Desert Father | The Story Is Yours Now

A certain brother went to Abba Moses in Scete and asked him to speak a word. 
The elder said to him, “Go and sit ‎in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”
—Sayings of the Desert Fathers and Mothers

(Or, listen on Spotify or Apple Music)

• Lyrics + Credits
• Behind the Song
• Artwork
• The Life of St. Moses

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​LYRICS:
Holy Mo, you been moving slow;
Won’t you mosey on home with me?
Holy Mo, you got a long way to go;
Won’t you mosey on home with me?

You were just a young man
And you were looking for, looking for,
You were looking for love
But you didn’t know, no,what you were looking for back then,
You tried to buy your only friends with stolen gold,
But it didn’t make you whole.

You stumbled into grace once
While you were on the run, on the run,
Trying to escape yourself
You were a stranger when we took you in;
That’s when a little bit of hope
Met your heart and called it home
And you couldn’t shake it free.
And now you’ll never shake it free

Holy Mo, you been moving slow;
​Won’t you mosey on home with me?

Return to life as usual didn’t go as planned
And ‘cross the sand you came a-knocking at our door again.
You still didn’t know, no, what you were looking for but now
You set your heart and made a vow
That you knew you couldn’t keep―
That none alone can keep.

Holy Mo, you been moving slow;
Won’t you mosey on home with me?
Holy Mo, you got a long way to go;
Won’t you mosey on home with me?

The sun is rising over distant desert lands
Like the sun that’s rising in your soul.
If grace can fall on all these barren desert sands,
Then patience child, He’ll make you whole;
He’ll bring you home.

You got bit by the love bug and now it’s taking a hold,
And son, you’re well on your way.
Well, it’s gonna be a long road and now it’s taking its toll,
But you’re gonna make it, just you wait.
You been bit by the love bug and it may be the death of you,
But it’s gonna pull you through to life.

Holy Mo, you been moving slow,
You got a long, long way to go, but don’t you give up hope,
Well, why don't you mosey on home with me?

---

​Performers:
daniel couper - Vocals, Acoustic Guitar 
James West - Electric Guitar 
Colin Jeffress - Piano 
Jason Hardy - Bass Guitar 
Justin Short - Drums 

Words & music by daniel couper
Produced, mixed, and engineered by daniel couper
Special thanks to Moses Reynolds for his production advice
Recorded at Hopwood Christian Church, One Seventy Studios, and The Keep

St. Augustine of Hippo was a little too mainstream for me. I was on the lookout for a patron saint—someone whose life and legacy I could look to for guidance and encouragement in my own daily struggles. Fortunately for me, Augustine was not the only great Christian who had died on my birthday. A quick web search showed me that much.

This is how I first encountered St. Moses the Black, a robber-turned-martyr from fourth-century Egypt. The more I read about this fascinating man, the more enthralled I became with his story. I found myself in his crimes, his passions, his continued failures. I found myself in the slowness of his journey toward God. I found hope in his patient perseverance.

I wanted to write him a song, but I didn’t know how to begin. Fortunately, I met a wonderful child named Moses—a child with quite a journey behind him already, and still a full life ahead. His family called him Mosie. This song is dedicated to him and to my patron saint.

What is given can go on
by Jimmy Stewart

Lyrics from “Desert Father” by daniel couper

The Life of St. Moses
by daniel couper

As a slave, Moses had been unruly. He was young and strong, and his temperament was not particularly amenable to bondage. He often disobeyed orders and stole from his master, and he was easily incited to violence and rage. Several times he attempted escape, only to be returned to his master and punished severely. Once or twice he may have had the first letter of St. Peter read aloud at him condescendingly; at some time, his hand or calf was most certainly tattooed with the phrase Tent me ne fugiam de domo—“Retain me, lest I flee from home.” Of course, that’s just what he was looking for: home.

In the end, it wasn’t a successful escape, but his behavior on the plantation that earned Moses his release. Not his good behavior, mind you. History has forgotten exactly what crime he committed, but it must have been terrible and frightening enough that Moses’ master no longer wanted him around. Perhaps he had killed a man.

From the first day of his so-called freedom, Moses had no hope of honest work. He knew his strikingly dark skin would arouse immediate suspicion in the marketplace, and his tattoo would confirm his fugitive status. Any respectable businessman or scrupulous law enforcement officer that happened upon him would be quick to return him to his former master, where he would be beaten for spite and released again into the wilderness. So, Moses delved into the shadows.

*  *  *
​
Several years later, reports began to surface of a large band of robbers pillaging the Nile River Valley. Their leader was a large and menacing Ethiopian with enough cunning and instinct to outwit the Roman legion at every turn. Everyone had a friend who claimed to have seen him, and the legendary figure grew stronger and darker each time the story was told.

In truth, Moses really had become an impressive figure. He had been quick to learn the arts of thievery and manipulation, and his physical strength had grown to be unmatched in the region. Like a schoolyard bully, he drew other outlaws to himself with threats and bribery until he controlled a force of some seventy bandits.

As the gang grew in strength, its targets grew in grandeur, until Moses finally found himself facing down his former master’s house. It had been inevitable, of course. The plantation was one of the largest and richest on the Nile, and though he had avoided it for a time, not wanting to muck around in old traumas, Moses’ lust for vengeance got the better of him in the end.

Restless with anticipation, Moses perched atop a hill and watched the sun set over the plantation and the nearby village. The only thing left to do was wait. Moses was terrible at waiting. He had been in constant motion for weeks, preparing for this night. Spying and strategizing had left little time even for sleep, let alone introspection. Now that he was left alone with his thoughts in the twilight, he was anxious and afraid. So many years of oppression and suppression had smothered his soul in violence and hatred. He longed to be free of himself. That was why he was here, in this place, at this time.
This night would finally set him free.

*  *  *

Things did not go as planned. One of the gang’s spies had been spotted in the village a few days prior, and word had spread quickly in the marketplace. As the bandits fell upon the plantation, the Roman legion fell upon the bandits, and chaos ensued.

Amidst clash of arms and cries of pain, Moses slipped away unnoticed into the shadows. There was no thought of honor in his mind as he skirted the outer edge of the property and made his way toward the riverbank. The plantation’s defenses were sound; the Roman guard had formed a perimeter that surrounded the estate on three sides, entrusting the fourth to the mighty Nile, which was nearly a mile wide and moving swiftly.

But Moses was desperate. Without hesitation, he placed his knife between his teeth and began to swim. Twenty minutes later, the dark figure set foot on the opposite shore, took stock of his positioning, and entered the water again, moving with silent, powerful strokes toward the pastures he had once worked as a slave.

A little lamb stared inquisitively at Moses as he rose from the water after his swim. He slaughtered it there on the bank, then wandered the pastures for a while, killing impulsively as he went. When at last he grew bored of vengeance, Moses gathered up two plump sheep and the little lamb that had greeted him, tied them to his back, and swam back across the Nile. He returned to his hideout exhausted and alone.

*  *  *

Moses awoke just before nightfall and began to pack his things. It had been three days since the failed attack, but the Roman guard had only grown stronger in the interim. Repast and repose had restored Moses’ strength as well, but he was beginning to grow restless and anxious again. All his friends and followers had fled, and he knew he could not outfox the legion on his own. The cards were stacked against him. Besides, he was tired of eating lamb.

He headed west, toward the setting sun. He had little hope of finding anything but sand, but he knew his chances of survival were better in the barren desert than in any civilized world. They would never forgive him for what he had done. They could never accept him for who he was.

The desert night was cold, but Moses held his cloak tight against the wind and trudged into the wilderness. There was no moon. Once, he tripped in the darkness and broke his sandal. He left it behind and kept walking.

The warmth of morning was a welcome solace when it finally came. The light, too, brought ease to his journey and confidence to his steps, though it also brought the possibility of being seen. He kept walking, tired but unwilling to rest so close to danger.

As the sun rose toward its midday height, its comfort gave way to tyranny. He tossed aside his cloak by midmorning, and removed his shirt to cover his blistering, sandal-less foot an hour later. The arid breeze wicked the sweat from his pores until there seemed no liquid left in him.

The sight of a shimmering pool on the horizon raised his spirits only for a brief and foolish instant. Moses chastised himself for his momentary naivety. He had learned to distrust everything—even his own eyes. And so, he moved on.

As the sun descended and the sand cooled, sleep’s siren call became irresistible. As he stumbled to the ground and laid himself down, Moses expected never to wake. In fact, he almost hoped for it.

*  *  *

The burning sand woke Moses late the next morning. With what little strength he had left, he rose to his feet to take stock of his surroundings. To his disbelief, what seemed to be a small village appeared before him. Surely this was another mirage, some trick of his tired eyes. He dismissed his hope at once. Still, he had to go somewhere.

So, Moses walked toward the nearest of the scattered huts. It failed to fade as he drew closer, but he was too worn to rejoice. If the village was real, wouldn’t its inhabitants treat him like the convict he was? He was too dehydrated to bother with fear. His fist met the door with two heavy thumps before he collapsed to his knees at the threshold.

Some ten or fifteen seconds later, the door opened and an aging man peered down at the battered convict from above. The man wore a tattered brown robe and an understated smile. His green eyes gleamed with a youthful vitality, though what little hair he had left on his head was pure white.

“Hello, my good man,” said the elderly fellow in a scratchy, high-pitched voice. “What brings you to the monastery?”

*  *  *

The monks welcomed the fugitive as they might have welcomed Christ himself. Father Isidore, whose tattered robe and modest hut did not reveal his prominence in the small community, gave up his own bed to Moses. There was not much food to be had in the desert, but Moses ate plentifully of what bread there was.

Moses quickly grew quite fond of the monks and their simple life. They had welcomed him as an honored guest and a brother, regardless of his skin or his past. They had given him honest work to do and an honest share in its rewards. They had treated him with kindness and dignity.

Alas, as the long days passed, Moses grew restless. In spite of himself, he yearned for excitement and excess. He was greedy for the succulence of meat and the admiration of his old friends. He missed winning a good fight.

Within a month, he set off again for his old hideout by the Nile, trusting that by then the authorities had shifted their attention to some other villainous rogue.

*  *  *

A year later, Isidore heard another knock at his door. Moses had tried and failed to return to his old life of thievery and crime. It wasn’t because he had lost the skills or the resources he needed to do the job, nor was it due to a lack of effort. Upon his return it had only taken him a few weeks to rebuild his former empire, complete with dutiful minions and lavish feasts.

But he simply wasn’t satisfied. The raids grew more profitable, the parties more extravagant, but it was never enough. It couldn’t be, and Moses knew that. He had always known it. But always before, he had been able to mollify his discontent with activity. Now, the uneasiness persisted. It would not be ignored.

One night while his minions slept, Moses packed a small bag of supplies and walked toward the desert. There was so much less at the monastery, but, somehow, it was enough.

Isidore opened the door and met Moses with an embrace.

*  *  *

Being a brother in the community—a true member of the family—was much harder than being a guest had been. The work was more grueling now, and at times it was perfectly humiliating. Moses’ first set of responsibilities included fetching water, delivering food, and cleaning the elder monks’ chamber pots. It wasn’t long before he was cleaning the elder monks themselves.

Life went on in this way for Moses as weeks turned into months. He grew restless again. Contemplation was difficult, and God often seemed unresponsive to the novice’s prayers. He was given to persistent impulses of greed, vengeance, and pure spite. Even his desire for righteousness was tainted by selfishness and pride. Still, he pressed on. The encouragement and forgiveness of his brothers sustained him in times of particular weakness. Their prayers lifted him up when he could not stand alone.

*  *  *

Years passed and still Moses struggled with old instincts. It was true, he had learned to control his outward actions, but his thoughts were still held captive by the desire to lie and cheat and steal—such worthless things in a community of love. He longed for purity of heart.

When would he achieve the perfection of God? When would he be made whole? When would he finally be free?

Late one night, after what felt like hours of grappling with his demons and with God, Moses knocked on the door of Father Isidore’s hut. The abbot listened patiently to Moses’ exasperated ramblings, then led Moses up to the roof of his home with a simple, “Follow me.”

The two sat on the roof in silence for several hours. Each time Moses tried to inquire about their purpose, the old man only responded, “Watch.” More than once, Moses came very close to falling asleep, but he shook his head and kept staring out into the darkness. After several hours, dawn began to stretch out across the sky, and Moses scanned the vast ocean of sand for anything of significance. There was nothing. Still, Moses watched.

“Did you see it?” asked Father Isidore at about midmorning.

“I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t,” Moses replied, somewhat ashamed. “What should I have seen?”

“Well, everything,” Isidore said.

Moses’ only response was his confounded expression.

The old monk began to raise himself to his feet as he continued, “Only slowly do the rays of the sun drive away the night and usher in a new day, and thus, only slowly does one become a perfect contemplative.” And he left Moses alone on the rooftop.

*  *  *

Father Isidore passed away not long afterwards, but his words remained with Moses both as a comfort and a challenge. Indeed, the young monk’s journey toward perfection was slow, and only he knew how slow it truly was. After a great many years, he began to be recognized by his community and throughout the world as a man of great wisdom and prudence. But he was still battling his demons.

Once, a brother of the monastery had been found in error, and Moses was called to the council to help determine the appropriate punishment. He came reluctantly, carrying a tattered bag filled with sand, which spilled out as he walked. “My sins run out behind me, and I do not see them,” he declared when he arrived, “but today I have come to judge the faults of another.” He had not intended to be profound, but simply to be modest. Nonetheless, upon hearing his words, the brothers forgave the erring monk at once, hailing Moses’ integrity and grace.

Years later, as white hair was beginning to reach in at the corners of his own beard, Moses was ordained a priest—an uncommon honor among the monks of the desert, and one altogether unheard of among black Christians at the time. Though he felt unworthy of his commission, he obediently took with him a group of some seventy monks and founded a new monastery nearby in Scete. He led the brothers there with grace and humility for many years.

*  *  *

When Father Moses was seventy-five years old, word came from the west that a large band of robbers were pillaging their way toward the monastery. Frightened, the monks began to pack up to leave. Surrounded by the chaos, Moses sat silently in his seat until a young novice approached him and asked, “Abba Moses, will you not come?”

Remembering how he had once been welcomed, how he had been given a home, Moses replied, “No. You may go, but I will stay and welcome them. What is ours is also theirs.”

Another monk spoke up: “We can leave everything behind, then. But let us at least escape with our lives!”

“Our lives are Christ, and Christ belongs to all,” Father Moses declared resolutely. “I will remain.” Again, he gave his blessing to those who wanted to flee and helped them pack their things. Seven monks chose to stay behind with Moses to welcome the marauders. The young novice was among them.

As the thieves approached the monastery later that day, Moses led his remaining followers to the outer gate, where they stood together with open arms, welcoming their enemies into their midst.

Taken from The Story Is Yours Now: A Companion to the Epilogue EP.
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