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.

It is always sad when parishioners have to move away.

I do not often take requests…..but….

… a  priest friend has asked me to write about Connie, whom he has known since he was a young apricot and used to supply in her parish. She would pick him up from the airport, and the two of them would catch up as they made their journey to the presbytery.

What’s unique about Connie is her love of priesthood—not just the person who holds the title, but the reality that each baptised person is enthused with the Holy Spirit, which makes them Priests, Prophets, Kings, and Queens.

Priesthood is never about power; it is about service and sacrifice.

One of the ways, that Connie’s priesthood is demonstrated is through her unique ability to catechise. She has a skill for educating children and parents using conventional methods, but she possesses a matchless talent for teaching the Gospel when she shows parishioners how to make stained glass windows and mosaics. They think they are coming to learn a new skill, but they leave as artists of the Good News.

How does she do it? She teaches and listens.

When creating a shoal of fish out of broken tiles, she will recount Jesus, Peter, James, and John on the Sea of Galilee. Inevitably, as students join her in patterning the mosaic, they begin to talk to her about Jesus—how He is present or absent in their lives.

My priest friend tells me that Connie is not intense or intrusive. She has a gift for allowing people to share and to feel safe. They laugh and giggle, they cry and hug.

She serves those students—young and old—by breaking open the Gospel in the most gentle and creative way, and she sacrifices her time in doing so.

Her move away from that parish will be an enormous loss.

My friend was not there to say goodbye, but I send this reflection with love and thanks on his behalf to Connie—for showing him how to be a priest.

A Blessing for Connie

May the snow-capped mountains rise to meet you,

May the Spirit guide your steps,

May your hands continue to shape beauty,

And your heart remain open to those who seek.

May your priesthood—quiet, creative, and kind—

Flourish wherever you go.

And may those you meet be blessed

By the light you carry

And the love you so freely give.

Forgiveness is in danger of becoming a modern-day altruistic buzzword. It’s often seized upon by celebrities or social media stars to bolster their ratings as alleged humanitarians. Don’t get me wrong—I’m an “apricot” in favour of forgiveness. But not when it’s used as a tool to manipulate or grow a fan base.

True forgiveness is hard. Its pathway can feel like intense suffering—almost a kind of martyrdom. I’ve always found Christ’s words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” deeply powerful. He speaks these words from the cross—a place of anguish and distress. In that moment, He embodies the sheer difficulty of forgiving.

While on retreat, I came across this illuminating quote:

“Forgiveness is an act, not a feeling. Though it may generate feelings, forgiveness is an exercise of the will. When we forgive, we refuse to be further damaged by the wrongdoing of others.
A refusal to forgive is called a resentment. And the victim of resentment is always the one who carries it. The people we refuse to forgive may neither know nor care about our resentment.
To hang on to a resentment is to harbour a thief in the heart. By the minute and the hour, resentment steals the joy we could treasure now and remember forever. It pilfers our energy to celebrate life—to face others as messengers of grace rather than ambassadors of doom. We victimize ourselves when we withhold forgiveness.”

How true those words are.

Yet, we need God’s grace to energise our will to forgive. We need that same Spirit which enabled Jesus to release the Father’s forgiveness from the cross.

The sacrament of reconciliation offers us more than absolution—it’s an encounter with divine mercy. It’s a space where we can ask not only for forgiveness, but for the grace to forgive others.

Next time you go to confession, take a risk outside your “sacramental comfort zone.” If you’re struggling to forgive someone, talk to the priest. Ask him to pray for you as he confers absolution. And as he does, request from Jesus the grace to help you forgive someone else.

Forgiveness isn’t a performance—it’s a pilgrimage. And every step, no matter how painful, brings us closer to freedom.

“JOIN THE PARISH OF THE HEART – FOLLOW FR. APRICOT…”

POST IT, PREACH IT, PASS IT ON.

When I was a young apricot, I used to love pretending to be a superhero. In those days, the “Caped Crusader” was the protagonist I wanted to be. To emulate the enemy of the “Joker” and the “Penguin,” I had to don a mask and cloak and disguise my real identity.

The theme of “mistaken identities” runs through the scriptures. Both Moses and Joseph were mistaken for Egyptians. Abraham was visited by three strangers who were really God, and Mary of Magdala thought the resurrected Jesus was a gardener.

In the fourth century, Saint Martin of Tours gave half his cloak to a beggar, only to discover in a dream that the poor man was Christ.

Are each of these examples “mistaken identities”? Or are they clever ruses by God to make us consider that everyone who is a stranger is a potential Christ?

I live in a society which prides itself on promoting and teaching the value of Equality. Legislation protects people from discrimination because of their age, disability, gender reassignment, marriage and civil partnership, pregnancy and maternity, race, religion or belief, sex, and sexual orientation. There are no “mistaken identities”—everyone is treated with respect.

Unless you are an asylum seeker or migrant.

Then you are publicly ridiculed by elected leaders as “murderers and drug dealers” or “having bad genes.” Your presence is seen as evidence of an “invasion,” which will mean “law-abiding citizens” are in danger of living in an “island of strangers.”

These dehumanising labels are “mistaken identities” of the cruellest kind, and they stop society from seeing these vulnerable men and women as people—like you and me.

Where is God in all of this? Well………. perhaps God is in clear sight and is in the disguise of a migrant or an asylum seeker.

Fr Apricot will now be away on retreat for a little while.

I am slightly discombobulated. To those who know this clerical apricot, it will come as no surprise.
Sometimes I have to ask myself, “Who is telling the truth?” or “Who can I believe?”
In a war or conflict, which side do I take?

Propaganda—while it can stir and encourage hearts to support a just cause—can also mislead and result in suffering.
My baseline is compassion. Jesus tells us, “Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate.”

I have always understood an aspect of compassion is to care for the innocent who suffer because of the conflict that wraps its web around them. I believe Jesus called these souls “the little ones.”
Sometimes, highlighting the “little ones” softens stubborn hearts, opening doors to diplomacy and compromise.
The innocent are inevitably at the heart of truth. If reported and cared for, they can shame both sides into seeking a resolution.
No propaganda is needed—only the truthful reporting of the innocent who are suffering.

Strangely, compassion is not listed as a gift or fruit of the Spirit. Isaiah and St Paul do not mention it.
Yet we know it is part of God’s DNA. Jesus said, “Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate.”
Regardless of our religion, if we are all made in the image and likeness of God—if we share that divine DNA—then all of us can be compassionate.
Catholic and Protestant. Jew and Muslim. Hindu and Sikh. Atheist and agnostic…

We can all notice the “little ones” and unlock the doors to compromise and peace.

Let us pray and work for that.

Being an apricot, I love the summer. I have a large Jurassic Park-style garden behind the presbytery, which grows in all sorts of directions and harbours birds, foxes, and all manner of creepie-crawlies.
At the edge of the lawn, under a sprawling tree, I have a chair—and when I get the chance, I sit there and pray.
Although the garden is overlooked by neighbours, it miraculously guarantees silence. I savour and relish the quiet.

Our 21st-century world is deprived of silence. We are frenetic and addicted to activity and noise.
I’ve written previously about the negatives of computers and mobile phones, but they also bring the addition of earbuds or headphones that blast music and news into our ears.
About the only place I don’t see these fixtures of din is in church (thank the good Lord), or when I attend a school assembly… but they seem to be everywhere else.

The curious fact is that constant noise is used as a form of torture in places where human life is disregarded and prisoners’ rights ignored.
Yet silence is the realm where God speaks, and our souls—free of noise—can listen. As Saint Mother Teresa said, “God is the friend of silence.”
No wonder we claim not to hear God or doubt His existence, if we never enter a quiet space to let Him speak.

I often tell my parishioners to wake a little earlier, make a cup of coffee or tea, and sit in silence.
To first acknowledge that God is with them by saying an Our Father, and then to talk inwardly with Him about joys and troubles.
Then, to be silent—and if distracted, to focus on Jesus sitting beside them (coffee cup in hand), present to them as He was to Mary in Martha’s house.
It is in that silence that the sweetness of God will fill your soul.

You might feel the courage to face a task, or you might receive confirmation that the Lord will walk beside you in the day ahead.
Then, before returning to the noisy world, say a “Glory Be” for having been in God’s presence.
It need only take ten or twenty minutes.

I am certainly not a spiritual master, but the value of silence and prayer has been taught to me by the myriad of saints, both living and dead.
Try it.