tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48021920630761551602024-03-14T03:44:38.542-05:00 Ice Shavings and ShinnyHey! Welcome to my blog!
I'm Craig Daliessio,
author, speaker,
Certified Life Coach
...and Dad.
And this is what
I'm talking about today...Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.comBlogger235125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-82349269841859083362023-12-14T15:58:00.001-06:002023-12-14T15:58:26.864-06:00Christmas Anyway...<div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Christmas Anyway...</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Sitting here this morning thinking about Christmas. How it was the mid-year lifeline for me when I was a kid. My year was neatly broken into two pieces, like a saltine cracker. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>Summer and my little league family... and Christmas. In between was school, which was wonderful (I was very blessed with great teachers at every stop along the way) but at home it was suffocating. I always say "I didn't have a home...I had an address." </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But for whatever reason, Christmas was a two week break from the overwhelming nature of the house I grew up in. It was like someone called a truce in a war. I think it was because we had people coming to visit over the holidays and my mother and her husband wanted to put on a game face and look like they were actually happy 52 weeks a year. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Whatever... it have me a break from the real them for a couple weeks and I'd take it any way I could. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Plus...I really really love the holidays. I love every holiday that hits from Halloween to Orthodox Christmas (Epiphany) </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Thanksgiving is really just the opening act. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I loved neighbors and friends visiting. I loved singing in the school Christmas concert (when you could still call it that) I loved learning about Hanukkah in school and celebrating with my Jewish friends. I loved watching every single Christmas special on TV. The cartoon ones and clay-mation ones for kids and the adult ones, like Bing Crosby, or Bob Hope during the war. Most of the time they bored me but I watched dutifully because it was Christmas and that's what you did. (It's amazing how much of those old classics I absorbed and how much I love them now)</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I loved being a paper boy at Christmas and my customers giving me a card and a tip. Sure, I appreciated the money but what I really loved was the recognition..."Thanks for doing such a good job." I didn't hear that at my address. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I loved giving gifts to my teachers. I loved flipping through the Sears wish book and circling the things I dreamed of. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I loved singing carols and hearing Christmas music on the radio. I loved the way a tree smelled. I loved thinking that maybe this would be the year that this two week reprieve would somehow extend itself 50 more weeks and things could be better at the address. I soaked it up and threw myself into it as much as I could. Like I was charging a battery that had to get me through the next four months. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Christmas got me through to spring. Spring got me out of the house more. That's how I endured. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I think I took a little piece of each Christmas and stored it in my heart when I was a kid. A few memories each year that I filed away to use as a template for the Christmases I would one day have as an adult.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As a dad. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Even before I got married and before I had Daisy, when I was single and had my first apartment the first thing I did was have a Christmas party. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I'm sure it's why I always decorated so much. And got so into the season... especially after Daisy was born. It was to make sure that she had happy memories of Christmas. And it was to remind myself, I suppose, that Christmas was still as special as it always has been. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have a photographic memory. I'm very visual. Of all those "photos" I hold onto in my heart, so many of them have twinkling lights and tinsel and smell like pine. And I wanted my daughter to have the same snapshots.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But you get older... and within those photos in your memory are a few that you created. The ones you'd always hoped would develop and take shape. The ones that were more plans for the future than memories of the past. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">You wait for them but the picture never develops. Or it's blurry and out of focus. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Or you missed the moment and the picture just isn't there. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">When you put your heart and soul into Christmas every year, these pictures are hard to take. "It wasn't supposed to look like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this..."</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Even that is a lesson from Christmas past. Sometimes you didn't get the thing you most wanted. So you lived with it and opened the things you did get, and it was Christmas anyway. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have to admit that this year its been harder to get into the season as I usually do. I wrestled with just putting up the tree this year. I didn't want to watch Christmas shows or listen to my Christmas playlist. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It took a few extra days but I did it. A few movies and a handful of songs and Christmas showed up, as usual. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Christmas doesn't look like I dreamed it would when I was a kid and thinking about "someday." But it's Christmas. It's probably the only legacy I actually have from my childhood that's worth hanging on to... and making better. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So...I did it anyway. So far Christmas is 60-0 against the Grinch and old Ebenezer. It still doesn't look like the one I hold in my heart... maybe it never will. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But it's Christmas anyway. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">And that's enough. </span></div></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Merry Christmas y'all</span> </span></p>Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-13092718250503660142023-10-09T05:45:00.042-05:002023-10-09T07:46:11.987-05:00I Miss Church<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> I Miss Church </b></span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">5:30 on Monday morning. Sitting here in my living room before heading off to my morning walk.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thinking about church, and how long it's been since I've attended and how much I miss it, and how much I am getting used to not going.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> All of these things are not good. I shouldn't ever "miss" church. I shouldn't have gotten to the point where I gave up years ago on ever finding a church I can become a part of ever again. I shouldn't have gotten to the point where I think about going this week, and the sad feeling of disappointment falls over me instantly. The feeling of "Why bother?" The feeling that the same old thing will happen...I will go, I will be excited and wistful and hopeful. And then the same horrible, formulaic service will unfold before me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> The same worthless music...intended to do nothing more than illicit emotions from the listeners. The "Big Show." The lights will be dimmed. The smoke will be blowing across the stage. The "Worship Band" will do every nauseating star-turn that you'd see at a pop concert. The "Worship Pastor" will come out, trying his best to be Bono from U2, only with a voice that at best sounds like a woman. Or a man trying to sound like a woman while trying to sing and not wake a baby. <br /> The lights will be low...like a concert, not a church. There will be video walls and rotating colored lights and in some churches "praise dancers." It's a heck of a production!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> The songs will be the same vapid, pointless songs they have been for about 20 years now. How God is an ocean, or a hurricane, or a blue sky. or some other analogy that doesn't even come CLOSE to representing who He really is or what He is actually like. The songs about Jesus will be nothing more than songs about some high schooler's dreamy boyfriend. They'll breathily tell me how they love the way He loves them. If Jesus is ever actually mentioned by name, it will be only in passing. He is typically reduced to the great ethereal "whatever, bro!" The hip dude from the Big Lebowski who simply abides. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Any mention of difficulty or burden is done in code. "Stormy waters" or "The Desert" or "Darkness." Nobody will ever talk about any real, tangible pain or trouble. They can't. They aren't allowed. It's against the code of "worship" music. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Then, of course, the worship pastor...skinny jeans and beard and goofy glasses (I swear Warby Parker must have an actual frame they call "Worship Pastor" because they all have them) will tell me how he can't hear me. He'll ask me how I'm doing, he'll tell me they are about to "usher us into the presence of God." And he'll quote selected portions of verses making it sound like the only way to spiritual victory is through singing these horrible songs louder. It's not about him! (He reminds us) It's about showing God how much we love Him! I guess singing louder fools Him into believing something our hearts betray most of the time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I will endure this for forty-five minutes. The entire time my soul will be thrashing inside me, wanting to scream out "This is NOT who God is!" But I can't, so I sit there. Or I got to the lobby and try to distract myself until the music...the <i>performance,</i> stops. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> And that's what it is, really. A performance. A show. How do I know? Ask someone about their church. Listen closely to the order of importance of the things they love about it. The music will be right there at the top. Not the sermons. Not the impact on their lives. Not the changes wrought under the conviction of the Holy Spirit. The music. The atmosphere. "I feel so loved there..." Loved by who? <br />The people? Is that why you go there...because the people love you? Or do you sense the presence of GOD there and HIS love? There is a difference. <br /> Nobody ever tells you how the church CHANGED them. Words like "conviction" or "sin" aren't even used. In fact..they're banished in a lot of these churches. "Oh you can't talk about sin...people will stop coming!' Or they'll CHANGE! Have you considered that? Have you considered that your effort to make church a "Hospital for sinners" (which I agree with whole heartedly) requires SURGERY sometimes? Or Chemo? Or rehabilitation? Have you considered that a Hospital often causes pain during the healing process? No? Then you aren't really a "Hospital for sinners." You're a methadone clinic. "Here...take this drug to help you get off that other drug."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> All of which has left me entirely uninterested in going back. It's not church anymore. Not really. It's something else. Something less. At least for me. It's wimpy men who have no idea what to do with that Y chromosome except apologize for it. It's pastors so consumed with being liked and being perceived as "loving people as they are" that they never bring them to a place where they consider they shouldn't be as they are anymore.<br /> It's forty-five minutes of torture to start things off. So much so that by the time the pastor starts his sermon, I am already gone. I tuned out. The concert sucked and I stopped listening. This God you sing these songs about...I can't find Him anywhere in scripture and apparently all He does is love me, so things like "circumspect living" and "wrestling in prayer" and "enduring faith" have no value to Him. <br /> If I'm okay as I am...why do I need to be here? That's the question I can no longer answer. <br />So I miss church. I miss it badly. I miss belonging. I miss being seen and known by people who aren't strangers to me. But I fear that church is gone. Reduced to a chapter in a "History of Christianity" text book that my grandchildren will read in college one day, and make the comment to the professor; "My grandad told me about this era of The Church." I hope I'm wrong, But I'm not.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I want to go back. Make no mistake...I love God deeply. I have not "wandered off" or become "backslidden" or cold hearted. My faith is battle tested and worn on the edges and too ingrained in my life to ever betray. But I hate being treated like a child. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I want to offer what I have. I want to teach a Sunday school class, and serve a role in the church. I'm not looking to just go and be entertained. But I can't find any place that wants to do any more than entertain me. So I stay home. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">And nobody notices.<br /><br />NOTE: There are good churches out there. I know of some. But they are few and far between. So no...I am not dismissing "The Church" just the church industry.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-25929087874858809152015-06-20T08:07:00.001-05:002015-06-20T08:07:54.562-05:00Charleston, and Barack Obama’s America<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m
weary this morning. Weary and angry and sad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s
been three days since those horrifying events in Charleston. I still can’t
comprehend someone walking into a church, spending an hour with the members,
and then killing them. I’m grieving because these people were my fellow
Americans, and they were my brothers and sisters in Christ.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But
I can’t even grieve properly anymore. I can’t focus and reflect and pray and
feel the sorrow that comes with something like this. I can’t, because I was
immediately put on the defensive. Our President, the man tasked with leading
all of us and guiding all of us, attacked most of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In
the very first words he spoke after this tragedy, he drew blood from the
majority. He attacked us…the very people he claims to lead. He attacked our
core and our standing in the world. He attacked my grieving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
couldn’t even deal with the sorrow and hurt I was feeling, because this man
–and his minions who took up the rally cry immediately thereafter- prevented me
from doing so. They had me instantly on the defensive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Before
I could deal with how Charleston affected me, I had to defend myself. I had to
defend my First and Second Amendment rights. I had to defend my Faith. I had to
defend my conservative political views. I had to defend my character against
charges that I am a racist and a bigot and full of hate. I had to do this
because I didn’t immediately call for the removal of the second amendment and
the confiscation of guns from the citizenry. I had to do this because I feel
that if someone had been present with the capability to shoot back, Dylann Roof
likely would not have killed those nine people in that beautiful Charleston
Church. Doubtless he would have killed the first one. Maybe he would kill
another in the gun battle. Maybe some of those who were killed would have instead
been wounded. But they would have been <i>alive</i>.
Alive is always better. That’s how I feel. That’s what the evidence supports.
In every circumstance, cities and states with open carry laws, and with
reasonable concealed carry laws, have far lower incidences of gun violence. One
point is plain and indisputable: Dylan Roof committed this atrocity in a church
because he knew there would be <i>no one
there who could shoot back. </i>South Carolina law prohibits the possession of
a gun inside a church. In more practical terms, <i>South Carolina law identifies churches as targets for crazed killers. </i>This
is why he didn’t open fire in a police station. To debate this point is myopic.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
had to defend myself against charges of being a racist, because I maintained
that, while Dylann Roof is clearly a racist and verbalized that as the reason
for his actions, this murder is not indicative of the state of race relations
in this country. This man does not represent
how white America feels about Black America. Period. But there are people who
want to make that the narrative…who need to make that the narrative because it
keeps us divided. One of those people happens to be the president.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So
Thursday morning, while I was driving from Virginia to Delaware to visit family
for a few days, the president made his statement. Within 30 seconds he was
warning that he blames guns. He attacked the Second amendment as the real
killer. For good measure, he threw the entire country under the bus on the
world stage. He made the statement that “These things don’t happen with the
same frequency in other civilized countries…” The unmistakable implication is
that America is a savage nation overrun with gun-toting nutcases and the rest
of the world gets it right where we get it wrong…again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m
not surprised by this from Obama anymore. But I’ll never get used to it. I’ll
never get used to hearing our president attacking the country and the people
that he claims to lead. I’ll never get used to him consistently berating our
nation openly. I’ll never get used to the outright disdain he holds for this
country. He never even waited for the nation to grieve. He never tried to
comfort or console. He went straight for the guns again. And he did it by
stating that we are less of a nation because we have incidents like this and
other countries don’t. He backed his play with a lie. The facts are that we <i>don’t have</i> more incidents like this than
other “civilized” countries. On average, when scaled to the size of America’s
population, gun violence is about the same in other nations, even when gun
controls are tighter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
could write about that, but I don’t want to. Not today. The gun control battle
will wage regardless of this event. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
want to talk about the division.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We
have never been more divided as a nation than we have been since this man took
office in 2009. We’ve never been more closeted and segmented and prone to stay
in clusters of only those we know and trust and who hold similar ideals. We’ve
never been wearier of fighting with each other over things that never caused
such battles before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We’ve never been less of a
community.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Since
Barack Obama came to office, we have been divided along racial lines, religious
lines, political lines, lifestyle lines, income lines, gender lines, geographic
lines, parenting-skill lines, and patriotism lines. Those who disagree with him
are labeled haters, bigots, ignorant, racist, crazy, unwilling to compromise,
unwilling to listen. When you spend half your time defending against lies…you
get tired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By
early Thursday morning, before I had even begun to digest what had happened the
night before, this man and his followers had already attacked my right to own a
gun. Then they attacked my defense of that right. Then they attacked me for
defending that right, saying that my defending that right only shows that I am
a hate filled nut job who thinks we should all be shooting at each other. Then
they attacked my faith, because I said that if someone in the church had a gun,
maybe this thing is far less than it became. They attacked me because they said
“Nobody should have to carry a gun to church out of fear.” Which is a good
point, except it denies reality. A gun in church lessens the fear. At least the
part where you find yourself helpless when the madman pulls out a gun and
starts shooting. They questioned what kind of Christian I am who thinks that
way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They
attacked me for disagreeing with this president. I’m just a racist, they
claimed. If George Bush had said what he said, I’d agree with him. First of
all, no I wouldn’t. I hold fast to my Second amendment rights, regardless of
who is in office. Secondly…George Bush <i>wouldn’t</i>
have said it. Bush, Reagan. Clinton, all the Presidents who have come before,
showed the dignity of the office by never politicizing a tragedy during those
early days of grief. They knew that the role of President sometimes requires
decorum enough to hold their tongue and lead the nation in calm mourning,
knowing the time would come to deal with the political side of the event. But
not this president.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This
man sees every event as a chance to advance his cause. Those lives, those precious
beautiful, faith-filled, godly lives taken in that church in Charleston last
Wednesday, only mattered to him insomuch as they gave him another opportunity
to advance his cause, and to belittle this country on the world stage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
attackers moved from the guns to the flag. There is a Confederate flag flying
at the state capitol in South Carolina. It’s been the center of many a debate.
For many, it’s a rock of offense. Personally I have never understood the
reverence paid to that flag. <i>But I defend
the right of people to fly it.</i> The attempt to connect the flag to the
shooting is an outrage. Two inanimate objects a flag and a gun, got together
and colluded to kill nine people in a church. That, ultimately, is the theory
they have put forth. And if I don’t buy it, if I hold to the belief that Dylann
Roof is simply a very evil man with a dark heart and who is obviously not
sane…I am a hater, a bigot, a right-wing nut-job, an ultra-conservative who
wants gunfights in the streets, and especially…a racist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m
none of those things. I’m a conservative but not far right. I’m a patriot who
values this country far more than anyone’s ideology. I’m a dad who wants his
daughter to be safe when she goes to church or school or the mall. I’m a
realist who knows…who <i>knows</i>, that
evil exists in this world and that rather than trust evil, insane people to
obey gun laws and drug laws and driving laws, (because they never do) I need to
proactively protect myself and my family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m
a patriot. I love this country like it was my own family. A piece of my
American family is broken and hurting in Charleston, South Carolina right now
and I have only just begun to be able to process my grief. Because my president
wouldn’t let me for the first few days. I was too busy defending myself, between
my own tears, against claims that somehow I wanted this tragedy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s
really what they are saying. That any of us who don’t agree with the solution, <i>endorses the problem</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Shame
on you Barack Obama. Shame on you for dividing us once again in the face of
such a tragedy. Shame on you for fostering such an attitude in this country
that people like me can’t even share in the grief of our fellow Americans and
brothers and sisters in Christ, because you seized the event for your own
purposes and your minions ran with the ball from there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Grief
and anger lie side-by-side to begin with. A president should not be taking
advantage of that to divide a nation further, and move his agenda forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Charleston,
South Carolina…the tears of millions are falling all around this country for
the horror you suffered. We’re not bigots, not racist, not gun-crazies, not
haters, not ultra anything. We’re <i>Americans.</i> You are our <i>family</i>. The only thing that should matter right now is the grief we
feel and the coming together this should engender.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Instead,
we’re being divided by the very people who claim to be uniters. Underneath the
rhetoric being tossed around like grenades…there beats a broken heart in this
country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">God
bless us. God help us. God save us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-65424248663478483952015-03-30T08:10:00.000-05:002015-03-30T08:10:00.563-05:00NEWSHey gang. I am condensing my blogs to my personal website.<br />
My web page is<br />
<a href="http://playmymusicloud.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Craig's Page</a><br />
<br />
You can also find it at <a href="http://www.craigdaliessio.com/">www.craigdaliessio.com</a> and <a href="http://www.playmymusicloud.com/">www.playmymusicloud.com</a><br />
<br />
I will leave this up and occasionally post blog articles here, but the majority of my writing will be on the main page from now on.<br />
<br />
Thanks gang!Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-73341334622549764362015-02-15T07:26:00.002-06:002015-02-15T07:27:19.854-06:00Great new blog I highly recommend...So I've been here in Virginia for nine months now. A while back I met this guy...and he is hysterical. Hysterical in that he is from my neck of the woods, and he reminds me of my own Italian family. He has a crazy story going on right now with his nosy neighbor across the street. Give Joe a read. It's great stuff.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://joeytrucks.blogspot.com/">http://joeytrucks.blogspot.com/</a>Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-21917126515568096232015-01-22T14:00:00.000-06:002015-01-22T14:00:33.107-06:00JoePa's 409 Last week, the news broke that the NCAA would lift most of the sanctions on Penn State, brought about by the Sandusky issue.<br />
I have long been a Joe Paterno fan. I quoted him a few times in my first book, ("Harry Kalas Saved My Life") and remain an unabashed PSU fan because of his legacy.<br />
My heart ached when the story broke. I defended Joe to the hilt, often receiving terrible ridicule because of my vocal support -for what it was worth- of Coach Paterno. Then the Freeh report was released and I took the bait like so many folks did. Through doctored emails, misquotes, and disinformation, I was swayed to the "Joe did wrong" side. I didn't think he'd done<i> much</i> wrong, mind you, but I thought he had done <i>something. </i>Most of what I saw as Joe's wrongdoing was based on one little comment. In the report, it was mentioned that Joe did, in fact, follow up and ask about the Sandusky matter soon after the initial incident in 1999. (As it turns out, this was misrepresented) Contrasting that to his testimony 12 years later, before the Grand Jury, where he said he did not ask about it again, caused me to believe Joe lied. Two words I could never imagine connecting in one sentence.<br />
It broke my heart to admit to what I believed to be fact at the time. I even understood the vacating of the wins. A friend made the case that covering up the crimes gave Joe a recruiting advantage. To be honest, after months of ferociously defending JoePa to folks on social media and call-in sports shows in Nashville, where I was living at the time, I was just tired of it and heartbroken that my hero had done wrong.<br />
I didn't want to believe he had done wrong, and I admitted it through clenched teeth. But honestly, somewhere in the depths of my heart, I was hoping that facts would emerge one day that exonerated Joe. Because I always believed him to be a good and decent man. I don't bestow the term "Hero" on many people and Joe had been a Hero of mine for most of my life.<br />
During the three years since his death and the subsequent release of the Freeh report, his family defended Joe's honor, quietly, carefully and with great dignity. They did not whine. They did not make light of the victim's plight in the least. They kept alive Joe's great legacy of charitable works on PSU's campus and they gently fought back against what turns out to be a vile, despicable, purposeful misrepresentation of facts, and even a manufacture of false evidence out of whole cloth.<br />
They didn't rant and rage, even thought, in hindsight, they could have. They had the faith and the foresight to simply stand on Joe's character and legacy and believe that right would triumph in the end.<br />
It did.<br />
Joe's restoration was evidence of the over reach and malicious hypocrisy of the NCAA, the horrible scapegoating by the BOT of Penn State, and the seeming glee within the media to indict Joe, simply because all of his life he has been a good man. This may sound outrageous but I watched as very quickly the story moved from the monstrous evil of Jerry Sandusky, to the portrayal of Joe Paterno as the real culprit. It was a travesty. The handringing of those who have waited half a lifetime just to sink their teeth into the flesh of a man they disliked solely because he was a <i>good man.</i><br />
It's not a stretch. Look at our society these days. Good is seen as evil and evil is celebrated. Character is seen as a weakness, and the man who claws his way to the top by treachery and deceit is held up as a model while a man of integrity and faith and goodness is smiled at as a naive fool. People wanted the accusations against Joe Paterno to be true, simply because they didn't want a good man around to remind them of how high the bar was.<br />
As Joe's family slowly, methodically, carefully fought back, I felt a sense of relief. I saw that goodness still had some value. I saw that the depth of the man's integrity stood up to the battering of those with an agenda at odds with that goodness and, though dented and scraped, the goodness prevailed.<br />
I don't think "Now Joe can rest in peace." I think that because of the life he led, he was in peace from the moment he breathed his last. The truth is...now <i>we</i> can have some peace. Being good, and doing good still matters. And if you do good and be good long enough, false accusations won't stick.<br />
I am so happy that Joe's wins were restored. Not because of the wins themselves...they are football games, and we are talking about much more. But I'm glad because I am raising a 16 year old daughter in a world devoid of real, good, decent people. A world sadly lacking in heroes. One of mine was given his dignity back and I, for one, am happy about it.<br />
God's speed Coach. Thank you for the example you left us. Thank you for being <i>good.</i>Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-77404886362531200722015-01-09T06:12:00.000-06:002015-01-09T06:12:35.372-06:00Thoughts on Andrae Crouch<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrae Crouch Died Yesterday…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lost amidst the
insanity of the world in which we live, was the homegoing of this dear Saint.
Andrae Crouch’s music was intertwined in my young life as a believer. I became
a Christian at age 9. I had already developed a deep love for music of all
kinds and music had to be very good in order for me to listen to it. In the
early years of my Faith, since I was just a kid, I listened to whatever they
listened to at my church, or whatever my mother or grandmother listened to.
Mainly, The Bill Gaither Trio and an ensemble group from the church I attended
that had a lot of talent but never sang beyond the four walls of our sanctuary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I hit my
teenage years I rediscovered –as most teenagers do- music as my own language.
Of course, we were what was known as “Fundamental Baptist” which means (among
many other things) that you can’t do anything the way “The World” did it. We
didn’t go to movies, we didn’t dance, the only acceptable alcohol was rubbing
alcohol, and our music had better not sound like <i>their</i> music.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Movies were hard
enough to give up. Disney was “Real Disney” then and they weren’t making
softcore kiddie porn like they are now. I had fallen in love with talk radio at
an early age so I didn’t care about not listening to Top 40. But my records…man
I had to have my records. We had vinyl then. Vinyl or 8 tracks. Cassettes came
around in the mid to late 70’s and we had those too, but mostly the medium of
choice was vinyl. I only owned Christian music, due to the strict adherence to
the strict rules of my church. But it was a great time to be a young person who
loved music and wanted to hear it sung about Jesus.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had The
Imperials, Larry Norman, Dallas Holm, and a few lesser lights. I loved those
performers. I saw the Imperials a handful of times when they came to town. But
for me, in my teenage years, there were two artists who didn’t just write and
perform…they sang mini sermons that changed your entire outlook in 3 minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Keith Green and Andrae Crouch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We lost Keith
Green in 1982 in a plane crash. We lost Andrae Crouch yesterday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrae was brilliant. He wrote with passion for souls. He
wrote with the altar in mind. He wrote to the lost. He wrote 3 minute sermons
that literally could encapsulate the entire gospel up to and including an
invitation to accept it, and then he set them to the most beautiful music on
earth. Andrae had the ear of his generation and mine, and he did everything he
could to make sure we listened when he sang about Jesus. He said it simply, but
beautifully. Listen to the passion and irresistible music of this classic: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whjZTug_O-Y">Jesus is the Answer</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was as plain
and plaintive a presentation of your need for Jesus and His unquestioned
ability to satisfy that need as anyone has ever written, <i>ever</i>. You can’t miss Who or what he is talking about here. My
despise for modern CCM is well known on this blog and listening to this song
again as I write, it’s no wonder. We have some talented folks out there today
who simply refuse to be this direct, this blunt, this passionate about the
GOSPEL and not about creating an atmosphere. People went to an Andrae Crouch
concert and they heard the Gospel, and they got SAVED. They didn’t have a
“relationship” or an “encounter.” They met Jesus face to face, head the longing
of their hearts, set to music, and met their SAVIOR. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These days you
are hard pressed to hear Jesus’ name even mentioned in a concert from one of
these “praise and worship” bands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He wrote to the
Church and called her to repentance. Like this one <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0I9iEUfRvI">Take Me Back</a> .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As believers we have all been here. Yet these days a song
written about repenting and returning would be rejected.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Andrae bridged
cultural divides at a time when they loomed large. In the pasty white world of
Fundamental Baptist culture, he was a black man who gave them absolutely
nothing to point their finger at and say “Ah- HA!” I worked at a “Gino’s”
restaurant in High School and one of my co –workers was a black girl, the same
age as me, named Anita Shazier. She was a huge Andrae fan and had a wonderful
voice. After closing at night, she would get on the microphone at the cashiers
counter and sing his songs over the intercom. She found out I was a Christian
and a big fan of Crouch and we became good friends.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would lie awake long into the night many,
many times in my teen years, listening to his records over and over, and
letting his words become part of my personal theology, and the guardrails on
the road I was walking. Andrae Crouch fueled my passion for the lost with songs
like this one: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8SNY3zwXio&list=PLwMgHrZeg1-mXJZf9N_69go0SvFii-346">Tell
Them</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart’s desire was ministry back then, and listening to
Andrae Crouch singing songs like this…you simply could not wander from that
goal. Andrae impacted me. He impacted me the way a comet impacts a planet when
they collide. He smashed into my soul and left a huge mark. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Several years
ago, when his dad died, he laid down his public music ministry and took over
the pastorate along with his sister Sandra. He hadn’t offered much new music in
a long while but by then, his songs had become such beloved staples that they
found their way into the hymnals of even that stoic Fundamental Baptist Church
I grew up in. So we never really lost Andrae. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope his death
rekindles interest in his work. I hope the current generation of “Christian
artists” listen to him and realize how very wrong they have it. We don’t need
to make the message more “relevant.” The message is always relevant. Sing the
truth! Sing about JESUS the SAVIOR, not Jesus your surfing buddy. Call saints
back to repentance. Write your songs as if the message you are about to sing is
the only thing standing between the listener and hell. You aren’t in this to be
popular. This is ministry. Most times that isn’t popular. But if you’re
talented, and you do it God’s way…you’ll be famous where it matters most.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
God’s speed
Andrae. There is great comfort in knowing that we will meet again…Soon and Very
Soon. It won’t be Long. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NflCoYmoStM">It
Won't Be Long</a></div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-39223690308921692922014-12-22T23:02:00.002-06:002014-12-22T23:02:16.810-06:00Bell Ringers, Salvation Army Kettles, and Reminders of Christmas<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px;">I went to Walmart tonight to pick up some trivial trinket or other. On the way in, there were three people braving the cold drizzle to ring the bell at a Salvation Army Kettle. I instantly recalled the line in Rich Mullin's "Hold Me Jesus" "...and the Salvation Army band is playing this hymn. And your grace rings out so deep, it makes my resistance seem so thin..."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px;">That first Ragamuffins Album is smattered with snippets of Americana. I know the Salvation Army is an international ministry organization, but something about a bell ringer and a kettle feels purely American.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px;">I got teary eyed...as I often do when I recall Rich and especially that record, and especially that song. I've been locked in a real wrestling match for months now and the line "Your Grace rings out so deep...it makes my resistance seem so thin" grabbed hold of me. I've been at this crossroads for a while, and no clarity seems to be in sight. But I know I can count on His Grace...even though my humanity resists it, for lack of grasping it. There was comfort in the bell ringer at the kettle. Comfort in knowing that 2014 years have come and gone since that scandalous, wild, illogical, mystical night in Bethlehem and -try as it might- this world simply cannot remove the impact of that night on humanity. It can try to remove it from the vernacular, but it can never remove it from our hearts. As Brennan Manning said "Behind every Christmas ornament and every sprig of mistletoe. Behind every twinkling light and every antiseptic "Happy Holidays, there is the truth of this Baby." Christmas seems to annually take my heart on an excursion back to a place I long for and can never return to. The only thing that remains unchanged throughout the years...the star still leads us to the Baby. And deny it as some voices may...the whole world knows this to be true. The star still leads to the Baby. Come as you are...</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px;">...I guess I heard all that in those simple bells this evening.</span>Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-4679160055456271982014-12-20T08:52:00.003-06:002014-12-20T08:52:38.446-06:00Borrowing Christmas: Thoughts about not going home this year. <div class="MsoNormal">
A couple of last minute plan changes and it turns out I’m
not going home for Christmas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t begin to express the heartbreak. I can’t even begin
to touch on the depth of sadness I feel about not being there, in the
Philadelphia area, this year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s compounded by the fact that my daughter is at her mom’s
in Tennessee and this is the first time in probably seven or eight years that I
won’t be celebrating with her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s barely Christmas without her as it is, but to not be
going home makes it insufferable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was driving last night, working my second job, and the
heaviness of all this weighed me down terribly. I miss my daughter. She’s been
in Tennessee since the weekend before Thanksgiving and won’t be back here until
New Years. I was thinking about our dozens and dozens of trips back to
Philadelphia / Wilmington DE where we typically spend our Holidays and where we
most often refer to as home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was thinking last night, and again this morning, about my
life and how very different it turned out from what I’d hoped for. Christmas,
especially, is a very emotional, introspective time for me. I realized some
things about my own Christmases that caused a lot of tears this morning. My
heart is still heavy and its hard writing these words but they desperately need
to come out and this blog has become a refuge and my one and only venue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It occurred to me this morning that I have never had my <i>own</i> Christmas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas was always made infinitely better by the presence
of others. Now, most people would say this is universally true, but not in the
way I mean it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas, growing up, was the one and only time when there
was any peace in our house. It was the only time when there felt like anything
that resembled love was expressed from one person to another. We never went on
vacations, never did “family” things. Family “Game Nights” typically became
tense and uneasy because we honestly didn’t like each other. The healthy competitiveness
that can come from simple game playing, was only a microcosm of the competition
we all had with each other just to find some air to breathe and a ray of
sunlight in that house. We clawed and scratched at each other to find our way
to the top of the pile and hopefully catch just a scrap of the affection that
every kid wants. It transferred itself into those game nights in the form of
hurt feelings, increasingly acerbic comments, and the overbearing, overwhelming
domination of the “head of the household” who deigned to give us 30 minutes
once in a while, stifled our childish expressions, and then ran out on the game
so he could return to his place of isolation in front of the TV, purposefully watching
something that none of us had any interest in, so we would leave him the hell
alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Christmas was that one, two-week- period when the façade
was erected, and it was so beautiful and such a breath of fresh air, and it was
so close to what my heart always hoped for from family and Christmas that we
never minded the falsehoods. We ate our sawdust hot dogs and wore our plastic
jewelry and played the roles. Even fraudulent happiness is better than the
other fifty weeks of brood and darkness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it really wasn’t the façade that made it Christmas…it
was the others.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas was the only time we consistently saw friends and
family. Outside of the occasional cookout we were not entertainers. But
Christmas was different. Christmas Eve there was, for the last 10 years or so
that I lived at home, an open house. I couldn’t wait for the first guests to
arrive because they brought with them the greatest gift of all…<i>life</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our house seemed to burst with life when my Aunt Donna and Uncle
Jack arrived with my cousin Stephanie. Then my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Ed and their
girls. Then the neighbors and their families. As I got older and my friends had
licenses and cars, they would stop too. People we didn’t see all year, (and
nobody ever wondered why) would come around for Christmas Eve and stay, and
talk, and the house felt like a Currier and Ive’s picture. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also made a point to visit the open house of another
family whose son was one of my best friends. I spent an hour or two with the
Winward’s before returning home to finish the night with our guests.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas day was more family, either them coming to us or
us going to them. The week between Christmas and New Years was spent outside
with my friends or in my room reading or doing whatever. Another week and it was
back to school and back to the normal way of life we knew. Five people (briefly
six when my youngest brother was born, just a few years before I moved out) who
coexisted under one roof but who neither knew, loved, or even <i>liked</i> each other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was this fertile soil that made me dream –from an early
age- of creating my own home one day and having the Christmases I wanted. Where
we weren’t faking it but we were actually just expressing the love and joy and
fondness for each other that had been building all year. I took that image into
marriage, and sadly only had two Christmases with which to try to create that
picture. Then came the divorce. Then came the next fifteen years. <i>Fifteen years. </i>Fifteen Christmases come
and gone, and all of them with me trying desperately to give something to my
daughter that I never had, and failing at it. The years when I was successful
and we had a home of our own, Morgan and I decorated and celebrated. But oddly
enough…when she was with me for Christmas we never stayed in Nashville. We went
home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because, once again, we needed <i>someone else’s</i> Christmas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had a wonderful set of traditions, my daughter and I. but
instinctively we knew something was missing and we couldn’t recreate it alone.
Our Christmas at home needed the other half of our family and she was never
going to be there. You want to know another reason God hates divorce? It’s
this. Christmas can never, ever be what it would be if you remain together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so Morgan and I took a journey almost every year, back
to where I grew up, and other people’s Christmas became our Christmas. Just
like when I was a kid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think this is what was breaking my heart last night, and
again this morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I seem to need Christmas more each year and this year
especially. And now I won’t be going home. The last seven years I have spent
Christmas Eve with my Cousin Toni and her husband and his family and Toni’s
dad, my Uncle Franny. They taught me about the family I missed being a part of,
and about the traditions I needed to learn. They taught me about “Feast of
Seven Fishes” and what it means to have someone love you, <i>simply because you are family.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something I longed for my whole life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I can’t share my
family’s Christmas this year.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t stop in on the Winward’s this year –something I’ve
been doing for over thirty years. Being so far away these last 17 years, this
was the only time all year I would see everyone under one roof. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I can’t share the
Winward’s Christmas this year.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanted to spend the week reuniting with friends I haven’t
seen in a while. Even going on one long overdue (about 30 years) date. I can’t
merge my frail dreams of Christmas with those of people I love and feel
something of their joy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And share their
Christmas.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning it tore me apart. I am Fifty-one. It’s not that
I will be alone at Christmas… It’s that I have <i>always</i> been alone at Christmas. But before this year I was always
able to immerse myself in the company of friends and families (even if they
weren’t the one I lived with) and it felt like Christmas anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t stay single these last fifteen years on purpose. It
just sort of happened. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have given it another
shot. Maybe this Christmas, and a few prior, would have been better. I can’t
say. And I can’t go back now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I do know that if I could just get home, at least this
Christmas would feel right. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that isn’t going to happen and it isn’t going to feel
like Christmas at all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There has never been a question about how much I love my <i>real</i> family and friends. The enormous
pain I’m feeling about not seeing them this year is all the proof I need. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-68909210654329090432014-12-13T09:58:00.000-06:002014-12-13T09:58:08.399-06:00Christmas Letter to my Daughter...<div class="MsoNormal">
Your first Christmas, you were only six months old. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being a dad for the first time was the only present I
needed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You had no idea what was going on, but your mom and I did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every smile. Every laugh. Every single second was a
Christmas present from God to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By your second Christmas, we weren’t a family anymore. You
were still too young to realize what was going on in your world, but I knew. I
knew you’d never have a Christmas again the way it was on your first one. Never
again with both your mom and me together with you. I swore I’d never introduce
the word “divorce” into your world. I can’t remember being more sad at
Christmas than I was that year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I had you… and that made it Christmas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The years flew by. On the Christmases you were with me it
was joyous. We went home every year. Remember the first time I took you to Wannamaker’s
in Philly and showed you the lights? The very same lights I went to see when I
was just a little boy. We have always been great connoisseurs of Christmas
lights, you and I, and with technology being what it is; you weren’t as
impressed with the Wannamaker light display as I was as a child. But you smiled
and we took pictures and made a day of it. I wished the monorail was still
there. And the big toy department. You
were always so happy. Always so caught up in Christmas, like I was when I was
that age. To be honest, you helped me survive those Christmases. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All I ever wanted for my whole life was to create the family
I didn’t have. The home I never knew. I wanted you to wake up every single day
of your life, knowing…almost <i>taking for
granted</i>…that your daddy loved you, that your parents loved each other and
that home was a safe haven. Not the place you wished you could get away from. I
couldn’t give you that. That wasn’t my choice but I had to live with it just
like you did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You made it possible. You and Christmas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You got older. Finding the perfect gifts got a little harder
each year. You weren’t satisfied with just “Dollies and Dishes.” You loved
music. <i>Loved it</i>. I don’t remember a
time when you weren’t singing. Making up little songs in a voice that had no
business coming from a four-year old. You were born with that gift. It showed
up almost as soon as you could talk. Christmas gifts always included something
musical. You still believed in Santa, and I still climbed up on the roof on
Christmas Eve and shook sleigh bells and stomped around and “Ho Ho Ho’d” and
called out to invisible reindeer as you shut your eyes tight and listened as
Santa delivered his packages. I lived for those Christmas Eve, rooftop
adventures. I loved being your daddy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as you were turning ten, my world collapsed again. I
was just getting back to normal. Just feeling like a whole man again after
years of heartbreak from being divorced and missing you so much when we weren’t
together. Then my world spun the wrong direction again and everything was gone.
No job. No success. And not long after…no home. Our beautiful little ranch
house in the country was gone. And with it, our garden, our dogs and our cat
and your beloved pony “Silly Willy.” Gone. You were ten. I’d spent ten years
very carefully trying to never fail you or let you down. But I couldn’t stop it
this time. It was out of my control, and when you’re a dad, you are supposed to
be able to fix everything. I always could. I used to make little repairs around
the house and you would be so amazed at what your daddy could do with his hands
and some tools. But this time, I had no answers. This time I was helpless. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was the Christmas that you stopped believing in Santa.
Your cousins had told you about him, and you told me late that fall. We stopped
doing the Advent Calendars too. And there was no longer any need for the sleigh
bells, or the ladder to the roof. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it was still Christmas. We still had Uncle Franny and Cousin
Toni and Sissy and Nick and Feast of Seven Fishes. And I still had you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year will be the first Christmas in about five years
that we won’t spend together. You’re with your mom…and I understand that. I
love having you living with me now, and life is beginning to rebuild. <i>But I miss Christmas</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss you being little, and I miss being your hero and your
favorite person. I miss making you laugh with my Winnie the Pooh
impersonations. We won’t be watching Christmas movies this year. Or listening
to our traditional Christmas music. Or decorating our house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss our house. I miss Christmas. I miss my little girl.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next Christmas will be the last one before you go off to
college. It will be like all the others you have ever known, except that first
one. It will once again be spent away from one of your parents. I’m still sorry
about that. It still hurts. I would have endured for your sake. I would have
chosen to give you your family, if the choice had been mine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know what future Christmases will look like, or
where you’ll be. One day, some young man will come and win your heart. And
you’ll begin your own Christmas traditions. I hope you’ll have better success
at it than I did. I think I’ve been a pretty good dad. I think I did Christmas
pretty well, given the circumstances. I wish I could have a few more of them
with you. Like when you were little. Like the time we drove to the beach on
Christmas Eve day and saw deer feeding by the side of the woods, and you turned
to me and said; “Look Daddy! It’s Santa’s reindeer getting ready for tonight!”
And you were <i>pretty</i> sure you saw
Rudolph’s nose blinking. And for a minute I felt like the best dad in the
world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I miss you at Christmas. I love you more than ever, even as
you’ve become a wonderful, beautiful young woman. But I remember that first
Christmas. And how much promise it held. You are still the greatest gift I ever
got. And you always will be. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Merry Christmas, Morgan. My beautiful Daisy. You have always
meant Christmas to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daddy </div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-62971077396555792582014-12-04T21:46:00.000-06:002014-12-04T21:46:08.150-06:00An Average White Guy Talks Honestly About Race...<i> </i>Honesty about Race: One Man's perspective<br />
<br />
For all I know, this could be the last post on this blog. I might lose friends. I might be ostracized. I might be shunned or I might be lauded for being a hero and saying what everyone feels. But I do know that I’m going to speak my mind. I want to talk about race.<br />
I am a dad. I have a 16 year old daughter that I am trying to raise in a world that is growing exponentially more insane with each passing day. I am 51 years old and I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime. But these last two weeks I have seen things that are making me furious and I’m sick of some of the garbage being shoveled out from BOTH sides. So I’m going to speak my mind here and let the chips fall, because if we don’t start saying what we think, we can’t ever find out if our thinking is wrong, we won’t ever find common ground, and we’ll just go on being further and further apart from each other.<br />
First, let’s talk about the term “racism” itself. Here’s a simple truth…do you want me to listen to your complaint? Do you want me to hear your problem and help you solve it? Then STOP calling me a racist! STOP saying that every time we disagree, or I don’t see thing your way, it’s because I don’t like you because you are black. That has NOTHING to do with it. Here’s a scoop for you” I disagree with you because I simply don’t agree with you. Nothing more. If I disagreed with you because your skin is black, then I wouldn’t agree with Dr. Ben Carson, or Herman Cain, or Allen West, or JC Watts, or the late E.V. Hill, or Martin Luther King. See my point? We ALL tend to agree with people who agree with us…PERIOD. You do it too. Don’t tell me you don’t. And you know what? That’s okay! That’s life. Stop calling it “hate” “bigotry” or “racism.” It’s none of those things. Its two ideologies that don’t agree and that’s all.<br />
It’s not racist if I don’t like your music. Is it racist if you don’t like mine? I don’t care for Bluegrass very much either. Or Classical. Or Polka. But I don’t HATE Polish people. I don’t like Hip Hop or Rap. In fact I hate it. But I don’t hate you. I DO hate it when you insist on blasting it at the gas station when your car is off and your windows are down. I hate it because it’s obvious you are trying to make me listen to it. Don’t deny it. I used to do the same thing with my Clash CD’s in my Jeep…then I grew up. Here’s another truth for you…I hate it when WHITE kids blast their music too. I don’t drive around with Rush Limbaugh screaming from my overdriven sound system making my trunk lid rumble. How about we agree not to do that to each other? Turn your crap down. I’ll keep MY crap turned down and the world will be a better place.<br />
Now to get a little more serious…<br />
I hate it that you can use a word that I can’t. I don’t want to use it, but if it’s so bad, it’s bad for everybody. It’s not “black” bad or “white” bad…it’s just bad. Do you want me to never use the “N” word? Then stop using it yourself. Otherwise don’t ask me to clean up MY lexicon if you won’t do the same for yours. Stop with the "We're reclaiming it" Bullcrap too. Because that's what it is. The word is bad...stop using it.<br />
I hate it when you say I have no idea what your life is like because I am not around black people. Then when I tell you I have black friends…you call me a racist and tell me that’s a racist thing to say. I can’t freakin win with you people and it’s because of stupid rules like this. Listen…if you tell me I don’t know any black people or have meaningful relationships with them, and I give you evidence otherwise, don’t dismiss that as racism. That hurts. That’s me trying to let you know that I DO have black friends and I AM trying to reach out and when you bite my hand I want to STOP reaching out…you got that?<br />
Now I want to tell you about my history with racism.<br />
I am 51 years old. I was 5 when MLK was killed. I barely remember any of it. I am the generation where the changes were going to begin. My daughter would be where there were no differences anymore. That was the plan, and it started off well, but it’s crashing and burning.<br />
I remember being 7 years old and reading a biography of Jackie Robinson and crying in my bedroom over the way they treated him. I remember being so thrilled to watch Hank Aaron break Babe Ruth’s record and it never dawned on me that he was overtaking a white man. Never. I had black friends in my neighborhood and they were just folks from the neighborhood. At first they were black…then they were just from New Castle like the rest of us. Nobody pushed us into friendships, nobody accused us of being friends for wrong motives, and nobody attacked those friends for being our friends.<br />
Now let me tell you how that has changed. I have three men who I consider my best friends in the world and one of them is black. His name is Rich. Richie and I have been friends for 30 years. When I tell you I love this man, it’s the way I love a brother. Rich and I have been through hard times with our families, our jobs, our Faith. We’ve talked about everything you can talk about with your best friends. I sincerely say that Rich is a better man than I am and I wish I could be half the example of godliness, integrity, Faith, and family that he is. His family has been loving to me since the first day we met and they still are. He is a husband, a father, a loving son and a faithful man of God.<br />
In 2008 when Barack Obama was running for office, I had a race discussion with a black guy in Nashville. He accused me of not having any black friends and not knowing about the black community. I explained about my friend Rich. This man instantly attacked my friend…whom he’d never met in his life…and called him vile names and racial epithets. Listen…if someone is my friend I love them dearly…don’t you DARE attack them and dismiss them simply because they don’t line up with you politically. Calling my black friends “uncle Toms” or “House Niggers” because they have conservative political leanings is FAR worse than anything I could ever call you. And worse…it’s a guarantee that I will not listen to a word you say ever again.<br />
Every time I watch a town burning in racial unrest, I think of my friend Rich, or my friends Tunde, Or Artis, or Carter, or Greg, and my heart breaks. Because I know that in the midst of the rage and anger I'm witnessing, might be some other guys I would come to love and be friends with if they would permit it.<br />
I don’t have to go to your church, your concerts, or your movies to be your friend. I might do some, or all of that at some point, but I don’t HAVE to in order to be your friend and if I don't, it doesn’t make me a racist. None of those things are measuring rods for friendships.<br />
Stop making everything I do racism. Allow me to NOT be the same as you, NOT agree with you 100% of the time, and NOT want to always make sure I hang with an equal number of black folks and white folks. I can’t play basketball. You probably suck at hockey. Let’s meet up for dinner after our games and figure out what we DO have in common. We don’t need to see eye to eye on everything. That would be boring.<br />
I don’t dislike Obama because he’s black. I dislike him because I disagree with pretty much everything he stands for and all his policies…but not because he’s black. I’m not afraid of having a black man in power. I simply think he is a terrible president and he hides behind racism charges to get away with being a bad president. That makes me even MORE angry because it removes my right to honestly disagree. That brings me to my final point…<br />
STOP FINDING RACISM EVERYWHERE! I know racism is real. I know it exists. I HATE it. I want it to stop. But when you keep claiming that everything that doesn’t go your way is because of racism…it makes me simply stop caring about ALL racism and it makes me want to tell you to “suck it up buttercup…fight your own battles!” And believe me…I really DON’T feel that way.<br />
I get angry. I am mad. Life has been hard. But in my heart I LOVE people. I love ALL people. I want there to be peace. I hate it when you are hurting because you are an AMERICAN just like me. JUST an American. You're no more an "African American" than I am an "Italian American." I was born here. My father was born here. That makes me an AMERICAN of Italian heritage. Same with you and Africa. We need to stop this stupid hyphenating. We used to be a nation of neighbors and communities. Now we’re just screaming at each other…or worse…one side is screaming and the other has simply chosen to ignore it.<br />
I want to KNOW you and celebrate your heritage like I celebrate my own. But I celebrate this NATION more. If you're really serious about common ground and ending racism...I GUARANTEE you so are we. But we need to see the same urgency and effort from you, that you want from us. Nothing else is going to work.Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-37320668941826692972014-11-19T05:56:00.001-06:002014-11-19T05:56:39.335-06:00Final push for The Ragamuffin's Christmas"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
Hey kids, this is it.<br />
This will be the last Christmas I try marketing this book. First of all, thank you to all you guys who have supported it over the three years I've had it for sale. Thanks for buying it, telling people about it, writing me notes about it. I've never had ONE person...not one...tell me "Yeah it was okay." Every comment has been emphatic and positive. people gush over it. I don't say that to brag, I say that because it's an honor. Some people are very good writers and when they work their craft the results are amazing. Others tap a vein once in their life. The guy who wrote "The Shack" is one such example. He's really not a good writer. In fact he had two ghost writers who really made "The Shack" readable. His subsequent efforts have essentially been horrible, but hey...he's worth millions so who cares? But he had that one moment where he was inspired and something special happened. (regardless of how you feel about the theology of "The Shack" it was a phenomenon)<br />
Chaim Potok, on the other hand is a craftsman. He was born with the gift. He never wrote an average book in his life. It was all varying degrees of greatness. Timeless authors are like that. Some people are both. Hugo was both. Brennan Manning was both. In the songwriting world, my friend Rick Elias is both. He could sit down and make a conscious effort to write a good, pop-catchy song and nobody could be better at it. He has also written some of the most inspired-in-the-moment songs I have ever heard.<br />
Me...I think I am a tiny bit of each. The natural ability is there, I recognize that, albeit halfway through my life before I did anything with it. But the Christmas book was really, truly, inspired. I know many of my FB friends remember all the way back to that winter in 2010 when I wrote it. It actually began as just a series of blog posts during Advent season that year. The first story was Santa Claus kneeling at the manger and it was written in maybe 5 minutes. The words and the vision just poured out. The next day, if I remember correctly, it was Joseph. That one too, just wrote itself. After about a week, some of you were emailing me and telling me how you were looking forward to the next day's story and how much they were affecting you.<br />
(I treasured that, by the way) So somewhere along the way...about the second week of Advent...I decided to make this an online Advent Calender for grownups. The stories sometimes shocked me as I wrote them. The story of Andre Deputy was one of my favorites because of the way it all came about. I was homeless then and I used to walk about five miles each morning at the walking trails at Williamson County rec center. I used this time to pray and meditate and recharge my weary batteries. I remember thinking..."I don't have a story for today" and I prayed. I asked God for a story that morning. That was the first story I specifically asked God for. The ones prior had come about from the well in my soul. I walked a few steps further and suddenly the name "Andre Deputy" echoed in my heart. It was so strange to me that I literally stopped in my tracks. I never knew the man, I only knew his story because he made the news while he fought his eventual execution. I had come to know Bill Killen, the former Attorney general who became a liaison for criminals who sought pardons and commutation later in life. Bill was a devout believer and a wonderful man, and he worked with Andre in the futile attempt to stay his execution and give him a shot at living the Faith he had come to embrace.<br />
But that morning, I suddenly said the name out loud..."Andre Deputy" the name I had never had a reason to say out loud before. Within seconds the entire story started taking shape in my mind. A murderer, his victims, the baby Jesus, forgiveness...<br />
I was bent over with my hands on my knees sobbing uncontrollably. Another walker came over to me and asked me if I was okay. I was too moved to be embarrassed. I finished my walk, took a shower, went to Panera and did some online research. Sure enough...the victims of Andre's crime were believers. There HAD been a reconciliation and restoration in heaven when he was executed. There was forgiveness.<br />
The story poured out like a river and I was doing my best to hide my tears while I typed furiously in Panera. I remember when I posted that one...the comments were amazing. That one story touched so many people.<br />
After that it was easy. I prayed every morning after that for the story of the day. So many times I found myself literally overwhelmed by the emotion of the visual images the stories evoked before I even wrote a word. The Roman soldier whose hands had been blood-stained for years but who finds them white as snow after holding Jesus. The innkeeper. Maybe my other favorite story was Mother Teresa. For whatever reason the thought occurred to me to find out her birthname and use it throughout the story and only reveal her identity with the final words. That made it more emotional than anything I had written outside of the Andre Deputy story.<br />
I guess I needed to remind myself this. I am struggling with this book. If I hadn't written it, I would have wished I had. I think it's very special and it has something that everyone seeks at Christmas. It's one of the most unique Christmas stories I've ever read. And yet I can't GIVE this book away.<br />
You guys have been wonderful and bought copies and told people about it. But I have not figured out how to market this to the masses and get them interested. I'm tired of trying. You are probably sick of seeing my hoot-suite automatic posts every hour during Christmas too. So this will be the final attempt. After this Christmas it just sits there on Amazon and if people buy it, they buy it.<br />
I really NEED this book to succeed. Not simply for the dollars. I'm a good enough writer that if I wanted to simply write for a buck, I'd trot out some vampire-eats-zombies storyline with sex and gore and issue it under an assumed name and make a few dollars. But I don't want that. I don't think all my books are special. I think they're all good, but Ragamuffin is special. The stories are special. The setting is special. I need this book to do well to show me somehow that six years of living like an animal actually bore some fruit. I need something to be a little proud of.<br />
Thanks for listening to my rant. Bear with me for one final Christmas push. And please pray for success on this. Thanks kidsCraig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-19733390050922606812014-11-18T15:48:00.000-06:002014-11-18T15:48:10.200-06:00Video Trailer for "The Ragamuffin's Christmas"<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smKJWbWJb_Y">Video Trailer for The Ragamuffin's Christmas</a>Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-53368687659480985392014-10-31T09:37:00.000-05:002014-10-31T09:37:20.290-05:00Thoughts on hope, from a formerly homeless man. (Spoiler...Obama didn't give me my hope)<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hope deferred
makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” Proverbs
13:12<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today marks the 73<sup>rd</sup> day I’ve been employed here
at Liberty University. For six years I struggled to find work while living as a
homeless man. I’m intelligent, very hard working, willing, and able. I took
anything offered while looking for the “perfect” job. I’ve built chicken coops
and pressure washed driveways and even cleaned windows for a hundred bucks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I first lost my job in 2008, I refused to collect unemployment.
I’m old school and I wanted to work my way out of it. A friend reminded me that
state unemployment is insurance. It’s a policy you have been paying into since
the day you started working on a W2 basis. For me that was since age 15 when I
worked at the local <i>Gino’s</i>
restaurant. He told me this was my money; I had been paying into the fund and
paying for others when they were having a hard time and so I should take what I’d
earned. So I did. That lasted about six months. After that I was told to enroll
for the federal unemployment program. This I refused. Federal unemployment is
taxpayer funded and it wasn’t money I had worked for. That’s how I saw it, at
least and so I refused. I refused food stamps and Section 8 housing too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am entirely convinced that this stubborn refusal to accept
a handout was the reason I kept trying to solve the problems instead of simply
giving up and becoming a shame-filled, broken, humiliated dad, who lost any
shred of hope and was enslaved by the system. I didn’t do that. It doesn’t make
me a hero. But it makes me different from a lot of folks these days. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadly, the long, drawn out battle also stripped me of
something besides my dignity and pride. It dimmed my hope. I’ve always been an
optimist. So much so that my friends would frequently have to reel me back in
from taking leaps of faith because I always saw everything as an opportunity,
every person as basically good, every day as a new chance. Six years of homelessness,
broken dreams and mostly deferred hope, changed that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of my life I was the funniest guy in the room. I was
always singing a song, if not out loud, at least in my heart. I was quick with
a smile, just as quick to laugh, and quicker to forgive. I had a long fuse and
a thick skin. I had the same passions and the same bedrock values, but I didn’t
defend them with the edge and the anger that, sadly, became more and more
prevalent as the last six years progressed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as the years dragged on, my heart grew sicker and sicker.
This verse is one of the most perfect observations of humanity in the entire
Bible. I think that I will ask Solomon one day; “What were you observing when
you recorded this bit of wisdom? Whose life had been so badly shattered, who
was it in your administration, or your family, who had been beaten and defeated
for such a long time that you literally saw his heart getting sick?” That’s
something to ponder for a lifetime. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve lived this for the last six years. I saw my own heart
grow colder and harder and sicker as time wore on. Each day, the scar tissue
got thicker and the flame grew more dim and the warmth turned tepid. The
laughter was gone. The jokes weren’t funny anymore, the smile faded. In their
place were tears, anger, a short temper, words that hurt more than encouraged,
and almost no optimism. I became an almost entirely different person than I had
been for the forty-five years prior. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started my job on August 18<sup>th</sup>. The first month
or so I had some difficulty adjusting. I was very wary of people. I had not
been in a daily social setting since 2008 and it is sad how you can get out of
practice when you live in such an isolated way as I had been. I told a coworker
today that I understand why homeless people talk to themselves so much. <i>It’s because nobody else talks to them.</i> We
aren’t made to be so isolated, and it eventually renders every other person an
intruder. I think that’s the real danger of so many mobile devices. We walk
around texting, reading email, Facebooking or checking sports scores with our
heads down looking at a six-square-inch screen and we are quickly becoming a
world full of individuals without recognition of anyone else. We don’t see
people as people anymore…we see them as Twitter handles, Facebook “friends” or “Selfie-Stars”
(That is officially MY term. Don’t you rascals steal it) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was living like Will Smith in “I am Legend” walking alone
through my own personal post-apocalyptic world and talking with mannequins to
fight the sheer loneliness of my life. The hope had been deferred for so long
that my heartsickness was almost terminal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took a month for me to begin to feel like my old self
again. It took another two weeks after that to really feel comfortable around
my coworkers and begin to crack jokes or say hello in the hallway or smile. But
it has happened. It’s wonderful that, while six years of damage was done, it
only took two months to restore so much life to my soul. I have a lot of hope
again. But I will never forget what hopelessness feels like.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I began this journey six years ago, our nation had just
elected a man who promised “Hope.” He was wrong. We have less hope now than
ever before. We are more changed and less hopeful and, sadly, more broken as a
society and less united as a country than ever in our history. Obama failed.
But as much as I dislike this president and his politics and his personal
beliefs, I’m not blaming him entirely. We should have known better. No
president…NO president, can simply imbue hope in the hearts of people by
passing laws or passing out money. You can’t <i>give</i> hope. Only God can do that. What we can do for each other is
cultivate hope; we can fertilize it and protect it for each other. But we can’t
grant it. Reagan never tried to give us hope…he pointed us within ourselves and
told us how to find the hope we had already. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People don’t need free money, free cell phones or free
health care. They need a job. They need a purpose. They need a dream that
pushes them and they need a reason to believe that they can –with hard work-
achieve that dream. They need opportunity. I finally got an opportunity and it
made all the difference. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel my heart healing at light speed and it makes me
happy, but it also makes me sad. I hurt people while my heart was so hardened
and my hope was so deferred. I have asked forgiveness from those I needed to
ask and I’ve received it for the most part but it still makes me sad. It makes
me sad for a lot of others out there who are also feeling their heart shutting
down day by day, and because of this, they are running people off when they
really need their company. Hope deferred makes the heart sick. A sick heart
shuts off the light of the soul. I have hope again but I wonder about those who
do not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember this when you interact with someone who has been
losing hope for a long time. Remember this when they bark at you or snipe at
you or simply walk past you without a smile or a nod. They aren’t trying to be
monsters…they’re simply <i>heartsick</i>.
They need hope. Not a government program, or a free check or a cell phone or a
handout. They need a reason. They need a purpose. They need to feel like real
productive people again. They need to come home to a house they are paying for,
sit at a table they bought, eat groceries they didn’t buy with a “SNAP” card,
and sink into their own bed, feeling worn out but thankful for work and for the
promise that tomorrow brings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
That…is hope. Without it, there is only sickness.<o:p></o:p></div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-46777992712095476312014-10-29T21:31:00.000-05:002014-10-30T04:43:56.671-05:00My Review of Dave Ramsey's "The Legacy Journey"<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is funny.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t have to live very many years to understand this,
but the older you get, the truer it is every day. Life is funny.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you know me at all and know my story these last six years
or so, you know how almost surreal it is that I am sitting at my kitchen table,
in Lynchburg Virginia, writing a review of Dave Ramsey’s latest book. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just that sentence alone is chock full of miracles. I’m
sitting in my kitchen. At my table. In Lynchburg Virginia. Writing a review of
Dave Ramsey’s latest book. For the uninitiated let’s review why this is so many
answers to prayer all in one line of type.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the last six years I have been homeless. I slept in my
1996 Yukon, parked on a friend’s property in Franklin TN. Before that, I slept
in my 1995 Volvo 850, until it died at the 250,000 mile mark. That was the car
I had when I lost my entire career, my home, and for the six years that
ensued…my hope. When I first became homeless I would hide it behind the Oak
Hill Assembly of God on Franklin Road in Nashville TN, where I lived the past
seventeen years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So my having a kitchen -with a table- is nothing short of a
miracle to me. My kitchen is in my little townhouse in Lynchburg, Virginia. I’m
here because I work for my alma mater, Liberty University. So I have a job, a
home, a kitchen with a table, a new (to me) car, and best of all…I have hope.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also have this friend in Nashville. Maybe you’ve heard of
the guy. His name is Dave Ramsey. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, that line right there made some of you chuckle. Or it
made you “LOL” as we say these days. If it made you laugh, then you know why.
If it didn’t, here is a link to the recent history with Dave and myself. This
explains most of it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://shinnyandshavings.blogspot.com/2014/05/my-dinner-with-dave-and-sharon.html">http://shinnyandshavings.blogspot.com/2014/05/my-dinner-with-dave-and-sharon.html</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a lot more to this, of course but this isn’t a
story about me and Dave. It’s about his new book. However, in the spirit of
full disclosure I wanted to get these things on the table because I know…let me
emphasize…I <i>know</i>, that I am going to
get slammed for writing this review. I got slammed for merely having dinner
with the guy, so I expect a few torpedoes here. But honestly...I don’t care.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here is my review of Dave Ramsey’s newest book: “The
Legacy Journey”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And for the record, Dave did not approach me at all about
reviewing this book. He doesn’t even know I am doing this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The Legacy Journey<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dave Ramsey</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Copyright 2014 Lampo Licensing LLC</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Published by Ramsey Press, The Lampo Group, Inc.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brentwood TN</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
236 Pages</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all,
let me say I simply love books. I love all kinds of books. I love the way they
look and the way they smell and the way they feel in your hands. I will
probably never own a Kindle version of anything, because a book is simply
something you hold in your hands and feel the pages between your fingers. So
the first thing I would say is, as a product, <i>The Legacy Journey</i> is beautiful. It looks like a journal. And in
many ways it is. Half a lifetime has gone into the development of this
particular chapter of Dave Ramsey’s life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a book review
is not about the outside. It’s about the content. <br />
Right up front, you need to know that if you think this book is simply "Okay, I've followed the steps of <i>Financial Peace, </i>I'm rich...now what?" You are in for a surprise. This book isn't just about what to do once you've accumulated those "piles of cash," Ramsey frequently references. It's about something far more important.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This book taught me a lot. It taught me a lot about Dave Ramsey that I simply did not know before. Living in Nashville for seventeen
years, where everyone claims Christianity, it’s easy to simply assume that
everyone there was born a Believer and has had a faith-walk all their lives.
This book explains that Dave came to Faith in Christ as an adult. When you put
this in perspective, you begin to understand that he was maturing as a
Christian at the same time God was taking him down a path he had not planned
on. A path that challenged him at every turn but also blessed him beyond what
he had imagined. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s hard to mature as a believer when you are having
success. That’s just human nature. The more you have, the more doors seem to
open for you and the easier it is to be caught up in your own hype and read too
many of your own newspaper clippings. Dave Ramsey had to intentionally
cultivate his spiritual growth even while his financial and professional life
was exploding exponentially. That takes discipline. We’ve seen the other side
of this with the rock stars and celebrities who come to Christ and are thrust
in the evangelical limelight before they have a chance to put down roots.
Ramsey had to make it a point to avoid this sort of pitfall. That’s simply not
easy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it explained a lot as I read it, knowing that the Dave
Ramsey I heard on the airwaves in Nashville when I first got to town in 1997,
was in many ways not the same radio host I heard on my last day there this past
May. Ramsey has grown as a believer. That’s obvious, and much like those
members of the Sanhedrin in Acts 4 who saw the dramatic change in Peter and
John and could only attribute it to their having spent much time in the
presence of Jesus. Jesus will work off your rough edges if you let him and it
is evident through this book that Dave is at his most reflective, and the
imprint of his years with Jesus are showing more boldly than ever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was one
troubling section of this book that I need to address. It’s chapter two.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The chapter is called “The War on Success” and to be
honest…I hate it. I hate that it had to be written. I hate that in this
country, the day has come when successful people –particularly successful
people of faith- have to literally hide their success for fear they will be
run-through by the acid tongued both outside the church and, sadly, within. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s funny…when I was a homeless man, the people who
attacked the wealthy could not believe that I didn’t hate them, rage against
them for being wealthy, and twist scriptures to condemn them. But I couldn’t. I
am a full-on, hard core capitalist. I have no problem with people being
wealthy. Heck <i>I want</i> to be wealthy. I
know as many mean-spirited, unkind, unfriendly “poor” folks as I do rich ones.
Money only amplifies what you are. If you’re a jerk at your core…you’re just
going to be a jerk with cooler toys. Why people have become so animus toward
people who work hard and have success is something I’ll never understand. Dave
addresses this in his book and he does it with patience and kindness,
explaining it in a way that assumes that perhaps those folks simply never did
the numbers. He treats their contempt as an oversight, and a result of their
lack of information. The chapter is a perfect rebuttal to those who hold to a
mantra that money is somehow akin to evil. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The chapters that follow are some of the best writing I’ve
read on the value of being a better, deeper, more whole person. This isn’t a
book about money…not really. This is a book about really being <i>rich</i>. Rich in wisdom, rich in integrity,
rich in character. Rich in the things that your kids grow teary-eyed when they
reminisce about them to your grandchildren one day. When you’re seven years
old, you might brag about how much money your dad has, but when you are a
little older, you want to be able to brag about the man your dad <i>is</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is really what this book is about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dave Ramsey takes his readers on a journey to a mountain
top. Mountains give us the advantage of looking both backward in victory, and
forward in expectation. On this particular mountain, Ramsey reflects not only
on who he was way down in that valley you can barely see anymore, but who he
became along the way, and who he sees himself becoming as he takes on the next
leg of the journey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His regular listeners and readers have made this journey
with him, and while their mountain might look a little different, the view is
likely just as rewarding. Reading this book you begin to understand that all
his talk about stewardship, and being intentional, and setting goals and having
plans, is not just for the financial areas of life. In fact that’s the easiest
place to learn those traits, because the results are instantly visible, and
palpable. No, reading this book you come to understand that the character you
develop here with your money, becomes character everywhere else. Tithing is
just a dollar figure, but a giving heart is cultivated. Carefully managing your
checkbook becomes carefully managing your daily planner. A good steward of his paycheck
becomes a good steward of his workday and honors his boss. A person with
financial integrity, reflects a person with spiritual integrity. Money problems
are really just symptoms. This book is about those who saw the symptoms,
diagnosed the problem, took the medicine, got well, and then became stronger
than ever. That is the Legacy Journey as Dave Ramsey describes it here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His chapter on “Safeguarding Your Legacy” moved me deeply. I
finished reading this book in the lobby of my church, waiting for my daughter
to finish her small groups. On the way home we discussed my legacy, frankly and
openly. It was a good conversation and I explained to her why I had asked. This
chapter made me renew my vow to God to live my life before her in a manner
honoring our Lord. It has been a hard road these last six years and she
suffered much along with me. It was good to read Dave’s thoughts on what a
legacy really is and how you measure it and how you guard against ruining it.
These are great tips I am implementing before I even go to bed tonight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dave writes at great length about the value of family,
history, integrity and faith in this book. But one story touched me deeply and
I’ll close this review with this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He writes a wonderful story about a man named Clyde Eckles
West. To relate the entire story would be to spoil one of the wonderful, sweet
moments in this volume. But suffice it to say that I blinked back a few tears
as the story unfolded and the legacy of this man came into focus. Legacy really
is everything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In closing, I have to say this is a really great book. Great
in its necessity. There is a lot more to this work than “Just another Dave
Ramsey book about money.” Far more. A few years ago I read a wonderful book by
a fellow Liberty University grad, Mark DeMoss. The book was “The Little Red
Book of Wisdom.” It’s one of my favorite books about just plain being a better
person. Dave Ramsey’s new book is a similar work. Sure, there is the expected
money advice. That’s what he is known for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But over the years, this is also a man who has been broken,
rebuilt, and reshaped many times as God continued to “complete the work he has
begun in you.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Legacy Journey is about taking a longer than usual pause
to reflect, give thanks, reset the compass, and prepare for the rest of the
voyage, while carefully leaving the road you travel a little better for the
next sojourner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a wonderful read and I give it five stars. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-16787092723312410892014-10-20T08:27:00.000-05:002014-10-20T08:27:44.520-05:00Pastor Appreciation...This month is Pastor Appreciation Month. We'll be out of town next Sunday and the next week will be November. So I thought I'd post this here today.<br />
I have been a Christian since I was nine years old. In 42 years of faith, I have only had 5 pastors. I just don't church-hop. I like to go to one church and get involved.<br />
So here is my list of appreciation for the men who have pastored me in my life. Plus a couple who were never actually my pastor, as least not officially, but who are pastors and whom I respect.<br />
<br />
<b>Dr. E. L. Britton</b><br />
He was my first pastor. I went to the church he started for almost 20 years. I became a believer there.<br />
Pastor Britton started the church as a vacation Bible school in his neighborhood. He and his wife would move all the furniture out of their little house and into the garage or out on the lawn covered in tarps, then hold VBS inside for a week. He was a big man. Strong, both physically and spiritually.<br />
Most folks saw him as a father figure and many of us still do.<br />
Pastor E.L. is old school. It's funny the phases you go through. When you're 9 years old and all this is new, you just assume this is how every church does it and this is how it's supposed to be. Then you hit your late teens and twenties and you seek for something new. Then you get older, have a family, see the world through the eyes of fatherhood and after walking in your faith for a while and you yearn for some of that old school again. There was comfort in going to his church. Comfort in knowing everybody, in growing up with all the kids and the adults knowing you. Comfort in hearing battle- hardened old saints stand slowly to their feet, and lead us in prayer on Wednesday nights. I learned to pray there. I learned the value of living a consistent, honorable life. Great men like Harry Flohr and Dad Stanley, and Harold Alexander showed me that.<br />
Pastor Britton is the Pastor Emeritus there now. He just turned 93 and he's still as spry as the mayor.<br />
He's one of those folks who don't have to wait to hear God say "Well done good and faithful servant..." because God is already saying it. He taught me that a pastor loves his people. He taught me that if you truly want a church to function as a family, you lead by example. He was never unavailable, he answered every phone call, shook the last hand, put his arm around any needy shoulder. He was and is a great man, who I admire and love deeply.<br />
<br />
<b>Pastor Paul Walters</b><br />
If you pinned me down and made me choose, I'd tell you Paul Walters was my favorite pastor ever. I was 29 years old. I was pretty broken and very burned out from the legalism that had so entrenched itself in the Fundamental Baptist movement of my youth. I was seeking something deeper with God. Something that would last. Some friends of mine attended Praise Assembly in Newark, Delaware and I decided to visit. I fell in love with the place and the people instantly. I fell most deeply in love with the man who quickly became my next pastor, Paul Walters. Pastor Paul and his wife, Betty are the sweetest, most loving, most caring people you will ever meet. The Apostle Paul compared the job of a pastor to that of a shepherd. Jesus did the same thing. There is a reason. A pastor must be a certain kind of man...he must have the same qualities a shepherd has. Sheep are stupid, stubborn, weak, defenseless, and easily attacked. They are dirty and smelly and have a short attention span. Sound familiar? Shepherds have to be gentle, yet occasionally harsh. Too harsh and the sheep will become timid and run off and get killed. Too gentle and the sheep will wander off and get lost. Because sheep innately wander. A shepherd really has to KNOW his sheep. He has to love them because being a shepherd is a thankless job that demands sacrifice.<br />
Paul and Betty Walters love people. Really, really <i>love</i> them. Paul Walters would go without food if someone else needed his lunch. I've never know a more loving, caring, soft hearted man in ministry. Jesus wept over the grief of Lazarus' family. He let their pain <i>touch</i> him. Pastor Walters was the same way. He would put his arm around you when you were hurting and you just knew...he cares so much that this is hurting him as much as it is you. He was my pastor until I left Delaware in 1997. I miss those glorious days at Praise Assembly. I'm so thankful to still be in contact with this wonderful, Christlike man and his wife. If I were to become a pastor tomorrow...I'd just try to do it like he did it. If I came even close to being the pastor he was, I would be a great success.<br />
<br />
<b>Pastor Steve Allen</b><br />
I moved to Nashville in 1997 with a pregnant wife and $450 dollars in my pocket. I went immediately to work doing carpentry and we immediately set out looking for a church. We visited a few places but eventually settled on Oak Hill Assembly of God. Although we had only been there a few months, they gave Holly a baby shower. The night my daughter was born, Steve Allen showed up and stayed for three hours until she arrived. Because he knew we had no family there, and he didn't want us to be alone. That's the kind of pastor he was. He is supremely talented. I've only ever heard maybe four or five pianists that were his equal. He loves music. Mostly, he loves people. <i>Loves them</i>. He is the kind of man who never sees people...he sees <i>souls</i>. He would share Jesus with a statue and have it praying in an hour. He finds a way to introduce Jesus into any conversation he is having. He was my pastor but he was more a friend. He served selflessly until just a couple of years ago when he finally retired. I left Oak Hill Assembly in 2004 when I bought a house that was too far away, and I found something local. But I stayed in touch with Steve Allen through the years and love he and his beautiful wife Vada, as much as ever.<br />
<br />
<b>Pastor Jonathan Falwell</b><br />
This brings us to present day. I moved to Lynchburg in May of this year. The last six years have been hellish and devastating. My lack of a pastor made it all the more painful and made the desert walk all the more lonely. I had a church. I attended regularly and was an active member. But I didn't have a <i>pastor</i>.<br />
Moving to Lynchburg was a revelation. I was bitter, I admit it. Going through the sequence of devastating blows I went through from 1999 until this year wore me out and made me an emotional recluse. Having to endure that all alone was the worst part of it. By the time I moved here with my daughter, I was wounded and looking for a fight. But deep inside I was desperate for someone to restore my faith in <i>the faith</i>. Someone to show me that pastors still love people and shepherds love sheep and churches still make a difference by loving. I found it here.<br />
Jonathan and I were classmates in a few classes in our freshman year at Liberty University. I consider him a friend, and he might say the same about me, but we weren't "buddys" in school. Mostly because I worked a full time job and didn't have much time to hang out, and also because I innately knew almost everybody else was trying to cultivate a friendship with him because of who he was, and I was never comfortable doing that. I had one famous friend in my life, and the one thing he appreciated about our friendship was that we never ever talked about what he did for a living. We were just friends, simply because we liked each other.<br />
Jonathan and I laughed a lot in our couple of classes. He has a great sense of humor, like his dad.<br />
Fast forward 30 years and now I'm back in Lynchburg with just enough money to pay two months rent, a truck full of tools, and no housewares. We didn't even have dishes. My daughter had a beautiful bed (mattress and boxspring) because a dear friend in Nashville blessed us. Every step of the way, God provided.<br />
Now, Thomas Road Baptist Church is enormous. 14000 people call it home on Sunday mornings. yet in all that, they saw me and my daughter. They <i>saw</i> us. The church I attended before this one is 1/3 the size, yet I sat, homeless in their midst, and they never even put an arm around my shoulder. No encouragement. No cup of coffee and a chance to talk and feel like a human. Nothing. They knew my situation, but ignored it. I felt worse about what had happened to me, when I went there...not better.<br />
Thomas Road was 180 degrees different. Since day 1, people called asking what they could do to help us. They gave us furniture, dishes, glasses. They showed an enormous amount of caring concern for my daughter. They spread the word and found me work until I finally got hired at Liberty. They loved us genuinely. In that sea of faces, <i>they saw us</i> and reached out. About 6 weeks ago, I got a text message from Pastor Jonathan. I had not gone to him since we got here. Once again, I just didn't want to heavy up. He's a pastor but he is also a husband and a father and people were already doing the job of the church in my life. But he knew we were here after a while, and he texted me "Hey Buddy...how is everything going? Tell me what's happening with you and your daughter."<br />
You know...I spent the last 6 years living most of them in my car. I got my degree while homeless. I battled and fought and tried to rebuild my life. Most of all I remained faithful to my daughter and stayed in her world, In all that I never...not one time...got a text from the pastor where I was, encouraging me, loving me, telling me he was praying for me or especially...asking about my daughter.<br />
Jonathan Falwell loves people. There are a lot of ways he is different from his dad and a lot he is like him. In this way, he is just like his dad. He <i>loves</i> people. After either service on Sunday morning, he stands at the front and greets anyone who wants a minute...or 10...of his time. No security guards creating a wall to separate him from the flock he leads. No glancing at his watch. No looking over your shoulder to see who else he would rather be talking to. Jonathan loves people.<br />
I love TRBC. This church restored my faith in the way churches are supposed to be and how people are supposed to love. Jonathan didn't do it my watering down the truth and avoiding tough topics. He shoots straight and preaches what needs to be preached. But when you genuinely love people, you can say hard things and people will listen because they know you love them. And he does.<br />
It's likely that TRBC will be my last stop, and Jonathan will be my last pastor. I'm excited at the prospect. I love this place and I love my pastor...because he loves me as well.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Honorable Mentions</b><br />
There are a few men who have been pastoral to me, even though I was not a member of their church. They deserve a little appreciation as much as anyone else so here is the list.<br />
<br />
<b>Pastor Dave Lewis</b><br />
Technically, he actually was my pastor. He was my youth pastor in high school, my coach in soccer and baseball, and above all, he is my friend.<br />
Dave has been a friend who stuck closer than a brother in both good times and bad. He always seemed to know just when to call, just what to say, and just how to pray for me when I was enduring the heartbreaking devastation of my divorce, and then, seven years later, when I lost my career and lived in my car. He laughs at my jokes and cries my tears with me. He has never given up on me or stopped believing in me.<br />He pastors Ewell Bible Baptist Church in Dothan AL. It's a medium sized, church in a small town. Big enough to be self-sustaining, but small enough to allow the members to really know each other and really interact as a family. Dave and his wife Cindy love their people dearly. They pour themselves out daily in service to everyone. They have a vision for the lost that drives their every decision and motivates their mission. Their church is very blessed to have them as pastor.<br />
They've raised two beautiful girls to adulthood and are now doting grandparents. Their sons in law are godly men who love their wives and children well. Dave and his wife did it right.<br />
Above all else...he loves people. He loves leading them and loving them and serving them.<br />
He loves being a shepherd.<br />
<br />
<b>Pastor John Willis</b><br />
John and I go all the way back to high school. He's been a friend for a long time as is his wife. I don't know of a more integritous, honest, caring man than "PJ." He chose to go to the burned out, wounded-by-church, weary souls when he started his church. He didn't want the easy road. The decision has been costly at times but the harvest has been great and it's been meaningful. People go to Freedom Biker Church North, and they see something that instantly says: "This is for <i>me</i>. They get me. I'm safe here." John preaches the real truth. He's a tremendous apologist who knows his stuff. But he has never used any of that as a blunt instrument. He and Kathy have sacrificed and loved their folks well. Beyond that, he's been a true friend who encouraged me when I was down and who believed in me all along the way. I love this guy, and I love his vision that says "Give me all the sheep you don't want to love. Give me the ones you have no patience for or don;t find attractive. There's room here for them along with all these "good" sheep. I'll love them all the same."<br />
That, is a pastor.<br />
<br />
<b>Pastor Tim Britton</b><br />
Pastor Tim is another guy who left his imprint on my heart since childhood. When I was a kid, and attending his dad's church, Tim was my hero. He was always joyful, always smiling, always deeply in love with the Lord. And he always loved people.<br />
He pastors a church near home and he has taken that church from it's past history into a new vision. It wasn't an easy journey...a lot of folks didn't want to take a new approach. but under it all, Tim loves people and that lends itself to trust. The trust paid off. Crossroads Bible Church is a wonderful place. It's a great cross-section of the community it serves and it's abounding in love. Pastor Tim is as joyous as he has ever been. You can't be in his presence for more than a few minutes before you feel like he knows you, he loves you, and you matter deeply to him. He's always believed in me and that made all the difference. You have to love a man who loves as well as he does.<br />
<br />
<b>Pastor George Tuten</b><br />
George and I have know each other since elementary school. We went to the same church, the same Christian High School, and the same college. He has been my hero at times and always my friend. George started a church from scratch a few years ago. Starting a church is not easy and it takes a toll. But George and Cindy remained faithful to their vision and the calling of God and God was faithful in return. Liberty Baptist Church sits in the middle of expansion and growth in lower New Castle County. His burning desire is the communication of the Gospel with the community this church is entrenched in. George is an excellent scholar who has put in the time it takes to really know the Word. Above all he loves Jesus. He loves Him deeply and he loves people because of that. he's been a friend, a mentor, and a brother who has spoken truth to my heart. He's been a great role model and has raised wonderful children who all love and serve Jesus. I love this man and respect all he has done.<br />
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There are others I suppose. But the list is long already. Pastoring people is hard work. It's easy to see the others out there who turned it into a popularity contest and became "Flockstars" and get caught up in that too. But these men resisted that temptation and remained faithful to one flock and loved them well. Pastoring takes a toll. It's demanding and you never ever ever please everyone. And far too often you only hear from the ones you somehow failed to make happy, and almost never from the ones you served so well. So this is my little way of letting these great men know..."You served so well. You did it so right. Keep going, don't quit when you think you want to. If my thanks and appreciation mean anything at all, let them be enough fuel for your tank for one more day and keep doing it the way you are doing it. Thank you for what you've meant to me.<br />
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<br />Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-78109725954373768522014-09-17T20:53:00.001-05:002014-09-17T20:55:29.512-05:00"Hill Country" My memory-infused birthday present<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">My birthday present came in the mail today. It's a little late, but right on time...as great presents can often be. I bought it for myself. A little something to celebrate year number 51. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">So I'm sitting here at my table. Holding this book in my hands </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tNAYuCDCE4k/VBo6eEnhShI/AAAAAAAAAdo/_MnzpmCsOXM/s1600/20140917_210648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tNAYuCDCE4k/VBo6eEnhShI/AAAAAAAAAdo/_MnzpmCsOXM/s1600/20140917_210648.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">and almost not wanting to open it for fear it will do one of two things:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">Make me regret buying it because I can't ever go back to this time again. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">Or make me regret buying it, </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">because after 40 years, maybe my memories of Gene Hill and the "Hill Country" column are kinder than the truth of his writing.<br />I quickly come to my senses...Mr. Hill was every bit the great writer.<br />Here's why he was so special to me...<br />I grew up loving the outdoors and wanting to hunt and fish. I would have easily spent every waking hour that I wasn't in school, either on the baseball diamond or beside "NoneSuch Creek" with my three best friends catching fish or -later when I was old enough- hunting for whatever was in season.<br />It wasn't just about having success...it was about <i>being out there</i>. </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">I drank my first cup of coffee at the Townsend Fire Hall Deer Hunter's breakfast. I walked miles and miles of hedgerow in St. Georges and at Phillips Nursery looking for rabbit. I ate packed lunches on hot summer afternoons at NoneSuch Creek and "The A-Bridge" and sneaking back into Smalley's Dam to fish with Johnny Wilkins and Richard Ferraro.<br />I learned to track deer. I learned how to smell the rain coming before it got there. I bought my first pocket knife at the Western Auto, to use on those excursions. I could decipher the call of the birds in the treetops. I learned how to set up a string of Canada Goose decoys.<br />Those days in the woods were about a lot more than just hunting or fishing. They were about <i>moments</i>.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302948px; line-height: 20px;">I saved my paper route money when I was a kid and subscribed to Field and Stream. For me, the magazine was more than just good information, it was a script, of sorts. I would read about hunting Dall sheep in the Sierra and fishing for Steelhead on the Columbia and I would imagine what it would be like to do that with my dad. My father wasn't a part of my life then and my stepfather was not an outdoorsman at all and so I had to do these things by myself with my friends and their dads when I could. But when I would read about them in Field and Stream, I was there. I was out there with a really great Ithaca or a Purdy and a really smart, game, bird dog and I was taking quail with my dad and maybe my grandfather and I was where my heart always wanted to be.<br />Gene Hill's column was always on the very last page of Field and Stream. It had to be. The way he spun a wonderful, warm tale of the outdoors, there could be nothing after.<br />I guess I was nine or ten when I read him for the first time. From that day until this, I wanted to write like Gene Hill. I wanted to write like some others too...but Gene Hill was the very first author I ever read that I consciously made a connection with, and wanted to emulate. Gene Hill made you feel like you were in the blind with him, or walking that hedgerow with him as his champion Brittney Spaniel worked the honeysuckle.<br /><i>And he made you feel like he really liked your being there</i>.</span>Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-48451869710817935022014-09-11T08:42:00.000-05:002014-09-11T08:42:41.901-05:00Remembering...* I wrote and posted this last year on this day. I thought it was worthy of reposting.<br />
<br />
I wanted to write something about today but I couldn't make the words come out for a long time.<br />
12
years later and we're so dangerously close to being overtaken by the
same animals who flew airplanes into our iconic towers. Last night our
president essentially put OUR military behind the <i>very people </i>who
committed that barbaric attack 12 years ago. I wish I could forget. I
wish we had eliminated the threat forever and we could all forget. But
we can't.<br />
...<i>so we remember</i>.<br />
I remember watching in
horror and shock and then racing across town to gather up my 3 year old
daughter at her daycare. On the way over, I worried that something would
happen in the meantime...they'd attack the children, they'd bomb on a
local level. Then I got there and saw on the faces of the other moms and
dads, the pain of disbelief, and the frightening horrors of simply not
being able to grasp an attack on our soil. I saw the hollowness in the
eyes of the parents who thought as I did: <i>We didn't know where we would really be safe but we knew our kids were safer with us.</i><br />
My
daughter and her friends were playing happily, not realizing that these
were the final waning moments of the world they were born into. I wish I
had thought to take a picture. Or write it down. Or just watch through
the doorway for five more minutes before walking in and taking her in my
arms. After that day...after that moment, my daughter would live under
the shadow of terrorism for the rest of her life. She has grown up with
security threat levels crawling across the screen on news stations. With
being all but strip searched at airports. With surveillance, and war
and fear.<br />
It was the last day of innocence for her. At least as
far as her nation was concerned. If I had realized it then, I would have
savored it a few minutes longer. Maybe instead of whisking her off, I
would have let her play with her friends until we were the last ones to
leave. Maybe 30 minutes, maybe an hour. Just a little while longer
before the post-terrorist world became her home.<br />
I remember
leaving the daycare, and calling her mom, and telling her I had her, and
we were going to my house. And I remember not knowing what the heck to
do. I went home. We stopped at the grocery store to get some things in
case they...you know...in case this was bigger than even the WTC. I
remember thinking this might be a full on invasion.<br />
The events
that unfolded throughout that day are well rehearsed. We can all recall
how it happened. What still hurts is how it felt. <i>How it still feels</i>.<br />
Every
generation has an "End of Innocence" For me, it was the day Reagan was
shot. For my daughter it was this day. Her innocence ended before it
ever began.<br />
I love this country. Love it like a living, breathing
thing. As crazy as this sounds, there are times when I wish I could
literally wrap my arms around the expanse of her, and just hold on and
let my heart beat into this sacred soil. I love her that much. She was
everything to my family -immigrants on both sides- and she is everything
to me. I miss the way she was when I was young. When my friends and I
had no fears of airplanes, and bright blue September skies.<br />
I wish we had leaders who loved her this much. Because her people still do.<br />
I still do...<br />
<div class="entry-content">
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I</span></div>
<div class="entry-content">
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I wanted to write something about today but I couldn’t make the words come out for a long time. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">12
years later and we’re so dangerously close to being overtaken by the
same animals who flew airplanes into our iconic towers. Last night our
president essentially put OUR military behind the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>very people<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i>who
committed that barbaric attack 12 years ago. I wish I could forget. I
wish we had eliminated the threat forever and we could all forget. But
we can’t.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">…<i>so we remember</i>.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I
remember watching in horror and shock and then racing across town to
gather up my 3 year old daughter at her daycare. On the way over, I
worried that something would happen in the meantime…they’d attack the
children, they’d bomb on a local level. Then I got there and saw on the
faces of the other moms and dads, the pain of disbelief, and the
frightening horrors of simply not being able to grasp an attack on our
soil. I saw the hollowness in the eyes of the parents who thought as I
did:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>We didn’t know where we would really be safe but we knew our kids were safer with us.</i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">My
daughter and her friends were playing happily, not realizing that these
were the final waning moments of the world they were born into. I wish I
had thought to take a picture. Or write it down. Or just watch through
the doorway for five more minutes before walking in and taking her in my
arms. After that day…after that moment, my daughter would live under
the shadow of terrorism for the rest of her life. She has grown up with
security threat levels crawling across the screen on news stations. With
being all but strip searched at airports. With surveillance, and war
and fear. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">It
was the last day of innocence for her. At least as far as her nation
was concerned. If I had realized it then, I would have savored it a few
minutes longer. Maybe instead of whisking her off, I would have let her
play with her friends until we were the last ones to leave. Maybe 30
minutes, maybe an hour. Just a little while longer before the
post-terrorist world became her home.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I
remember leaving the daycare, and calling her mom, and telling her I
had he,r and we were going to my house. And I remember not knowing what
the heck to do. I went home. We stopped at the grocery store to get some
things in case they…you know…in case this was bigger than even the WTC.
I remember thinking this might be a full on invasion. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">The
events that unfolded throughout that day are well rehearsed. We can all
recall how it happened. What still hurts is how it felt.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>How it still feels</i>. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">Every
generation has an “End of Innocence” For me, it was the day Reagan was
shot. For my daughter it was this day. Her innocence ended before it
ever began.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I
love this country. Love it like a living, breathing thing. As crazy as
this sounds, there are times when I wish I could literally wrap my arms
around the expanse of her, and just hold on and let my heart beat into
this sacred soil. I love her that much. She was everything to my family
-immigrants on both sides- and she is everything to me. I miss the way
she was when I was young. When my friends and I had no fears of
airplanes, and bright blue September skies. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I wish we had leaders who loved her this much. Because her people still do. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I still do…</span></div>
</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;"> wanted to write something about today but I couldn’t make the words come out for a long time. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">12
years later and we’re so dangerously close to being overtaken by the
same animals who flew airplanes into our iconic towers. Last night our
president essentially put OUR military behind the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>very people<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i>who
committed that barbaric attack 12 years ago. I wish I could forget. I
wish we had eliminated the threat forever and we could all forget. But
we can’t.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">…<i>so we remember</i>.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I
remember watching in horror and shock and then racing across town to
gather up my 3 year old daughter at her daycare. On the way over, I
worried that something would happen in the meantime…they’d attack the
children, they’d bomb on a local level. Then I got there and saw on the
faces of the other moms and dads, the pain of disbelief, and the
frightening horrors of simply not being able to grasp an attack on our
soil. I saw the hollowness in the eyes of the parents who thought as I
did:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>We didn’t know where we would really be safe but we knew our kids were safer with us.</i></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">My
daughter and her friends were playing happily, not realizing that these
were the final waning moments of the world they were born into. I wish I
had thought to take a picture. Or write it down. Or just watch through
the doorway for five more minutes before walking in and taking her in my
arms. After that day…after that moment, my daughter would live under
the shadow of terrorism for the rest of her life. She has grown up with
security threat levels crawling across the screen on news stations. With
being all but strip searched at airports. With surveillance, and war
and fear. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">It
was the last day of innocence for her. At least as far as her nation
was concerned. If I had realized it then, I would have savored it a few
minutes longer. Maybe instead of whisking her off, I would have let her
play with her friends until we were the last ones to leave. Maybe 30
minutes, maybe an hour. Just a little while longer before the
post-terrorist world became her home.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I
remember leaving the daycare, and calling her mom, and telling her I
had he,r and we were going to my house. And I remember not knowing what
the heck to do. I went home. We stopped at the grocery store to get some
things in case they…you know…in case this was bigger than even the WTC.
I remember thinking this might be a full on invasion. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">The
events that unfolded throughout that day are well rehearsed. We can all
recall how it happened. What still hurts is how it felt.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>How it still feels</i>. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">Every
generation has an “End of Innocence” For me, it was the day Reagan was
shot. For my daughter it was this day. Her innocence ended before it
ever began.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I
love this country. Love it like a living, breathing thing. As crazy as
this sounds, there are times when I wish I could literally wrap my arms
around the expanse of her, and just hold on and let my heart beat into
this sacred soil. I love her that much. She was everything to my family
-immigrants on both sides- and she is everything to me. I miss the way
she was when I was young. When my friends and I had no fears of
airplanes, and bright blue September skies. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I wish we had leaders who loved her this much. Because her people still do. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;">I still do…</span></div>
</div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-56933440381805798922014-09-04T07:40:00.001-05:002014-09-04T10:04:17.175-05:00Trying to hold the grains of sand... Coming to terms with loss<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus told us
that in the last days, men’s hearts would fail them because of fear. He told us
the love of many would grow cold and we sure are seeing that. I grew up hearing
“Last Days” sermons quite regularly, but I never thought I’d actually live to
see them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least I hoped I wouldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But apparently I have lived long enough to
witness the final death spiral of mankind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t know how much longer we have…maybe hundreds of years yet. But
something is very different now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can
feel my heart being troubled. Jesus told me not to let this happen, but I guess
I’m failing Him on this. I am troubled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This world is sad. I can’t take watching another beheading and feeling
the pain and the rage boiling inside and then having my face slapped by my “president”
when he does nothing, even admitting that he doesn’t really know what to
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone else knows what to do, Mr.
President! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A ten year old could tell you what needs to be
done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you feel the pain that
something like this brings out, then you have to suppress it because the people
in charge don’t react the way they should…you lose heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m weary from it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is how I feel today:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1293319696"> </a></span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gBGGX3yvMo">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gBGGX3yvMo</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m weary from watching the world getting
more angry and more violent and more ugly and trying to raise a child in the
middle of all that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m weary from
watching The Church grow more and more complacent<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as she turns her affections from a dying
world to her “own kind,” trading the urgency of the Gospel for the comfort of
the fellowship of the beloved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tired
of Death. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe this all
comes too soon on the heels of the devastation that was the last six years of
my life. Maybe after so many years of living as an animal, trying to merely
survive and not vanish into thin air somehow, I have finally been able to let
my guard down a bit. Perhaps in the dropping of my guard, I am suddenly awash
in the emotion that I had to bury for those six years in the desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grieve all I’ve lost. I hurt over the years
I’ve lost with my daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I miss my
home, and my dogs and my career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used
to be<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> necessary</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to matter to someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I’m the new
guy, in a new field, learning from the ground up and starting over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am so very thankful for the new chance, but
I feel lost in the middle of it all. A man needs a purpose and sometimes I
wonder what mine is, beyond being the best dad I can be for my daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel alive when I write and writing is hard
these days. I’m grinding away on a project for some friends and it is good but
slow and it doesn’t feel inspired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
a story about their love and support for their dying friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe writing about death isn’t the best
thing for me right now but I have an obligation to finish this thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than
anything…I think I need to go away for a few days as soon as I can. There is 6 years’
worth of hurt bottled up and it’s begun escaping now that it’s safe for it to happen
and I need to go somewhere and let it take place. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told a friend
of mine yesterday, “You don’t have time to count the grains of sand as they
slip through your fingers, you’re too busy trying to hold on to them. It’s
later…when you turn around and see the size of the pile that you realize how
much you’ve lost. How much time…how much life. How many moments" That's what I'm doing these days...gripping sand and trying to pick up some of the pile. </div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-39527621261481393312014-08-28T19:59:00.000-05:002014-08-29T03:27:34.689-05:00 Church: Here’s REALLY why people are leaving you! ...My response <div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend of mine posted <a href="http://johnpavlovitz.com/2014/08/15/church-heres-why-people-are-leaving-you-part-1/">this article</a> on my Facebook TL today with the caption “Craig...you wrote this, didn’t
you?” I did not, and he knew this. But he knows enough about me to recognize
when something sounds like I might have written it or at least been thinking
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like this article. I particularly like point number 1. The
production <i>has</i> worn thin. In many
churches it is about nothing more than entertaining the masses and self
aggrandizement for the worship team. Worshiping God is a distant last to giving
a great performance. It shows, It’s been showing for a long time now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My take, as I
said, is a bit different. So here
goes...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1: <b><i>You have the absolute worst self-image in
the history of mankind.</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jesus said “<span style="background: #FDFEFF; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">If the world hates you, keep in
mind that it hated me first.</span><span style="background: rgb(253, 254, 255);"> <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #001320;">If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own.
As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you to come out of
the world. That is why the world hates you.</span>” (John 15:18-19) Jesus told us we’d be hated and yet you keep
wimping out and backing down and standing for less and less and trying to make
the world NOT hate you. That accomplishes nothing. People aren’t going to
church to feel good about where they are right now. Deep down they know
something is wrong...<i>they want to change</i>.
They DO want to come to a place where it is safe to admit they are screwed up
and where it is safe to say “I need something!” Which brings me to...<span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
2:<b><i> It’s about Jesus...remember Him?</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">Remember songs like “Jesus is the
Answer” or “Tell Them?” Remember when you believed that when Jesus said “I am
THE way THE truth and THE Life and nobody comes to God unless he comes through
me!” (John 14:6) He meant it and wasn’t kidding? When did you think He changed His mind? When
did it become cool to be so accepting of other “paths?” Jesus never brooked
that possibility. He was cut and dried. “It’s me or nobody!” As far as I know,
He hasn’t issued a redaction of that text nor has he relinquished His claim to
the Only Way. Stop putting words in his mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
3: <b><i>You DO have a weird language...try going back to the words that changed
the world for about 2000 years.</i></b> Remember when Jesus told Nicodemus “Listen...don’t
be surprised that I tell you that you must be BORN AGAIN!” (John 3:7) So why don’t you use those words anymore? Why
aren’t people “born again” and why don’t they still “get saved?” You use words
like “engage” “encounter Jesus” “have a relationship with Jesus” but Jesus said
those things are not possible without a one-moment-in-time, specific,
instantaneous, head-on-collision with the cross of Christ. The cross is vicious
and harsh and demanding. Why have you bubble wrapped it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
4: <b><i>You play the popularity game.</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">Face it...a lot of you are phonies.
Every move you make, every song you sing, every mission trip gets blasted on
social media, a press release gets sent out, and you try to announce your
humility. You act like you don’t want recognition, but you claw and scratch for
it. You use the tired phrase “Make Jesus Famous” but you really do everything
you can think of to make YOU famous, thinking that your fame can add to His.
That’s a travesty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
5: <b><i>You are the worst age discriminators on earth.</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">You are loaded to the gills with older
folks with a lifetime of knowledge and wisdom and you run them off with your pabulum-infused
songs and contemporary services. These are the people who seem to know how to
balance a checkbook, stay faithful to one church and one spouse for a lifetime,
and raise good kids. yet you isolate them by complaining that they need to
change with the times. The times SUCK. Maybe they had it right. Maybe you
should listen to them a little more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
6: <b><i>You’re a pastor...stop camouflaging that.</i></b> Wear a suit now and
then. Shave that hideous beard. Stop wearing girl jeans and capri pants. Try
drinking black coffee once in a while. Cut your own grass. And for God’s sake,
maybe it wouldn’t kill you to NOT try for shock-points by talking about your
favorite beer, your sex life, or your favorite KISS album. You were called to
lead by example...so get WAY OUT IN FRONT and be very different...not barely
different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
7: <b><i>You are here to love people</i></b>. Sometimes that means putting a
hard finger in their face and telling them “This is bad. STOP!” Sometimes it
means shutting up and being silent because you really aren’t that smart
sounding, and the person just needs a silent arm around their shoulder. ALL THE
TIME it means you are kind. Kind even in your hard, immovable stance on sin.
Still be kind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
8: <b><i>Lastly. You play favorites. And the world sees it.</i></b> When half
the staff are either related to you or your best friends or friends of your
best friends...the world sees it. That’s crap. It’s crap in the secular
business world and it’s an outhouse full of crap in a church. STOP IT. This is
GOD’S church...not yours. You are NOT a CEO. You are a shepherd. Shepherds love
sheep. Period<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;"> 9: <b style="font-style: italic;">You are a church...aren't you? </b>Changing your name to something that sounds like a sandwich kiosk in the mall food court doesn't fool anybody, and it doesn't help. People see Church as a landmark. A touchstone. It is <i>supposed</i> to be definitive and clear. Why do you try renaming yourself? Because there are a few "bad Baptists" in the world? A couple of crazy Assembly of God's who went rogue? The Catholic Church has almost gone out of it's way to shoot itself in the foot, what with priests behaving badly and all. Yet they never considered hiring a PR firm to reinvent themselves. They believed in their core foundation and they believed that it was real, and necessary, and that simply living up to it once again would eventually restore people's faith in Catholicism. </span><br />
<span style="color: #001320;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff;">Some people call that being resolute. It's a good thing. You should try it. People died over the course of history to give you the Theology you adhere to. What are you so ashamed of? My daughter calls me "Dad." I'm not a perfect dad, and sometimes I mess up. When I do, I place the onus on me to be a better dad, and deserve the moniker again. What I <i>don't</i> do is tell her she can start calling me Craig, because "Dad" has some bad connotations attached to it. You're a lighthouse...not a glow stick.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
Finally: <b><i>How about an altar call? How about a specific time in EVERY service
where God can specifically do business with the people you are preaching to.</i></b>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">Because since we are “all fallen” (as
you keep reminding us when one of your favorite flockstars falls) we ALL need
time to repent and do some housekeeping. And how about some hymns mixed in with
the hypno-trance worship songs. And how about a few testimonies now and then, and maybe asking some dear old saint who has
been praying for 50+ years, to pray audibly so the kids can hear what a wizened
old saint sounds like when he prays. You have probably a thousand years of
combined "walking with Jesus" in your midst, and yet you play to the babies. In any other culture that would be written off as foolish. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #001320;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff;">Because it it. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">
That’s my take. I’ve sat on both sides of this, and this is what my
almost-51 years tells me. The church has tripped over itself apologizing for
being Godly. Guess what? That’s what the ungodly actually <i>want</i> from you...GODLINESS! So
start doing it. Stop making them so darn comfortable in their ungodliness! That's not why most of them came to your church. So you can stop going out of your way to blur the lines between what an actual Christian is and does, and the rest of the world. That line was never supposed to be blurry. It was supposed to be bold, and stark, and it allows no turning back once you cross it. </span><br />
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">THAT is what they want. They are leaving because, after a few weeks of being in your presence, they feel like there isn't much different between them and you, and now that they've settled the unrest in their hearts, (sadly, they settled it with the Christian codeine you sold them) they'd just as soon stay home or go fishing or golfing or to a craft beer festival. They came to you looking for a way to be different. They came away, not with the words of Life that change you and make you different and infuse that difference into every pore of their being, but with the feeling that they don't really need to be different. </span><br />
<span style="background: #FDFEFF; color: #001320; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.5pt;">They are leaving you because they feel like they didn't really need you after all. That's your fault...not theirs.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
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Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-58381948773024444102014-08-24T04:44:00.001-05:002014-08-24T07:11:31.811-05:00Christian Music sucks! (An early Sunday Morning rant about the current state of Christian Music)You listen to what is pawned off on us these days as "Christian" music and you have to wonder.<br />
You wonder where the visionaries are. Not the vision of where "their" music is heading, but those who caught a vision of God Himself, and then translated it into an album. The voices of prophets. I was a sophomore in high school when I got a copy of Keith Green's "No Compromise" record and from the very first day I listened to it, I was changed forever. He wasn't the greatest vocalist and once in a while his songwriting skills were mediocre. But this was a guy who couldn't give two cents about "giving a performance" the way praise and worship singers do now. He would have sung from behind a curtain. It was about changing a life, not creating a mood. Mood making is what lounge singers do.<br />
Where is the current Andrae Crouch, who could move you to repentance and then to joy in a two hour concert? Where are the Stonehill's and the Dallas Holm's? Who will be the next Mullins?<br />
It has long been said that the hymnbook is a reflection of the pulpit. This is true. As pastors have moved away from speaking actively about sin and right and wrong and softened the message in an effort to draw bigger crowds, the music has reflected the move.<br />
Where the original Jesus Movement was "Come as you are, but you will change" now it is "Come as you are and hey...God loves you as you are and there is no need to ever change..." And the music reflects this. The old songs sound old and dated to so many today because the theology behind them is gone from the hearts of so many. Why sing of "Amazing Grace" when nobody ever thinks they were "a wretch?" Why sing "Just as I Am" from a mindset of repentance when you're being told that "Just as you are" is all you'll ever need to be? Why sing of salvation when an idiot like Gungor denies Genesis being literal, and Vickie Beeching openly embraces heresy and is celebrated for it? "A literal Genesis? That's so "Fundie," I mean that's where sin entered the world, maybe that never actually happened, and since I don't believe in the book that first described sin, why write songs about the existence of sin or the damage it does? I'll write another song about the God who is only slightly less mild than Mr. Rogers."<br />
Nobody will be saying what I'm saying in the churches where these artists attend this morning. And so they'll keep writing this pablum and another generation will go on without ever experiencing what it feels like to lay awake all night, listening to a REAL Christian album on your headphones and being changed forever.<br />
Hearing about the murder of the unborn or the billion starving people or the need for righteous living. Instead they'll just hear yet another "Christian Hottie" groaning about how much she loves Jesus...almost like she loves her boyfriend. Or some barely- manly hipster worship writer talking about how he is God's best friend and how hard life gets whenever he spills his Starbucks on his scarf and it gets on his skinny jeans.<br />
We'll know we have a revival starting when we start hearing it in the music.Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-79415778075807843162014-08-11T09:41:00.000-05:002014-08-11T09:41:13.350-05:00My Final word on Braxton Caner...<div class="MsoNormal">
Seldom do I not
know what I want to write. I almost never sit down in front of a computer and
wait while hours pass and nothing pops to mind. In fact, I usually have the
words flowing before I turn on the device. But this has taken a long time to
write and I still don’t know what I want to say exactly. But I have to say <i>something</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two weeks ago,
the 15 year old son of my friend took his own life. The young man’s name was
Braxton Caner. His dad is Ergun Caner, college President, Apologist, author, minister,
former Muslim, etc. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is, before all
that, husband and father. He is a brother and an uncle. He is my friend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Five years ago, a
storm arose around him. I won’t go into it here, not because I am afraid to,
but because it has been five years and the depths have been plumbed...again and
again and again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Five years ago it
was making headlines and thousands were discussing it. But after five years,
the players filtered down to the core group who began this facade in the first
place. The same old voices, spewing the same old hate, (they’ll say they attack
Ergun out of “love” but it takes about 30 seconds of seeing their tactics to
throw that out the window) pulling the same old tricks... like total strangers
showing up at churches where he would speak, standing up and disrupting the
service. They get themselves thrown out, then Tweet about it like drunken frat
boys. Meanwhile the puppeteers they desperately want to impress guffaw from
behind their monitors. I know of a few churches where if a stranger tried that
sort of disruption, they’d be tazed until they smelled burnt hair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Five years of
this and they are as hateful as they were on day one. Now...for the first time
since this began...they are running scared.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’ll never admit it. They are already in full damage
control mode. But it’s going to be impossible to contain the damage this time.
Because this time...even atheists say they went too far. <a href="http://freethinker.co.uk/2014/07/31/the-suicide-of-a-preachers-kid/">http://freethinker.co.uk/2014/07/31/the-suicide-of-a-preachers-kid/</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The situation is this... “Baptist pastor” (italics added for
cynicism) J.D.Hall has been a capo in the Calvibot crime family (my personal
nickname for those secretly pulling the strings of Caner-hate) for a while now.
He has gone after Ergun for years, and his tactics have become more vicious,
more evil, and more unregenerate in nature with each passing day. Last month,
he crossed the ultimate line. He began attacking Braxton Caner...Ergun’s 15
year old son. It was terrible. It was despicable. It was creepy, especially the
comments about Braxton’s 15 year old girlfriend. (As father of a 16 year old
girl, I can tell you that if that were my daughter, J.D. would have already
been dealt with.) It was an obsession fueled by hate and it was sickening. At
no point does a grown man, a “pastor” (knowing many real pastors, I struggle
attaching that title to this “man” but he is one, none the less) say to
himself, “I’m harassing a BOY on Twitter. Perhaps this is wrong and I should
stop?” No sir. Instead, J.D. wears on
Braxton. Going so far as to insinuate that his parents are divorcing.
(Something he entirely pulled from his backside) and inviting Braxton, through
Direct Message, to “email me if you want to know the truth about your father.”
Really? Again, if that happened to my daughter I’d email J.D. some photos of
the friends of my family. The big hairy friends with similar last names and Mob
ties. But I digress. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was a
psychological blitzkrieg on a 15 year old boy. It wasn’t the first time J.D.
tried to wedge Brax against his dad. It was just the most evil. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tragically, on July 29 of this year...just two weeks ago
now, Braxton ended his life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within an hour, the masterminds of the Caner-hate were
online, pretending to be sorrowful and demanding that we all behave as THEY
want us to. “Nobody should attack anybody else...ESPECIALLY those who have
‘called Ergun to repentance’ i.e.: the
ones who hate him the most. Interpretation: “We really screwed up this time and
crossed a very big line and this is bad. Now don’t any of you say anything
about that, or else.” Imagine this being spoken in the voice of Don Corleone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gall it took to demand that those who pushed this matter
to this brink, now deserve to be protected from scrutiny is amazing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But not really...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They realize that
this turns the tables, and it exposes them. Nobody cares about their
allegations about Ergun now. The whole world sees a boy who took his life and a
PASTOR might have helped push him to that point. One of THEIR pastors. Rut-Roh!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s why they have circled the wagons. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s why I’m writing this. That’s the point I’m getting
to. Here goes...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, I will state my position on J.D. Hall clearly. It is
this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe J.D. Hall cyber bullied, and
harassed Braxton Caner ruthlessly, and without limits, in a effort to harm his
father Ergun. Given the content of those tweets, his BLOG about the FIFTEEN
YEAR OLD BOY (that in itself is enough
for a 3-day pass to a psych ward for a thorough eval, in my opinion) and
subsequent RADIO SHOW about it, it’s obvious Braxton was the Voodoo doll J.D.
was using to harm Ergun. Every word was intended to inflict maximum damage.
Every insinuation, every accusation, every condemning, hurtful, evil tweet.
Death by words...140 characters at a time. J.D. doubtless DID NOT intend to physically kill Braxton. Maybe
worse...he wanted to kill his heart. He wanted to kill his spirit and thus kill
the heart and soul of the man he hates obsessively...Ergun Caner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe that
given the FACTS of JD’s actions one cannot avoid drawing a line from his
actions to Braxton’s suicide. The only reasonable argument is how bold a line
do I draw? A pencil line or a thick, black, magic Marker? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It would be foolish to say “This is entirely J.D’s fault!”
but I believe it is at least partly his fault. Braxton left no note, so we’ll
never know how big a part this played. But think about what MIGHT (and I admit
this is conjecture at this point) have been going ‘round and round in his mind.
Not only did JD harass Braxton, he accused his girlfriend of despicable things
as well. How did Brax feel about the girl he was in love with being wounded by
this man? Did he...at 15, and maybe not ready for this sort of evil
attack...feel it was somehow his fault? Did he feel he let his dad down
somehow? Did he think maybe this was never ever going to end? I don’t know.
We’ll never know. But we DO know what JD hall did, and we can see it had SOME
effect. Only a fool would deny this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second, I decided this morning, that I am not going to
involve myself in this anymore. Not because there isn’t a cause. Not because
I’m not fuming and so angry I can’t see straight. Not because I’m less
outraged. None of that is true.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But because after watching the Hall supporters over the last
two weeks, I see what an unregenerate soul really does. How it really behaves.
In my opinion, these people hold their hatred for Ergun and for any who love
him, (whether they support him in the prior allegations or not) in a higher
regard than they hold love for God. Love for Man. Or love for a deceased boy.
They don’t see a shattered family, a broken-hearted dad, a devastated mom, and
a bewildered little brother. They see blood in the water and fresh meat on the
carcass. And they are just waiting for the crowd to die down so they can swoop
in and start picking. They’ve already begun...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the weekend, they began the move I knew they’d make all
along. They tried to make this Ergun’s fault. They said as much. If only Ergun
had given them what they wanted...this would never have happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t even put into words what this makes me feel. If your
<i>soul</i> can feel nausea...that’s what I
feel for them now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realized after watching their tactics this weekend, that
fighting with them is pointless. Countering them is fruitless. Nothing matters
to them except self-preservation and destruction of their enemies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They don’t care about a family who has to try to deal with
the single worst thing a family can face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They don’t care about the grief that the man they detest is
feeling every blistering second of every day. They don’t care about the mom or
the brother or the team mates or the friends. They just want to hurry up and
get the quarry stuffed and mounted so they can crow about it and move on to the
next one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are soul-less. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not that I can’t fight them. I’m a smart guy with an
acid tongue and nothing to lose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s just that it isn’t worth it. <i>They</i> aren’t worth it. There is nothing amongst them to redeem.
Nothing to fight for. No decency to appeal to. No soul to save.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>They don’t think
they’ve done anything wrong.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can’t help a person like that. It’s a fools errand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this morning I decided I’m not going to try. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My one and only action will be to daily remind the world of
the facts we DO know...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“In the days leading to Braxton Caner’s suicide, “pastor”
J.D.Hall of Sidney Montana...an alleged adult...harassed and bullied Braxton
online and on a radio show. While I can not definitively lay all the blame at
JD’s feet, only a fool misses the connection, in my opinion.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew Braxton. I have a few sweet memories of him, so this
hurts more than just the street-level gravity of the events. ...which are
horrible enough as it is. This is the fourth young person in my world who died
too soon. One was a family member. It’s been two weeks and I can only now,
barely begin to shake the gloom from this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just can’t bring myself to engaging these evil people.
They aren’t going to change. God will have to intervene. I would not want to be
them when He does. Any of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is all I’ll say on the matter. For the first time in 7
years of blogging, I will not permit comments on this. I’ve said my piece and
I’m done with it. Argue elsewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Here are some more links for other’s input. </div>
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<a href="http://dorightchristians.wordpress.com/2014/07/31/braxton-caner-tragedy-part-1/">http://dorightchristians.wordpress.com/2014/07/31/braxton-caner-tragedy-part-1/</a></div>
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<a href="http://dorightchristians.wordpress.com/2014/08/08/braxton-caner-tragedy-part-2/">http://dorightchristians.wordpress.com/2014/08/08/braxton-caner-tragedy-part-2/</a></div>
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<a href="http://peterlumpkins.typepad.com/peter_lumpkins/2014/08/jd-hall-backs-away-from-crusade-against-ergun-caner-braxton-caner-suicide-social-media-abuse-cyber-stalking-bullying.html">http://peterlumpkins.typepad.com/peter_lumpkins/2014/08/jd-hall-backs-away-from-crusade-against-ergun-caner-braxton-caner-suicide-social-media-abuse-cyber-stalking-bullying.html</a></div>
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God’s Speed Brax.</div>
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Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-28904996652914456832014-08-02T06:09:00.000-05:002014-08-02T06:43:34.615-05:00Just another Saturday morning...This morning in my house we're preparing for a short trip.<br />
This morning in most houses, Saturday morning will be a ritual of cartoons, and cereal, and shuttling kids to various athletic events, and then maybe to a pool and later on to a cookout.<br />
This morning in Texas, in the home of a dear, dear family that I love deeply, this morning undoubtedly came on the heels of another sleepless night. If there was sleep at all it is only because of the body seeking refuge from the intense pain of the past four days. This morning in Texas, my dear friends will close out one chapter in a book just beginning to be written. They will say goodbye to their son.<br />
People use the term "closure" frequently. We strive for closure when someone has wronged us and we've wondered why for many years. Or if we were left at the altar. Or if our spouse divorced us for no good reason. Or if our luck runs bad, or our lives take a turn.<br />
We seek closure when we lose a child. But this, as my dear friends will discover, is not possible.<br />
Today is a hard day for them, but the hardest day will be tomorrow. And then even harder will be Monday, then Tuesday...<br />
They will never escape the reminders all around them. They will have scant few moments when they aren't thinking of him and what happened, and what might have been. The ache in their soul will not decrease in time. It will grow. There will be even more tears. Even greater pain. Even worse anguish.<br />
They will change, these friends of mine. They will not be the same as they were before. I promise you this. Every Christmas will remind them. There'll be an empty seat at the table and an untouched stocking on the mantle. There'll be a high school graduation with one less young man walking the aisle. There'll be the day when his friends all leave for college and his parents are denied that blessed sorrow. There'll be a college graduation, and a wedding, and grandchildren all denied. Those things are part of the natural order of life and so when they don't come...you don't simply ignore it. The hole left by their absences is real, and palpable.<br />
They will wonder what he would be doing right now, at a million moments over the rest of their lives. They will ache. They will cry. They will relive this week forever. Years will pass and it will be more tolerable, but it will never go away.<br />
This Saturday morning in Texas, some people I love are ending the worst week they have ever known.<br />
And beginning the darkest walk any parent will ever take, and no parent ever should.<br />
I know this to be true...because 18 years ago, my family had their own "Saturday Morning" (ours fell on a Wednesday). I can still feel the chairs in the kitchen. I can still recall every second of the church service. I can still see all the faces, and the line of high school kids extending out the door and into the street...wanting to say goodbye when they never should have to.<br />
It never goes away...it only becomes more manageable with time. I know this to be true because as I write this, and as I think back to that phone call and that long plane ride home, and those faces in the kitchen...I am in tears on this Saturday morning in Virginia. Because it all feels like it just happened all over again.<br />
If you've never endured this, I ask only one thing. Please don't expect your friends to respond the way you think you would. You have no idea what kind of hurt this really is. You can't even imagine.<br />
Just pray for them, and stand near them in silence.<br />
This Saturday morning...wherever you might be.<br />
<br />
Praying for Ergun, Jill, and Drake and their family.<br />
<br />Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-77230338398009882332014-07-31T07:00:00.000-05:002014-07-31T07:00:24.346-05:00Jesus Weeps...Splagchnonmatzi: <br />
Definition bowels, intestines, (the heart, lungs, liver, etc.)<br />
bowels<br />
*The bowels were regarded as the seat of the more violent passions, such as anger and love; but by the Hebrews as the seat of the tenderer affections, esp. kindness, benevolence, compassion; hence our heart (tender mercies, affections, etc.)<br />
a heart in which mercy resides.<br />
<br />
When Luke 11:35 tells us "Jesus wept" he used this word, "Splagnonmatzi" (If I am misspelling it, I hope my seminarian friends will forgive me) The word renders Jesus weeping to be what it really was...so much more than just weeping with everyone else. He was weeping<i> because</i> of them. His heart literally tore open and the emotion poured out of Him like a broken water main. It poured out from the very deepest part of His person. His grief was so visible, that the others watching him weep stopped their own weeping and said in verse 36: "Look how very much he loved him!" Jesus' grief was so pronounced that the others took notice.<br />
Why? Why did Jesus weep so deeply, knowing -as He surely must have known- that He was minutes from raising Lazarus from the dead and ending this grief for them all? I've heard people say it was because He saw in full force, the end result of the fall of man, staring into Lazarus' tomb. But this would imply Jesus had never seen death before and we know He had. He'd raised Jairus' daughter by this point, so he'd already stood at the bedside of a dead child. Some say it was because of the lack of faith of those around him. Maybe, but He didn't weep like this when He walked out of Nazareth, informing them in no uncertain terms that because of their lack of faith, He wasn't able to do much for them.<br />
I think the weeping was simply his human reaction to the enormous grief around him, combined with his own grief over the death of one of his closest friends. Jesus was, as we are so aware, all man and all God, simultaneously. His human side felt all the things we feel, and because He was without sin, I think He felt those things to a far greater degree than any of us will ever feel.<br />
His emotions and reactions were unfiltered by sin, not connected by any earthly agenda, totally without regard to self. When He wept that day over the death of his friend, He was weeping because He found Himself in tune with the broken hearts around him, and because his nature was perfect, he empathized perfectly. He felt Mary and Martha's grief in a way none of us are capable. He grieved their loss. In this flash of time, we see him bearing their burden, as we would later be commanded to do for one another. (Gal 6:2)<br />
He gave us an example of real, honest grief.<br />
He wept as if Lazarus was his own son or brother.<br />
There is a little comfort in this. Knowing that Jesus is weeping along with Ergun Mehmet Caner, and his wife Jill and their son and their family. Not just dabbing at the corner of His eyes with a handkerchief, but on his knees, rocking back and forth in grief, invisibly holding my dear brother and his sweet wife and son in His unseen arms. His heart has tuned to the frequency of their grief and His tears have intermingled with theirs. If I could see this, I too would stop in my tracks and say between my own sobs, "Look how much He loves Braxton, and Ergun, and Jill, and Drake!" My own sobs would grow louder because I would recognize the presence of Jesus, Savior of the world, again taking on the burdens of those He loves.<br />
Jesus weeps again today. It is amazing. Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4802192063076155160.post-27837139557304410402014-07-14T07:23:00.000-05:002014-07-14T07:24:24.580-05:00WWJD? about the borders, and Praise and WorshipThis will be a couple of posts...maybe three. I think we have long-ago lost contact with what Jesus would actually do or what being near Him might really be like.<br />
Here are my thoughts...<br />
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What if Jesus were here?</div>
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I get accused quite frequently of becoming a curmudgeon. I
suppose I am. But I am also a man of intense belief and passion. I am
passionate about doctrine and liturgy and adhering to what our earliest fathers
gave us as the basis for our Faith. </div>
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I get burdened and sometimes –many times- angry at what I
perceive are slights against the Faith we were entrusted by those fathers. It’s
easy to do when we see how it gets misused and mistreated these days.</div>
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I was thinking this morning about what modern Christianity
has become. We interpret Jesus in our own way and make him fit our needs. This
is dangerous. One of the most effective and impacting books I ever read was <i>In His Steps </i>by Charles M. Sheldon. The
book’s subtitle is actually more well known. “What would Jesus do?” It became a
force for living out the gospel when it was written over 100 years ago and has
sold 30,000,000 copies. It was resurrected about 20 years ago with a movie and
a soundtrack and a crass marketing program, replete with all the latest trendy
things including those stupid silicone wrist bracelets that said “WWJD?” </div>
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There is an inherent problem with answering that question
for ourselves...we can easily decide the answer, regardless of the facts we
have to back it up. Jesus isn’t physically here to ask. I have an image of
Jesus in scripture and I know how I want Him to be in any situation, therefore
I can extrapolate what it is <i>I think he
might do</i> and decide to say emphatically “This is what Jesus would do!” The
problem is, there is often no basis in fact or in scripture for my decision. I
have created a Jesus of my own making and I have put my words in His mouth and
I have declared that my answer to “WWJD?” is accurate and since it’s what Jesus
would do, if you don’t agree with me, you aren’t just against me...<i>you’re against Jesus</i>.</div>
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Two situations bring this to mind and demonstrate this
issue. One is the various forms of “worship” that are prevalent in the Church
today. The other is the current border crisis.</div>
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I want to address both.</div>
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First, and perhaps easiest, is worship. I’ve said this
before, so it’s no surprise to readers here...most praise and worship makes me
sick. Seriously, internally, queasy. Like “I need to run out of here before I
puke and / or punch someone / something right now.” Nothing enflames my suspicions like the trusty phrase “Ushering
in the presence of God” or “Feel the presence of the Lord.” This is always
spoken by a pastor, either a “worship pastor” or a “senior pastor” (not to be
confused with a “resource pastor” a “buildings and maintenance pastor” a “Kitchen
pastor” or a “stewardship pastor” –the guy who counts the money and keeps the
records of tithes- or any of the other pastoral positions created by the senior
pastor to give a cushy, tax-break-providing job to a buddy) But this is the
very guy who will also remind you that God is omnipresent. His presence is
everywhere at one time. So he was already here, and you needed this emotionally
driven, pabulum-and-breast-milk flavored music to remind you of this. </div>
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The lights go dim...or are always dim, causing your focus to
be affixed on the stage and it’s performers. The music comes up, cued by a “worship
leader” who tells you to “stand to your feet this morning!” No thanks, snapperhead,
I’ll get to the standing part after lunch. Then he outlines how worship is
supposed to look on his watch. “Put your hands together!” or “Lift your hands
and praise Him!” or “Lets come into His presence!” Thanks pal, I thought I was going to a car
wash until you reminded me.</div>
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Then the swaying begins. The glassy-eyed, hand-waving like a
teen-aged girl hearing a ballad at a Selena Gomez concert. Who can help but to
feel all “worshippy and praisy” when this music / setting / lighting is
happening all around you?</div>
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Me. That’s who.</div>
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I’ve always wondered and frequently imagined what it would
be like if Jesus actually showed up in the flesh. If He walked into the
twenty-somethings in their praise mosh-pit or got bumped in the head by the arm
of a swaying dervish caught up in the enraptured emotion of worshipping. (This
has actually happened to me, I got smacked in the head trying to get to my seat)
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I’ve wondered what my reaction to seeing His face would be. </div>
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It won’t be this:</div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwGGte4JmDc">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwGGte4JmDc</a></div>
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I think if Jesus were to walk into a room on a Sunday
morning, my first reaction would be to fall flat on my face and lay silent and
still. What could I say? What words do I have to add to this moment? What can I
add to the presence of Jesus? <i>Nothing</i>.
It would be obscene to try. yet that’s what we see Sunday after Sunday...”worship
leaders” trying to “usher in” the presence of God, forgetting that it never
left, and then trying to orchestrate our response to it. It’s not a Justin
Beiber concert. It’s the presence of Jesus Christ. Imagine He is standing here
where you can see Him...physically touch Him. Now...start singing one of those
songs about how you’re his buddy and how you long for Him and how desperate you
are for Him. Declare that friendship you keep bragging about. I don’t know about
others, but I find it hard. I would find it hard to do anything except fall to
the ground, lay out flat, and be entirely silent. Because I might miss
something...anything. I don’t want to speak over Him. I don’t want to babble to
Him about our relationship. If I am truly in the presence of the King of Kings
and the One who allowed himself flayed open like a side of beef for my sin...then
my response is wonder, and wonder is too big for words. I’d weep. I’d smile. I’d
tremble. I’d be so quiet and so still I could hear Him breathing. I’d wash his
feet with my tears. </div>
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But I wouldn’t react like I was on a contact high at a
Grateful dead concert. </div>
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And NOBODY would dare tell me how I should respond.</div>
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The presence of God brings AWE. Awe is not a word you use on
a roller-coaster at a theme park. Awe is what a blind man would say if he awoke
one morning to find himself standing on the shore of the Atlantic and he
suddenly could see. Awe is what I felt the night my daughter was born. Awe is
peering through the Hubbell telescope at the heavens that you knew were there,
but could never conceive in your mind.</div>
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That is what worship is like.</div>
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I’ll close with this (sadly) true story...A friend of mine
was in church during the worship time and felt the urge to go to another friend
and give her a hug. She approached this woman and wrapped her arms around her.
(For the record, they were VERY good friends so this was not some random occurrence)
The woman hugged her and said “I love you” and the other woman turned to her
with a hideously angry look and hissed “Don’t you EVER interrupt me when I’m <i>worshiping</i>!” My only comment here is
that she was worshiping alright...it just wasn’t God she was worshiping.</div>
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I think I’ll leave the borders for tomorrow. Because I have
a lot to say there too.</div>
Craig Daliessiohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04622536691388864746noreply@blogger.com0