I just finished reading Gregg Allman’s really-pretty-good new memoir, My Cross to Bear,
and the final chapter contains a revelation too unexpected not to share
here. Which isn’t to say the first eighteen chapters aren’t full of
remarkable twists and turns as well. There are more than enough
anecdotes to support the Almost Famous-Allman
Brothers connection, and let’s just say that Gregg’s legendary
proclivity for female, er, attention does not go undocumented. Nor does
his distaste for one Mr. Richard Betts. But as much as debauchery and
dysfunction serve as touchstones, so do sorrow and tragedy–which you
might expect from the man who wrote “Whipping Post.” His brother Duane’s
death in 1971 is just one in an absurdly long line of tragedies that
have shaped his life (beginning with his father’s murder when Gregg was
2). Then there are the addictions. You name it, he was hooked on it, the
narcotic known as Cher being only one particularly well-known example.
By Gregg’s count, he had been to rehab 18 times before he finally got
sober in 1996, a history made all the more extraordinary when delivered
in Gregg’s back-porch prose. So by the time he gets to the conversion
part of the story, it’s not exactly a hard-sell. There’s simply no way
this man would/could have survived to write this book without falling to
his knees at some point. What’s surprising is not that he finds God, but where he finds Him:
I do believe in God, because somebody had to plan all this–stuff like
this just doesn’t happen. I didn’t always feel that way, though. For a
long time, I didn’t really believe in God, but I didn’t really not
believe in him either. It just wasn’t one of my favorite subjects…
Thankfully, by the time everything started going on with my liver [in
2007-08], I’d been thinking differently about all that for a while.
About fifteen years ago I started wearing a cross, because I finally got
some sort of spirituality…
A big part of my getting straight with
God had to do with sobering up. I’ve had a life that’s gone all
different places and directions, and I’ve missed out on a certain amount
of stuff because of the drugs and alcohol. As I got sober, because I
was so sick of missing out, I finally reached out and prayed. Before
then I’d been praying for a long time, but I never seemed to get any
kind of answer. Later on, though, it became clear to me and kinda hit me
at once. It was such a revelation, man.
Basically, what I did, in one big fell swoop, was surrender, and with that came all the rest.
My life went into something like the spin cycle of a washing machine,
and when I came out, I didn’t want any more cigarettes, and I damn sure
didn’t want any more liquor. Now, if I’m having a problem, or a friend
of mine is having a problem, or something is keeping me from sleeping,
I’ll just lay there and not really pray so much as just meditate. I get
real still and talk to the Man, and he’ll help you if you ask… God is
there all the time, and so is my guardian angel, or whatever it is that
keeps me from self-destructing or keeps me out of harm’s way…
One of [my ex-wife] Stacey’s strongest influences on me
was to get me thinking about God. All Stacey’s people have a certain
amount of faith, more than I ever had around me. She got me going to
church, even though that got a little bit hinky, because people were
asking me for autographs. The preacher was dynamite, and they had a full
band, with horns, a killer bass player, and a choir–I loved that part
of it. I hadn’t been to church in a while, because I didn’t believe in
the dog-and-pony show–who can outdo who in the collection plate, that
stuff bothered me. The church was so crowded, and it became such a
thing, a happening, and although I met a lot of nice people, it was too
much.
At one point I was going to convert to Catholicism, but they
had so many rules. I have to say that the Catholic Church is very much
about who has the nicest suit, the valet parking–too much about the
money. I don’t think you have to dress up or show God a bunch of gold
for him to forgive you your sins, love you, and guide you. Then I went
to an Episcopal church in Daytona, and it just felt right. The Episcopal
Church isn’t about gimme, gimme, gimme. The Episcopalians are like
enlightened Catholics. They have the faith, but they’re a little more
open-minded.
Now I sit here in my house in Savannah, look
out over the water at the oaks, and know that I have a reason to live.
After all I’ve been through, I can’t help but feel I’ve been redeemed,
over and over. (pg 366-368)
While one would
certainly be curious to visit one of these Catholic churches he slags
off, still, TEC needs all the soul it can get. And co-religionists
simply don’t come any cooler. I just hope Gregg doesn’t, you know, get
those come and go blues.
Mockingbird
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