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.

Recently, I was given a large cake with a beautiful word iced on the top: “Thank you.”
Priests are as insecure as anyone else. We’re never certain if we’ve done things well—or if we’ve been as insensitive as a bull in a china shop. The best gift I’ve been given is a simple “thank you.” For me, this word and sentiment far outweigh a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates.

What we say is so important.
When Mary hosted Jesus and sat at His feet listening, I wonder what He was saying.
What word was He scratching into the dust when a woman was brought before Him, caught in the very act of adultery and about to be stoned?
The disciple in me imagines He spoke—or etched into the earth—words of the Father’s love, understanding and encouragement for each of these women.

Priests can be artists in kindness.
I have lived with men who breathe out words of faith, guidance, and consolation.
They have been examples to me of Christ interacting with the most vulnerable.
But, as with all professions and vocations, there are some who can be acid-tongued—particularly with each other.
Occasionally, I’ve found myself on the receiving end of a whiplash comment or unjustified criticism of my ministry.

What would the Lord say to these priests?
I like the fact that Jesus told the disciples, “Love one another.”
The Lord might have been telling His apostles to love everyone—the Pharisees, the Romans, the Gentiles—but I like to think He was challenging the twelve men following Him to love and get on with each other, because they were just as dysfunctional as me and my acid-tongued priest colleagues.
That same command to His twelve apostles to love each other is as relevant to them as it is to me and my brother priests.

What would the Lord say to the bishops?
I think He’d remind them to be good shepherds to their clergy:
To visit them regularly and see how they’re doing.
To ensure they have clean, functional accommodation, guaranteed holidays, and solid psychological support.
To love them—and to encourage them to love and support each other.

What might the Lord say to me? Pray for, forgive and love your acid tongued fellow priests.

As with any parish, I have a hotchpotch of parishioners. I have the very elderly and babes in arms, as well as school children and workers. We celebrate new births, and we mourn the deaths of the grey-haired. Each is viewed as precious—and so they should be.
However, what are the criteria that advocate when one of those lives is understood as “disposable”?
I cannot understand how a hidden child, held securely in a womb; or a person battling with an uncontrollable, pain-filled illness; or an innocent living in a war-ravaged country, are deemed different—less precious—than you or I.

I want to use my “blogosphere pulpit” to ask why, when someone stands up for the rights of people to live—whether the unborn, the pained dying, or the innocent avoiding shells and missiles—they are labelled “fundamentalist” or accused of “not living in the modern world.”

Life has no demarcations.
No one is conceived and born with a label that gives a “sell-by date” or “best before.” Life is a gift, and is seen as something so exquisite that, if it is willingly extinguished, it breaks a commandment from God. Life is so priceless that Christ blessed it with eternity when He was made incarnate and later rose from the dead. That “precious” life begins at conception and continues to the very last natural breath.

Life should be respected with love—not turmoil and hunger.

Is war, assisted dying, or the termination of the unborn a better option than advocating for peace and respect across all cultures, investing in good palliative care, and providing proper support for mothers-to-be?
And yet, this respect for life is seen as something “old-fashioned” and somehow as disrespecting the “humanitarian” values of the modern age. It’s linked to the crazed ravings of a Bible-basher, or someone who would prefer women be chained to the kitchen sink.

But the values of life should never be seen as fundamentalist—they are sensible truths, integral to our identity as humans.

Perhaps we “fundamentalist,” “old-fashioned,” “Bible-bashers” need to remind the “modern-day humanitarians” that respect for life also advocates debt relief by richer nations, the end of poverty, the right of workers to a fair wage, respect for all—whether male or female—and care for creation.

Sometimes the stronger apricots have to fight for the weaker ones.

I share the same skin tone as the President of the United States. My complexion is the reason I’ve been nicknamed “Fr Apricot.”

The President and I are worlds apart. I know nothing of business, I am far from rich, I struggle to run a parish—let alone a country—and I suffer from nerves every time I preach. My lifestyle could be considered “alternative” to that of the President.

“Alternative.” I look at that word and I often feel challenged. Being a follower of Christ means being “alternative”; we are in the world, yet not of the world.

Pope Francis was often criticised by clergy for being too critical of priests. I disagree. I think he didn’t go far enough. Most of us live quite a comfortable life and have shelter and food readily available. We see the challenge—or “cross”—in our life as celibacy, but many others who are not priests live a chaste life.

I believe the “alternative” lifestyle that Christ challenges priests to live is one of simplicity and a degree of poverty—not to invest in swanky presbyteries, but to give the value of the latest mod cons to charity. Or perhaps that’s my challenge, and I put it out into the blogosphere to remind myself to do so.

Being a follower of Christ and living an “alternative” lifestyle is not reserved for priests and religious; it is an invitation made to all. I’m inspired by Blessed Carlo Acutis, who at a very early age put a “stake in the ground” and decided to attend Mass as much as possible, to learn about the Church and the Scriptures, and to do his best to feed the poor. Yes, he supported a football team and played with computers, but his “alternative” lifestyle as a teenager following Christ converted many.

So what is your challenge? What lifestyle change is Christ asking you to take? That is between you and Him—but to find out, you must risk meeting Him in prayer and asking the question… just like the rich young man, who got the reply to sell everything he owned and give it to the poor.

Today, I went through the Holy Door at our designated “Jubilee Year Pilgrims of Hope church”. I know it has to do with plenary indulgences and confession, but I still don’t understand how stepping over the threshold of a church via a Holy Door shaves a few light years off in Purgatory. Still, I’m happy to go with it… just give me a lot more doors. No narrow doors either….I am quite portly.

Holy Doors have made me think about windows. There are windows everywhere! While I’m typing this blog, I’m using a computer—which can be a window into an encyclopaedia of amazing knowledge—but it can also be used to gain access to territories where bodies are seen as commodities to be expended and abused.

Mobile phones are the same. They provide wonderful ways for us to communicate and support each other, but for some, they can be windows into damaging comments and unwholesome relationships.

I’ve always wondered why we give these two potentially harmful windows to our innocent children. We encourage an addiction which is so hard to untangle. Why do we do it?

My own church has some beautiful windows, and these have existed for at least 120 years. They are “stained glass windows” which, in the middle ages, were respected as a new form of educational technology—taking the viewer into very holy places. While I do have a few sleepless nights over the twelve stained glass windows in my church (they’re always at risk of damage), they are none the less portals into the life of Christ and gateways into knowing that we are loved and treasured by God.

Now…. do something radical! Turn off your computers, put down your phones, gather your children and visit your local old church or cathedral. Most town and cities have one. Enter through the door (it might be a Holy one) search for a stained-glass window and see if you and your children can work out what it illustrates in its myriad of colours and shapes. These places are always free of charge (money for a bus fare and a sandwich might be useful) but I can assure you they will be doors and windows which will transport you and your children into holiness.  

I like the new Pope. He comes across with natural humility. Before he was elected, a friend of mine met him in Rome and found him to be unassuming and modest. They had met to discuss the appointment of Bishops.

I believe a Bishop is like a good Parish Priest—his congregation may differ, but his aim should be the same: to serve the flock. Jesus was no different. The Gospels recount times when those who heard him speak wanted to make him King, yet he would quickly withdraw from the crowds. He did not seek to be placed on a pedestal, and his words and antics at the Last Supper were entirely about service.

My notion of priesthood is the same. My role is never to be the centre of attention or to seek admiration but to serve. I do my best to respond to the calls of wonderful parishioners, as well as those whom, if I’m honest, I might prefer to drive past without offering a lift. Of course, I never do… but the thought does cross my mind!

A Bishop who demonstrates a clear mandate to serve, listen, visit and care for his diocesan clergy exemplifies the model of a good priest—one whose purpose is to care for his parish flock. Such a Bishop sets a wonderful example, especially for younger priests.

A Bishop who expects to be served by his clergy earns little respect.

A Bishop who embraces simplicity and travels by bicycle or public transport is truly a gift from heaven.

I pray for a Bishop who is kind, spiritual, relational, and humble. A man with good common sense—who might even have a “freedom pass” or bicycle clips.

I am no saint—far from it. In fact, I am so unsaintly that I would probably use a misplaced halo as a Frisbee rather than something to levitate over my head. However, I do perform a saintly task: I help out at the local food bank. This is not something I advertise, and I certainly do not deserve any thanks, but I try to regularly lend an afternoon to be with those who have no choice but to ask for charity.

Food banks are like confessionals—they are places of searing honesty. You see mums open up about the guilt they feel for not being able to feed their children properly. You meet middle-aged family men whose boilers or cars have broken down and who have no idea if they have enough money to pay their mortgages. You meet the elderly, whose golden age of retirement is turning into a prison sentence of counting pennies and dreading the winter.

Unlike a confessional, I can offer no absolution or solution. The only words I have are those of encouragement and support. At times, I am lost for words, asking myself how society has reached a point where food and energy “poverty” are accepted as an unfortunate norm.

There have been notable saints who have cared for the poor—Dorothy Day and Mother Teresa, for instance—but their message has not taken root in any modern government or borough council. I have yet to see Nigel Farage regularly working in a food bank! No leading politician has ever spoken about negotiating with supermarkets to adopt a “foodbank ethos” to reduce the cost of their basic brands so the poor or temporary impoverished can shop without destroying their weekly income. Then I realise I am powerless to change powerful people. I am only responsible for myself.

I wonder if Jesus said, “The poor will be with you always,” because he knew how diffident some can be to the power of charity and love—if they never choose to help others, then poverty (in all its forms) will endure.

However, I can help. I am responsible for me… and you are responsible for you. So, if you are not a leading politician with great power (or perhaps you are) and have a bit of time on your hands—help out at a charity. Together, we can at least make a dent in poverty.