“COR Values” unfolds the intricate journey of a man, the son of a pastor, who faces familial estrangement due to his atheistic beliefs. The narrative deeply examines his efforts to find common ground between his own convictions and his family’s faith, touching on broad themes of acceptance, identity, and the innate desire for familial bonds.
The story is notably rich in detailing the main character’s battles, both within himself and with his family, extending the conversation beyond simple religious disagreement to encompass wider issues of acceptance and personal identity. This careful portrayal brings to light the complexity of his challenges, making the narrative emotionally compelling and widely relatable.
The book’s exploration of the tensions between personal beliefs and family dynamics, the journey towards acceptance, and the pursuit of understanding and reconciliation is executed with skill. Through detailed storytelling and comprehensive character exploration, the author prompts readers to ponder their own family ties and belief systems.
“COR Values” is particularly poignant for its deep dive into the themes of faith, family, and forgiveness. It is a recommended read for those navigating the tricky waters of family estrangement, especially when differing beliefs are at play. The narrative offers valuable insights into empathy, dialogue, and understanding as tools for healing rifts.
In summary, “COR Values” presents a compelling narrative for readers interested in stories of familial discord and the quest for reconciliation. Its thoughtful examination of these themes provides meaningful lessons on personal and familial growth, making it a significant contribution to discussions around faith, family, and the power of forgiveness. MORE
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COMING THIS FALL
“For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light.”— Luke
Chapter 1 The First Kindness
It was late, and the alley behind the butcher’s shop smelled like rot and bleach.
The man was on his knees, trembling like a dog too long beaten to remember it once had teeth.
Salvatore did not raise his voice. Did not raise a hand. He just spoke, low, calm, measured. Like someone leading prayer in a room where no one believed.
And I, who had never known a real father, stood beside him with a paper bag in my hand, half a sandwich inside, still warm, and waited for the verdict.
I did not flinch. That is what impressed him most.
“You’ve got the kind of eyes that carry secrets,” he told me. “No leaks. That’s rare.”
I did not know what that meant. I only knew it made him smile.
And I was not sure I wanted to be the kind of boy he thought I already was.
There is something I have never said, not to him, not to anyone:
I was hoping the man would die.
Because if he lived, I would have to decide whether I wanted to become what Salvatore already saw in me.
And I was not ready for that kind of honesty.
Not then.
Some people speak of childhood as a sanctuary, a holy beginning, untouched by the dirt of the world.
Maybe it was, once. Before I turned six. Before the evenings grew longer and the lights stayed off too long. Before the sound of my mother crying turned from something rare to something regular.
I remember a bath that went cold before she remembered I was in it. A man’s voice down the hall I did not recognize. The way the rug stayed damp for days after someone spilled a drink and no one cleaned it up.
For me, childhood was not a place of innocence.
It was an exit wound.
My mother lived in a small one-bedroom walk-up. The stove leaned. The windows were sealed with plastic and tape. She smoked long menthols and had a fondness for men who left by morning. She never spoke of my father, and I never asked. Some part of me knew she did not have the words.
There was a time when I thought she loved me.
I remember her hand on my head once while I was sleeping. She must have thought I would not notice. Maybe she needed it to mean something she could not say aloud.
Maybe it meant nothing at all.
That is the danger with memory. It offers comfort without the courtesy of truth.
When things got bad, I would leave for a day or two. I knew the benches that stayed dry when it rained. I learned which stores tossed good food before closing. I once found a whole loaf of rye bread in a black trash bag behind a bakery on Twelfth. I ate it slowly over two days, hiding the slices under my coat so no one would take them. At night, I would lie awake and try to name something in the world that belonged to me.
Sometimes I would count the things I had not stolen. That helped.
I did not believe in God. But I did not believe in nothing either.
It is hard to be that certain when you have seen a woman close her eyes and sing to no one while scrubbing a floor. Or when a man with no teeth gives you his only pair of gloves because “you look colder.”
If God exists, I thought, He prefers back doors. He does not like to be watched.
By the time I stopped going back, home had become more idea than place. I did not run away. I just stopped returning.
There were shelters, sure. But they came with rules. Questions.
And sometimes the people in charge looked at you the way people look at cats in the road. Curious, but not enough to stop.
That is when I saw him. Salvatore.
It was not dramatic. He stepped out of a shop with a newspaper under one arm and noticed me standing by the curb. I was watching his car, not because I planned to steal it, but because it was beautiful. A deep green Cadillac, polished like marble. He caught my eye.
“You hungry?” he asked.
I nodded.
He handed me half his sandwich and did not wait for a thank you. Just walked away.
That was the first kindness I received without condition. And though it was just a sandwich, it lodged somewhere deep, like a seed finding purchase in soil too stubborn to grow anything else. I did not smile. I did not cry. But something inside me rearranged itself, quiet and sharp, like a chair being pulled out for a guest you did not know you missed.
And maybe that is what drew me back.
I waited outside that shop every afternoon for a week, hoping.
On the sixth day, he stopped again.
“You know how to carry a bag without dropping it?” he asked.
I said yes, even though I was not sure.
From there, it unfolded.
Small tasks. Then larger ones.
I never asked what I was carrying or who it was for. I just delivered what I was told, kept quiet, returned change when there was too much.
Over time, I noticed the way others looked at him. Deference, fear, the occasional forced smile.
I did not yet understand what kind of man he was. But I understood he was not someone you lied to. Or touched without asking.
What surprised me was not that he trusted me.
What surprised me was that I trusted him.
There is a kind of bond that forms not in words, but in absence. When someone does not betray you, even when they could have, that absence becomes a kind of presence.
Salvatore never made me feel owned.
But he made me feel watched.
And in those days, being seen was the closest I came to feeling safe.
That is where the trouble began.
Because once he believed in me, he began to call on parts of me I was not sure I had, or did not want to know I had.
He said I had judgment.
He said I had calm.
He said I had “a good face for a bad world.”
And then one day, he asked me to stand beside him. Not behind, not outside. Beside.
That was the day I watched a man fall to his knees, beg, and weep into his hands.
The day I pretended I had no heart at all.
And the day I quietly hoped that mercy would not be granted.
Because I needed to know who I was without it. And when the moment passed, when the man was dragged away and Salvatore turned without a word, I felt something hollow settle inside me. A silence that would take years to name.
Chapter 2 Who Holds the Rags
There were things Salvatore said that stayed with me, not because I understood them, but because they lingered in the quiet that followed.
“There are men who carry knives,” he once told me, “and men who carry silence. The ones you need to watch are the ones who confuse the two.”
I thought I understood. But a few days later, I saw it for myself.
A man I had not met before stood behind the shop, arms folded, unmoving. I handed him the package. He said nothing. Just looked at me, too long. The silence did not settle; it sharpened. My chest tightened, like I was bracing for a blow that never came. That was when I realized what Salvatore meant.
Later that week, I met another man outside the back of the shop. Wiry, quiet, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. When I asked his name, he did not answer. Just nodded, took the envelope, and stared. Not blankly, but as if he were measuring something. His silence did not feel empty. It felt like a threat held in check. It felt sharp.
This time, I did not just understand Salvatore.
I understood the silence itself, how it could disarm, how easily it could be mistaken for restraint, or worse, for peace.
I thought about it on the way home.
Silence was not peace. It was a test of who would speak first, and who would not speak at all.
Harm did not always announce itself.
Sometimes, it just waited to be mistaken for calm.
He never explained what he meant. He did not have to. That was the thing about him, he let the words settle, like smoke after a fire, and watched to see if you would flinch.
I did not.
Not that time.
Not yet.
He kept a room above the shop. Nothing fancy. A worn chair. A desk with deep scratches in the wood. A coat rack with only one coat. It smelled faintly of tobacco and old varnish, and the floor creaked when you crossed it. It was the only place I had seen him alone, and the only place that felt like it truly belonged to him. Which, by extension, made it the only place that did not feel borrowed or staged. That distinction stayed with me more than I expected.
He never told me to go there. He would just say, “Walk with me.” And I would.
Sometimes we did not talk. He would sit in his chair, coat folded over the armrest. I would lean against the wall, hands in my pockets. The quiet stretched between us, filled with the hum of distant traffic and the occasional groan of the building settling. It was not uncomfortable. It felt like a truce, a silent agreement that neither of us needed to fill the air. In that space, I began to understand that words were not the only way to be heard.
Once, he handed me a coin, not as payment, but like a puzzle.
“Every man has something in his pocket that tells you what kind of man he is,” he said.
Then he nodded toward me. “What is in yours?”
I did not know how to answer. So I said the only honest thing I could.
“Nothing.”
He looked pleased. “Good. Better to start with nothing. Then you know who gave you what.”
At the time, I thought it was just another test.
Now I think he meant more.
I think he saw emptiness as a virtue, something he could shape.
It was around then I began to notice how often he spoke in parables, short, winding sayings that stayed with you long after the words had gone. They puzzled me at first, but then they began to settle like seeds, growing into truths I had not yet earned. Little lessons, wrapped in quiet, shaped more by what they did not say than what they did.
“A man who watches too long forgets what he came to see.”
“Faith is when you keep walking after your eyes go blind.”
“Loyalty’s not about truth. It’s about where you sleep at night.”
They sounded like scripture, but not the kind read in churches. These were living rules. Spoken not to enlighten, but to bind. And sometimes, I was not sure whether I admired them or feared what they made of me.
And I followed them.
Not because I believed.
But because I wanted to belong.
And maybe, just maybe, because I was tired of watching from the outside, pretending it did not matter.
He introduced me to others, not with names, but with presence. A nod here. A glance there. I was the kid at his side, and that meant something.
It meant I was not invisible anymore.
One man called me “the boy who doesn’t blink.”
Another said, “He’s the shadow Salvatore grew.”
I never knew how to take those words. Part of me wanted to vanish into them. Another part wondered if I was disappearing already, not into shadow, but into something he needed more than I understood.
I did not respond to either.
That was part of the ritual too.
Speak less. Watch more.
They started sending me further.
Delivery runs that took me across the river. Through alley doors. Past rusted gates.
I never asked what was in the envelopes or the boxes. That silence was part of the trust, a choice made each time I passed a question and left it unasked. Especially on days when the pull of curiosity nearly stopped me. Once, I lingered too long at the shop’s back door, fingers resting on the seal of a thick brown envelope. But I let it go. I always let it go.
And over time, trust began to feel like truth.
One night, back in the room above the shop, he asked,
“You ever wonder what makes a man clean?”
I shook my head.
“It’s not soap,” he said. “It’s who holds the rag.”
Then he turned toward the window. The streetlight outside flickered like a warning.
“Some stains never come out. But people sleep better when they see someone else scrubbing.”
That was the moment I realized he did not just hold power. He shaped the stories people told themselves to sleep at night.
In the days that followed, I began listening more carefully to the way others spoke about him, how they recited his words like mantras, how fear turned to reverence. It was subtle, but it was there. His presence had seeped into their reasoning, their justifications.
And in that way, he was more than a man.
He was a kind of faith.
A dangerous one, like a whispered promise in a locked room, soothing at first, until you realize the only exit has vanished behind you.
I did not yet know what I was part of.
But I knew this:
The world had rules.
And Salvatore was writing them.
I just did not know which ones were meant to protect me,
and which were meant to keep me quiet.
Chapter 3 What the Camera Missed
When I try to remember my beginning, it does not come all at once.
It arrives in fogged slivers,
scenes with no clear edge,
feelings without anchor.
Sometimes I see a small kitchen window. The screen is torn at the corner.
A girl’s voice calls from the yard,
not to me,
but through me.
The words are never clear.
Just the rise and fall of sound,
like wind curling around a name I have forgotten.
I do not know who she was.
Only that she knew something I did not.
And that she left before I could ask.
Other times, I am watching someone leave.
A man.
He walks down a hallway I do not recognize.
His back is turned,
and I know, before the door even closes,
he is not coming back.
I never understood him.
Only remember him being called by name.
And the hush that followed.
Not silence.
Just absence.
There is a photograph of me as a boy.
I am standing near a plastic tricycle, holding a toy camera.
I am smiling,
not because someone asked me to.
But because I had not yet learned not to.
That is how I know it is old.
Smiles in photos lie.
They last longer than the moment ever did.
Sometimes I stare at that picture and wonder,
not what I was feeling,
but what came after.
What the camera missed.
What cracked just outside the frame.
Somewhere between that photo and now, something splintered.
Not all at once.
Not a break.
A drift.
Like a voice moving too far from the microphone,
you can still see the mouth,
but the words no longer reach.
I think that is what happened to me.
I drifted.
Or maybe the world drifted from me.
I have asked myself a hundred times what changed.
Where I lost the part that used to smile without trying.
But the truth is,
I do not know.
Not fully.
Only that the questions came first.
And some answers, when they finally arrived,
felt like new questions wearing masks.
If there is a beginning to this story, it is not a moment.
It is a condition.
The condition of watching the world
and not knowing if you are part of it,
or just a lens,
capturing what others live.
Maybe that is why I held on to that old toy camera.
It reminded me that once, I believed you could take something with you.
That what you saw had meaning.
And that meaning could be kept.
I am not sure I believe that anymore.
But I still look.
Even when it hurts.
Even when I wish I had not.
Because maybe the act of seeing,
even when you cannot stop what happens,
is what keeps you from disappearing.
The toy camera is long gone.
But sometimes I close one eye,
and frame the world with my fingers,
pretending it still works.
Pretending I still do.
Because maybe the act of looking,
of bearing witness,
is a kind of belonging.
Even if no one sees you back.
Chapter 4 The Cost of Going Up
I was not told what to wear.
But the others always wore black.
Not suits.
Not uniforms.
Just black.
Plain shirts.
Slacks.
Coats.
The color did not ask questions.
It did not explain.
Salvatore once said,
“Some people wear names. Others wear silence.”
He did not say which I was.
But he did not have to.
There was a man named Victor who ran the garage behind the shop.
Short, thick-armed, with a voice like a door closing.
He did not talk to me for weeks.
Then one day, without looking up, he said,
“If you’re going to hang around, you better learn the lift.”
He did not mean a ride.
He meant the platform that raised the cars.
The lesson was not about mechanics.
It was about listening.
You had to feel when the weight shifted,
watch the lines,
listen for strain.
“Everything costs something,” he told me.
“Even going up.”
Victor never told stories, but the other men did.
Stories that circled truth without landing on it.
One talked about a guy who disappeared after a job went sideways.
Another mentioned a kid who asked too many questions,
said no one had seen him since.
I did not ask who the kid was.
And I did not ask why no one spoke his name.
Because by then, I understood:
Questions were not currency.
They were risk.
And silence?
Silence was a kind of shadow you learned to stand inside.
There was a safe in the back of the shop.
Not hidden.
Not guarded.
Just… there.
Like it was waiting for someone to guess wrong.
One evening, Salvatore opened it.
I never saw what was inside.
He stood between me and the door.
Turned toward me and said,
“You ever wonder what makes something valuable?”
I did not answer.
“It’s not the thing itself,” he said.
“It’s how long you’re willing to bleed for it.”
Then he shut the safe.
Turned the dial like he was locking a thought.
That night I walked home differently.
Not afraid.
Not proud.
Just… altered.
Like something quiet had broken open.
Not loud enough to name,
but sharp enough to carry.
I did not tell anyone what I had heard.
Did not write it down.
But I carried it.
And carrying it became part of me.
And maybe that is where it really began.
Not in the moment he opened the safe,
but in the space between what he showed
and what he chose to block from view.
Like the girl’s voice that never warned me.
Like the photo that never told the truth.
Like the camera that captured nothing,
but still taught me to look.
Chapter 5 The Shape of Risk
There was a drawer in Salvatore’s desk that never closed all the way.
I do not know if it was the wood,
or the way he used it.
But that half-inch gap always bothered me.
Inside were ledgers.
Neatly kept.
No names.
Just dates.
Times.
Initials.
One page had nothing but a single mark.
A check.
Another had an entire row blacked out in thick pen strokes.
I stared at those pages.
Like they might speak,
if I stared long enough.
“Information has a rhythm,” he told me once.
“It’s not what people say.
It’s when they say it.”
He tapped the desk.
“That’s where you listen.”
I never asked who kept the books.
Or why some lines disappeared.
But I knew they mattered.
Even the silence had shape.
A man came by the shop every few weeks.
Wore a fedora like he meant it.
No one said his name.
He never looked directly at me.
But I caught the way his eyes followed Salvatore’s hands,
like the truth was in the fingers,
not the face.
After he left,
Salvatore would wipe the desk clean with a cloth.
Even if nothing was spilled.
That was the first time I wondered
what I was willing to risk,
just to stay close to someone like him.
Not for money.
Not for power.
For meaning.
For the feeling that I was standing
next to something larger than myself,
something that did not flinch.
Something that moved through the world
without asking permission.
I did not yet know how deep I was.
But I had stopped measuring the distance.
That is when you are already in.
When you stop wondering how far you have come,
and start worrying what you have left behind.
And whether there is still a way back
that does not make you a stranger
to the boy you were
before you began looking too closely.
Chapter 6 What Doesn’t Knock
I had seen Salvatore in silence.
In shadow.
In the glow of streetlamps
and the hush of backrooms.
But I had never seen him at a kitchen table.
It was a quiet house.
Unassuming.
No guards.
No luxury.
A pot of sauce simmered on the stove.
A child’s drawing was pinned to the refrigerator.
The kind of place you pass without noticing,
never realizing it holds the man who decides what matters.
His wife greeted me with a nod
and a plate of food.
She said my name like she already knew it,
not the one I had earned on the street,
but the one I had not heard in years.
I did not correct her.
I let the name hang in the room,
like something fragile I was not ready to break.
Salvatore sat at the head of the table
like it meant nothing.
He asked about school,
about the weather,
about the sauce.
He looked at his daughter the way a man looks at a distant shore,
grateful,
unsure he belongs.
I watched his hands.
They did not shake.
Did not reach.
They just rested, folded,
as if this was the only room in the world
that did not require permission
to be himself.
His daughter passed me the bread.
She could not have been more than ten.
Her eyes held none of the fear I had seen in others.
She smiled when I thanked her.
A real smile.
The kind that does not come from rehearsing survival.
I could not square it.
The man who stood over trembling men
and the man who kissed his daughter’s forehead.
How could they be one?
And what did it say about me
that I wanted to believe they could be?
After dinner, I offered to clear the plates.
His wife touched my shoulder and said,
“Not tonight.”
She looked at me,
not through me,
not past me,
but at me.
And for a moment, I thought maybe this house wanted me to stay.
Not as I had been.
But as I was learning to be.
It did not feel like home.
But it did not feel borrowed either.
And in that moment,
I understood something I had not expected to feel.
I wanted to belong.
Not just to Salvatore’s world,
but to this one.
To the sauce on the stove.
To the softness of a child’s voice.
To the warmth that was not earned through fear.
And that was when I knew I was in trouble.
Because no matter how gentle the voices,
how still the hands,
how warm the room,
part of me would always be listening
for the door to open.
Not because I feared who might enter,
but because I did not trust
what might follow me in.
Chapter 7 A Stranger’s Silence
A few mornings later,
I sat across from a man I had never met
in a café that did not ask questions.
He did not say anything.
He did not need to.
His silence was complete,
the kind that does not just lack sound,
but empties the air around it.
I had seen him before.
Always in the same spot.
Always early.
A plain white mug in front of him, never touched.
Dark coat, no matter the season.
Never the seat by the window.
He did not look like anyone in Salvatore’s circle.
That did not mean he was not of it.
Salvatore never mentioned him. Not once.
And that made me curious.
Once or twice, I thought I caught his eyes shift toward me,
not long enough to hold,
just enough to know he had already seen me coming.
One morning, after a delivery, I stayed behind.
Not long.
Just long enough to sit across from him without asking.
He did not look up.
Did not nod.
But he did not tell me to leave either.
That silence,
his choice not to acknowledge or reject,
did something to me.
It reminded me of the days I wandered without meaning.
Of benches I had claimed like borrowed names.
Back when I still believed
being unseen meant I could escape
what I had not yet become.
I drank my coffee slower than usual.
I wondered if he had once done what I was doing now,
stood where I stood,
thinking he was just delivering bags and passing time.
I wondered what had changed him.
When I finally left, I expected nothing.
And that is exactly what he gave me.
But I returned two days later.
And again the next week.
There was something about his silence
I trusted more than the certainty in anyone’s voice.
Some silences don not ask for answers.
They wait.
And if you listen too long,
you start to wonder
what they already know about you.
Or worse,
what you’ve already told them
just by staying in the seat.
Chapter 8 A Familiar Face in the Wrong Place
I did not expect to see anyone from my old life.
That was part of the deal,
vanish quietly,
become someone else,
never look back.
But there he was.
Not a friend.
Not even someone I liked.
Just a familiar face
from a time I thought I had buried.
He did not recognize me at first.
People rarely do,
once you have trimmed yourself
into the version others expect to see.
I was thinner.
Quieter.
Dressed in clothes that were not mine,
but no longer felt foreign.
Still, his eyes paused on mine.
Just long enough.
He said my name.
The real one.
I did not answer.
He said it again,
softer.
More like a memory than a call.
That is when I nodded.
Just once.
Enough to acknowledge.
Not enough to invite.
We were in the same café I always returned to,
the one where the man in the dark coat never moved,
never spoke,
never touched the mug in front of him.
He was there that morning too.
Same seat.
Same silence.
His head never turned.
But I caught the way his eyes shifted in the glass behind the counter.
Just enough to take me in.
He did not look up.
But I knew he saw everything.
We did not talk.
There was too much between us,
questions neither of us wanted answered.
The familiar face left
before I finished my drink.
But the silent man stayed.
Still, but not absent. There was a tension in it.
Like he was keeping count of what came and went.
As if nothing had changed.
As if watching was its own form of knowing.
That night, I thought about what it meant
to be seen by someone who knew me before all this.
Not seen through fear,
or power,
or usefulness,
But as a whole person.
A past I did not choose
watching the person I had become.
It shook something loose.
Not enough to break me.
But enough to remind me:
Transformation is not always escape.
Sometimes, it is just hiding,
dressed better.
And sometimes,
being watched by someone who says nothing
feels heavier
than being called by name.
Chapter 9 What Was Kept
I did not sleep.
I do not think I even tried.
I sat in the dark with the city humming low outside the window,
that bitter clarity still thick in my chest.
By morning, I had not found peace,
only the sense that I was being shaped
by something I had not agreed to.
Salvatore did not ask how I was.
He never did.
But that morning, there was something in his eyes.
Something that said he knew I had seen too much,
not just the kind of thing that stains the conscience,
but the kind that rearranges it.
He tapped his finger on the desk in an irregular rhythm,
then slid a folded sheet across to me.
“Meet this man,” he said.
“Talk. Listen more than speak.
But get a sense of him.
You’ll know what I mean once you meet him.”
No context. Just a name—Italian.
An address.
Not a business.
A private home.
It was the first time he had sent me on something ambiguous.
Not a Delivery.
Not a pickup.
Not a warning.
Just… something else.
I took the train
and walked the last four blocks.
The house was modest.
Brick.
Carefully kept.
The hedges were trimmed, but not showy.
Someone had cared.
Maybe still did.
Before I even knocked,
the door opened.
“You’re early,” the man said.
Then, “Come in.”
He was older, clean-shaven,
dressed like a retired priest,
only without the collar.
We sat in a room lined with books.
Theology.
Philosophy.
The spines were creased from use.
He offered me coffee. I accepted.
He poured only for me.
“You’re not here to threaten me,” he said.
“You’d have come in different shoes.”
I said nothing.
He studied me with a kind of quiet confidence,
like he already knew which parts of me were missing.
His coat smelled faintly of incense.
Not church incense, something more medicinal, more sterile.
Like something holy that had been wiped clean.
“I knew your father,” he said.
I froze.
Not flinched, froze.
Like something inside me had gone suddenly, terribly still.
My mind reached back, searching for moments,
any trace that Salvatore had ever mentioned him.
There were none.
Not a name. Not a slip.
Just silence.
Intentional now. Weaponized.
He said it like I should already know.
Like the man he meant was familiar to me.
That single sentence unsettled more than it clarified.
Because if he knew my father,
and Salvatore had sent me to him,
then Salvatore knew more than he ever let on.
More than his silence implied.
More than I was meant to know, until now.
And the man he spoke of, my father,
he was not familiar to me at all.
Not in memory.
Not in name.
Only in what he left behind.
And suddenly, this visit was not just a test.
It was a message.
Not in the words.
But in the arrangement of them,
in the silence between Salvatore and the past
he had never spoken of.
And I did not know what scared me more,
that Salvatore had known all along
and kept it from me,
or that he had always planned
when I would find out.
My hands curled under the table, where he could not see.
Not from anger,
from betrayal.
From the knowing that someone I’d followed without question
had drawn a map he never let me read.
The cup went still in my hand.
“You won’t remember me. You were a boy.
But your father and I used to sit on the back steps of the church
and argue about the Gospel.”
I set the cup down, carefully.
“He had a temper, your father.
And he loved Scripture more than he feared what it might cost him.
That made him dangerous.”
I did not look away.
Not because I agreed,
but because I didn’t know if he was wrong.
“Why did Salvatore send me?” I asked.
He did not answer right away.
Instead, he glanced toward a photograph I could not see.
“Maybe he wanted you to hear something.
Or maybe he wanted me to see
how far a certain family had fallen.”
My voice barely held.
I wasn’t ready to say what I meant:
Why did he lie? Why now? Why you?
I swallowed hard.
“What do you know about my family?”
He sighed.
“More than you do.
And less than I should.”
It hit me then,
this was not leverage.
It felt like legacy.
Like a thread I had not known I was pulling
until now.
Salvatore was not testing loyalty.
He was measuring distance.
But maybe not just from the man I used to be,
maybe from the man he suspects I still might become.
Maybe he sent me here
to see if there was anything left to reclaim,
a flicker of belief,
a trace of conscience,
a voice I had not entirely traded for silence.
Or maybe he was confirming something darker.
That there is no home to return to.
No truth in the blood.
Just raw potential,
waiting to be shaped
by whoever gets there first.
I kept thinking about the photo I could not see.
The way the old man spoke of my father.
Not with affection,
but with history.
Worn, troubled, unfinished.
And that history did not sound like the man I used to chase in memory,
only the one I was warned not to become.
And I wondered
if Salvatore wanted me to hear that for a reason.
Not to understand my past,
but to lose faith in it.
To see it as broken enough
that I would never turn back.
And I couldn’t stop thinking,
not about the man I met,
but about the one who sent me.
Salvatore did not trust me with the truth.
He trusted this stranger with it first.
And that said more
than anything I heard in that room.
It was a quiet mission.
No clear goal.
No report to deliver.
But somehow,
it told him exactly what he needed to know.
And it left me
with more than I came in with,
not in knowledge,
but in rupture.
Not in the shape of an answer,
but in the shape of a lie
finally made visible.
And now,
a question sits inside me,
not waiting to be answered,
but daring me to ask
why he kept it from me for so long.
Chapter 10 The Art of Being Small
There was a lesson in the way Salvatore poured his wine.
He did it slowly,
deliberately,
never letting the stream rise too fast.
As if he knew the glass could only hold so much,
no matter how expensive the bottle or how deserving the moment.
That night, I sat across from him at a dinner table set for six,
filled by more than just plates.
The house was quiet,
save for the tick of a clock I could not find.
He did not speak for a while, just poured,
cut his steak, chewed slowly.
I did the same.
Unsure of the occasion.
Unsure of my place.
And burning beneath it all, the question I had not dared to ask:
Why had you never told me you knew my father?
Why did you keep it hidden,
until you chose the moment to let me find out?
My jaw clenched with every bite.
My hands stayed flat on the table.
If he saw anything in me, he gave no sign.
“You think too much,” he finally said.
I looked up.
“It’s not a bad thing,” he added.
“But it’ll make you old before your time.”
I waited.
“You remind me of a man who folds paper all day.
Not to make something beautiful,
but because he’s afraid of what else his hands might do.”
I did not answer.
Maybe he did not expect me to.
Or maybe he was watching to see if I flinched.
If the paper he imagined was already in my hands,
creased with the shape of the question I was not asking.
I stared at him longer than I should have,
wondering if he knew the anger sitting beneath my silence,
if he recognized the tremor I was trying to keep still.
And I wondered if that line, that image of the man folding,
restraining, was meant for me, or for someone else he had once betrayed.
Someone who once trusted him, until they learned he knew more than he said.
The meal continued,
quiet, but charged with what neither of us named.
And when he spoke again, his voice softened,
as if to smooth the sharpness he knew was already in the room.
“Tonight, I want you to do something for me.”
I nodded.
“I want you to walk into a room.
Stand in the corner.
Say nothing.
Don’t interrupt.
Don’t offer help.
Just be there.”
I did not ask why.
I had learned that the less I asked, the more I was trusted.
And I had just learned how much could be hidden behind that trust.
“It’s not about the room,” he said,
reading something on my face.
“It’s about learning to carry presence without having to prove it.
That’s what makes a man dangerous.
Not his fists, but his restraint.”
I nodded again.
Not in agreement,
but to hold back everything I was not yet ready to say.
That night, I stood in the corner of a room
filled with men who spoke in half-sentences and silence.
No one acknowledged me.
But every one of them knew I was there.
And I watched them.
The way they withheld.
The way they signaled without saying,
the way silence shaped everything.
It mirrored him.
It mirrored me.
And when it was over, Salvatore said nothing.
He did not need to.
He had taught me the art of being small.
And how sometimes, that was the most powerful thing of all.
But power learned in silence does not stay quiet forever.
It sharpens.
It collects.
It bides its time behind the ribs.
And I was learning how to wait too.
Not out of patience.
But out of necessity.
Out of the force it took
not to demand from him the truth he still held.
I could feel it sitting inside me.
The confrontation I had not yet earned.
The questions I was not ready to ask.
The ones I already knew he would not answer.
So I folded myself smaller.
And smaller.
Until I could sit across from him and not speak his betrayal aloud.
Until I could carry it without letting it spill.
That too, was part of the lesson.
To All Pastors
I offer these words not in anger, but in truth, for truth is the beginning of healing.
What does it say of a man—one who held the title of pastor, shepherd, and father—if for decades he could avoid the most sacred calling of all: to reconcile with his own son? A father who, even in his final days, spoke only in superficial tones, never daring to confront the truth that lay between them, never opening the door to accountability, never acknowledging the great silence that had endured for so many years.
What kind of gospel allows this?
And more pressing still, what does it say of a church that knew—because the son himself told them—and did nothing? A church that bore witness to a long and public estrangement, and remained still. A church that turned its concern not toward justice or compassion or repair, but toward protecting an image. An image of a man. An image of itself.
If that is what your gospel protects, what then is the cost of your silence?
And what are we to think when a new pastor assumes the pulpit with full knowledge of what came before—and still, says nothing? What are we to make of leadership that inherits not just a congregation but a legacy of wounds, and chooses complacency over clarity, image over integrity?
What kind of light does such a church offer its people, when it hides from its own reflection? What healing can be preached from the pulpit, when no healing is practiced within the walls?
I have lived this story. I was the son. I wrote it down in COR Values not to accuse, but to reveal. Because I believe that only in revealing can there be restoration. I believe that silence in the face of truth is a betrayal—not just of people, but of God, of the very Spirit churches claim to follow.
You cannot preach reconciliation while avoiding it. You cannot speak of love while excusing long-held indifference. And you cannot proclaim truth if you are not willing to face it in your own house.
This is a call not to guilt, but to courage.
To every pastor, every leader, every church: the world is watching. The children are watching. The sons and daughters who were turned away, who were labeled and dismissed, are watching. And they are asking not for showmanship, not for pageantry, not for empty declarations—but for truth, for integrity, and for love that does not flinch.
A church that cannot face its own failures has no authority to speak to the brokenness of the world.
With unwavering hope that some will choose the harder, braver path,
Daniel Robert Mazur
An In-Depth Analysis of Felix the Fluke in Beyond the Morning Light
Due to the many comments I have received about the story of Felix the Fluke—where readers have shared various interpretations of its symbolism and metaphors—I have decided to take the time to explain my own thoughts behind its creation. While I value the different perspectives that have been brought to me, I want to clarify the deeper meanings I intended to convey.
Felix as a Reflection of Alden and the Human Experience
The story of Felix the Fluke, embedded within Beyond the Morning Light, serves as a powerful metaphor for Alden’s personal struggles, his philosophical musings, and his relationship with his father, family, and faith. At the same time, it also reflects themes that I, as the author, have explored in my own life—particularly in my journey toward self-expression and independence. This narrative within a narrative offers a deeply symbolic reflection on existence, survival, and the human condition, drawing parallels between Alden’s personal journey and the broader truths I have sought to convey.
Felix, a tiny liver fluke living inside a Bengal cat named Sable, represents Alden’s own perceived insignificance in the vast world around him. Just as Felix exists within an environment he cannot fully comprehend, Alden navigates forces that shape his life—his father’s expectations, the church, societal structures—without fully understanding their origins or long-term consequences. Felix’s story mirrors Alden’s journey in several key ways:
The Connection to Alden’s Father and My Own Journey
A key element of Beyond the Morning Light is Alden’s relationship with his father, which is mirrored in Felix’s relationship with Sable and the unseen Beatrice. Just as Felix’s actions have consequences for beings he cannot directly perceive, Alden’s choices and struggles exist within a larger familial and societal framework.
However, these struggles are not solely Alden’s—they also reflect aspects of my own experience in grappling with autonomy, self-expression, and family expectations. The novel serves as both an intimate character study of Alden and an extension of my own process of breaking free from control and allowing my voice to be heard.
Felix and Sable’s Relationship as a Metaphor for Alden and His Father
Felix’s relationship with Sable encapsulates Alden’s complex and evolving connection with his father. Just as Felix is completely dependent on Sable for survival, Alden was once entirely reliant on his father’s approval, validation, and sense of structure. However, this dependency is not without consequence—Felix’s very existence erodes the health of his host, much like Alden’s growing self-awareness and independence strain his relationship with his father, ultimately leading to its demise.
The more Felix feeds, the more he brings harm to the entity that sustains him. In a parallel sense, Alden’s journey of self-discovery—the realization that he is an individual beyond his father’s expectations—introduces an irreversible shift in their dynamic. Awareness, in both cases, acts as a double-edged sword. Felix cannot exist without harming Sable, and Alden cannot grow into his full self without distancing himself from the influence of his father. The realization that autonomy requires separation is as painful as it is inevitable.
For me, as the author, this theme is deeply personal. Self-expression, particularly through writing, has been both a means of resistance and a path to liberation. Yet, this liberation has not come without a cost. Just as Alden’s journey toward self-definition leads to the unraveling of his relationship with his father, my own embrace of my voice and truth has created an unbridgeable distance between me and the person who once shaped my world. Writing has not only been an act of discovery but also an act of separation—a necessary step toward autonomy that, like Felix’s existence within Sable, alters the balance of what once was.
Broader Themes of Survival, Morality, and Power
The story of Felix also engages with Alden’s earlier philosophical reflections on intelligent creatures whose survival depends on the demise of others—a concept that extends beyond the literal parasite-host dynamic.
Conclusion: The Power of Felix’s Story
The story of Felix the Fluke serves as an intricate allegory, tying together Alden’s existential reflections, his struggles with his father, and the overarching themes of faith, control, and self-awareness. Yet, it is also a reflection of my own journey, the struggles I have overcome, and the questions I continue to explore through my writing. Ultimately, Felix the Fluke is a meditation on awareness, autonomy, and the act of finding one’s voice—whether in fiction, in reality, or in the space between.
December 22, 2024
Pastor Bryan Rocine and Members of the Board,
The doctrine of separation within The Living Word Church is not merely a mistake of the past; it is a festering wound, a moral failure that continues to inflict immeasurable pain on those it has harmed. For decades, this doctrine has ravaged families, alienated devoted individuals, and destroyed the bonds that form the cornerstone of any healthy community. Its legacy is not confined to history; it reverberates in the present and, if left unaddressed, will haunt the Church far into the future.
And yet, the Church continues to deny the very existence of this doctrine. You claim it does not exist, that there is no policy, no teaching of separation. But I know what I have seen. I know what I have heard. Growing up in Syracuse, I witnessed this doctrine in action. I have heard it in sermons, not just in person but also broadcast over the internet after I moved to Miami. Bryan, you know this to be true because I have written to you about it repeatedly over the years. Time and again, I raised these concerns, only to be met with silence or avoidance. You have failed to address these matters, failed to engage with the truth, and failed to take responsibility for the harm caused.
I still have the letters between us, Bryan. If you need a reminder of your failure to address this issue, of your very own words spoken from the pulpit, I can send them to you again. Do you recall when I wrote to you about my concerns regarding your teachings on the need for separation from family? Do you remember, Bryan, how I warned you that I would inform the Syracuse community of your harmful actions and your belief in separating people from their loved ones? Your response was not one of accountability or willingness to engage, but a demand that our correspondence remain confidential, subtly implying that sharing your words with others could result in legal consequences. Do you remember that?
And, Bryan, do you remember what followed? A day or two later, the police arrived at my home. They claimed my father had informed them I was building a bomb with the intention of blowing up the church. They searched my home, Bryan. Do you recall me telling you this? Do you remember how I wrote to you about this, how I even documented it in my book, COR Values? These actions—your silence, your veiled threats, and the sudden police intervention—paint a chilling picture of the lengths to which you and others were willing to go to suppress the truth.
The excuses used to justify inaction are many, but none withstand scrutiny. Some claim, “It was in the past,” as though the passage of time alone absolves the Church of its sins. But time does not heal wounds that remain untreated. Others argue, “These are family matters,” as if relegating the pain caused to the private sphere relieves the Church of its moral responsibility. This dismissal not only trivializes the harm inflicted but abdicates the Church’s duty to lead with integrity and accountability. Still, others hide behind, “It’s all hearsay,” attempting to diminish the lived experiences of those who have suffered as if their voices lack credibility. This excuse is particularly insidious, for it silences the very people who have been wronged and denies their suffering a rightful place in the Church’s conscience.
And then there is the most egregious justification of all: “We no longer reject others, so there is no need to do anything.” This claim is not only insufficient but offensive. Ceasing to harm is not the same as making amends. To adopt this excuse is to ignore the ongoing ripple effects of the past—broken families, lingering pain, and lives permanently altered by rejection and alienation. It is to close your eyes to the scars left behind and pretend they do not exist. This is not progress; it is avoidance, and it is a betrayal of the very principles of accountability and healing that Christianity proclaims.
Another, perhaps unspoken, rationale for inaction is the fear of tarnishing the Church’s reputation. This fear betrays a deeper problem: the prioritization of institutional image over the well-being of the people the Church claims to serve. But what good is a spotless façade if the foundation beneath it is rotting? A Church that fears the truth more than it values justice has already failed in its mission.
Lastly, there is the excuse of complacency, the subtle yet pervasive belief that addressing the past is simply too difficult, too uncomfortable, too disruptive. But Christianity is not a faith of convenience. It demands sacrifice, courage, and an unwavering commitment to truth. To shy away from this challenge is to admit that comfort has become more important than conviction, that maintaining the status quo outweighs the call to embody the love, reconciliation, and justice at the heart of the Gospel.
You tell the congregation you are a humble servant of the Lord. You publicly admit your shortcomings, even going so far as to announce your phone number from the pulpit, inviting those harmed by so-called “mistakes” or “misunderstandings” to call you so you can ask for their understanding and forgiveness. Yet you and I both know the truth: you have no genuine interest in engaging with those who have been hurt. This is not humility; it is a façade, a carefully crafted performance to reinforce the image you wish your congregation to believe—a false portrait of yourself as humble, human, and capable of failure.
I know this because I was one of those people who called you. I reached out, seeking an honest and meaningful conversation, only to be met with refusal and indifference. It was clear to me then, as it is now, that your so-called humility is hollow, a tool used to placate those who might otherwise demand accountability.
This pattern of behavior extends beyond you, Bryan. It is clearly reflected in your son, Isaiah, another leader within your church, whom I have recently met. I will never forget the day he shook my hand in front of a group of people, including my brother Paul. He looked me in the eye and said, “I owe you one,” acknowledging the validity of my calling him out on a cowardly act, an act he openly admitted was wrong. In that moment, I forgave him, believing his words to be genuine, that he had recognized his wrongdoing and felt sincere remorse.
Yet, once the audience had dispersed and no one remained to hold him accountable, his actions exposed a starkly different reality. He reverted to the same cowardly behavior, revealing not only his dishonesty but also the deeply troubling nature of leadership that has permeated not just the leadership of your church but your family as well. This conduct is profoundly disgraceful, standing as a direct betrayal of the principles the Church is meant to uphold. It erodes the foundation of trust, integrity, and moral leadership that the Church is called to embody.
I write to you today not as a Christian, but as someone who has been immersed in its teachings since childhood. Although I am an atheist, I cannot ignore the profound beauty and moral clarity embedded in the values your faith professes to uphold. I understand its call for compassion, its pursuit of justice, and its unwavering commitment to truth. In addressing you, I am choosing to engage with the language of your faith, to invoke the scripture that forms the foundation of your beliefs, in order to highlight the glaring contradiction between the Church’s actions and the mission it claims to serve.
The rejection and ostracization of good people, the destruction of fellowship and family bonds, are not just betrayals of individuals. They are betrayals of the Gospel itself. Christianity, at its core, demands accountability. Its teachings call for love, reconciliation, and the restoration of what has been broken. The words of Jesus leave no ambiguity: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:37-40). To divide families, to sever bonds of love and community, is to act in direct opposition to these commands.
The doctrine of separation is a betrayal of Christianity itself. At its heart, your faith esteems family as sacred. The Apostle Paul declares, “If anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for his immediate family, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever” (1 Timothy 5:8). How, then, can The Living Word Church justify tearing families apart, severing the bonds of love and connection that form the bedrock of human life? Community, too, is fundamental to Christian teaching. Jesus said, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:35). Yet the Church’s actions have been marked not by love but by exclusion, judgment, and rejection.
These choices are not merely a betrayal of individuals; they are a betrayal of the Gospel itself. Scripture warns against hypocrisy: “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You shut the door of the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces. You yourselves do not enter, nor will you let those enter who are trying to” (Matthew 23:13). This is not a hypothetical warning; it is the precise indictment the Church now faces.
I write to you with the weight of personal experience. My own family has borne the crushing burden of this doctrine. Some members, now gone, left this world carrying the scars inflicted by the Church’s rejection. Others remain, their lives irreparably shaped by wounds that never healed. I refuse to allow their suffering, and the suffering of countless others, to be erased by indifference or buried under the veil of willful ignorance. This is not a matter of preference for me; it is a moral obligation. To remain silent would be to betray not only those I love but also the principles of truth and justice that transcend belief systems.
Let there be no misunderstanding: this matter will not rest. It will be addressed, with or without your cooperation. The tide of awareness among members of The Living Word Church is rising, and it will not be turned back. You do not face a choice between addressing this issue or ignoring it. You face a choice between leading this reckoning with wisdom and humility or watching it unfold beyond your control. Every moment you resist deepens the damage to the Church’s legacy, its mission, and its people.
Let me be clear. I will not stop. I will not falter. This effort to demand accountability and reconciliation will continue until one of two outcomes is reached: either these injustices are resolved, or my time on this earth comes to an end. This is not a threat; it is a promise born of conviction. I have no desire for discord within the Church, but I will not allow peace to be purchased at the expense of truth. The harm inflicted must be acknowledged. The wrongs must be owned. The wounds must be healed. Anything less is complicity in ongoing injustice.
Pastor Rocine and members of the Board, this is your moment. This is your opportunity to lead, not by preserving the status quo or evading discomfort, but by rising to the moral and spiritual responsibility that your positions demand. Acknowledge the truth. Take responsibility for the harm done. Guide the Church toward healing and reconciliation. To do otherwise is to reject the principles of love and justice that your faith commands and to embrace a legacy of silence and failure.
This is not a question of preference; it is a certainty. The reckoning will come. The only question is whether you will face it with courage and integrity or wait until circumstances force your hand. The time for action is now. The decision is yours.
Respectfully and resolutely,
Daniel Robert Mazur
Seeking Change Through Texting
July 8th, 2024
Earlier this year, I received an invitation to a wedding—a rare and significant event in my life. Apart from my father’s funeral and a nephew’s graduation ceremony, it was the first major family gathering I had ever been invited to attend. At sixty-two, with two brothers and two sisters, all married with many children, I had missed countless milestones over the years—birthdays, weddings, and more. This time, however, I vowed to attend.
I flew to Syracuse during the last week of June, filled with anticipation. The wedding was not just an opportunity to reconnect with my niece and her family but also a chance to spend precious time with my mother before returning to Miami. I booked a few extra days, and the excitement of reuniting with loved ones and being part of such a joyous occasion made this trip unforgettable.
About a week before my departure, it dawned on me that being in Syracuse meant I would likely cross paths with many people from the church—a prospect that stirred a mix of emotions. Among them was Bryan Rocine, who had recently made a public appeal from the pulpit, offering his personal cell phone number to anyone he had harmed, inviting them to reach out so he could apologize. This was an opportunity too significant to ignore.
The timing felt right, so prior to leaving for Syracuse, I decided to take him up on his offer. However, instead of calling and talking with him, I chose a more measured approach and initiated a text dialogue. As my fingers hovered over the screen, I couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead in this conversation. Would it be a step toward healing or just another painful reminder of the past? With a deep breath, I typed my first message, setting in motion a dialogue that would challenge my perceptions and potentially reveal the true nature of his intentions.
From the onset, I harbored deep doubts about whether Bryan Rocine had truly changed. If genuine transformation had taken place, surely the many people he had wronged would have told me. To me, his public announcement felt more like a self-serving gesture—a declaration designed to appease the congregation and suggest that nothing more needed to be done or said.
However, family members and a few others assured me that Bryan had indeed changed and that the church was now committed to caring for those who had been harmed in the past. Reluctantly, I decided to extend the benefit of the doubt and engaged in the written exchange.
Each text message I received was scrutinized; each response I sent was deliberate. The words exchanged between us would reveal whether his proclaimed repentance was genuine or just a facade. Has he truly changed? Read the text dialogue and decide for yourself.
The Text Exchange
Dan: Why would a man publicly announce his availability for anyone to contact him? What is the true message here? Is it genuinely for those who may wish to reach out to him, or is it merely a performance for the world to perceive him as accessible and accountable?
If this person sincerely believes he has unjustly harmed others, should he not already know who these individuals are and take the initiative to reach out to them directly?
Imagine a scenario where someone spends thirty-six years meticulously documenting the ways in which he and others have been harmed by this man, compiling these details into a manuscript and placing it before him. Such an effort far exceeds any public declaration of willingness to accept calls from those wronged, ostensibly to discuss and make amends. Yet, this manuscript would be ignored, and any attempt to bring it to light would be vehemently suppressed and attacked.
What does this say about such a person? He has constructed a world that he and others inhabit, a realm he will defend at all costs. He is a consummate salesman, perpetually presenting his pitch to anyone at his doorstep. Until his final days, he will fabricate stories to preserve the comforts he has created for himself.
This is not a man of integrity, honor, or character to be admired. He is someone from whom people need to protect themselves, lest they fall victim to his deceitful machinations.
Bryan: Is this Daniel? What do you prefer to be called? Dan? Danny? Daniel?
Please forgive me for the unnecessary, unhelpful pain I have caused you. I forgive you for the same.
Judging by the caustic and cynical position of your text we may not be able to continue with any communication.
Dan: To seek my forgiveness and, in the same breath, label my message as caustic and cynical, does not reflect the actions of an honest or sincere individual. Have you ever considered that true contrition and criticism cannot coexist in a single plea for forgiveness? True repentance demands humility and self-reflection, not judgment and reproach.
Dan: But perhaps, upon further reflection, I am mistaken, and your message is sincere. I have been wrong before, many times in fact. If you genuinely seek my forgiveness, it is a request I am bound by duty and conscience to consider. Please tell me, what is it that you believe you have done to me for which you seek forgiveness? Without this clarity, I find myself without even the option to offer forgiveness. How can I say I forgive you without knowing what I am forgiving you for?
Dan: Bryan, I ask you once more: what is it you wish me to forgive you for? What have you done that you regret, that you acknowledge has caused me harm? Are you sorry for rejecting my pleas for help when I sought your assistance in reaching out to my father years ago, unlike other pastors who showed compassion and tried to help? Are you sorry for judging me and labeling me as a rebellious son without ever having a conversation with me about my life and my relationship with my father, relying solely on the biased views of others? Are you sorry for ignoring my request to visit me and understand my perspective through the lens of those who have known me for decades here in Miami? What is it that you want my forgiveness for? Is it any of this?
How can you know what has caused me harm if you do not ask or tell me what you seek forgiveness for? What have you done? Why wouldn’t you first acknowledge your wrongdoing? What meaning could “forgiving you” possibly have without knowing what for? Maybe you don’t feel there’s anything wrong with the actions I’ve mentioned that harmed me. If this is the case, and I simply say “I forgive you,” would that not be entirely incoherent and meaningless? If you never tell me what you’ve done wrong, how can I believe that it is forgiveness you seek and not something else entirely?
In our past correspondence, I asked you many questions, most of which you refused to answer, choosing instead to disparage me. No other pastor in Syracuse treated me with the same distance and disdain as you did, claiming to know my thoughts, even going so far as to say “God is my arch enemy.” How is it that so many years have passed, and you have yet to address these wrongs? Are you different today? Do you now acknowledge that your behavior was wrong and regret it? How am I to know? Why is this so difficult for you?
Dan: What do you truly know of me, of my life? You know I was committed to a mental institution, but do you understand the circumstances? Instead of judging me as a reprobate and a God-hater, did you ever think to ask me? Did you ever consider that you might have been contributing to the damage inflicted upon me? Maybe you have, and this is what you’re asking my forgiveness for. How can you not understand how meaningless it is to ask for forgiveness without stating what for? You are a pastor, someone who is supposed to study these matters for the benefit of others.
Take this as criticism if you must, but I simply do not understand your behavior. As a leader, with many eyes on you, the responsibility of your position is immense. Should you not put every fiber of your being into getting these things right? And as a leader, should you not focus more on your own actions rather than defending your wrongdoings by pointing out that others have wronged you too?
Where is the wisdom I longed to see for decades that would have had me by my father’s side, a member of your congregation? Your position demands a higher standard, one that requires introspection and accountability. It is time to reflect on your actions and genuinely seek to understand the impact they have had on others, especially those who looked to you for guidance and support.
Dan: When the police came to my door, claiming my father told them I was building a bomb to blow up the church, did you have a hand in that? Is it too much to ask for you to tell me the truth? This occurred around the same time you wrote to me, insisting our correspondence was confidential while subtly threatening me not to disclose your comments to others. The people I know here, when told of such events, say you all are nuts, that you all are crazy people and I need to stay away from you. Why don’t you provide evidence to the contrary? What do you know about the police searching my home for a bomb or the FBI investigating me? When I’ve asked you for similar information before, your response was simply to attack my character. Should I expect differently today? Or have you changed? Will you be forthcoming? Is any of this what you seek my forgiveness for?
Dan: When the police came to my door, claiming my father told them I was building a bomb to blow up the church, did you have a hand in that? Is it too much to ask for you to tell me the truth? This occurred around the same time you wrote to me, insisting our correspondence was confidential while subtly threatening me not to disclose your comments to others. The people I know here, when told of such events, say you all are nuts, that you all are crazy people and I need to stay away from you. Why don’t you provide evidence to the contrary? What do you know about the police searching my home for a bomb or the FBI investigating me? When I’ve asked you for similar information before, your response was simply to attack my character. Should I expect differently today? Or have you changed? Will you be forthcoming? Is any of this what you seek my forgiveness for?
Dan: This matter transcends forgiveness and enters the realm of accountability, embodying the true essence of taking responsibility for past wrongs. As a pastor, it is your duty to address the injustices perpetrated against me from the very pulpit of your church. Perhaps you are unaware, but to this day, I remain estranged from my brother David. I was deeply upset when he stood before the congregation, misrepresenting my thoughts and praising you all, claiming I saw the “good” in you and how “perfect” the memorial service was. I never said such things. In fact, I had confided in him about the immense challenge it was for me to stay calm in an environment that severely tested my well-being.
I had hoped that the days of being disparaged and lied about from the pulpit, as my father did, had ended with his passing. Yet, when I expressed my distress to my brother, he showed no inclination to make amends. If you have truly changed, you should understand that seeking forgiveness is not enough. The matter must be addressed and corrected. The congregation needs to hear the truth about the past—about who I am, who I was, and what I did not say or do.
I have already taken steps to set the record straight in my book, where I speak the truth for anyone who cares to seek it. If you are a true seeker of truth, you will understand the importance of these matters and will ensure that the falsehoods spoken about me from your pulpit are corrected from that same pulpit. Yet, at this very moment, I have no idea if these are the matters you regret your participation in. As all this transpired, you stood there, hands folded by my father’s side. Who are you today, Mr. Rocine? Are you the same man who stood silent, or have you become someone who will confront the past and embrace the truth?
Dan: So tell me that I am wrong, that my belief in your lack of integrity has been misplaced. Assure me that doing what is right is indeed paramount to you, even when it doesn’t align with your desired outcome. Tell me that my understanding of your true nature, of who you really are, has been mistaken all these years. Proclaim that you believe in justice and truth above all, and that personal wants and desires play no part in your decision-making process, especially in matters that affect those harmed by the organization you are part of. Show me that you stand for what is right, regardless of the cost. Demonstrate to me, and to everyone who doubts, that you embody the principles you preach, and that truth and justice guide your every action.
Dan: The narrative of my experience with your church has been purposefully contorted and contrived to suit the needs of others. You have all misunderstood me profoundly. It is for these reasons that I published my book. Additionally, I have created a short video—a slide presentation—that you and others in your congregation need to see. It is something you should willingly present to your group to set the record straight.
Dan: https://youtube.com/watch?v=n2Coj-eOYaw
Dan: Your integrity is under scrutiny. Having confessed to wrongdoing, you must face the consequences with courage, not retreat. Your role as a leader, an influencer, and a pastor demands accountability and unwavering transparency.
Bryan: Thanks for your explanation. Somethings are becoming clear to me.
Please forgive me for not being a greater help to you when you were a teen when I was trying to be a good influence on the teens in the church. Shame on me I gave up on you. Please forgive me for the harshness of my emails to you some years ago.
Here’s what I am realizing. You don’t have an accurate picture of what is going on in our church community regarding yourself. No one I know sicked the FBI on you. I had nothing to do with it. Id be shocked to learn your dad did. He was very quiet about you.
There has been next to zero public statements about you. I recall very brief and uncritical, 40 years ago like, “My son asked me to stay home from church for him. I couldn’t do that. “. (I summarize.)
I have never that I remember preached a single word about you knowingly or intentionally. The church is very quiet and respectful about what we consider Mazur family business. We don’t gossip about you. We hardly think about you.
I hardly ever talk about you to anyone. And hardly ever for more than a sentence . Most of any talk is in prayer. You are not a bigger topic or a preoccupation around here than anyone else.
My texts take a long time to come back to you because I have many other people to prioritize ahead of you.
Dan: This message feels like the beginning of a meaningful dialogue, and for that, I am deeply grateful. As I reflect on the past, I harbor no resentment for any perceived lack of encouragement during my teenage years. My greater concern lies with the events that have transpired in the years that followed.
I’m unsure if you’ve read my book, but it contains crucial information that sheds light on my comments. For instance, shortly after I moved to South Florida, the FBI came knocking on my door. This was a direct consequence of my father’s actions—something you might not have known. Considering everything else that has transpired, this shouldn’t come as a shock, though it’s possible you were unaware.
You mentioned there have been “zero” public statements about me. This is not true. I have received copies of several statements embedded in the sermons of the organization you now head. I’ll share one of them with you here; it’s an audio recording from the pulpit. I would appreciate your thoughts on this message made within your church and whether you believe such a comment should be addressed or corrected. My father has claimed, and even insisted to me and others, that he has not discouraged my siblings or anyone from having a relationship with me. This is an outright lie, one of many manipulations I can prove have existed, and as a person in your position, you have a responsibility to address it. This is one of many circumstances occurring long after my teenage years that I ask you to respond to and address.
You claim not to gossip about me, yet you have written extremely harsh criticisms of my character. From where your conclusions about me originate, I can only speculate. These comments, a few of which I have already addressed in this thread, are very damaging and have compounded other false claims and attacks that have caused significant harm, not just to me, but to others as well. It’s these criticisms of yours, not anything from my teenage years, that I want you to address.
I also want to remind you of the time I invited you to Miami to meet people who know me, rather than relying on the damaging comments of others. Instead of accepting or even responding to my sincere offer, you accused me of being obsessed with you and justifying myself to you. These examples of your behavior are what concern me and deserve a proper response.
There is much more to discuss, but addressing these points would be a good start.
Dan: https://drive.datadupe.com/f/1e2a84c315aa4fe6ad8d/
Dan: You need to understand that the entire narrative surrounding my departure from my family and your church has been a gross manipulation and complete mischaracterization of the truth. I urge you to watch the video clip I sent you, if you haven’t already. It accurately represents what truly happened, unlike the false narrative constructed for you and the church members to believe. This narrative was crafted to fit a misleading image of who I am and how I should be perceived.
Dan: This false narrative endures, continuing to fuel the rift between me and family members, especially my brother David. It has become an impenetrable wall that must be torn down. Only by confronting and dismantling these misconceptions can healing begin and genuine reconciliation be found.
Dan: Before I continue with my workday, I’d like to share one more point for you to ponder. It concerns the contrasting perspectives I hold of you and my father. Throughout our communications, I have never questioned your honesty. I’ve never caught you in a lie or observed any intentional deceit. Perhaps you truly believed, at least at the time, the negative sentiments you expressed about me. I cannot say with certainty whether you are a dishonest person, but dishonesty is not something I have witnessed from you.
However, it’s crucial to recognize that my father possessed a deeply troubling characteristic. He was not just dishonest; he engaged in deceit far beyond simple dishonesty. Simply stated, as painful as it is to say this about one’s own father, my dad was not an honest man. He was capable of crafting and spreading the most untruthful stories to achieve his desires. Whether you have discovered or acknowledged this yet, you eventually need to contemplate this harsh reality. If you are ever to move forward in situations like mine and others, with a godly purpose aligned with the teachings of the Bible, you will eventually need to cross this bridge. You will need to face this most uncomfortable truth, as I have, about who my father truly was.
Did he believe in many good things? Was he a great contributor to the well-being of others? Certainly, he was. However, this characteristic you may identify as a sin had dire consequences. No matter how much good anyone does, it is vital to address such deficiencies to prevent further damaging consequences. In the end, it is not merely our actions that define us, but our willingness to confront the uncomfortable truths about those we love and ourselves. Only then can we strive for true integrity and redemption.
Dan: It’s 12:45 AM. I usually wake at 2 AM every weekday morning to begin my day. But not this morning. What you wrote to me yesterday, about my father telling you I asked him to stay home from church for me, has kept me up all night, unable to sleep. So, as I have often done when dwelling on poignant moments of my past, I turn to my pen.
The moment I read your message, I knew exactly which day you were referring to. Your message from my father—whether you recall his words clearly, partially, or exactly as he said them—brought back memories I cannot shake. I remember that day vividly, as it was during a formative time in my youth. I was going through a crisis, the specifics of which blur among many, but the significance of that moment stands out starkly.
The crisis was as severe as when I needed to speak with my father about being molested by someone in my younger years who I had just learned was coming to town and would be visiting my family. Despite my distress and the gravity of the situation, my father refused to even be late for church to address my crisis. That response shifted my concern from the crisis itself to a more devastating, ongoing issue between me and my father.
No, I did not ask my father to forfeit his presence at church that day to be with me. My request was simply for him to understand the gravity of my situation and the worth of a moment with me, even if it meant risking being late for one of his meetings. Whether he misrepresented that day to you, or if you are absolutely certain he told you I expected him to forfeit his church attendance, then he certainly did. And if he did, that encapsulates the problem between us.
Dan: During my youth, any significant event in my life was often altered by my father to fit a narrative that suited his interests. For instance, in my book, I recounted a story about a fight I got into with a school kid. The entire incident was my doing, my fault, and I needed to be admonished and to learn a lesson about the wrong I did. However, when I approached my father to explain what happened, despite my extreme efforts to be truthful and represent what truly happened, he would not hear it. He turned the story entirely around and made it part of his sermon the following Friday evening, about how Christians need to defend themselves when attacked by sinners.
This is just one anecdote representing my lifelong struggle to communicate with a father who not only would not hear me but was willing to present me to others in an untruthful way that suited his narrative. He molded every significant moment to fit his interests, to serve the purpose of his church and other ambitions, many of which I believed then, and today are very good, but not worthy of the many deceptive means I observed his accomplishments achieved by.
What truly concerns me, what haunts me in the quiet hours of the night, is not merely the events themselves but the chasm they created between us. A chasm built on misrepresentation and a lack of understanding that has left me, even decades later, grappling with the lifetime of silence between us that he enforced and ensured until his dying days.
Dan: I wanted to let you know that my aunt will be at the church tomorrow. I feel very strongly that a warm hello from you would be very well received. Rest assured, I will ensure there are no concerns about any difficulties from me.
Bryan: Nice of you to give a “heads up.” Thanks.
Dan: Good morning, Bryan,
I want to express my heartfelt gratitude for making my aunt feel welcomed at the church. Despite her initial reservations, she deeply appreciated attending the Sunday morning service. A particularly significant moment for her was reconnecting with an old acquaintance and coworker from General Motors. Despite a past rift, he approached her with open arms, genuinely happy to see her. This was just one of several similar positive experiences she encountered.
For me, this experience illuminated the inherent goodness in others. Your son, Isaiah, especially stood out. I had the pleasure of spending time with him at the wedding and after the Sunday sermon. Isaiah was approachable and engaging, and our conversation left me eager to learn more about him and your family.
Interestingly, Isaiah knew very little about me, including the fact that I have published a book. This lack of awareness was surprising, especially considering I discovered yesterday that even my own niece, Natalie, was unaware of it. It seems that those I spoke with were not particularly interested in learning more about me, which was unexpected given my deep curiosity about them. This realization was both informative and eye-opening.
During our conversation, Isaiah asked why I am not a Christian. Given our shared background and exposure to the Living Word Church, I found it difficult to provide a concise answer in the moment. Interestingly, it was my nephew, Davie, a close friend of Isaiah, who told him everything he knew about me. The only thing he knew was simply that I am an atheist. I found it intriguing that this was what came to mind when asked about who I was. Additionally, my nephew had confided in me that intimate relationships with non-Christians, people like me, were not possible for him. This revelation was profoundly impactful and is crucial to understanding my perspective.
In retrospect, I believe a chapter from my book encapsulates my reasons for not being involved in your church and why my beliefs have diverged from those in attendance. This chapter delves into the theme of family and the potential for positive relationships between people of differing beliefs. It explores how these relationships, once full of promise, were shattered by stringent dogma that, in my view, needed to be more flexible to keep good people together instead of apart. This rigid adherence to unyielding doctrines, I believe, undermines the possibility of unity and mutual respect among individuals with diverse perspectives. The chapter seeks to convey the profound impact of these dynamics on my own journey and relationships.
If Isaiah is interested in knowing more about me and my perspective, could you kindly provide him with the following link to this chapter?
https://drive.datadupe.com/f/6d9983bda451435781ab/
Once again, thank you for greeting my aunt and making her feel welcome on Sunday morning. Your kindness did not go unnoticed.
Dan: Your sermon last Sunday morning, titled “The Power of Repentance,” left a profound impact on me. You began by referencing Mark, where John the Baptist preached repentance for the forgiveness of sins, drawing the entire Judean countryside and the people of Jerusalem to confess their sins. You emphasized the transformative power of repentance, asserting that it can alter the course of one’s life. Repentance, you stressed, offers a pathway to forgiveness, severing the chains of wickedness that bind us to our past and preventing it from dragging us into the depths of despair.
You explained that repentance involves both intellect and emotion, compelling us to feel genuine sorrow for our wrongdoings. This change in attitude moves us away from fault-finding and toward self-reflection. Quoting Jeremiah, you lamented how few people genuinely repent, asking, “What have I done?” You urged us to ask the Lord this crucial question, and to follow it with, “What shall I do?”—a significant step in the process of repentance.
After the sermon, my mother, aunt, Jody, and I dined at The Waterfront Tavern in Central Square, where the sermon became the central topic of our conversation. The emphasis on forgiveness resonated deeply with me, sparking hope for a meaningful dialogue with you. I listened intently to your sermon and engaged in discussion with my family and friend, Jody.
I shared with Jody how my ears perked up when you spoke of repentance and forgiveness. Your repeated call to ask, “What have I done?” and “What shall I do?” filled me with excitement and hope. It struck me that just as we seek forgiveness from God through repentance, we must also seek forgiveness from those we have wronged. This vital aspect seemed missing from the sermon, and I hoped it might appear in your concluding remarks.
When I expressed this to Jody, she responded, “Well, the service is only so long. Brother Bryan can’t fit everything into one sermon.” To which I replied, “Do you mean the message I just shared with you—something you clearly understand—delivered in less than sixty seconds?”
My visit with my family lasted an entire week, from one Wednesday to the next. Though the invitation to my niece’s wedding required fewer days, I chose to stay longer to spend precious time with my aging mother. This extended visit allowed for many moments of deep conversation between us, often centering around the current and past activities of our family and the church, some of which I have already shared with you.
Throughout this past week, my mother has increasingly acknowledged the past wrongdoings of her church, my father, and herself. She has continually sought my forgiveness for her role in these events—transgressions she has confessed and for which I have long forgiven her. Our conversations have revealed her growing understanding of my beliefs, and she often says, “Danny, you’re not an atheist; I just don’t believe it.” To this, I respond, “Mom, today I am; tomorrow I may be something else.”
She insists, “But you believe in God. You must, I can tell.” I reply, “Well, if He exists, where can I find Him—in your church?” This gives her pause, as she has come to realize the extent of the wrongs, deceit, and harmful behavior that have made it impossible for people like me, who have strived to live according to Christian principles, to remain connected not only to the church but also to their own family.
During my visit, I had the opportunity to visit Mary Sorrendino on Monday. As you’re aware, Mary once attended the Living Word Church and even taught Sunday School there for about ten years. I recently read her book, Misery to Ministry, where she recounts a traumatic event she and her sister experienced when they first attended the church.
Mary’s sister was about to deliver a child, but tragically, the baby was stillborn. Not knowing how to handle the situation, Mary called our home to speak with my father, her pastor. My mother answered the phone and told Mary that the church does not handle such matters and that there was nothing they could do. There was no offer of sympathy or mention that the church would pray for her sister and her family.
Furthermore, due to the church’s doctrine against secular counsel, no external support was sought. Mary’s sister, adhering to the church’s teachings, refrained from seeking the necessary help. Consequently, they endured greater and unnecessary suffering, difficulties that could have been mitigated with proper counsel and support.
Considering everything thus far, I intend to send another message to my mother. If she is truly interested in my belief in God, she has the capacity to demonstrate a quality that, if He exists, He would surely possess. I have often stated that while I do not yet know where God is, I do know where He is not.
I would ask my mother to show me that, unlike so much I’ve seen in the past, a member of the Living Word Church has the courage to do what the Bible says and embody the principles you preach. The truth of Mary’s claims and the accuracy of her memories—do these even matter? Do we need a witness? The fact is, Mary and her sister were hurt.
What if my mother found the courage to invite Mary and her sister over for coffee? What if she allowed them to express their pain without judgment? My God, the woman lost her child. Is it too late? Is it ever too late to show love, care, and concern for another? To acknowledge where we have fallen short and ask for forgiveness?
This gesture could be a profound act of healing. It would demonstrate the true essence of repentance and forgiveness, offering a tangible example of living out the principles of compassion and empathy. It would show that faith is not just about belief but about action—about reaching out to those we have wronged and seeking to make amends. This is the God I would believe in, a God reflected in the courageous acts of those who follow Him.
Am I saying this would make me believe in God or in His involvement with your church? Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t. But it is in such places, through such actions, that I would continue to observe closely. I am searching, and if I found a place aligned with what I know to be right, I would want to delve deeper, eager to discover what I do not yet know. I recognize truth when I see it, and I am drawn to it.
As I’ve said, I will convey this message to my mother. However, as her pastor, your involvement could significantly impact Mary and her sister and my mother. If you spoke with my mother and facilitated a meeting with Mary and her sister, the gesture would be powerful.
As you’ve preached, the sin that does not lead to death is the sin that is quickly repented of. I will send you a copy of the passage from Mary’s book detailing what happened. It is my hope that you act swiftly upon this opportunity. If not, I will be the one providing my mother and others the chance to benefit from this experience.
This moment could be a testament to the true spirit of repentance and forgiveness, demonstrating that faith is not just about words but about actions. It could bring healing and reconciliation, showing that the church is a place where love and understanding prevail. This is the God I could believe in—a God reflected in the courageous and compassionate acts of His followers.
Dan: From “Misery To Ministry”
Bill was coming out to church with Toni. Back in 1977, on Christmas day, Toni had miscarried in the 16th week. I was in England at the time. Toni’s baby would have been 7 months younger than my second son, Jason. It was hard for her, but Toni was taught not to count her chickens before they hatched. So, she just tried to think that it was not a baby and she shouldn’t be upset.
Toni got pregnant shortly after she accepted Christ, and I was excited! I thought, How awesome this is! Eric was one year old and would be two in April; Toni’s baby was due in June 1982. We always thought that we would have our children at the same time or very close in age. Although Jason and Toni’s other baby would have been the same age, I was glad that Eric would be just two years older than this baby.
I planned for the baby shower to be when Toni was in her eighth month. That way if she delivered early the baby should be okay. After having Chuckie six weeks early and Jason ten weeks early, I knew how fragile life is.
We had a surprise baby shower at my home and invited a lot of family members. Everyone was so excited because they felt terrible when Toni lost that other baby in the fourth month in 1977. Bill’s daughter Tami was there and was also excited, because she was going to have a little brother or sister. Tami was 7.5 years old; she was a sensitive little girl.
Tami said to me, “I hope what happened that last time won’t happen again.” I said, “Sweetheart, that won’t happen. She’s almost due….” I went over to the trailer where Toni and Bill lived. Bill had put the crib together, and Toni was very excited. But I thought I heard God say that no baby would sleep in this crib in this house.
About two weeks later I was sitting at the dinner table and I had this overwhelming sense that something was wrong with my sister. I said to my husband, “Oh my God! I feel like something is wrong, like Toni is sick or dying !!!!
Chuck knew how I had had dreams in the past that came true or feelings that had meaning. I immediately called Toni; she was taking a nap, and she was very tired. I asked how the baby was, and she said “Good, but it was weird that the baby kicked really hard earlier.” I said I was just checking on her because I was worried. “Don’t worry, I’m okay, just tired.”
The next day Toni said, “Mary, the baby’s not moving anymore.”
“Well, Toni, there’s not much room for the baby.”
A few days later Toni had an appointment with her OB/GYN, Dr. Ziver Huner. When he went to listen for the heartbeat, there was silence. He immediately asked if she was alone. She said no, Bill had come with her. Then Dr. Huner asked him to come in, and they talked and set up an ultrasound to be done immediately. Toni went for the test and was very confused. As they went down the hall Bill knew what was going on, but Toni was not getting it. She asked Bill, “What are they going to do now to get the heartbeat back?” She said she felt the Lord say that everything would be okay.
She returned to the office and Dr. Huner told her and Bill that their baby had died. Toni was unable to process the information…. He offered counseling. Toni said no, she thought that it was WRONG to meet with a counselor because the church we attended spoke against it, and she wanted to do the right thing. At this church counseling was not recommended, and anyone who did see a counselor was somehow in error.
I was home when Toni and Bill left Dr. Huner’s office. Bill knew that he had to bring Toni to see me. I looked out and saw them getting out of the car, and I KNEW! God said, “I am in control.” I was devastated!!!! Toni was devastated!!!!
I called the pastor’s house. It was a Friday, and being Catholic I wondered what they would do to help us. I was recently baptized and Toni was attending regularly. The preacher’s wife got on the phone. I was very upset and asked if she knew my sister. She said yes, she had seen her in church. I went on and told her that her baby died and that we would need a pastor or something like that for the funeral arrangements. I asked, “What do you do in these situations?” She said, “Nothing. We do nothing.” She never said she was sorry – just “nothing,” like it was no big deal! She didn’t even say they would pray.
I thought, Oh…this church is much different than what I was brought up in. I felt hurt by the lack of care and concern for a family in the church that was experiencing a devastating situation. Although this did not make sense, I thought that God had sent me to this church and we were just expected to lean on God. After their response I thought that I was wrong to expect anything from them. I did not trust my feelings or thoughts, so I assumed that I was wrong for contacting them.
Finally, on June 1, 1982 Toni gave birth to her stillborn daughter, Therea Ann Wood. Toni never went to counseling and therefore was not prepared for the birth. She pretended that she was not going through this. Although she did do some grieving, she never held Theresa. The nurses at Community General Hospital were great. Bill did look at their daughter and said she just looked like she was asleep. She had dark hair, and later Toni found out from the nurse that she had really long eyelashes and she weighed 1 lb. 7 oz. Later in the day Toni asked if she could see the baby now and maybe hold her… but it was too late. If she had counseling she would have been prepared for this and would have known that she could have held the baby.
Toni was traumatized by the event. She worked at a retail store on Erie Boulevard, and many customers asked her if she had a boy or girl. Tini told them she had a little girl but she was stillborn. The customers and her co-workers were wonderful and compassionate to my sister. It was very difficult working in public with so many individuals having contact with Toni.
Bryan: Hi Dan. Thank you for listening so intently to the message of such an imperfect messenger as I. Your recall is almost perfect.
1. Right or wrong, I did intentionally include the subject of our human relationships and person-to-person sin. I am sure you recall something like this: “Don’t take this message as being for someone on the other side of the aisle. THEY should repent.” I’ll explain. I thought the Lord wanted us to focus on first things first — our relationship with Him. But of course you may be right. Shoulda included our person-to-person relationships as part of an inseparable package. I often operate under the principle “less is more,” sometimes to the detriment of the bigger picture.
2. I don’t know how to satisfy you when it comes to the Toni S story. What your mom did and said is coming to us as hearsay. I know your mom very well, and I’m not about to doubt or investigate her tender and compassionate nature based on hearsay.
3. Re your challenge, that you may believe in God when you find people who live sincerely in obedience to the teaching of Jesus… don’t throw down that gauntlet. Judge God on His own merit not on mine or anyone else’s. I fall pathetically short. But He sent His Son to pay the price of our sins. What He did for us is enough to inspire undying faith and loyalty.
Dan: Thank you for responding, Bryan. I understand your emphasis on personalizing the message, and I recall your mention of it that Sunday morning. However, my concern remains. It is crucial to openly communicate what we need forgiveness for. This has been my message from the beginning and remains so now.
You mentioned, “I don’t know how to satisfy you.” But it’s not about satisfying me; it’s about recognizing the validity of my points, which align with what God requires of us. The truth of the story isn’t as important as the moral implications. When people come to you claiming they’ve been wronged, do you ask for a witness? Isn’t it more important to show compassion and concern, regardless of evidence?
Consider the story of Mary and her sister’s loss. Whether a child truly died or the accuracy of the occurrence isn’t the point; the real issue is how we respond with empathy and support. This experience should teach us to be more compassionate and to encourage others to seek appropriate counseling, whether secular or otherwise. Regardless, as I’ve mentioned, should you not be willing to participate in this opportunity to help my mother, Mary, her sister, and others, I will certainly be the one to do so.
Dan: I awoke this morning with an eerie feeling, one that evokes memories of my conversations with my late father. As I write to you, I am reminded of the profound dialogues we shared. My father, like you, held the position of pastor, and he too struggled with the weight of his responsibilities.
Despite my repeated requests, I still do not know if you have read my book. Your reluctance to engage in open and honest dialogue with me has left me feeling unheard and misunderstood. When I inquired about presenting my offer to your son, your response was absent. When I tried to discuss the disparaging comments you made about me years ago, you closed the door to any meaningful conversation. Your initial response to my first message indicated that a dialogue was unlikely due to my perceived caustic and cynical position. However, it is clear to anyone that I have approached you with sincerity and a genuine desire for understanding.
This situation reminds me of my early mornings with my father. While my siblings were at school and my mother was teaching kindergarten at the Academy, my father would approach me, seeking my opinion on handling sin within the church—an elder molesting his children, members engaging in fornication, and such. Despite offering my thoughts, he often chose to keep such matters hidden to maintain the church’s facade. Yet, these were not the most disturbing conversations; rather, it was those where I implored him to show more compassion and understanding.
Had my father opened his heart and relinquished his need for control, my mother would have been spared decades of separation from loved ones, including her sister and parents. His insistence on isolation and stringent actions to maintain separation from those he deemed capable of diminishing his control of others caused immense damage. Today, my mother’s parents are gone, and she can never amend that loss. However, she has found solace in a renewed relationship with her sister and others, including me, the very person my father stripped away from her in his efforts to control and isolate.
Now, I see the same pattern repeating with you. Your door is closed, and you resist any effort to reunite loving people. Outsiders often describe your church as one devoid of love. This perception stems from the lack of compassion, empathy, wisdom, and understanding. Like my father, who saw himself as a simple small-town preacher, you project yourself as a humble servant of God. Yet, your actions suggest otherwise.
As a pastor, it is your duty, as mandated by the scriptures, to facilitate the coming together of people who have faced life’s challenges. What is required of you, as it was of my father, is simple: step aside and allow the spirit to move.
Please, Pastor Bryan, consider opening your heart and embracing a path of compassion and empathy. Let us work together to reunite those who have been separated, to heal wounds, and to foster a community grounded in love and understanding.
Bryan: I have accountability to a group of experienced men and women of faith. I am honest with them about my failings and keep them appraised of my actions and communications. They have the power to censure and/or fire me. They decide how to take care of me. I would not want it any other way. You simply are not in a position to be part of that group.
I literally don’t have time, energy, or interest in giving you that kind of relationship with me. In fact, it would be inappropriate and impossible. Cmon, Dan, you should understand that.
Since you are so desperate to know about me and your book, I have not read it. I don’t plan to read it. I really don’t relish telling you this.
Dan: Hi Bryan,
Fortunately, you won’t need to fabricate stories to distance yourself from me. I live far away, and you may find solace in knowing that I will no longer seek answers or further discussion from you. Yet, before we part ways, I wish to leave you with a final reflection on the matter that began this thread: forgiveness.
Your recent comments about my supposed obsession with you, echoing past remarks for which you sought forgiveness, and your ongoing reluctance to address my concerns, hint at a lack of understanding or compassion. Despite this, should it matter to you, I forgive you for both the past and present wounds inflicted by your words.
Know this: while empathy and understanding seem absent in your responses, I harbor no resentment or ill feelings toward you. After this message, you will no longer be troubled by my outreach. Despite your disregard for my concerns, my door will always remain open, just as it is with my brother David. Should you ever wish to discuss something that weighs on your mind, I will not judge you for your past or present actions. I will gladly listen, offer my full attention, and do my best to support you in any sincere matter you bring forth.
Life is hard, and we all make mistakes. I have made many and will make many more. But when I recognize them, I strive to address them with compassion, empathy, and understanding, especially when they affect others. Good luck to you, Bryan, and my best wishes for your future endeavors.
The Beginning of COR
I grew up in Liverpool, a serene suburb of Syracuse, cradled in the heart of central New York State. Tucked away roughly 250 miles northwest of the bustling streets of New York City, it offered a quiet contrast. My mother, whose maiden name was Fannie Fortino, was immersed from birth in the vibrant culture of a large Italian family. Although she had just one sibling, my Aunt Maryjane, she was intricately connected to a sprawling network of cousins.
Life in our family was modest and unpretentious, with little emphasis on professional aspirations. On a farm along Bear Road, where my mother and her relatives were raised, school often took a back seat to the relentless demands of farm work—planting, harvesting, and tending to vegetables became their daily rhythm. Academic pursuits were secondary; neither my grandparents, my mother, nor her sister completed high school. My grandfather poured his life’s sweat into the nearby steel mill from which he eventually retired, carrying only the weight of his memories. My grandmother, meanwhile, spent her working years on the monotonous line at the Resnick Pocketbook Factory. She never did learn to drive, and I distinctly remember the anticipation in the factory parking lot, as my mother and I waited to catch sight of her at the end of each workday, signaled by the piercing sound of the five o’clock whistle.
In stark contrast to the gentle rhythms of farm life in Liverpool, my father’s early years in New Jersey were marked by shadows and struggles. As the eldest of five siblings and the only child from his mother’s previous relationship, he was raised by a stepfather. Though raised Catholic, his family life lacked the spiritual daily expressions that were integral to my mother’s upbringing. His childhood memories were not filled with warmth and camaraderie but were instead overshadowed by a pervasive sense of alienation and despair.
Fate intervened when my parents, still in their teens, met at my grandfather’s camp on Oneida Lake near Syracuse—a serendipitous encounter, given that my father’s aunt owned the neighboring camp. The sparks between them ignited swiftly, leading to a whirlwind courtship and marriage. My mother was just seventeen, and my father, twenty, when they exchanged vows. Following the wedding, my mother relocated to New Jersey to join my father, who was making a living as a commercial artist. Yet, the absence of her close-knit family circle soon weighed heavily on her. The yearning for the familiar comfort of home and the strong bonds she had left behind in Syracuse grew unbearable. Financial constraints initially held them back, but eventually, the pull of family grew too strong to resist, and they moved into the welcoming arms of my mother’s parents’ home.
My father was a man driven by relentless ambition and an entrepreneurial spirit. Starting his career journey with modest beginnings, he went door-to-door, capturing and selling family portraits. This grassroots endeavor eventually secured him a stable position as an artist at a local agency. It wasn’t long before his hard work enabled us to buy our own home, marking the first of many milestones in his professional life. Yet, his entrepreneurial spirit was far from satisfied; he soon ventured into starting his own business.
During my childhood, the rhythms of our family life were marked by frequent visits with family. My weekdays and weekends were filled with trips to my grandparents’ house and time spent with a multitude of cousins, as well as serene Sundays at the Presbyterian church perched atop the city’s nearby hill. While my mother, sister, and I cherished these familial bonds, my father divided his time between work, his outdoor hobbies like hunting and fishing, and quiet moments spent with the newspaper.
1970 was a pivotal year that brought significant changes to our lives. I was nine when we moved from our cozy one-story home in Bridgeport to a more spacious four-bedroom, two-story residence in Liverpool. At that time, my Aunt Maryjane had ventured to Houston, Texas, to start a new life. Coincidentally, my father was also scheduled to be in Houston, competing in a national rifle shooting contest against both military and civilian sharpshooters. During this trip, Aunt Maryjane invited him to a church meeting. Despite initial reservations, he agreed to attend and experienced a profound spiritual awakening that drastically altered the course of his life. Upon returning from Texas, he made the life-changing decision to leave his burgeoning business and dedicate himself to preaching. Our family home in Syracuse became a bustling center of fellowship, which gradually expanded to other homes and eventually to a dilapidated church in the town of Euclid. As the congregation grew, we moved from one church building to another, marking new chapters in an expanding community outreach.
As the church’s influence widened, so too did the strictness of its doctrines. What began as subtle shifts in ideology soon crystalized into a rigid framework that distinctly isolated us from those not in sync with our new way of life. By the time my senior year of high school rolled around, I found myself increasingly at odds with the rigid beliefs that had come to define our family’s existence. With a heavy heart, I voiced my disinterest in the church, bracing for the possibility of being cast out from my home. Surprisingly, however, I was allowed to stay.
From 1979 to 1981, I lived somewhat apart from the day-to-day activities of my family. On Sundays, as my family bustled in preparation for church, bickering over unplugged hair dryers and prolonged bathroom use, I sought refuge under a pillow, trying to muffle the sounds of their arguments. Throughout the week, I unwillingly became a confidant to my father, who expressed his growing frustrations with church matters, discussing congregants’ fornication, gossip, and other assorted sins. This period was also marked by an escalating breakdown in our community ties, culminating in 1981 when my own grandparents were excommunicated.
My refusal to sever ties with them precipitated the inevitable: I was instructed to leave my home. This was a harrowing moment, filled with deep pain, and I detailed the emotional ordeal in a heartfelt letter to my brother David, an excerpt of which is included in my book.
For the subsequent six years, my attempts to bridge the gap with my family were met with cold rejection. This deep-seated sense of abandonment not only fueled a profound identity crisis but also propelled me toward a psychological precipice. By 1987, at the tender age of 25, this crisis culminated in my involuntary commitment to Hutching Psychiatric Center. This poignant moment in my life marks the opening of my book, beginning with its first chapter, ‘Off at Grandma’s.’ Seated on my grandparents’ sofa, enveloped in a sea of memories, I delve into the formative days of my father’s church, the uncompromising doctrines we were expected to uphold, and the series of harrowing events that led to my hospitalization. Here, I lay bare the emotional and spiritual tumult that shaped these years, setting the stage for a journey of introspection and healing.
This memoir began as a therapeutic exercise—a means to navigate my past and seek reconnection with my estranged family. Over the span of thirty-six years, these pages have transformed from personal reflections into a profound exploration of familial bonds broken and the enduring quest for authenticity amidst the pressures of conformity. Through chronicling my attempts to mend the rift with my father and understanding the stark divergences within our beliefs, I have unearthed the universal truth that diversity and genuine self-expression are not just vital for individual integrity but are also the cornerstones of resilient relationships.
My narrative aims not only to offer a window into my own soul-searching journey but also to resonate with anyone grappling with similar familial estrangements or identity crises. It is my deepest hope that this book will not only serve as a cautionary tale but also inspire others to cherish their bonds with loved ones, to embrace the rich tapestry of human differences, and to find the courage to stand firm in their truths. May these reflections guide you towards reconciliation and peace, not by erasing differences, but by celebrating them as the very essence of our shared humanity.
Unveiling the Core of Christianity and the Spirit of Its Followers
In contemplating what it means to identify oneself as a Christian, one embarks on a profound exploration of faith, belief, and the essence of spirituality. This reflection is not intended as a sweeping judgment of the Christian community at large, for such a diverse and multifaceted group defies simple characterization. Instead, it is a personal observation, shaped by years of introspective thought and a life journey deeply intertwined with a Christian upbringing, from childhood through the complex weave of experiences among those professing to be followers of Christ.
To distill the essence of Christian belief is to navigate a vast ocean of doctrine, tradition, and personal conviction. However, from my vantage point, shaped by early exposure to a community self-identified with Christian values, a paradox emerges. It is a realization, perhaps unsettling, that the core values often attributed to the heart of Christianity—God’s love, and the virtues of honesty, bravery, empathy, and selflessness—often seemed conspicuously absent in the lived experiences within my church community. These virtues, though lauded in sermons and embedded in the teachings of Christ, were met with indifference, or even disdain, by some who professed them loudest.
Raised in an environment where self-interest and the pursuit of comfort seemed to eclipse a genuine engagement with the divine, I observed a dissonance between the preached and the practiced. The church, ostensibly a sanctuary for spiritual growth and communal support, sometimes felt more akin to a social club, its members drawn together not by a shared journey towards spiritual enlightenment or sacrifice but by the allure of comfort and familiarity.
And yet, amid this dissonance, my perspective found its own footing. It was not in the echoing halls of that church or in the superficial embrace of community that I encountered what might be called the Divine, but rather in the quiet, steadfast pursuit of the very virtues overlooked by others. In the teachings attributed to Christ, I discovered a call to transcend the ordinary, to live a life anchored not in the pursuit of personal comfort but in the embodiment of love, truth, and sacrifice. It is here, in the sincere endeavor to live out these virtues, that I find the truest expression of what it means to be Christian.
In this journey, the real essence of faith emerges not from the ostentatious displays of religiosity or the comfort-seeking tendencies of a congregation but from an individual’s quiet commitment to embodying the virtues that Christ himself exemplified. It is a path less trodden, marked by challenges and often solitude, yet it is here that one finds a profound connection to what could be considered divine—a beacon of light guiding us towards a deeper understanding of what it truly means to live a life of faith. This, then, is the essence of Christianity as I have come to understand it: a call to live a life of profound love, truth, and sacrifice, transcending the superficial to touch the very heart of what is universally humane.
About the Title
COR Values describes a phenomenon where individuals choose “comfort over reality,” leading to the creation of self-serving, distorted truths. The term “COR” encapsulates the tendency of people to shape narratives and beliefs more aligned with their personal desires than with objective reality. Through telling my life story, this book examines how people, driven by the COR mindset, manipulate information, rely on emotional persuasion, and even fabricate facts to shape a reality that serves their own agendas, overlooking the necessity for integrity and objectivity.
The central allure of being COR lies in its comforting reassurance by affirming pre-existing beliefs or offering oversimplified solutions to complex issues, often based on falsehoods or half-truths. This, however, comes at a significant cost. It promotes a culture of evasion, where confronting uncomfortable truths and acknowledging the consequences of one’s actions is avoided. This avoidance fosters a societal environment where the rigorous demands of truth and reality are shunned.
The impact of being COR is profound and far reaching. Individuals influenced by these values may find themselves unwittingly supporting harmful ideologies, participating in destructive behaviors, or isolating others based on distorted beliefs. The repercussions are not just personal, involving emotional distress and financial loss, but also societal, leading to division, conflict, and the deterioration of democratic principles. As these fabricated realities take hold, they undermine the bedrock of trust and critical thinking, essential for a healthy society.
About the Book
COR Values is a true and evocative story that captures the intricate dynamics of faith, family, and personal convictions. At the heart of this narrative is a pastor, deeply rooted in his beliefs of sin and salvation, who faces a profound dilemma when his wife’s sister decides to marry someone he considers a sinner. This situation challenges the very core of his teachings, which advocate for separation from sinners to maintain spiritual purity.
The story takes a compelling turn as the pastor, in his commitment to familial unity, reluctantly promises to make peace with this new family member. The real twist, however, comes when the pastor unexpectedly develops a deep and authentic bond with his new brother-in-law, the very person he had labeled a sinner. This unexpected relationship not only brings to light the pastor’s internal struggles but also highlights the complexities and contradictions of his long-held beliefs.
COR Values delves into the tension between doctrinal rigidity and the realities of human relationships. It presents a nuanced look at how life’s encounters can challenge and reshape our perspectives, compelling us to reconcile our professed values with our real-life experiences, and underscoring the repercussions of ignoring life’s imperative calls for change. This book is a powerful read for anyone interested in the journey of self-reflection and the challenge of confronting one’s own prejudices. It uncovers the beauty of forming significant connections in the most unexpected places and the profound, both personal and communal, repercussions of turning away from life’s prompts to evolve from our misjudgments. It’s a story about the transformative power of acceptance and the unpredictable nature of life that can lead us to question and, ultimately, deepen our understanding of our core values.
The Story and Purpose
In 1961, I entered the world within the walls of Saint Joseph’s Hospital in Syracuse, New York. My early years unfolded in a modest, single-story dwelling in Bridgeport, a quaint town where community and simplicity intertwined. My father, a New Jersey native, and my mother saw their paths converge following an unexpected encounter at a family camp. Barely adults, with my mother at seventeen and my father at twenty, they embarked on a journey of togetherness, sealing their bond in marriage.
Their early family life began with a move to New Jersey, where my father worked as a commercial artist. Yet, the pull of familial bonds proved too strong for my mother, leading them back to the familiar embrace of Syracuse, where they nested within the welcoming space of my maternal grandparents’ home. This period of adjustment and growth eventually culminated in the acquisition of our Bridgeport home, marking a new chapter of stability and belonging.
Life in Bridgeport was a blend of tradition and new beginnings. My mother, steadfast in her faith, continued to nurture us with the values of her Presbyterian upbringing, attending church with me and my older sister, Debbie. My father, however, charted his own course, finding enjoyment in the solitude of hunting or engaging in hobbies that spoke to his independent spirit.
An entrepreneur at heart, my father co-founded Tri Art Studios, a venture that symbolized both a professional and personal milestone. Our family’s fortunes mirrored this upward trajectory, leading us to a spacious two-story house in Liverpool, complete with the trappings of suburban life. Amidst these developments, my father’s passion for rifle shooting flourished, pitting him against competitors nationwide, from military personnel to civilian sharpshooters.
During one such competition in Houston, Texas, my father experienced a profound epiphany. Coincidentally, my mother’s sister, Aunt MaryJane, resided in Houston, and it was by her invitation that he attended a local church service. There, a moment of divine clarity struck him as the pastor’s words seemed to pierce the veil of anonymity, speaking directly to his soul. Overwhelmed by this encounter, he was consumed by a newfound conviction of God’s presence and purpose for his life, a revelation that propelled him into a fervent pursuit of his spiritual calling.
After my father returned from Houston, discussions about God became a daily fixture in our household. Our home began hosting meetings that initially included a large contingent of cousins. I vividly recall being questioned while observing from the staircase, “Can’t you see your father has changed? Don’t you notice the glow on his face?” This query lingered in my mind as I watched my mother play the organ in the family room, peering through the ornate metal bars of the stairway railing.
As time progressed, my father decided to leave his business behind. The religious gatherings, once confined to our living room, moved to a dilapidated church in the town of Euclid, with my father taking on the role of pastor. Under his guidance, the congregation expanded, necessitating moves to progressively larger facilities until finding its current home on Court Street Road in Syracuse.
Aunt MaryJane, mirroring my mother’s yearning for familial closeness, returned to Syracuse and became an integral part of my father’s church. She, along with my grandparents, regularly attended the four weekly services and immersed herself in the community through friendships and numerous activities.
The teachings at the church were stringent and constantly evolving, with a strong emphasis on adherence to its principles. One such expectation was the concept of being “equally yoked,” particularly in romantic relationships, discouraging associations with those deemed sinners. This policy limited relationship prospects to within our own congregation, branding other churches as lukewarm or misaligned with God’s expectations. However, my aunt found love outside these confines, at her workplace at General Motors, where she met a man whose character she deeply admired and eventually married.
The pervasive discrimination and judgment against those with differing beliefs, whether religious or otherwise, motivated me to share my reflections and spurred the publication of my book. Throughout my life, I’ve witnessed firsthand the consequences of attempts to exert total control over loved ones and their environments, which restricts access to the world’s diverse perspectives on identity, origins, and potential purposes. My writing, the result of thousands of hours of work over 36 years, embodies a deep, relentless drive to illuminate and challenge the roots of division and prejudice. This imposition on individuals’ inherent rights to individuality and authenticity, arising from discrimination, fractures families and friendships, infiltrating various spheres under the guise of dogma. It’s a pattern that has become deeply integrated into my family’s religious practices, a cycle that urgently needs to be broken. My work aims to expose these divisive forces for what they truly are, advocating for an end to the dogmatism that segregates and isolates.
More on COR
In my hands, I visualize two spheres. Held in my right hand is the sphere of truth, symbolizing the reality underlying everything. In my left hand rests another sphere, representing our desires to satisfy both our physical and psychological needs. I perceive every decision as a balancing act between the influences of these two spheres.
When evaluating individuals, it is their character that captures my attention. Character is the essence that sets individuals apart from one another. I seek signs of integrity, courage, honesty, loyalty, and respectfulness – hallmarks of a person’s ethical and moral fortitude. The predominance of these traits in an individual often indicates that their decisions are predominantly guided by the ‘right’ sphere, the realm of truth. Conversely, a deficiency in these qualities is likely to lead to decisions heavily influenced by the ‘left’ sphere, dedicated to physical and emotional indulgence. Those who recognize this pattern should not find it astonishing that a deficiency in character results in self-serving actions that veer away from the truth.
It is a well-acknowledged fact across all domains of life, including religion, business, and politics, that prejudice and discrimination stem from such poor character. Indeed, these are selfish actions born from the craving for comfort, both physical and emotional, at the cost of forsaking reality and truth. The greater one’s emphasis on comfort, the ‘left’ sphere, the more one distances oneself from ‘truth’, the ‘right’ sphere.
It is these individuals I have deemed to be ‘COR’, as they show favor of ‘comfort over reality’.