“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

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

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...

This will hurt me...

Search This Blog