The Targum Pseudo-Jonathan records the terrifying perimeter drawn around the mountain: "Thou shalt set limits for the people that they may stand round about the mountain, and shalt say, Beware that you ascend not the mount, nor come near its confines; whoever cometh nigh the mount will be surely put to death" (Exodus 19:12).
The Aramaic preserves two distinct prohibitions. Do not ascend. Do not even come near its confines. The boundary is not just around the summit. It is around the entire mountain's base. The holiness radiates outward like heat from a furnace, and crossing the invisible line carries a capital consequence.
This is a strange commandment from a God who wants to be close to His people. On the very day of maximum intimacy — the giving of the Torah — a hard border is drawn. Why?
The rabbis offer a consistent answer. Holiness without structure is not holiness but chaos. If every Israelite had charged the mountain in zealous enthusiasm, the revelation would have devolved into spectacle. The boundary forced a pause. It created the difference between rushing and receiving.
The Talmud in Sanhedrin 44a grounds Temple reverence in this Sinai precedent: sacred space requires sacred limits. A courtyard with no fence is no courtyard at all.
The takeaway: the most intimate moments with God are often those with the clearest boundaries. The fence is not the opposite of the encounter. It is the architecture that makes the encounter bearable.