by Sue Williams
He was always enormously entertaining too, and often in the most surprising ways. The much-decorated General Jim Barry, nowadays president of the Defence Reserves Association, remembers taking 2 Field Regiment Royal Australian Artillery jogging into the bush for a church service: one to be conducted by Father Bob, and the other by the Church of England Reverend John Leaver. When they arrived at the prearranged clearing – ‘Micks to the left! Proddies to the right!’ yelled General Barry – Father Bob had set up an elaborate altar, complete with cloth, cross and lit candles, on the bonnet of a Jeep. Everyone stopped dead in their tracks at the sight. ‘Anyone who’s not interested can come back to barracks and clean out the grease traps!’ General Barry ordered. There was a rush of troops over to the priest. All went swimmingly until someone noticed that Father Bob had omitted to pull on the handbrake properly, and the Jeep rolled steadily towards the congregation. ‘I can remember vividly all the howls of laughter as they all tried to get out of the way,’ says the general.
‘But Maguire wasn’t the usual kind of God-botherer. He was an incredible person. I even did a few of his late-night radio shows on 3AW with him, where he’d answer people’s phone calls. He was quite extraordinary; he could talk to anybody. He is one of a kind. He would take the micky out of his Catholic hierarchy but he didn’t denigrate them at all. He’d bypass them by saying, “I have a higher authority!” by which he’d mean Jesus. He’d be good for a prime minister!’
Father Bob was in his element and enjoyed talking to the young men, and felt he was learning a lot from them. He’d had few male role models in his life to give him much guidance and he liked being able to fill that gap for others. He worked well as an instructor, bringing in training films made by the Americans and introducing role-play, a technique that would later become an important part of his teachings as a priest. He also loved the discipline of the army, the innate sense of order that contrasted strongly with his own approach to life, which often tended to verge on the hectically chaotic.
‘In a funny, quirky way he loved the order and regularity of it,’ says Father Hal Ranger, who worked with him on some of the courses. ‘He has an innate disorder and chaos but he was very effective in that ordered environment, especially as they were able to give him the space to challenge a lot of things.’ That element had already turned out, and was throughout his lifetime, to prove key to his success – or otherwise – as a priest. Within the sometimes restrictive organisation of the Catholic Church, if he was given the space to operate in his own way within an ordered structure, he and his parishioners often flourished. If the Church couldn’t accommodate that, then he’d already experienced the pain and indignity of being moved on from some of the parishes in which he’d already served.
He also enjoyed the army emphasis on teamwork, one of his lifelong passions, and excelled in the art of team building. ‘You can’t put yourself first in the army,’ he’d tell the new recruits. ‘If someone needs help more than you, then they are the first to receive it. You have to work together as a team, think as a team and look after your comrades. It’s about people learning practical ways of working together for a common end. In the Anzac spirit, you never leave a mate stranded. You bond with your mates and you get the job done, just like Jesus and his twelve mates did.’
He felt the teachings of Vatican II fitted in well with his new work, too: the inclusivity, the principles of debating issues rather than imposing the solutions from on high, the freedom that now allowed him to bring up formerly taboo subjects like abortion and contraception. While he found the men loved listening to parables, he tended to avoid overtly introducing religion into the debates, however. ‘It was all about secular Christian humanity,’ he says. ‘We taught them about the first moral prerogative being to “do no harm”, the guiding principle for doctors. You wanted to sow the seed of morality. You couldn’t do much more. And if you did that well and it took and grew, then that good might stick. If you didn’t do it well, then that seed might be lost. It was up to your temperament and talent to plant that seed as well as you could, just like with Vatican II.’
Those courses certainly had, for many of the soldiers, a lasting impact. Vietnam veteran Kevin Flemings remembers the course imparting values such as respect for women, which was to have repercussions on his life many years later. ‘The course did have an effect on me,’ he says. ‘In 1970, I was booted out of a Toastmasters club for having the temerity to not only invite a woman to a meeting, but then propose her for membership! And it still hasn’t worn off. I am a Legatee and devoted to the care of military widows.’
For Father Bob there were an extra few perks of the job, too. For the first time in his life, he started receiving a regular, reasonable wage. Never having had money before, he liked suddenly feeling much more independent, although at the start he still ended up wearing someone else’s hand-me-down dress uniform because he couldn’t afford to buy one of his own. He also had a fair amount of free time and he and Father Ranger were instrumental in 1971 in forming the National Council of Priests, an Australia-wide organisation of Catholic clergy for bishops, priests and deacons. Created out of the tumult of Vatican II, against the background of the Vietnam War, he served on the national executive, overseeing meetings of 300 to 400 clergy.
Rank was another bonus of life in the army that Father Bob relished. He started off as a captain along with the other professionals coming into the army, like dentists and lawyers, and worked his way up to lieutenant-colonel as one of the chief instructors and senior lecturers. ‘Although as a clergyman you allegedly had rank in the outside world, it rarely felt like it,’ he says. ‘In the army, it felt like you were really respected. There was lots of respect both upwards and sideways.’
After a while, he became an expert in making use of that rank, too. Father John Tinkler, who was a classmate of Father Bob’s on his army chaplain’s course in 1966, and who became known in the army by the nickname ‘Tink’, saw that firsthand. ‘The idea of a chaplain is to be a friend to all ranks,’ he says. ‘Bob achieved that. He was respected, liked and trusted by all the soldiers, and respected by the officer ranks above him, too. Sometimes the soldiers had difficulties and needed a voice to put a point of view to a much higher rank. They told Bob their troubles and might tell him their family was having problems so could he put in a word for them to get a transfer to a base closer to home. If he felt there was a need for it, he’d then talk to someone higher up on their behalf. It was such a rigid rank structure, they really needed someone prepared to jump over other ranks on their behalf. Bob did that very well. Rank made no bloody difference to him at all. He doesn’t bow and scrape – and never has since either – but he gave respect to everyone, equally.
‘In the army, he really stood out. He talked in a really down-to-earth Aussie way, and talked straight, so everyone knew where they stood. If anyone started talking pompously, he’d just bring it down into ordinary language that anyone could understand. He has a superb ability with words; there’s humour under nearly everything he says and he had an extraordinary ability to talk in average diggers’ language, on the same level as the soldiers, so people would talk and relax around him. They’d even swear, and he wouldn’t take any notice of it. Everyone liked being in his company. They’d really listen to him, and there’d always be so much laughter. He doesn’t laugh so much, but everyone around him does. He was ideal for that job. He’s always believed that his role in life is to help people, and he did it there superbly. He’s a very fine man.’
Since his work with the young soldiers was so successful, Father Bob was also recruited as one of the three senior lecturers for the character-leadership courses run for officers and those who’d served in the forces for ten to fifteen years. This was a higher level of character training about war and the conduct of war, for twenty to twenty-five people at a time and lasting for four to five days. For this, he finally got the chance to travel, albeit only to various army bases around Australia: Kapooka, near Wagga Wagga
in New South Wales; the Hampstead Barracks in Adelaide; the North Head Artillery Barracks at Manly, Sydney; the Officer Cadet School at Portsea, Victoria; and, finally, twenty-five years after he’d first dreamed of being there, the Royal Military College at Duntroon in the ACT.
Father Bob treated the officers exactly as he’d treated their troops: with respect yet without any fawning to rank. One of the things he liked so much about the Australian Army was the irreverence of the troops to authority, often working out themselves the best way to do the job without blind obedience to those above. It perfectly matched his Vatican II ideology.
To all the officers on his courses, his questions would run along the same lines. ‘Is war just?’ he’d ask them. ‘Or is it unjust? Are there conditions under which it could be considered just? Is war morally acceptable – or is it always immoral?’ He’d bring up the possibilities of taking enemy prisoners, and how they should be treated. When you’ve been fighting men two minutes before, trying to kill them while they’ve been trying to kill you, how do you behave towards them if they surrender, or you capture them? And the big question: should they ever be executed?
At the front of everyone’s minds at the time was the previous year’s My Lai Massacre, where US troops had slaughtered around 450 unarmed people, mostly women, children, babies and elderly people, in a village they suspected had harboured Viet Cong soldiers. The mass execution only became public knowledge in 1969, and triggered outrage around the world. Character leadership, it was fervently hoped, would help prevent Australian troops from doing anything like that in the future. ‘Australia never had a My Lai,’ he now says with pride. ‘And the North Vietnamese, at the end of it all, seemed to have a lot of respect for the Australians, unlike the Americans. The Americans relied on superior firepower all the time, while we would be much more like jungle fighters, like them.’ As well, Australian soldiers made it their moral duty to bury the Viet Cong dead, unlike US troops who would usually leave enemy bodies to lie where they fell as a warning to others. That simple moral act won them a huge amount of regard from the enemy.
During those courses, the officers warmed to Father Bob, too. Vietnam veteran Chris Coape-Smith remembers clearly the evening the priest took a part of the course, unusually, about religion, on the doctrine of the trinity: God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. ‘It’s something very difficult to explain,’ says Chris. ‘I’ve known priests to say, “Forget the explanation, it’s too hard, just accept it”. But he did explain it, and so everyone could understand. I’ll never forget it. It was about 10 p.m. at night, very windy, and we were in this old building in North Head, which was pretty eerie. He started talking about God the Father and then the windows started rattling, and he said, “Yes, Father, we know you’re out there!” Then they’d rattle again, and he’d say, “Yes, that’s your son.” Then they’d rattle a third time … We were all in fits of laughter by this time.
‘He really had a way of talking about things in a way that was never ramming it down your throat. He was just very funny and explained things so well. His was a fantastic part of the course.’
Many of the officers were sceptical about the course before they took it, but most who came into contact with Father Bob seemed to find it tremendously helpful. Phil Davies, a captain back then, and later a brigadier, had been in the army for some time when he took the course. Father Bob won his class over from the moment he walked into the room and made a joke about having previously seen some of their number huddling in the back of the newsagent, trying to hide the fact they’d been caught looking at the girlie magazines. ‘That brought the house down straightaway,’ says Phil. ‘From that moment on, he had everyone in the palm of his hand.
‘He just understands people, whoever they are, and knows how to talk to them. His ability to engage with all denominations was an eye-opener. He’s never a God-botherer who thumps and thumps and thumps his hand on the table. He’s a real man of the cloth. The course was about ethical issues and how you need to be leaders of your men in some pretty serious situations, and keeping yourself and them out of harm’s way. It was about giving you a better understanding of yourself, and making sure you were fit for the job. We all benefitted from his irreverent but meaningful presentations.’
Another priest who worked with him on the courses, Father Lawrence Cross, was amazed at how well he could combine humour with the serious ethical questions, all couched in exactly the same language as the tough servicemen used. ‘He was marvellous and a great actor who could, like the saying of St Paul’s, be “all things to all men”. He was brilliant in the way he could combine the strange polarities between being a man’s man, a brilliant teacher, a priest and a storyteller. He had a very novel way of presenting ideas and facts. He’d talk about Abraham in such a way that you’d think he was actually in the room! It was quite captivating.’
Father Cross even found himself the butt of one of the jokes when he drove in to a retreat one day with loud Renaissance music on his stereo, forgetting that his car windows were wound down. Father Bob, teaching a class upstairs, was startled by the sudden loud burst of heavenly music. ‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed to his class. ‘Jesus is here!’
But as well as giving his students a laugh, Father Bob saw his main role as making his audience think, and to challenge some of their established beliefs. From the firm foundations of his absolute faith, as a deeply traditional Catholic – despite what he could look like on the surface – he was perfectly comfortable testing out everyone else’s ethics, safe within his own unshakeable convictions. Often, he’d say things deliberately to shock the officers, too. ‘But when they examined what he’d said afterwards, it often wasn’t as outlandish as it seemed at the time,’ says Monsignor Toms. ‘He had the confidence of his commanding officers and regimental sergeant-majors as well as the regular troops. He was very traditional in his theology and Church teachings, but he had a unique way about him; he was an enigma. In some ways, he could be slightly eccentric, in others he was an absolute traditionalist. Sometimes, the examples he used to illustrate his talks would come close to the knife’s edge, but he always kept on the right side of the blade.’
In the army, Father Bob honed the skill of learning exactly how far he could push things. It was only later, as the Church in Australia grew more conservative post–Vatican II, that far enough was sometimes considered to be simply too far.
But back then, Father Bob continued to enjoy his work with the army until the Vietnam War ceasefire finally began in January 1973 and the new prime minister of Australia, Gough Whitlam, announced the establishment of diplomatic relations with Hanoi. At that point, only one full-time chaplain was needed with the army character-training unit.
Monsignor Gerry Cudmore had been appointed to the army two years before Father Bob, in 1963, and was the first army chaplain to actually go over to physically serve in Vietnam. As far as Father Bob was concerned, there was no contest. ‘There wasn’t room for the two of us and he was the real deal; I was just a chocolate soldier,’ he says. ‘So I stood down.’
It was then he received a letter from Cardinal James Knox, who’d taken over as the Archbishop of Melbourne from Archbishop Justin Simonds. ‘By virtue of this letter I appoint you as Pastor of the Parish of St Peter and Paul in Melbourne South,’ it read, ‘and I commit to you the full care of souls in that Parish with all the faculties, duties, rights and privileges, according to the Code, to our Diocesan Statutes and to the approved customs … Would you please proceed to your new Parish on Saturday, 15 September at midday. I know that the people of your new Parish will welcome you and will receive from you the pastoral care they so richly deserve …’
Father Bob was delighted. ‘I’d been moved around such a lot, I was tired. At last, I was about to have a permanent home. Cardinal Knox told me that when I got to South Melbourne, I could stay there. That really pleased me as it meant I could relax; I wasn’t going to be moved on again.
‘It was going to be the first real hom
e I’d known. I said, “Thank you, Jesus.” At last I’d be able to settle somewhere, without having that constant fear of being kicked out and having to go somewhere else. I’d be there, serving the people, for the rest of my life.’
PART 2
A HOME OF MY OWN
8
A Home at Last
Father Bob Maguire arrived at St Peter and Paul’s Church in South Melbourne on 14 September 1973, the day of his thirty-ninth birthday, full of excitement for the job ahead. He had plenty of ideas and plans for the first parish he would run himself, all formed over his eight years in the seminary, tested and adapted while he assisted in other parishes, and honed by his time instructing in the army. He couldn’t wait to start on them.
It took him just a week to realise that nothing was quite as he’d so fondly imagined.
The problem wasn’t the church itself; he fell instantly in love with that. The first sight of it made his heart race: an imposing bluestone building designed by renowned church architect T A Kelly and constructed over three years from 1869, with an ornate rose window set into the facade, and stained-glass windows depicting the church’s patrons St Peter and St Paul. ‘I was grateful it was a good-looking church they’d sent me to,’ says Father Bob. ‘I thought to myself, “What in the name of God have I done to deserve this church?”’ Inside, it was no less grand. The high altar, added in 1933, was of lightly veined white marble brought over from Italy, studded with onyx and Irish green marble and with inserts of English alabaster. To one side of the church was a large garden, with paths winding around the grassy lawns graced with magnificent native trees and benches for visitors to sit in the shade. Behind that stood the presbytery, a grand Romanesque mansion built in 1876 fitted with ornate white marble and mahogany inside, and the kind of space Father Bob didn’t have a clue how he could possibly fill.
