You could say this apricot has had quite a season. Scopes, scans, needles, and machines have mapped out parts of my inner terrain I never knew existed. They’ve been photographed, examined, and declared officially mine. And I am weary of it. I have had to be brave, though at times that bravery has felt thin. If someone offered an injection that would let me drift into blissful oblivion while eager hands and instruments did their work, I would gladly roll up a sleeve.

I used to tell parishioners facing treatment that they were brave. They often looked back at me with a kind of polite indifference. Perhaps they were naturally courageous. This apricot, however, freely admits to being a medical coward.

Courage and bravery are Godly things. Jesus was never caged by opinion or fear of offence. In these last Sundays of Lent, we see him speak openly with a Samaritan woman of the “5 husbands”, heal a blind man on the sabbath, and call Lazarus from the tomb — all actions guaranteed to scandalise the authorities. But his courage is not swagger or defiance. It is the courage of Love: the willingness to risk ridicule, rejection, and misunderstanding for the sake of another. To be seen with the gossiped-about. To touch the unclean. To lift up those judged as sinners. All “rejects,” all loved, all restored.

So does this kind of bravery help my medical cowardice?

Perhaps not in the way I once imagined. Jesus’ courage was outward-facing — a love that stepped toward others. But there is another kind of courage in his story too: the courage to be vulnerable, to be held, to be ministered to. The courage of Gethsemane, where even he trembled. The courage of allowing others to care for him.

That is the courage that speaks to me now.

Because showing up for scans and scopes when every fibre of me wants to flee is its own quiet bravery. Letting others tend to my fragile apricot self is a kind of trust. And admitting fear — instead of pretending to be naturally courageous — may be the most honest and human courage of all.

So yes, the bravery of Jesus helps.

As someone who has already given up nearly everything, the devil has quite a task tempting this Apricot. My mind is now so thoroughly celibate that if ten naked ladies danced in front of me, I would probably be more interested in learning a few of their dance moves. I always did love ballroom, and in my younger days I was rather elegant on the dance floor.

I barely drink, and with my current medical troubles my diet is so restricted that gluttony is no longer an option. Gambling is out too — you need money for that, and I haven’t any. On the surface, it might seem as though temptation has very little to work with.

But the devil is never discouraged. His aim is not simply to lure us into obvious sins; his real strategy is far more subtle. He tries to undermine our understanding of God’s love — God’s total, unconditional love for us. Saint John Vianney expressed it perfectly: “He makes us think everything is lost when nothing is lost.” That is the devil’s favourite lie: that we are lost, abandoned, or beyond God’s reach.

God, unsurprisingly, sees things very differently. “You are precious in my eyes,” He says in Isaiah (43:4). And if we wander, He sends the Good Shepherd — His own Son — to come and find us (Luke 15). God’s response to our weakness is not irritation but tenderness.

For that reason, I do not wish to give the devil any more space on this page. That deceptive, whispering creature does not deserve the final word.

Instead, I want to speak about the purpose of Lent. In this Apricot’s view, Lent is a time to shift the furniture, do a bit of spring cleaning, and make room for more of God’s love. We can never have too much of God’s admiration, God’s delight, or God’s pride in each one of us. But to receive it more deeply, we sometimes need to clear out the clutter — the opinions, habits, or temptations that drown out His voice. We need to fast from them. We probably also need to repent, confess, and hear God’s tenderness in the words of absolution.

We also need to give. Giving is a sign of sacrifice — a small echo in the world of the great sacrifice made by Christ on the cross. Yes, give to the poor and support charities that care for the destitute and the vulnerable, but also give forgiveness. Be brave enough to forgive someone who has truly hurt you. Christ forgives from the cross; we can do the same from our armchairs and sofas. Forgiveness also clears out “the one I do not want to mention” from the rooms of our hearts, minds, and souls.

Lent in three words: declutter, give, forgive. Quite catchy.

This Apricot asks “If Jesus were walking the earth today, where would He choose to spend Ash Wednesday?”

And the more I pray about it, the more convinced I am that He would be exactly where He has always been: standing among those who need to repent.

Think of Jonah, sent not to the holy, but to the Ninevites — a city full of corruption, violence, and injustice. Think of John the Baptist, waist‑deep in the River Jordan, calling ordinary people and powerful people alike to turn their lives around. And think of Jesus Himself, who never avoided sinners, never kept His distance from the broken, and never hesitated to challenge those who misused power.

So where would He be today?

I suspect He would be standing beside political leaders who refuse to negotiate for peace, reminding them that every delay costs human lives. He would be in the offices of those who hold the power to grant debt relief to nations drowning in poverty, urging them to loosen the chains that keep millions trapped. He would be confronting those who fail to protect the vulnerable — the elderly, the unborn, the trafficked, the homeless — calling them back to compassion. And He would be speaking to those who ignore the cries of the earth, reminding them that creation is not a resource to exploit but a gift to steward.

And He would be with us too — because we also need repentance. Not in a dramatic, headline‑grabbing way, but in the quiet corners of our hearts: the grudges we hold, the habits we excuse, the temptations we fall into, the ways we objectify others, the times we choose comfort over courage.

Because God does not simply want us to behave better. He wants to transform our inner selves so that His love becomes visible in the world. When our hearts change, our choices change. When our choices change, the world changes.

So on Wednesday, as we receive ashes, we stand with the Ninevites, with the crowds at the Jordan, with every sinner Jesus has ever called to begin again. And we ask Him to walk with us into this Lent — to challenge us, to heal us, and to make us instruments of His mercy in a world that desperately needs it.

When I found myself nestled in a hospital bed a few months ago, it didn’t take long for my fellow patients to work out that I was a priest. To be fair, the clues were hardly subtle: the medical staff kept calling me “Father”, and the occasional cleric would appear at my bedside.

Being a sick priest on a public ward had its unexpected benefits. Unlike others, I was immediately seen as approachable and trustworthy. People opened up quickly, sharing their inner lives. I’m still not sure whether this was because we all took turns retching or producing strained poo samples—and bonding over the indignity of it—or because I am, of course, an excellent priest. In hindsight, I suspect it was the former.

Illness often brings with it a certain kind of gentle patronising. “You don’t need to worry about that,” I was told more than once. It was kindly meant, but I would quietly confess my worries to a neighbouring patient, and they would listen with real empathy. Being able to speak what troubles the heart and soul is so important.

In Mark 2:1–12, a paralysed man is lowered through a roof to reach Jesus. Jesus seems to ignore the man’s physical condition at first and instead attends to his soul. He perceives the burden of sin weighing on him and forgives it. He does not patronise him; he treats him as a child of God before seeing him as someone who is sick.

My own experience as a not‑so‑hidden priest (with the rather curious name of Apricot) on the ward echoed this. I heard many stories of regret and guilt, and in some cases offered absolution. Most came to see that their illness had nothing to do with their “sins”. God was not punishing them—it was simply the raw deal of biology and life.

Yet something lifted in them when they realised this. A weight shifted. They could speak to God again, freely and without fear. Physically they were still ill, God was not punishing them, it was “biology not playing ball”, but spiritually they felt healed.

So, this Apricot says: God always sees us as we are and never punishes us — a truth learned the hard way…. through…. experience, bedpans, and prayer.

By now, most of us have taken down the Christmas tree and tucked the decorations back into the attic or the cupboard under the stairs. I hope, though, that your nativity scenes are still in place. In our Catholic tradition, they remain until the Feast of the Presentation on 2nd February.

I never tire of looking at my own crib figures. They’re worn now, a little scuffed by time, yet they still speak so clearly of the wonder contained in that little barn of “Good News.”

When I was a very young Apricot, I played the innkeeper in the school nativity play. I had just one line: “I have no room, but you can go around the corner and use the stable.”

It’s Luke’s small, almost throwaway detail — that there was no room at the inn — which continues to haunt me. The innkeeper’s house was full. That much is obvious, but it’s also a detail that should unsettle our Christian witness and our prayer life.

Is my house full?

Have I truly no room left for anyone else?

We often imagine our families as complete. I have a sister, and my parents are now in God’s eternal company. If I suddenly discovered another sibling, I suspect my first reaction would be, “But my family is already complete — there’s no room for anyone else.” It would be a shock.

Yet this is precisely the challenge God places before us: everyone created by God is part of my family. “Blood is thicker than water,” we say — but God’s own body and blood, woven into my very being, is shared with countless others. As members of God’s family, we have many brothers and sisters.

Now, this Apricot isn’t suggesting we provide board and lodging for the whole world — that would be impossible for most of us (though perhaps easier for those with palaces or presidential mansions). But we can make room in our hearts and in our prayers for those in need.

So, try to…

Make room for your brothers and sisters by supporting charities that care for the vulnerable and the destitute.

Make room for your brothers and sisters by signing petitions and urging your elected officials to uphold the dignity of life from conception to natural death.

Make room for your brothers and sisters by standing against regimes that deny basic human rights.

Make room for your brothers and sisters by supporting organisations working for debt relief in starving and struggling nations.

And make room for your brothers and sisters by praying — for all of these, and for many more besides.

When I was a very young and naïve Apricot, I could be quite outspoken and unkind. My mother would often correct me with the gentle but firm reminder: “You must not say that because it is mean and hurtful.” Once the red mist had cleared from our eyes, she would sit me down and explain why my words had been harsh or unpleasant. Sometimes I understood immediately; other times I argued my case. But eventually the lesson sank in: words can wound as easily as sticks and stones, and what we say or write can feel like a WMD — a “Weapon of Mass Destruction.” Remember that phrase? Very much “in vogue” a few decades ago.

One of the hallmarks of our present age is the cry for “Freedom of Speech.” Yet if I correct someone because I feel they are expressing something unkind, I am told I am infringing their right to free expression… and they can “cancel me.” The irony, of course, is that in defending their freedom, they can remove mine. Whatever “cancel” means these days.

I agree wholeheartedly that freedom of speech is a basic human right and one that must be protected. But it is also a delicacy — easily bruised, easily abused, and often used in ways that diminish rather than elevate. I think we are seeing some of that in our “western, so‑called cultured” world today.

So, what does the Church actually say about freedom of speech? Does it allow it?

I asked Artificial Intelligence — and the answer is quite neat:

“The Catholic Church teaches that freedom of speech is rooted in the dignity of the human person, but it is never an absolute licence to say anything without regard for truth or the good of others. The Catechism of the Catholic Church affirms that human beings ‘have the right to act in conscience and in freedom’ (CCC 1782), yet it also insists that communication must always respect truth, charity, and justice (CCC 2471–2472). The Church warns against speech that harms others through falsehood, detraction, or calumny (CCC 2477–2479), and emphasises that the right to express one’s thoughts carries ‘responsibilities and limits’ for the sake of the common good (Pacem in Terris, 12). Vatican II teaches that society should safeguard the right to seek and express truth, but always in a way that upholds human dignity and promotes the moral order (Dignitatis Humanae, 2). In this vision, authentic freedom of speech is not merely the ability to speak, but the responsibility to use speech in service of truth, justice, and the flourishing of all.”

In our world of legitimised insults and permitted degradation of migrants and political opponents, the words used by some “freedom of speech” advocates do not promote human dignity or the moral order. Instead, they echo the tantrums of toddlers who still need to learn that local and global problems are not solved by shouting louder, but by seeking truth, justice, and the flourishing of all.

How is this learned? By the age-old crafts of respect, discussion and diplomacy.

Not bullying….not “cancelling”.

Some of us might need to grow up and remember the advice of our parents and teachers!

At Epiphany we acknowledge Christ as a baby King.

Later in the Gospels, Jesus the man, calls His kingdom “paradise.” He says to the good thief “today you will be with me in Paradise”

What is my notion of paradise?

Christ’s notion of paradise is eternal life.

But according to the gospel and his conversation with the good thief, it is also the place where God chooses to embrace our:

•             Hurt

•             Pain

and        Heartache

It is where God enters into the world of:

•             Indifference

•             Loneliness

and        Despair

God enters so that He may listen,

lift from our shoulders all that burdens us,

and place it upon His own……………………carrying the cross for us.

My Notion of Paradise

 is when I am:

•             Listened to

•             Respected

•             Loved

•             Forgiven

Through baptism, we are all members of God’s Royal Family. We are anointed Priests, Prophets, Kings and Queens.

We too hold the keys of the Kingdom.

And with them, we are called to do our best to lift the weight of hardship from the shoulders of others.

To listen, to respect, to love and to forgive.

For the past few months I have been a rather sick apricot. Illness took me completely by surprise, and I fell off the parish tree with quite a thud. Another priest has kindly stepped in, and I am only now beginning to find my “mojo” again. With a little more time and a few more deep breaths, I hope to resume my duties soon.

Like the British King, I shall keep my ailment to myself — it’s good to have the occasional secret — but I can say that I am now officially a “frequent outpatient clinic” visitor. If only they offered reward cards, I’d be well on my way to a free toaster by now.

What did I learn?

Somewhere in the fog of painkillers, treatments, and the endless choreography of bedpans and IV flushes, I learned to “give to God.” I handed Him my despair, my worries, my fears — not wrapped in holy language or polished phrases, but simply as they were. I let Him see into my heart and mind, and I entrusted it all to Him. He became, in a sense, my spiritual attorney.

Occasionally I felt a twinge of guilt that I wasn’t reciting a psalm that matched my mood, but eventually I surrendered even that. I simply said to God, “These are my words, these are my feelings, and I have to give them to You.”

My experience brought to life the wisdom of the saints. St Teresa of Ávila reminds us that prayer is “a close sharing between friends,” a quiet moment with the One who loves us. And St Thérèse of Lisieux, with her beautiful simplicity, calls prayer “a surge of the heart… a simple look toward heaven.”

Their words encourage us to pray honestly, gently, and in our own voice. God is not waiting for perfect sentences — He is waiting for us. Whether our prayer is joyful or weary, confident or uncertain, long or just a single whispered line, He receives it with tenderness.

I felt that. And I have learned to trust it too.

When I went to seminary (four Popes ago), I was trained to be an apricot of souls. My understanding of priesthood was rooted in sacramental and pastoral care.
Today, priesthood is quite different. Yes, we continue to be “servant shepherds” of a flock, but increasingly we are becoming miniature managing directors of a business. Most of my parishioners don’t know that I often spend hours buried under policies and procedures, ensuring the parish meets important safeguards and remains financially transparent and independent.
I lament that I wasn’t trained to be a managing director of a “Walmart” or “Harrods,” but to be a simple priest. This apricot would never want to be a bishop. I might chide them, but they have the reward of my imperfect prayers. The men of mitres and croziers have the unenviable task of navigating and imposing the understandable expectations of national and local government regulations onto parishes, while keeping them within Canon Law. Not an easy task.
Perhaps we should all take the example of Christ, who ignored customs and walked through the cornfields with his disciples on the Sabbath. Let us challenge a little, take a risk, and restructure. We might need to take a few steps outside tradition and convention—just as Jesus did with his disciples when they gleaned the corn—but not go too far.

Schools might have the answer. In certain countries, they have combined management resources and become academies. Policies, procedures, and financial transparency are overseen by a trustee board made up of experts chosen from different schools within the trust. Those with particular skills are given responsibilities attuned to their talents and training, which ultimately serve the schools within the academy.

I would gladly hand over the administration and business management of my parish to a “deanery academy trustee board” accountable to the bishop.
Before you hammer me with criticism, I admit my apricot idea is very likely impractical or naïve and I would not want it to detract from the importance of safeguarding rules in parishes amongst priests and laity—but I release it into the blogosphere as a suggestion.

Something which liberates priests back to their role as shepherds of people, and not curators of ring-fenced budgets, needs to happen.

In the meantime, I’ll return to the latest thrilling guideline on flat roofs—while secretly pondering how I might walk with Jesus and my parishioners through a cornfield.

I don’t know about you, but I am tired.

I’ve come back from holiday and I’m still “all in.”

I know I’ve reached an age when apricots wrinkle and shrivel, but it’s my mind that feels exhausted. Physically, I could walk up and down a mountain… or two.

I’ve pondered my mental weariness and concluded that it’s the “news” that’s exhausting me.

Gosh, this sounds like such a “first-world” problem. People are dying due to mortar fire or starvation, and I’m complaining about fatigue! Yet it’s because of their suffering and despair that I am tired.

Powerlessness in our society is remarkably evident. I feel I cannot do anything to help those whose lives hang in the balance. I can send money to relief agencies, and I can write to my elected representative to pressure the government to intervene with peace efforts or sanctions—but that’s it.

In the “good old days,” brave individuals like St Francis would turn up at the door of dictators or aggressors and bargain with them for peace. His approach—and that of many others in “days gone by”—seems rather heroic, but no longer possible in our modern world. Would Saint Mother Teresa be able to get through “front lines” or into diplomatic meetings? Sadly, probably not.

You and I (unless you are a very rich, powerful individual who can use money to “talk”) are left to rely on God. The “gentle, crucified, forgiving, sacred heart” God who sends grace upon grace into hardened hearts, hoping they will listen and acknowledge the pointlessness of power and land grabs. The benevolent God who trusts us with “free will,” only to see us turn it into a reason why we can kill each other.

The correct “power” is that of God’s love, which is sadly ignored by those who have the “power” to implement it. A ceasefire would be an act of love. Being content with land and boundaries and borders would be an act of love. Laying down weapons and replacing them with food and medical supplies would be an act of love. Peace after war is an act of love.

For love never tires, and love breathes life even into death. Love lifts up and raises the hurt and injured and dying.

But an absence of love… is exhausting.