He was the finest Pope to ever wave my way. As a pious trainee altar boy and needless to say, potential priest, I was there amongst the throngs at Auckland's domain, summer of ’86. Walking tall in my finest short shorts [a possible reason for your fast-tracked elevation to altar boy status - Ed.] I pushed through the crowds towards the road He was travelling - NAY, in fact, the crowd opened for me like the parting of the Red Sea, and soon I was able to gaze in blessed awe directly at Him.
The Popemobile seemingly levitated above the masses, while JP’s head shined like the holiest of beatitudes. I kept my composure and reached for the camera, quickly snapping the shot that for years would crystallize my third-biggest goal - to become a photojournalist (only superseded by hopes to crash a spaceship through the edge of the universe, and somehow morph into my friend Anthony O’Brien – much better-looking than I and an actual cashed-up member of the Smurf club).
But little was I to know that this was the peak of my love affair with Catholicism. Not long after that The Zealandia, NZ’s national Christian monthly, stopped publishing my crossword submissions. And my little brother lost my Papa Smurf in church – why did you let that happen God?
As I lost my faith my photojournalistic ambitions also slid away. Inexorably linked they must have been – JP’s hand had waved, giving me the money shot, but later, as I stumbled, He tooketh away the love. Hells bells.
postscript: after putting those words down a few weeks ago, I felt so emotionally shaken that I attended a number of counselling sessions. These worked a treat. The doc helped me realise that, as a human being, I'm just far too lazy - to take good photos, to get down to church every week, to save the world. Now I feel great again! No more Catho guilt for me. SING IT, YEAH!
