The wind bit hard against the stone ridges of Jebel Musa, the ancient peak veiled in shifting mists and shadowed reverence. Jagged and immovable, it loomed over the barren expanse like a throne carved for fire. In the valley below, pilgrims gathered—some trembling with age, others barefoot with conviction. Each bore silence like a second skin, eyes fixed on the summit that had once blazed with divine presence.
Three thousand years ago, the mountain groaned beneath thunder and thick cloud. There, amidst shattering light and trumpet-blown chaos, the voice of Yahweh fell like a hammer upon Israel. Smoke billowed upward “as the smoke of a furnace,” the mountain trembling violently (Exodus 19:18). The people dared not ascend; even Moses, hardened shepherd and prophet, feared what he heard (Hebrews 12:21).
Now, in the desert sun, the stones remained silent, but the memory lived on. The Bedouins called it Gebel Musa—Mount of Moses. Monks and mystics named it Sinai. The name itself was a furnace from which laws, fear, and covenant had been forged.
Iskandar first glimpsed the peak three days into his fast. His sandals split beneath blistered feet, but he carried no staff. The silence had drawn him here—silence heavy with the voice of fire. He had dreamed it once: the mountain split in two and from the chasm shone tablets of stone.
At the foot of the cliff stood St. Catherine’s Monastery, its sixth-century walls breathing incense and smoke. Built by Emperor Justinian on what was believed to be sacred ground, the fortress of faith had weathered sieges of time and empire. Granite blocks stood unmoved, enclosing a grove said to contain the Burning Bush itself—the plant that had burned unconsumed (Exodus 3:2). Its roots crawled beneath chapel walls, nurtured by an ancient spring as improbable as it was holy.
Iskandar entered through the heavy wooden doors, greeted not by words but by the quiet watchfulness of a black-robed monk. Icons glowed along stone walls, their gold leaf catching candlelight. High above, Greek prayers whispered through vents in the apse, winding their way up into silence.
A legend clung tightly to the air inside the monastery: that the very bush still lived, transplanted by monks in the seventh century but touched neither by frost nor worm. That Catherine, martyred in Alexandria, had been found atop the nearby peak with her body untouched by decay, angels placing her there by divine instruction. Her bones lay now in a gilded reliquary behind cool stone.
But for Iskandar, it was the mountain that beckoned.
He ascended long before dawn. There were 3,750 uneven granite steps—called the Steps of Penitence—built centuries ago by a monk whose name was known only to God. Each turn twisted higher, and stillness fell heavy, like wool soaked in oil. Stars shivered overhead. The climb pulled breath from his chest; the silence scraped clean his thoughts.
Halfway up, he passed a mule tethered beside a Bedouin hut. The boy inside, scarcely twelve, offered him tea. No words passed. Only a glance of acknowledgment between the one who climbs and the one who waits. At the summit, darkness met fire.
Sunrise broke like a revelation. The mountain peaks surrounding Sinai glowed crimson-gold, and the valley below lay folded in shadow. Birds did not sing; no insects stirred. Only the hush of wind, as upon that ancient morning when the Law descended.
Here, Moses had stood, cloaked in smoke and thunder. Here, the commandments were etched by fire—not written by hand but by God Himself (Exodus 31:18). The sacred stones had vanished long ago—broken, hidden, stolen, debated—but the granite remembered. The wind had stories the world had long since buried.
Later that morning, a flash of lightning cracked across the peak without warning. No storm lingered. The sky remained as blue as a prophet’s robe. Such strikes, the monks claimed, came without reason and left no mark. Scientists spoke of mineral content, of geography. But the faithful said God still spoke—and sometimes, the mountain answered.
Iskandar remained unshaken. He had not come for spectacle but for silence. Not for proof, but for presence. He folded into the shadow of a boulder, stared toward the chapel at the summit—simple, angular, unmarred by time or embellishment. Built on the very place Moses met God, the chapel had no grandeur. Only dust, stone, and awe remained.
Others arrived as the day stretched long—pilgrims of every color and creed. Some wept. Some prayed. Some sat quietly, listening to a silence that roared louder than any trumpet.
Down the path again, Iskandar passed one pilgrim clutching a small stone. Another lit a candle by the bush in the monastery garden. And still others gazed up, trying to remember the God who once chose fire to make Himself known.
The desert swallowed their footsteps. The mountain stood unconcerned. For the granite did not need to explain its fire. It only needed to stand—steadfast under the sky—and wait for those willing to climb.
The wind bit hard against the stone ridges of Jebel Musa, the ancient peak veiled in shifting mists and shadowed reverence. Jagged and immovable, it loomed over the barren expanse like a throne carved for fire. In the valley below, pilgrims gathered—some trembling with age, others barefoot with conviction. Each bore silence like a second skin, eyes fixed on the summit that had once blazed with divine presence.
Three thousand years ago, the mountain groaned beneath thunder and thick cloud. There, amidst shattering light and trumpet-blown chaos, the voice of Yahweh fell like a hammer upon Israel. Smoke billowed upward “as the smoke of a furnace,” the mountain trembling violently (Exodus 19:18). The people dared not ascend; even Moses, hardened shepherd and prophet, feared what he heard (Hebrews 12:21).
Now, in the desert sun, the stones remained silent, but the memory lived on. The Bedouins called it Gebel Musa—Mount of Moses. Monks and mystics named it Sinai. The name itself was a furnace from which laws, fear, and covenant had been forged.
Iskandar first glimpsed the peak three days into his fast. His sandals split beneath blistered feet, but he carried no staff. The silence had drawn him here—silence heavy with the voice of fire. He had dreamed it once: the mountain split in two and from the chasm shone tablets of stone.
At the foot of the cliff stood St. Catherine’s Monastery, its sixth-century walls breathing incense and smoke. Built by Emperor Justinian on what was believed to be sacred ground, the fortress of faith had weathered sieges of time and empire. Granite blocks stood unmoved, enclosing a grove said to contain the Burning Bush itself—the plant that had burned unconsumed (Exodus 3:2). Its roots crawled beneath chapel walls, nurtured by an ancient spring as improbable as it was holy.
Iskandar entered through the heavy wooden doors, greeted not by words but by the quiet watchfulness of a black-robed monk. Icons glowed along stone walls, their gold leaf catching candlelight. High above, Greek prayers whispered through vents in the apse, winding their way up into silence.
A legend clung tightly to the air inside the monastery: that the very bush still lived, transplanted by monks in the seventh century but touched neither by frost nor worm. That Catherine, martyred in Alexandria, had been found atop the nearby peak with her body untouched by decay, angels placing her there by divine instruction. Her bones lay now in a gilded reliquary behind cool stone.
But for Iskandar, it was the mountain that beckoned.
He ascended long before dawn. There were 3,750 uneven granite steps—called the Steps of Penitence—built centuries ago by a monk whose name was known only to God. Each turn twisted higher, and stillness fell heavy, like wool soaked in oil. Stars shivered overhead. The climb pulled breath from his chest; the silence scraped clean his thoughts.
Halfway up, he passed a mule tethered beside a Bedouin hut. The boy inside, scarcely twelve, offered him tea. No words passed. Only a glance of acknowledgment between the one who climbs and the one who waits. At the summit, darkness met fire.
Sunrise broke like a revelation. The mountain peaks surrounding Sinai glowed crimson-gold, and the valley below lay folded in shadow. Birds did not sing; no insects stirred. Only the hush of wind, as upon that ancient morning when the Law descended.
Here, Moses had stood, cloaked in smoke and thunder. Here, the commandments were etched by fire—not written by hand but by God Himself (Exodus 31:18). The sacred stones had vanished long ago—broken, hidden, stolen, debated—but the granite remembered. The wind had stories the world had long since buried.
Later that morning, a flash of lightning cracked across the peak without warning. No storm lingered. The sky remained as blue as a prophet’s robe. Such strikes, the monks claimed, came without reason and left no mark. Scientists spoke of mineral content, of geography. But the faithful said God still spoke—and sometimes, the mountain answered.
Iskandar remained unshaken. He had not come for spectacle but for silence. Not for proof, but for presence. He folded into the shadow of a boulder, stared toward the chapel at the summit—simple, angular, unmarred by time or embellishment. Built on the very place Moses met God, the chapel had no grandeur. Only dust, stone, and awe remained.
Others arrived as the day stretched long—pilgrims of every color and creed. Some wept. Some prayed. Some sat quietly, listening to a silence that roared louder than any trumpet.
Down the path again, Iskandar passed one pilgrim clutching a small stone. Another lit a candle by the bush in the monastery garden. And still others gazed up, trying to remember the God who once chose fire to make Himself known.
The desert swallowed their footsteps. The mountain stood unconcerned. For the granite did not need to explain its fire. It only needed to stand—steadfast under the sky—and wait for those willing to climb.
