All Is Grace_ A Ragamuffin Memoir - Brennan Manning [39]
Of all the Notorious Sinners, I have known Paul Sheldon the longest. As I’ve looked back through my journal entries and notes about the people in my life, I have constantly referred to him as “my best friend.” However, I do not believe that the word best honors my relationship with Paul. I rather prefer the word oldest.
Back: Gene Barnes, Paul Johnston, Devlin Donaldson, John Krahm, Alan Hubbard
Front: Fil Anderson, Paul Sheldon, me, Bob Stewart, Butch Farabow
Paul first heard me speak at a cathedral in Mobile, Alabama, in 1972. I was preaching what is known in the Catholic Church as a novena—nine days of public or private prayer around a special occasion or intention. It is based on the nine days the disciples and Mary spent in prayer between the Ascension and Pentecost Sunday. I’ve asked him out of curiosity what it was about my first message that affected him so. His consistent reply has been, “Brennan, I just knew ‘that’s the truth.’” As others have done over the years, Paul sought out a friendship, something beyond nine days. It wasn’t an immediate connection; in fact, it took almost two years for us to become close. But once we did, we were. The booze helped.
I know there is a cadre of young Christian leaders these days who find talking theology over beer to be something exhilarating and edgy, as if combining the two hadn’t occurred to anyone before. I believe those young men have historical amnesia. Paul Sheldon and I were doing that when those guys weren’t even a thought. Paul and I would get drunk and talk about God for hours and hours. Those times were like Christmas.
Paul was a stockbroker at the time, married to a wonderful woman named Jennie, a consummate Southern cook who learned quickly that I loved to eat. Paul and Jennie welcomed me into their lives like I was family, and I cherished their invitation. After I met Roslyn and she became a part of my life, the four of us would go out together—Paul and Jennie and Roslyn and me. Not everyone was comfortable with the idea of double dating with the priest, so the deliberate approval of Roslyn and me on Paul and Jennie’s part was something beyond words. They chose us, unconditionally; it was huge. Whenever I came to Mobile or was close by, we’d all get together, and Jennie would cook a meal I deemed “under the mercy.” We’d laugh and talk and joke and bask in the warmth of what is often an uncommon sun—friendship. Those times were like even more Christmas.
The booze always flowed freely between Paul and me. But in November of 1980, Paul stopped drinking. I didn’t. Our friendship did not cease on that day, nothing like that, but it did change. In terms of the dynamics of any relationship, if one person changes, the relationship changes; it is not the same as it was. No way it can be. Paul’s unchaining himself from the bottle gave him some clarity and perspective that I did not have. I thought I did, but I didn’t. In other words, Paul got honest and I did not.
I mentioned earlier that a handful of Notorious Sinners confronted me on various occasions for lying. One of those stalwart souls was Paul. In early 2000, he had noticed I’d made some statements that simply were not true. I tried to brush them off as exaggerations, but Paul called them lies. He had also noticed an anger in my preaching that concerned him; his literal words were “It scared me.” My oldest friend shared his concerns with me. Some might immediately pull out the phrase “tough love,” but remembering that time now, his were nothing short of tender, heartfelt words. But an alcoholic’s best defense is to get defensive, and so I did. Our relationship did not dissolve, but it did splinter somewhat; and it felt fragile for a while after that. Days drift by slowly after a soul wound, and that’s how I experienced Paul’s confrontation. But if I’ve learned anything about the world of grace, it’s that failure is always a chance for a do-over.
Less than two years later, I made a visit to Paul at his home in Point Clear,