“In a fallen world, it was hard to do unambiguous good.”

Stability. Hobart, February 2021.

Crimes of the Father by Thomas Keneally

As a lifelong and devout atheist, I've always viewed the Catholic Church through a sceptical anthropological lens. Given the very many crimes and betrayals committed in her name since the very beginning, I am often paused for thought about why anyone might remain wedded to such an organisation.

It's in this spirit that I approached Tom Keneally's Crimes of the Father. This is a meaty book that explores faith, the church and conscience. The central character - Father Frank Docherty - remains a man of faith. Both a priest and practising psychologist, his professional areas of speciality are the abused and the abusers.

Through a confluence of events, Docherty is drawn into the lives of several victims of abuse by an eminent Sydney cardinal, who himself sits on a commission investigating sexual abuse within the Church.
In this milieu, Keneally delves into an exploration of faith, loyalty, identity, and some of the most critical issues that face the Church. I found it riveting. While I am certain that the author's tendency to take the liberty to cite and unpack some of the key pieces of religious dogma that he believes has contributed to the tarnishing of the church, I found the diversions a positive (if somewhat dry) contribution to the narrative.

Although slow-moving at times - not to mention extremely dispiriting - the book makes a welcome contribution to an understanding of quite how and why the Church has so steadfastly maintained course directly into the iceberg of its past horrors. That I enjoyed it so much is a testament to Keneally's ability to explore issues of faith, law and conscience with a deft and sensitive hand.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Comments

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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