for connection.

Of being there… while we get distracted by everything else.

This time, we would feel it from His side.

Or maybe… only a very small few were meant to come close this time. Only those who truly wanted it. Who were willing to wait, to push, to search.

קרוב ה׳ לכל קוראיו

קרוב ה׳ לנשברי לב

Those words kept echoing.

And I felt it—the broken heart.

I’m reminded of something my rabbi, @ravavshiweingot, once said—that any pain we feel is an expression of the Galut HaShechina.

And I think our generation understands something very deep.

We know what it means to long for connection.

Look around—so many people, even in the most developed places, are alone. Searching. Wanting something real.

We’re married to Hashem. And just like we long for connection… He longs for connection with us.

And in that moment, in Jerusalem—you could feel it.

Then, as I was about to leave…

A guy in a Nanach kippah runs by, asks me for directions to the Arab shuk—and casually says, “That’s how you get into the Kotel.”

After everyone told me it was completely closed.

Turns out—they were letting in 50 people at a time. Quietly. Through the tunnels.

So there I was… following this wild, amazing Nanach.

Straight into the arms of Hashem.

We got to the waiting area in the shuk. We were first in line.

While waiting, I started saying the ten chapters of Tehillim I try to say every day:

כ, כא, כ״ג, כ״ד, כ״ז, כ״ט, ל, צ״א, ק, קכ״א

And when I got to כ״ד—Tehillim 24—it hit me:

“מי יעלה בהר ה׳ ומי יקום במקום קדשו”

Who will ascend the mountain of Hashem?

Who will stand in His holy place?

“זה דור דורשיו מבקשי פניך יעקב סלה”

This is the generation that seeks Him. That seeks Your face.

And right as I finished:

“שאו שערים ראשיכם והנשאו פתחי עולם ויבוא מלך הכבוד”

Lift up your gates…

The doors opened.

And we walked in.

Into the tunnels.

Into that place.

Closer than ever.

To Har Hashem.

I’ve heard before that Sha’arei d’maot lo nin’alu—that the gates of tears are never closed.

This time, I didn’t just hear it.

I lived it.

-Joseph Rothvogel

Written with heart, edited with ai.