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The Furnace of Faith - Part 1

I wasn’t the only graduating senior to do a gap year. Plenty in my social set had both the means and the desire to push back college by a year while they volunteered or explored the world.

Let others opt for volunteering. Not me. I was going to explore the world.

I started in Asia because it was the farthest away and the most different from what I knew. Still, I’m embarrassed to say that even there I stuck with the familiar: big cities, loud clubs, expensive hotels.

After Asia I moved on to Europe—an easy place for a privileged American to be. I had been there before, and it was easy to make my away around. English was spoken pretty much everywhere. I still stuck to major cities and blowing time and money in trendy clubs, but I downshifted my lodgings from luxury hotels to short term apartment rentals. That made things a little more affordable. But even so, the money started to run out.

I had been gone ten months now, and I should have started to wrap things up, prepare to come back home, get myself ready for college and adult responsibilities. But I wasn’t ready for that. I decided to stretch things out another six months at least, or an entire second year maybe. I reasoned that I could start college anytime. But when else in my life would I be this free? At that point, I thought freedom was all I wanted.

I asked my parents for more money and they said no. They had provided a lump sum that was supposed to last me a year. They made it clear there would be no more money from them.

I couldn’t work legally in Europe, and I didn’t want to risk doing it under the table. Or maybe, if I’m being honest, it’s that I didn’t want to work at all. I wanted to be drinking and dancing in the bars, not sweeping them up and taking out the trash.

So with my revenues fixed, I’d have to lower my expenses. I left Europe for the Middle East.

The region hadn’t been on my mental map for this year, but it was cheaper than Europe and I still found ways to get into trouble. There were underground gay clubs in Turkey and some raging night spots in Dubai. But living like that couldn’t last very long. I needed to go cheaper. I moved on to Qatar, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen. I targeted small and mid-sized towns in countries most Americans preferred to avoid. With a few critical apps and a WiFi connection I could still hook myself into some semblance of the life I had been living.

But something started to change as I stayed in those smaller places. Gay life and gay activities were much more sparse: an underground gay club just once a week, maybe a cruisy tea house if you knew the right things to look for.

Life slowed down, and I started to open up to the cultures I was living in. I explored historical sites, read up on the history, walked for miles shooting photographs—anything to fight boredom and go easy on my wallet. This was different; a real change.

You ask, How does change happen?

This experience taught me that change starts slowly at first. And then it comes at you all at once.

***

The sun was high over the old quarter, bleaching the ancient stones and turning the narrow alleys into ovens. I wandered without direction, my camera slung over my shoulder and sweat running down my back. I walked without a map or itinerary, following twists and turns through the dusty corridors of the old town.

It was then that I heard the voice.

It drifted through the hot air, deep and strong and deliberate, like a powerful river pushing over and around rocks, determined to break out to the sea. Its force was compelling, and I followed the sound, drawn in by a strange thirst. I stepped through a shaded archway and came into a small courtyard.

There were rows and rows of men. Some sat, others stood—and they all faced a single figure in front of the carved mihrab of a mosque wall.

The speaker’s white robes were searingly bright. A dark beard cut a notch into the blinding white collar, drawing my eyes down over his body before I forced them back upward. The man’s face was animated, his tone serious. He didn’t yell; he didn’t need to. The voice carried his power—every word punching into the crowd, clear and deliberate. His gestures were pointed and precise. They emphasized his speech and amplified its call.

I couldn’t look away. The man was in his late 40s probably, but there was a vitality that made his age irrelevant. His presence commanded the space.

His body was thick and solid beneath the layers of robes. It stretched across his chest and shoulders; it rippled with each gesture of his meaty arms. Robes had always felt feminine to an American like me, but he was undeniably masculine—brawny, burly. He was built for purpose, a man whose physical strength reflected a deeper spiritual power.

The beard covered his neck and a good deal of his face, but it couldn’t hide the intensity of his expression. His eyes were dark and deep, burning through everyone around him. And when he spoke, his voice was deep and unyielding—each word like a hammer strike, penetrating and impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just the words that drew me in. It was the way he said them. Like he was not merely preaching but actually living each statement. He moved the crowd—and possibly could move mountains—with unwavering conviction.

He transfixed the crowd, his gaze sweeping over us and lingering on certain faces. When his eyes landed on mine for a brief moment, I felt something electric rush through me. Like a connection had been made.

I couldn’t look away. His command of the space, his very presence—everything about it was magnetic. It stirred something inside of me, something I didn’t know was there. A need. A desire to be closer. To understand more. To submit to what he was offering.

He continued, and I realized I was doing more than witnessing a sermon. I was in the presence of a man whose existence resonated with a depth I hadn’t encountered before. It pulled me in.

I didn’t understand a word of the sermon. But somehow that made the experience stronger. I let go of the words, finding that the rhythms of his speech triggered things inside me, something beneath conscious thought. I felt his voice not just in my ears—it was in my chest, my gut, somewhere even deeper.

The men around me were mostly young. Fit. Focused. Some sat with arms folded, some with their hands on their knees. Every eye was trained on the the cleric like he was saying something that could change their lives. Their skin glistened in the heat and their shirts stuck to their backs. When they shifted, their arms, necks, and profiles were all etched with intent.

I felt stupid in my loose shorts and faded linen shirt, like a tourist who took a wrong turn. But no one looked at me like I didn’t belong. And the atmosphere itself held me in place—firm but gentle. It was like a hand at the small of my back, telling me to stay.

I kept looking at *him. The cleric. There was something magnetic about him. It was not just his voice or the crisp lines of his robes. It was the way he stood so utterly sure of himself, like he had gravity all his own. His eyes blazed with belief and his voice didn’t just preach, it commanded. He was anchored. Disciplined. Powerful in a way I didn’t fully understand but craved all the same.

Then he looked right at me.

It was just a second. A single glance. But I felt it land. Hard. Like someone had thrown a stone into a still lake inside my chest. Ripples spread out and washed over me—a series of reverberations. Pulsing through me.

He didn’t look away, he didn’t dismiss me. He held my gaze. He let it settle.

Then he continued speaking.

My fingers twitched at my sides. I didn’t know if it was awe, or longing, or something more dangerous that had crept into my blood. All I knew was that I didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

The crowd began to shift when the cleric’s sermon drew to a close. Some of the men remained seated, their heads bowed in private reflection, while others stood and exchanged quiet words. The heat had settled into my skin, making me itchy and uncomfortable, but I didn’t move. I was still watching the cleric, who now stepped down from the platform and disappeared into the crowd with a few followers trailing behind him.

“You understand the language?” a voice beside me asked.

I turned. The speaker was young, probably just four or five years older than me, with olive skin and a close-cropped beard. His accent was gentle—not native, but he was clearly fluent in English.

“No,” I replied. “But… I felt something. Even without the words.”

The man smiled, a warm, amused curve of his lips. “That’s a good start. You listened with your heart, not your ears. I’m Sami.”

“Eric.”

We shook hands—firmly, but with a softness that lingered just a second longer than necessary. Sami’s eyes were deep brown, earnest, searching. He wore a plain shirt, but his posture, the stillness in his presence, reminded me a little of the cleric. There was something completely centered about him.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Sami said. “We meet often—after prayers, sometimes at night too. We talk, read, reflect. It’s more than just religion. It’s brotherhood.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Sami nodded, pleased. He gestured for me to follow, leading me to a shaded edge of the courtyard where several men stood in loose clusters, talking quietly. One of them turned as we approached—another young man, unmistakably Western. His pale skin had been bronzed by the sun, and his hair was trimmed short, but the sharp lines of his jaw and the faded tattoo curling around his forearm marked him as someone from my world.

“Hey,” the man said with a nod, his tone casual but curious too. “First time?”

I smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t expect to…stay this long.”

“You’re not the first,” the man replied. “And you won’t be the last.” He reached out a hand. “I’m Adam. From Pittsburgh.”

“Eric. From…Palo Alto originally. Now I’m from nowhere. Still wandering I guess.”

Adam gave a knowing smile. “That’s what most of us say before we find somewhere we don’t want to leave.”

I looked at Adam and Sami, then back toward the space where the cleric had stood. I could still feel the echo of his words, like a drumbeat in my chest.

“So, what happens now?” I asked them.

Sami looked at me, his eyes warm. “Now? We break fast together. We talk. You’ll see.”

The sun dipped lower, casting gold tones across the stones and making long shadows in the square. I felt myself drawn in—not just by the words and the beauty of the men around me, but also by the quiet gravity of something deeper. Something I couldn’t name yet. But I was ready to follow it.

We went into a room that was dim and cool. It was a welcome relief from the heat and dust outside. There were cushions spread across a worn carpet, and low brass trays with dates, figs, warm flatbread, and a fragrant lentil stew. The air buzzed with conversation and the occasional clink of metal on clay.

I sat cross-legged between Adam and Sami, the food warm in my hands and the scent of spices and mint tea thick in the air.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” I said quietly, watching as one of the older men poured tea with an elegant, practiced tilt of his wrist. “It’s… peaceful. I thought everything here would be louder somehow.”

Adam chuckled. “Most people think that. But the real heart of it all—it’s this. The quiet. The brotherhood. You learn to slow down, to sit with it.”

Sami nodded, tearing a piece of bread and passing it to Eric. “Discipline is a kind of beauty. You taste everything more when you don’t take it for granted.”

I accepted the bread, my fingers brushing Sami’s for a moment—they were calloused but warm. A flicker passed between us, something barely acknowledged, but definitely there.

I took a bite, then glanced up. “The cleric—who spoke earlier. Who is he?”

Sami and Adam exchanged a knowing look.

“His name is Sheikh Hamid,” Sami said. “He’s not from here originally. He studied in Egypt, then in Yemen. Now he teaches, leads prayer, and sometimes he speaks at gatherings like today.”

“There’s something about him,” I said, my voice a little lower. “It wasn’t just that he sounded convincing…I don’t know, he felt bigger than the words somehow.”

“He is,” Adam said. “But not in the way you think. It’s not about power. It’s about surrender. You stand near him, and you feel how little you need to be anything other than honest. Obedient.”

I blinked. “Obedient?”

Sami smiled, soft but serious. “Obedience isn’t weakness. Not when it’s freely given. That’s where the strength is. Letting go of pride, of noise, of your old life. The Sheikh knows how to show you that. When you’re ready.”

I swallowed. The warmth of the food was suddenly layered with something even hotter under my skin. The way they spoke of the cleric was reverent—but also intimate. And I felt that pull again, the same as in the courtyard, when my eyes had met the Sheikh’s. Even absent, I felt like he was watching me. Taking my measure.

“So… have you studied with him? Either of you?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

Adam shrugged, his eyes were distant. “I’ve sat with him. Spoken. It’s not like a class, though. You don’t ask for his time—he offers it. If he sees something in you.”

I said nothing, but the ache my his chest grew. I wanted to be seen as well. Chosen. Touched by that fire.

I shook my head and tried to focus on the food.

Later, as the meal wound down and the men rose one by one—some to pray again, others to embrace and quietly leave—I stepped into the night. The courtyard was silvery in the moonlight and the city was hushed. The smell of jasmine flowed through the warm air.

I turned just in time to see Adam a few steps away, now standing beside an older, bearded man in a long dark robe. The man laid a hand gently on Adam’s shoulder. Adam responded with familiarity—his body language shifting, softening, as though he had stepped into a role rehearsed many times.

Without a word, the two turned and disappeared into the archway across the square. Their forms were swallowed up by shadow.

I watched them go, my breath shallow. A pulse ticked at the base of my throat. The intimacy of the gesture—the way Adam leaned into the man’s touch—was unmistakable. It was nothing overt but the whole thing felt deeply charged.

Behind me, Sami appeared at my shoulder, his arms folded loosely over his chest. “You’re wondering,” he said softly.

I nodded, my eyes still on the place where Adam had vanished.

Sami didn’t smile this time. “There are many layers here. The surface is beautiful. But what’s underneath—that’s where the truth lives. Although not everyone dares to dig.”

Eric turned toward him. “And you? Have you?”

Sami looked at him a long moment. “Some truths aren’t spoken aloud.”

And with that, Sami left me alone in the moonlight, the silence of the courtyard now thick with the echo of possibilities.

***

The next evening, I returned.

I didn’t even pretend I was wandering this time. My steps knew where to go, guided by instinct—or maybe hunger. The courtyard was fuller tonight, lit by lanterns that hung like captured stars. The same circle of men had formed, the group tighter this time, expectant. The air was different, thicker. There was something about the way people sat, their backs straight, eyes sharp, hearts ready.

At the front, beneath the arch again, stood Sheikh Hamid.

He spoke—not calmly like before, but this time with urgency. His voice struck the air like iron on stone. It wasn’t rage, exactly, but something just shy of it. Passion honed to a blade’s edge.

Sami sat next to me, providing intermittent translation.

“You cannot claim to seek truth,” the Sheikh declared, “while still bowing to your desires. You cannot pretend to surrender, while your ego whispers behind your ribs. Do you think Allah does not see the lies you tell yourself? The masks you wear?”

The words hit me like waves, each one scraping something raw inside. I didn’t understand the theology. But I understood the feeling: I felt exposed.

The crowd was still, captive to the spell of the Sheikh’s voice. I found myself moving forward, step by step, like I was being pulled by a string. I slipped between men who barely noticed me, until I stood close enough to see the sweat shining at the Sheikh’s temples, the way his chest rose and fell under his robe, his breath heavy from the intensity of his speech.

Then, silence. The Sheikh looked up—and saw me.

I froze. Our eyes met.

And then the Sheikh spoke again—but this time, to me.

“You,” he said, calm now, his words in accented English. “You’ve returned.”

I swallowed. “I have.”

The cleric took a step down from the platform, his robes rustling and his gaze never leaving mine. The space between us shrank until I could feel his presence like heat from a fire—controlled, but immense.

“What is it you seek, ghareeb?” he asked, using the Arabic word for stranger. “You do not speak the tongue. You do not follow the rites. Yet you return.”

My mouth was dry. “I don’t know. But I can’t stay away.”

A pause. The Sheikh tilted his head slightly, studying me—not just with his eyes, but with something deeper. His voice lowered, almost a whisper.

“Desire is a poor guide,” he said. “It leads men into fire.”

“I’m not afraid of fire,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected.

A flicker of something passed through the Sheikh’s gaze—approval, maybe. Or amusement. Or interest.

“You should be,” the cleric said. “Because here, fire does not only burn—it refines.”

I stepped closer. “Then refine me.”

A silence fell. Thick. Charged.

And then the Sheikh’s lips parted, just barely. “We shall see.”

He turned and stepped back up onto the platform. The crowd remained still, as if the moment hadn’t happened. As if I hadn’t just confessed something in front of them all that probably should remain unspoken.

But still. The air had shifted. A current now ran between us, live and waiting.

I knelt down, slowly, my eyes never leaving the cleric.

I was ready to burn.

End Part 1. Follow Eric’s journey into the heat on my Patreon:

http://Patreon.com/jayspearstories

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