It happened in Cairo—so the story goes—more than a thousand years ago, in a city still new and a faith still learning to hold its ground. The ruler of Egypt then was Caliph al-Mu’izz, the first of the Fatimids to rule from Cairo. Unlike some who came after, al-Mu’izz was a curious man. He listened to scholars of all faiths and gave them space to debate. But beneath that tolerance was a steel edge—one that kept Christians walking carefully, always balancing faith with survival.
At the time, the head of the Coptic Church was Pope Abraham (Anba Abram)—a Syrian by birth, known for his quiet wisdom and deep spiritual life. He was respected, even by his Muslim counterparts, but being respected didn’t always mean being safe.
One day, perhaps in conversation or perhaps as a challenge, the Caliph pointed to a verse in the Gospel of Matthew—words that sound simple until someone asks you to prove them:
“If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move.”
The Caliph’s request was clear: “If your Scripture is true, move the Moqattam Mountain. If not, face the consequences.”
It may have been a test. It may have been a trap. What’s remembered is this: Pope Abraham asked for three days to pray and fast. He gathered his people, and they prayed with him, weeping into the silence of unanswered questions.
On the third night, the Virgin Mary appeared to the Pope in a dream. She told him to seek out a man—a one-eyed tanner, who would be carrying water in the streets. That man, she said, would know what to do.
And there he was the next morning—Simon the Tanner, a simple man with rough hands, a leather apron, and a life no one had much noticed before. He worked with animal hides. He carried water. He lived quietly, fasting often, sleeping little, and praying always. And—so the story goes—he had once taken out his own right eye, so that he might obey the words of Jesus:
“If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.”
Simon told the Pope what must be done: At the foot of the mountain, gather the faithful. Kneel. Pray. And with every cry of “Lord have mercy,” rise and bow again. Three times.
So they did.
The Caliph and his court came to witness the moment. The Christians gathered, hearts trembling. Pope Abraham stood at the front, staff in hand. And they began to pray.
“Lord, have mercy…”
And the ground shook.
“Lord, have mercy…”
And the mountain lifted—yes, lifted—just enough that light could be seen shining beneath it, between earth and stone.
“Lord, have mercy…”
And the mountain settled back into place, quiet again, as though it had simply exhaled.
The Caliph was stunned. What he thought, we cannot know. Some say he cried, “God is great.” Some say he quietly converted to Christianity in secret. What he did not do was deny the miracle. He let the Christians go. And Simon the Tanner disappeared, never to be seen again.
The Legacy in the Rock
Centuries passed. But the story remained, passed from lips to pulpits to quiet mothers whispering to children in the dark. And in the 20th century—deep in the Moqattam Hills, in a place now known as Manshiyat Naser, or Garbage City—a new miracle began.
The Zabbaleen, Cairo’s informal Christian garbage collectors, carved a church into the mountain itself. They built it with their hands and hammers. They named it for St. Simon the Tanner, the man who once made the earth breathe.
Now, the Cave Church seats more than 20,000 people. Its walls are covered in carvings: Simon with his water jug, Pope Abraham with his staff, the mountain rising. The miracle lives there still, in song, in stone, and in memory.
Faith is rarely proven by spectacle. Most of the time, it hides in worn hands and tired eyes. But once, in Cairo, it shook a mountain. And once was enough.