That Time I Farted in Church…and Everyone Heard It
The human body is capable of elegance and grace, of great feats of strength, of Olympic-class speed, balance, and agility.
Sculptors chiseled the human form into marble.
Painters captured it on canvas.
OnlyFans put it behind a paywall…and people pay to gaze upon it.
It may be evolution’s greatest work of art.
But…
However wonderful and awe-inspiring the human form is, our bodies can also be our greatest source of embarrassment.
Everyone has had that dream in which we find ourselves naked in front of the class.
Puberty is the most awkward, cruel, and unintentionally hilarious experience of most of our lives, and it seems to drag on for eons while we’re enduring it.
We fall down, fart, vomit, leak various unpleasant fluids from various places, and occasionally shit our pants…as adults…in public.
Sometimes the bodies in which we live seem to be our own worst enemies.
What follows is the story of…well, you read the title. To this day, this may be the most humiliating experience I’ve endured.
I was maybe ten or eleven-years-old at the time. Just a boy sitting in church on a Sunday morning and doing his best to avoid eternal damnation.
Like most kids, I hated going to church. It was long, boring, and I had to get up early on a Sunday to go. Moreover, I was attending Catholic school, and we went to mass every Friday morning. And when I argued that, since I went every Friday, I didn’t need to go every Sunday, too, my mom waved me off and said that didn’t count, and that I still had to go to church on Sundays.
If our Friday school masses didn’t count, then why in the name of God’s holy ass did we have to go? *grouses incoherently to himself*
Anyway…
This particular Sunday happened to be both the day the whole church choir sang for mass AND a “Donut Sunday” — a monthly fundraiser where donuts would be available for purchase after mass. Consequently, the church was filled close to capacity that morning.
And if I had to speculate, I’d estimate our church could hold around 800 people — all of whom would bear witness to what was about to happen.
If you’re unfamiliar with the Catholic Mass, the climax, for lack of a better term, is communion. Sometimes the organist plays while, row by row, people walk up to receive the body and blood of Christ. On Sundays like this one, the choir would sing for the duration of communion. On days on which musical accompaniment was unavailable, such as our school’s apparently pointless Fridays masses, it was silent, which was a little unsettling.
I should also point out that both of my parents were in the choir. They were seated in the choir area next to the altar.
I was sitting in the section of pews closest to the choir, which was the left-hand-most section if you’re facing the altar head on. This will be relevant in a sec, I promise.
I was also siting with my friend Ryan, which will also be relevant momentarily.
As I walked up to receive communion, I felt a strong rumble in my lower guts accompanied by a soft sound akin to a clogged drain being plunged.
We all know that rumble…and what it means.
But, not wanting break wind all over the front of the person standing behind me or, you know, offend Jesus, I did what any good, God-fearing, off-duty altar boy would: I clenched my rear iris as hard as I could.
My ballooning colon gurgled in protest, but reluctantly cooperated.
I communed without incident, and retuned to my seat without so much as a squeak.
Here’s the thing. After communion is finished, our priest would sit on his chair at the rear of the altar and let the entire congregation sit in silent reflection for a few moments before he concluded mass.
When I say silent, I mean no coughs, fidgety babies, not even anyone’s heavy breathing. It sounded like the building was empty.
Meanwhile, my innards were one again inflating. By my estimate, there was enough gas and pressure building that I was facing the very real possibility of liftoff.
I had two options.
The first was to quickly get up and head for the bathroom.
The second was to once again clench up and hope to retain long enough to that I could find a noisy enough moment to mask the release.
Both were a gamble. If I stood, the gas might escape prematurely. If I remained seated, I might erupt and rumble the pew.
The countdown to decide, however, was much briefer than I anticipated. Furthermore, I underestimated the force my body was prepared to use to expel the gaseous cloud trying to squeeze its way out of me.
It’s written in several books of the Bible that major events are often preceded by the blast of trumpets. Things like angels appearing to us mortals, the Second Coming, Armageddon, and many other end-of-the-world events you’ll find in the Book of Revelation.
I don’t know what I was meant to herald that day.
All I knew was based on the high pitch, volume, and duration of the fart that exploded out of me, it had to be something of biblical significance.
Imagine Louis Armstrong blasting his highest, longest, loudest note and blowing out the ear drums of the first three rows of New York’s famous Village Vanguard jazz club.
Now imagine that happening in a building acoustically designed to amplify sound.
Now imagine that sound amplified by its reverberation against a hard, wooden pew.
If glass had shattered, or had the Archangel Michael appeared to smite me with his flaming sword, no one would have questioned why.
Every head in the church, including the priest turned in my direction. People on the far right-hand side of the church perked up and searched for the source of the sound which had reached their ears as well.
I had interrupted a congregation-wide moment of contemplative silence…and now it was awkward.
I turned redder than the flames I would no doubt spend eternity in. However, I figured I could remain stone-faced and write off my redness as being startled or feeling empathetic embarrassment for some poor soul close by who, by the sound of it, had ruined their pants and possibly left scorch marks on the pew.
My friend Ryan, however, (remember when I said that would be relevant? Here’s why) was laughing so hard, no sound was coming out of him. He was almost as red as I was, tears streaming down both cheeks, his whole body shaking like he was jackhammering the road. He raised a shaking arm and pointed at me, the rotten bastard.
Oh look, a bus. Can you kindly not throw me…aaaaaand I’m under it.
Thanks a lot, dude.
I turned away from my friend who was still a good ten minutes away from being able to compose himself to see my mom staring a white-hot hole right through me.
From her choir seat, she mouthed, “Was that YOU?”
I wanted to lie and try to wiggle my way out of it. But I’d already been sold out. Moreover, I’d already offended the Lord enough for one day. I didn’t need the added sin of lying heaped on top of it.
The priest stood up and took another hard look in my direction before walking to the pulpit and concluding mass.
As I stood up for the recessional hymn, I was convinced I’d be grounded, and, eventually, would end up in Hell for my transgression that day.
The ride home was filled with laughter. Not from me, of course, but from my parents, Ryan, and my sister who were all making jokes about demons being driven from me by the power of Christ with a little help from beans, the ambusher of my asshole and what notes I’d managed to hit, and, of course, that NOT being what Jesus meant when he preached about turning the other cheek.
What was worse, we left in such a hurry, I didn’t even get a donut. Insult to injury, especially for a fat kid (I didn’t trim down until that time I got food poisoning in 6th grade and didn’t eat solid foods for over a week).
“I can never go back to church,” I said as I sulked.
“Oh, you’re going next week,” my mom said in her most non-negotiable tone.
“How can I go back after…what happened?”
“I know it’s embarrassing now,” she said. “But by next week, I doubt anyone will even remember.”
I doubted anyone would forget my impromptu trumpet solo. How could they? Everyone had heard, and most of them knew it had been me.
How could I ever show my face there again?
The next week, I didn’t look anyone in the eye as we arrived at church and sat down. I didn’t look up at all during mass. I looked down at the floor when I went up for communion.
I was afraid of meeting someone’s gaze and seeing the realization on their face that I had been the cause of last week’s “disturbance.” I was also afraid of our priest questioning why I hadn’t come to confession to beg forgiveness for…you know.
Much to my astonishment, no one mentioned it. There was no pointing and laughing, though Ryan did plenty of that during the week (because that’s how boys bond). No one approached me with a crucifix, bible, and holy water looking to drive demons from me.
When I eventually looked up, after bumping into several people, everyone was all smiles and friendly greetings.
As my mom had predicted, people either didn’t remember, or they just didn’t care.
Time and experience has shown me that embarrassing shit is inevitable. It happens to everyone, and it happens on small and large scales.
And yeah, in the moment, it sucks tremendously.
Most of the time, however, people quickly forget — that’s if they’re not so wrapped up in their own goings on that they notice in the first place.
And if someone does remember that embarrassing thing you did and throws it in your face, rather than cower and dwell in your own humiliation, just own it. The “Yeah, so what?” approach kills whatever power that embarrassing moment holds over you.
I wish I’d known that when I was a kid.
But at least I know it now.
If you liked this story and/or my writing, sign up for my email list to stay up to date on new stories, upcoming features, and cool news. I promise not to fill your inbox like I filled the church with sound that day…