Sinai

"The Opening of Eyes"

That day I saw beneath dark clouds

The passing light over the water

And I heard the voice of the world speak out

I knew then as I have before

Life is no passing memory of what has been

Nor the remaining pages of a great book

Waiting to be read

It is the opening of eyes long closed

It is the vision of far off things

Seen for the silence they hold

It is the heart after years of secret conversing

Speaking out loud in the clear air

It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees

Before the lit bush

It is the man throwing away his shoes

As if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished

Opened at last

Fallen in love

With solid ground

-David Whyte

Dear Friends,

The hike to the top of Mount Sinai takes approximately two and a half hours, but the journey to the mountain from Sharm El Sheikh is much longer. It is also the most arduous part of the journey. The tour bus pulled out of the Al Baston hotel at 9:20 p.m. and made the usual stops at the other inns and resorts. Along the way, the scenery is familiar: oasis-like resorts, as beautiful and green as an artificial house plant, and about as real, juxtaposed against the dry, dusty barren natural land of greater Egypt.

Our bus stopped close to the mountains about 2:00 a.m. The sky was dark and the air was cool. The first stop was (guesses, anyone?) a gift shop, specializing in religious icons. I made like John Knox and only did a quick circle in and out of the shop. My aim was more fitness than acquisition, though for many of my journeymen, the late night bus ride had whet their appetites for purchasing. Settling for a couple faded photographic postcards from a docile vendor outside of the shop, I decided my own weight would be enough to carry up the mountain. I could leave the holy skating rink artwork on the shelves for the next sucker.

At 3:30 a.m. we arrived at the foot of Mt. Sinai. You would have guessed we were preparing to enter Six Flags. To the right of the open parking lot, an eatery complete with outdoor tables. A blinking ATM flashed caddy corner of the restaurant. To the left, a long row of ramshackle stands whose employees were clearly unfazed by the late/early hour. They worked the crowds like carousel barkers. One man, clad in a red and white checkered head scarf, soiled by the elements, clearly had two goals: to sell souvenirs and to obtain breakfast. Since the majority of tourists were not only carrying cash but also boxed breakfasts, he succeeded on both accounts. I zipped up my coat collar and nudged my rear, performing a compulsory wallet-check. Watching the swirl of humanity around me, buying, bargaining, and avoiding, I wondered if perhaps I was witnessing signs of a 21st century plague in the form of an invasion of plastic trinkets, small statuettes, "authentic" woven carpets, and gilded water pipes. All prices negotiable.

There must have been four hundred of us standing there, different races, different languages, different intentions, and several times we were reshuffled like so many playing cards into various lines. The swollen line ebbed and flowed to an archway detector. Judging by the size of the crowd and the casual, clipped organization of the security guards, getting the body of people through the bag search and metal detector before sunrise would be a feat on par with walking a begrudging camel through the eye of a needle. Good thing I didn't have any needles. As the very last to go through, Ali and I were approved, and thus began our trek up at the rear.

I couldn't help but wonder as I began to wander: under these circumstances, could a modern-day Moses ever keep an appointment with God atop the mountain? If not for the line at security, the heckling of the shopkeepers could be enough to deter him. Good thing God is patient.

The first stretch of the climb was not a climb at all. We walked a sandy path around St. Catherine's monastery, silent and sleeping. Though the light was already starting to break in the night sky, I found my "torch" (the British term for flashlight that I've come to embrace) to be essential for gaging steps and illuminating semi-hidden stones. There were so many stones. Countless billions, in fact, that left the impression and quantitative awe I had experienced two days earlier diving among the over-crowded schools of tropical fish in the limpid waters of the Red Sea. Suddenly the multitude of tourists didn't seem so great.

The ascent came subtly. It was only after a good half-hour that I paused to catch my breath and a glimpse that I realized we had been climbing. What had begun as a relatively smooth path was now uphill and blissfully unpaved. I liked it that way. Save the smooth sidewalks and painted curbs for Disneyland. With each step, I felt a small pang or point from a stone beneath my feet. My toes were appropriately beginning to rub the sides of my boots. But again the slight physical discomfort felt right, felt good. You can't hail a taxi on a march to Zion.

But you could hail a camel on the way up and down Sinai. Like zig-zagged paper cut-outs, strings of black camels climbed horizontal paths against the dark blue backdrop of the sky, unaffected by the weary tourists on their backs. Camels are quiet animals, maybe because they could never vocally compete with their drivers. "Camel? You want camel?" The mantra was repeated in at least ten languages at every turn of the trail.

Along the way there were other people, of course, but there was the sense of autonomy and independence. To me, the ascent felt private, and solemn, and reverent. Until I reached what was probably the half-way point, the route was relatively free of traffic jams. Slowing to a standstill behind a long chain of camels, Ali and I came upon an argument ensuring twenty-five steps ahead of us.

"You said it would not cost..."

"But I'm the camel man! I'm the camel man!"

The words flew like sand, unable to settle on anything but more sand. An unhappy woman had apparently found her match: The Stubborn, The Proud, The Extraordinary Camel Man!

As the yelling escalated, the camel directly in front of us began to pee. A strong yellow Niagara of urine fell an inch from my feet. Clearly this camel had a bladder of Old Testament proportions.

Trapped between camels and a wet place, I looked at Ali with a look of uncertainty.

Taking the lead, she shook her head and said, "Okay, let's go!" With unbridled determination, Ali whizzed around the whizzing camel, among the small herd of its peers, between the shouting woman and The Camel Man, and with only a moment's delay, I followed.

Beyond the commotion, I regained my composure. I tried to pray as I walked, I yearned to recite something sacred, to sing a great hymn, but in the silence and dawning light, the only thing I could hear were lyrics to "The Butterfly Song," arguably the most popular tune at the Presbyterian First Timers Camp each June in central Illinois. (It's my hypothesis that the engaging hand motions contribute to the popularity.)

If I were a butterfly

I'd thank you, Lord, for giving me wings

And if I were a robin in a tree

I'd thank you, Lord, that I could sing

If I were a fish in the sea

I'd wiggle my tail and giggle with glee

But I just thank you, Father, for making me me.

Now this is what you call good, solid mountaintop theology. The more I attempted to banish the tune from the head, the more the sing-songy song sang on. I'm not kidding. I was just finishing the verse about the "fuzzy, wuzzy bear" when we reached the stairs.

Known as the Siket Sayidna Musa, the 3,750 "steps of penitence" tell you you're getting close to the top. But "close" is a relative word, especially at 5:15 in the morning. For me the steps instigated a race to the finish line; for the first time I viewed myself as a runner, competing with the other climbers for the best view at the top. The feeling was not necessarily welcome, but the adrenaline was useful. After over two hours of walking and a sleepless night, I had that familiar "morning after" church lock-in feeling, like a stranger from outer space or the non-denominational congregation up the road has entered your head and is controlling your every movement. With the sky getting lighter by the minute, I mustered up the energy to sprint (again, relative term) and passed a good number of fellow pilgrims on the way.

Speed does not come naturally to me. I'm Presbyterian.

I was aroused by the sound of cheering at the 7,495 foot high peak as individuals came together with their groups. It was the Nigerians, clad in stocking caps and gloves, doing the cheering. They hugged each other, the men high-fived. As I took my place on a rocky perch not far from the small boarded up chapel on top of the mountain, I watched the ethnic waves of fellow sojourners parade before me like athletes in an Olympic parade.

After the Nigerians came the Brits, looking spry and outdoorsy in their Northface apparel. "Say, Tom, Love! Won't you be a dear and stop for a photo?" called one woman.

The Spanish came next, like so many explorers. Dressed impeccably. Voluble. The women's hair had clearly inflated with each upward step, though still maintained that fresh from the salon shapeliness. They chattered rapidly and loudly. The men looked worn. One brandished a Spanish flag.

Always on the look out, my Ameri-dar located only two Americans: a father and daughter, clearly immersed in the heat of a Sinai sunrise argument.

"Dad, I told you I'm not in the right mood for a picture." The teenager wore loop earrings and Abercrombie and Fitch.

"Well, that's obvious!" responded the exasperated father.

I edged away from the people and found a lonesome ledge, ready made for sitting. Having completely sweat through all of my layers, the wind at the top blew cool against my wet, salty skin. I zipped up my coat and tried to soak in the vastness of this rocky terrain. It was the color of paper bags and tree bark. It was the photograph from the inside back cover of your black and gold Revised Standard Version, the one you always assumed to be so old and distant, the sky impossibly blue. It was barren and unforgiving -- with the blessed absence of fences and rails, there were ten thousand ways and places to fall to your death -- and yet there was a magnanimous appeal. There was the sense of baptism by perspiration and air and light. The sun rose in splendor but without fanfare. I hear the sun rises there, that way, every day.

Scholars debate which mountain is the giving place of those famous laws, from God to the Israelites. Some say it's Mount Serbal, others Mount Catherine. I'm sure the sunrise looks just as grand from any one of those high places.

What did I take from this Sinai experience?

A sore toe, rubbed raw by the inside of my Goodyear boot.

Some pictures, some notes in a small yellow notebook. A smattering of memories.

A sense of Moreness, and I'm not even exactly sure of what that means. Maybe something fuzzy, wuzzy like a blurred image of God, sensed more than seen.

Maybe a sort of awakening, a "vision of far off things."

Yours,

Tim