All Is Grace_ A Ragamuffin Memoir - Brennan Manning [43]
2. Blaming/accusing. I blamed Roslyn (after the divorce) for insensitivity; she placed the care of her two daughters and the upkeep of our home above me—how dare she?
3. Defiance. When Roslyn remarked that my relapses were becoming more frequent, I flatly and loudly refused.
4. Evading/dodging. When close friends raised the issue of my alcoholism, I changed the subject.
5. Intellectualizing. I was constantly trying to think myself into a new way of living instead of loving myself into a new way of thinking (see, I just did it again).
6. Judging/moralizing. I often passed judgment on the rigidity and stupidity of the pope, the bishops, and the church for not permitting a married priesthood. I also loathed my critics.
7. Justifying. “Look, anyone who has worked as hard as I have, carrying a superhuman schedule, is entitled …”
8. Joking. I used self-deprecating humor to give the impression that I am humble and don’t take myself seriously.
9. Lying. Quite possibly an umbrella word for all of the above.
10. Rationalization. I claimed burnout and refused the relentless claims of needy people, including members of my family.
That last item factors into the most shameful episode of my life. I wrote out the following almost like a fiction story. I only wish it were fiction, but it’s not. You don’t always get what you ask for.
The phone rings and you’re given a choice—answer it or not. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should have sidestepped it like a land mine. But I answered it. It turned out to be a foghorn of bad news.
The voice on the other end belonged to someone I loved. My sister spoke two words: “Mom died.” It was February 1993.
After we hung up, I was aware of nothing but a single emotion. I could tell you that I felt sadness or regret or even fear, but I’ve vowed to be ruthlessly honest with myself in these pages. After Gerry called, all I thought was God, what a bother. I packed a bag and booked the flight.
I was living in New Orleans at the time. My sister lived in Belmar, New Jersey. My mother had been in an Alzheimer’s facility for two years not far from where Gerry lived. My mother had completely lost her memory. But I hadn’t. And my past with her created a core of pain in myself that I’d wrestled with most of my life.
I flew into Newark and took a cab to Belmar. I stayed in a motel near the church where the funeral was to be held.
I stopped at a liquor store before checking in and bought a quart of their cheapest Scotch. While others arranged flowers and pressed their shirts, I locked the door of my room, pulled the curtains, and drank. I wanted to forget, but unfortunately the Scotch only slowed the approach of my memories. Eventually thoughts of my mother broke through—the tone of her voice, her sayings, and mostly, the shame. Like a good alcoholic, I kept drinking and drinking and drinking. I thought it was my only defense. Eventually, everything faded a shade deeper than black.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Surely the priest spoke those words over the casket of my mother, Amy Manning, but I cannot be certain because I missed my mother’s funeral. I was back at the motel waking up from a blackout, trying to remember where I was.
The fact was that I was in a motel room in Belmar, New Jersey. But the truth was that I was in some distant place, having squandered my mother’s last respects with drunkenness. In that moment I felt the most profound shame of my life. My God, what kind of a man am I? How could that have happened?
I didn’t visit my mother’s gravesite later that day either. The reality is I’ve never visited it.
I’ve been asked a certain question countless times over the course of my ministry. Sometimes it has been asked with genuine sincerity; other times I’m sure it was a loaded pharisaical grenade: “Brennan, how could you relapse into alcoholism after your Abba encounters?” Here is the response I gave in The Ragamuffin Gospel in 1990:
It is possible because I got battered and bruised by loneliness and failure; because