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.