by Sue Williams
‘I’ve always admired Father Bob’s way of doing things, and his ideals and vision aren’t so different from ours,’ says Father Messina. ‘But we draw strength from a universal perspective, whereas his was a local parochial perspective.’ When Father Bob fell sick with CIDP, Father Messina was among his first visitors but he also took that as a cue to press his claim even more strongly. ‘The Archdiocese decided that Father Bob had reached a certain age and the security of his tenure wasn’t as great as it had been,’ he says. ‘And that’s been proved right now.’ No-one brought up the possibility that the stress of Father Bob losing his church may have precipitated his illness.
Father Bob is often invited to say mass at other churches within the Archdiocese, however. His services are always immensely popular, but invariably confronting. ‘I admire and love Bob greatly, but he’s not easy,’ says his great friend, Father Kevin Burke. ‘I had him here saying mass a couple of weeks ago. I was a nervous wreck because you don’t know what he’s going to say next! One woman walked out as Bob does provoke people, probably more so when it’s in a one-off situation. But you’ve got to close your eyes and see beyond the facade and front and gimmicks and jokes, and there’s a pretty good message coming out. You just have to try not to be distracted.’
He’s also in huge demand from schools. He’ll go along to hold a service or simply to talk to children about his life, the Church and the lessons of religion. ‘How old are you?’ one six year old asks him. ‘I’m ancient!’ he roars back as the entire hall dissolves into giggles. ‘Does anyone have any baby brothers or sisters back home?’ he asks another class. A forest of hands shoots up. ‘Well, when you go back tonight, have a look at their hands,’ he says. ‘Babies today are born with longer thumbs,’ he explains. Everyone leans towards him, intrigued. ‘It’s so they can text much faster!’ he says. There’s a pause for the kids to digest this, then the sound of children’s laughter fills the hall.
‘He relates to children so well,’ says one of the teachers, watching on. ‘They all adore him.’ Before he leaves, entire classes line up, determined to high-five him before he goes. And when an alarm outside suddenly goes off, he feigns panic. ‘Oh no!’ he cries. ‘They’re coming to get me!’ It takes a full five minutes for the class to be quietened back down.
At the office, though, things are now quiet. Back with the full use of his arms and legs, although still having rehab sessions, he says he’s now kicking goals for Collingwood, although he feigns worry about being accused of using performance-enhancing drugs. Still sleeping at the office, he’s been offered a small flat in the community housing block he initiated close to the church, and can’t decide whether to take it. He says the place is so full of memories for him, it might be painful living so close. Yet since he so regularly drives by the church, looking mournfully over, it might not really be so very different.
His youth worker Michael Carlyon suggests getting some pot plants for the backyard by his room, in case he wants to stay there instead. ‘Pot plants!’ echoes the priest with disgust. ‘Pot plants! We’re waging a war on poverty here, and you’re talking pot plants!’ Michael retreats, grinning, from the room.
While he still lives in constant fear of being given ‘the red card’ from the church, to say he won’t be allowed to say masses anymore – ‘They just refuse to give me a list of indictable offences,’ he complains – it’s unlikely his bosses will go much further. In public, at least, Melbourne Archbishop Denis Hart praises his aberrant priest. When asked for a comment for this book, he chooses his words carefully, but doesn’t hesitate. ‘Father Bob Maguire was ordained in 1960 and he’s worked very hard for the poor and the underprivileged,’ he says. ‘For more than thirty years he was parish priest of South Melbourne where a large number of people enjoyed his compassion and work. He’s a well-known priest and he has an inimitable style.’
Others, of course, are a touch more effusive. Over at Father Bob’s beloved Collingwood ground, Jeff ‘Joffa’ Corfe, the leader of the Collingwood cheer squad and frequently described as one of the best-known sporting fans in the world, is full of praise. ‘He’s just a wonderful person,’ he says. ‘He was the shining light of the Church, but they were the only ones who couldn’t see it. He’s a man of the people, well respected, dearly loved, and just an amazing person, a wonderful human being.’
Collingwood president Eddie McGuire similarly counts himself among the priest’s great fans. A scholarship boy himself at CBC, he loves it that Father Bob continues to offer scholarships to give others a good start in life. “Bob’s one of a special group of philanthropists keeping that program going, with education the greatest gift you could ever give a young person,’ Eddie says. ‘Throughout my career, we’ve worked on many projects together, and we want to work together on projects for the future, both privately and through the club. He’s always been a fantastic Collingwood supporter and he’s been a great mentor for the club and a steady source of inspiration over many years. It’s been an honour and a pleasure to have worked with him, and I’ve been affected by him enormously. Bob is a real doer. He always looks on the bright side of a tough world and gets in and makes things happen, and gets stuck into the action. He may not be everyone’s cup of tea but he focuses on a problem and finds an answer that will provide the quickest way to solve it.’
Likewise, his supporters come from all walks of life, from Appeal Court judge Bernard Bongiorno and retired judge Sally Brown, now at the International Commission of Jurists, to ex–heroin addict Linda, to stand-up comedian and radio host Meshel Laurie. ‘Father Bob’s inclusiveness and kindness are what draws me personally to him,’ says Meshel. ‘Father Bob seems to me to be a man who lives very simply by the teachings of Jesus Christ. I’m not the first person to note how few proud Christians seem to be able to do that, and I’m sure I won’t be the last.’ Even the Reverend Tim Costello, who’d criticised him in the past, has come round. ‘Bob’s lifelong commitment to the battler and the poor is something I admire,’ he says now. ‘His humour, courage and irony have been a source of inspiration to many people.’
Of course, Father Bob would be the first to admit he’s made mistakes along the way, but says his driving force was always to try to do good, and not cause harm. He’s still mourning the loss of his church, but will eventually come to terms with that too. His old mate Father Ernie Smith believes there were faults on both sides in the way his forced ‘retirement’ was handled, but believes Father Bob is certainly no closer to giving up. ‘He’s a survivor, Bob, he’s a survivor. He’ll get on with it.’
That’s echoed by Monsignor Tony Toms. ‘He’ll be engaged in pastoral work until the day he drops dead,’ he says. ‘He’s never thought of himself, only of others.’
And while being kicked out of his church has pushed him to the limits, believes John Safran, ‘He is still a really positive person and an inspiration. He’s had a lot of disappointments along the way, but he tries to leverage that into something else each time, and come up with a different strategy.’
Even the announcement in February 2013 that Pope Benedict XVI would become the first pope in nearly 600 years to resign didn’t faze Father Bob. He foresaw that he’d merely be replaced by someone remarkably similar in conservative outlook, with little change to the global Catholic Church. ‘Those in power are still the descendants of those who tried to cripple Vatican II and it’ll just be a bit of an anomaly having a bloke in the back room while another fella goes up front to drive the bus,’ he says. ‘But I don’t believe the balance of power will change. It would be silly of them to give that up.’
However, with the Church still in the throes of the global child sex abuse scandal, he does see a possibility of forces at work beyond Pope Benedict’s stated reason for giving up the helm, which was ill-health connected to old age. ‘The collective probably wants to move him out of the eye of the storm because he’s got baggage in terms of being in Hitler Youth as a boy, and the sexual abuse and cover-ups that have happened
in the past,’ says Father Bob. ‘This could then be a smart move in terms of moving him out of the firing line, and being seen to start again with a clean slate with someone else in charge. But that might be just my Dan Brown conspiracy theories coming out! And Jesus of Nazareth does still run the Church.’
As for Father Bob himself, the only way he knows how to continue is to simply keep going. He looks around his office and sighs. ‘I’m buggered if I know what to do,’ he says. ‘I don’t know. What can I do? I only know one way. There’s this persistent myth now that Australia loves me, which is strange; it’s too much for me. I think some disenfranchised Christians have fallen in love with the myth of the crazy priest.
‘But I don’t know. Some people have called me a maverick or a larrikin or a renegade, or they say I’m plain mad, and whether I was mad before I got to this stage, or whether I was driven mad by circumstances, I don’t know. People’ll have to decide for themselves. But just one thing: Don’t ever make me a saint. Because that is something I’m most definitely not.’
Acknowledgements
First of all, I’d like to thank the people of South Melbourne and Port Melbourne, including the parishioners of St Peter and St Paul’s, for revealing to me more about heaven on earth than I ever could have taught them.
I’d also like to commemorate the forty who died in the 1980s and 1990s on our watch, because a lot of good people did nothing.
And to the victims of abuse by institutions, both religious and secular, by those entrusted to their care, I would like to pay tribute to their struggle to be heard, and recognise their battles.
I would like to thank the women in my life – the mothers, sisters, nieces, and all those women over the years in the parish – who’ve given so much time and energy to our common mission to build a caring community, at one with the Church.
Thanks to Sue Williams for putting herself in harm’s way to spend time with an eccentric priest.
Finally, to everyone who has helped us along the way, thank you and God bless.
Bob Maguire
About the Author
Sue Williams is the author of a number of bestselling books, including Mean Streets, Kind Heart: The Father Chris Riley Story, Women of the Outback and No Time For Fear: How a Shark Attack Survivor Beat the Odds. Her other books include Peter Ryan: The Inside Story, Outback Spirit and Welcome to the Outback. And Then The Darkness, about the disappearance of Peter Falconio, was shortlisted for a Golden Dagger Award in the UK, and the Ned Kelly Awards in Australia. Sue worked in print and television overseas before moving to Australia in 1989 and has since written for many of our leading newspapers and magazines. She lives in Sydney’s Kings Cross with her partner, writer Jimmy Thomson.
suewilliams.com.au
CHAPTER 1
Dad, Have You Ever Climbed Everest
It happens just three days into one of the world’s most gruelling treks.
Eight-year-old Alyssa Azar is almost halfway along the rugged Kokoda Track in the remote wilds of Papua New Guinea, and she knows that when she completes it – if she completes it – she’ll have the world record as the youngest person ever to do so. But suddenly, she stops dead. The mud beneath her walking boots oozes up over her ankle gaiters as she sinks into the quagmire and lifts first one foot, then the other, to try to free them, but makes no attempt to continue.
The local porters look at her curiously. Over the past week they’ve learnt to expect the unexpected from this tiny little white girl, with her gap-toothed grin and mop of blonde hair tied into a rough ponytail. When she’d first been introduced to them as the youngest member of a new expedition along the historic trail, they’d shaken their heads in disapproval. She was far too young, and much too small, to embark on such an arduous challenge.
But she’s already taken them by surprise many times, striding along the track through dense rainforest, heaving herself up giant steps hewn into the mountains that most fully grown adults have trouble with, scrambling up the steep sides of valleys and trotting down the other side. A couple of times, as they reach for her arms to try to guide her across a raging river crossing, or help her along a particularly precarious mountain ridge, she politely but firmly asks them to leave her be. She already has dark bruises on both elbows where the guides, terrified of losing such fragile cargo, grabbed her so hard she winced. She wants to do this with as little help as possible.
Alyssa seems to be coping well. In every village they pass through she causes a sensation. Little children hide behind their mothers as they regard her shyly; it’s the first time they’ve ever seen a girl their own age who doesn’t share the same dark skin. Then, as she smiles back at them, they grow in courage, running over to touch her face and hair to check that she isn’t some kind of doll. Alyssa laughs and plays with them while the other trekkers in the party rest.
But now, in the middle of the track, she has stopped and the guides stand back to see what’s going on. She looks over to her dad, Glenn, who is quickly catching her up. ‘What’s up?’ he asks casually as he draws level, trying to keep any note of alarm out of his voice.
If she’s hurt herself, or suddenly decided she doesn’t want to go on, he doesn’t know what they’ll do. The only way back to civilisation is either to return the 40 km they’ve already slogged along, or continue onwards through the 56 km of mountainous country ahead of them. In his mind he’s already hauling her onto his shoulders and carrying her on the marathon that lies in wait. But she doesn’t look as if she’s injured, exhausted or ready to give up. He’s expected tears before now, either because the trek is much harder than she imagined, or because the conditions are so tough, with the oppressively steamy heat during the day and mind-numbing cold at night. But Alyssa has shown no signs at all of not being able to cope.
‘Dad?’ she asks softly.
He moves closer to her. ‘Yes, mate?’
‘Dad,’ she repeats, ‘I was just wondering … Have you ever climbed Everest?’
Glenn looks at his daughter with astonishment. He has no idea she’s even heard of Everest, let alone been thinking about it as they’ve all been struggling up this part of the track.
He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I haven’t.’
Alyssa beams. ‘Oh, okay,’ she replies. He has no idea why she looks so pleased. ‘I just wondered …’
And then she pulls her boots out of some of the thickest, stickiest mud on the planet and stomps off, leaving her dad, motionless, behind. As he watches the tiny figure disappear through the thick leaves and branches of the overhanging forest, he feels, as well as his usual pride, a vague sense of foreboding.
CHAPTER 2
The Push for Kokoda
The idea of walking the Kokoda Track was totally Alyssa Azar’s, and hers alone.
When she first mentioned it to her parents at the age of just six, they were horrified at the thought and dismissed it out of hand. ‘No,’ Glenn told her firmly. ‘You’re far too young. It’s tough for people even three times, four times, your age.’ Her mum, Therese, was even more aghast. ‘She first asked if she could go when she was six years old!’ she says. ‘That really concerned me. She was always so small for her age, but she was always so determined too. We tried to persuade her for a long time that it wasn’t a good idea.’
Alyssa, however, wouldn’t budge. Born in 1996 in Townsville, Queensland, the second of four children, and then moving with the family to Toowoomba in the state’s south-east, she was always a kid who seemed to know her own mind. She idolised her dad, an army medic and fitness trainer who worked out at the gym regularly and, in his time off from work, loved nothing more than bushwalking around the surrounding countryside. Every Sunday Alyssa would beg to come with him, and the tall, well-built man striding out with his tiny five-year-old daughter scampering along at his heels became a familiar sight to locals.
‘I liked the outdoors,’ says Alyssa. ‘I liked the different tracks, some of the hills. Just being out there and discovering
the places was all part of the fun for me, especially when you’re so little and everything else seems so big. It was always a great adventure.’ The walks were usually about three hours and gradually they grew longer and harder, eventually becoming four or five hours. ‘I just loved tagging along, being out there, walking, being with my dad and having adventures.’
Despite her diminutive stature, she loved climbing trees and although she always made it to the top, sometimes she wasn’t quite so capable of getting down again.
‘When we lived in Townsville,’ says Glenn, ‘she’d climb a tree and couldn’t get down and you’d have to get her down. Then when we moved to Toowoomba, it was exactly the same.’
Therese, an army mechanic and later a registered nurse, also became a regular rescuer. ‘Even when she’d just learnt to walk, a little toddler in nappies, I’d hear her calling me from the garden and I’d go out to find her in a small tree,’ she says. ‘I had to get her out, then she’d just get right back up. I worried all the time she’d have an accident. Other people were rescuing cats from trees. For us, it was always Alyssa.’
Everyone noticed how much the little girl enjoyed heights. Glenn’s older sister, Tanya Azar, has a vivid memory of Alyssa as a tiny three-year-old on a trampoline. ‘She was jumping as high as she could go, with a Dorothy Dinosaur tail on,’ she says. ‘She was giggling and smiling. She was always racing around, hyperactive. She obviously so loved getting as high as she could.’
From an early age, Alyssa simply loved heights. She scrambled to the highest point she could manage to have a view of her garden, her house, her neighbourhood … never worrying about how she’d manage to get down again. Toowoomba is Australia’s largest inland regional city, 130 km west of Brisbane and at an altitude of 700 metres, on the edge of the Great Dividing Range escarpment and the dramatic Lockyer Valley. It proved the perfect place for Alyssa to grow up.