Honi Soit
    Facebook X (Twitter) Instagram
    Trending
    • The momentary victory of mass politics: reflections on Kissinger and Australia
    • “We are freedom fighters”: pro-Palestinian protestors march amidst end to seven-day ceasefire
    • An invitation in: SCA’s ‘New Contemporaries’
    • NTEU to delay new fixed-term contract limits that fail to cover higher-education workers
    • Mohammed Shami: The Muslim cricketer who carried an Islamophobic nation to the Men’s Cricket World Cup Final
    • Moving beyond the theoretical: Privacy law reform in Australia
    • Digital privacy, missing voices, and cookies: IAPP Summit 2023
    • SUDS 2023 Major: A Corpse in the Cabinet — Review
    • About
    • Print Edition
    • Advertise
    • Locations
    • Contact
    Facebook Instagram X (Twitter) TikTok
    Honi SoitHoni Soit
    Thursday, December 7
    • News
    • Analysis
    • Culture
    • Opinion
    • University
    • Features
    • Perspective
    • Investigation
    • Reviews
    Honi Soit
    Home»Perspective

    Nuns and Roses

    By Cameron GooleyOctober 28, 2015 Perspective 4 Mins Read
    Share
    Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Pinterest Email

    Author’s note: the following is a work of fiction

    I was sixteen years old and attending church for the first time in four years. Kneeling on the wooden plank jutting from the pew in front of me, I looked around the hall. Apparently I was the town’s only person in the 12-60 demographic to show up that morning – so much for being inconspicuous.

    After the service finished I waited awkwardly by the confessional booth for the priest. I passed the time staring at the ceiling. You’d think the town’s only Catholic church would be nicer than the Presbyterian one, but I guess the Vatican’s bank account actually does have a finite number of digits.

    An exception to this was an elaborate sculpture of Jesus nailed to the cross above the altar. My eyes lingered on the bloody stains over his knees before returning to his stomach. Someone had definitely gone to town on that body. I began to picture a sexually repressed nun sculpting his abdominals, in some twisted Catholic version of a Mills and Boon novel.

    I slapped my wrist and scolded myself – that sort of ‘perverse’ shit was why I was attending confession for the first time since primary school anyway.

    “Are you alright, son?”

    The priest had flanked me while I was preoccupied with thoughts of horny convent sisters.

    “I’m just here for confession Father,” I said, putting on my most dazzling snaggletooth smile. Realising that I should probably be acting somewhat more solemn, I suddenly began frowning.

    “Well, come then child, step into the booth.”

    I climbed into the booth only to be confronted almost immediately with another Jesus, this one fun sized. I traced his torso, giggling to myself. Those abs were definitely ribbed for her pleasure – caricatured pictures of pornographic nuns began to roll around in my head. Hearing the window separating the two halves of the booth swing open, I quickly dropped my hand. I didn’t particularly like the thought of being caught molesting an idol of the Son of God by the Heavenly Father’s Earth-bound proxy.

    “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. My last confession was … ah, four years ago?”

    “Was that a question? Or a statement?” The priest asked.

    “Oh, a statement sir – Father!” I said nervously. “So I guess that’s number one. I haven’t been to church or confession for a while. Ahhhh, also, I caught my brother wearing a pair of my underpants so I farted on his pillow.”

    The priest stifled a snort with an extremely unconvincing cough, while I cringed in my seat. What can I say? I panicked.

    “Yeah. Um, I think he got pink eye.”

    Stop speaking! I counted to three in my head before getting back to the point.

    “Oh and I’ve been having some impure thoughts,” I said. I couldn’t believe I’d just said “impure” but I felt I had to compromise and find some middle ground between “butt-fucky” and “extreme Sodom and Gamorrah level shit”.

    “Is that it?”

    I sat silently for a moment, and guiltily looked at the mounted figure of Jesus on the wall. I glanced once again at his mutilated knees.

    “Jesus died for our sins right Father?” I asked.

    “Well, yes, that’s what we’ve been teaching you since year three.”

    Shit, okay mate, chill.

    I looked at my own knees, hidden under cargo pants. The skin was raw and still stained green from grass. Sitting next to Jesus I felt like a human voodoo doll; I stained my knees green and they came up on him red and bloody.

    He may have died for my sins, but he probably didn’t intend to cover for me blowing another boy in my year at the local park.

    “Yes that’s it Father.” I said, before reading the Act of Contrition.

    “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”

    Why is it always “He”? How can an omniscient being have a sex? I don’t get it; I’m the worst Catholic ever. Why is the priest just sitting there stamping his foot? Oh shit!

    “For His mercy endures forever!” I blurted, slightly too loudly.

    I did my penance sulkily, before walking out the door and back home.

    What was worse: being so ashamed of sleeping with a man that I almost confessed it to a priest whom I hadn’t seen since Year 6; or being too ashamed to even confess in the end anyway?

    I decided it was time to take another break from church. The only things that institution had ever given me were passive aggressive authority figures, crippling self-esteem issues, and an irrational hatred of Anglicans. I already had a mother and father to do that anyway, so what did I need Catholicism for?

    Opinion Competition 2015

    Keep Reading

    The momentary victory of mass politics: reflections on Kissinger and Australia

    In Defence of Studying Useless Degrees

    Migraine: more than just a headache

    Love knows no boundaries on the Spectrum

    Behind closed doors: I think you should get high with Tim Robinson

    Vale JL

    Just In

    The momentary victory of mass politics: reflections on Kissinger and Australia

    December 6, 2023

    “We are freedom fighters”: pro-Palestinian protestors march amidst end to seven-day ceasefire

    December 4, 2023

    An invitation in: SCA’s ‘New Contemporaries’

    December 4, 2023

    NTEU to delay new fixed-term contract limits that fail to cover higher-education workers

    December 4, 2023
    Editor's Picks

    Puff, puff, pass: What does cannabis legalisation mean for student communities?

    November 1, 2023

    Privacy is not dead, yet

    October 26, 2023

    ‘A patchwork quilt of repression’: The disappearing right to protest in NSW

    October 17, 2023

    The lights are on, but no one’s home: inside USyd’s International House

    October 10, 2023
    Facebook Instagram X (Twitter) TikTok

    From the mines

    • News
    • Analysis
    • Higher Education
    • Culture
    • Features
    • Investigation
    • Comedy
    • Editorials
    • Letters
    • Misc

     

    • Opinion
    • Perspective
    • Profiles
    • Reviews
    • Science
    • Social
    • Sport
    • SRC Reports
    • Tech

    Admin

    • About
    • Editors
    • Send an Anonymous Tip
    • Write/Produce/Create For Us
    • Print Edition
    • Locations
    • Archive
    • Advertise in Honi Soit
    • Contact Us

    We acknowledge the traditional custodians of this land, the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. The University of Sydney – where we write, publish and distribute Honi Soit – is on the sovereign land of these people. As students and journalists, we recognise our complicity in the ongoing colonisation of Indigenous land. In recognition of our privilege, we vow to not only include, but to prioritise and centre the experiences of Indigenous people, and to be reflective when we fail to be a counterpoint to the racism that plagues the mainstream media.

    © 2023 Honi Soit
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms
    • Accessibility

    Type above and press Enter to search. Press Esc to cancel.