In the traditional Roman breviary the first reading of Matins for Sunday contained the words of Jeremiah the prophet: “Et dixi: A, a, a,” which, being translated, reads “And I said ah, ah, ah,” which is probably how a lot of us feel by this time in Lent. When we look back at these weeks we may feel rather discouraged. Perhaps we don’t seem to have done anything with Lent at all, or perhaps when we consider those things we wanted to give up we find we’re now consuming double, triple, the amount instead. It might be that our Lenten privations haven’t directed us to the Lord at all, and are just making us angry, resentful, and sullen; our Lenten sacrifices may have proven far more of a penance for those around us than ourselves. The spiritual book unopened, the prayers unsaid, the soul coasting along rather than renewed …. “argh, argh, argh” might be our preferred translation of Jeremiah at this point.

And so thanks be to God for Passiontide. The veils covering the statutes, and images, and crosses, direct us inward; this is the “boot camp” part of Lent when we can pull up the socks of our soul and really go back to the heart of it all. Why the veils? “Jesus hid himself, and went out from the temple.” This is the point in Our Lord’s approach to his Passion that he no longer went about openly, but withdrew to be amongst his friends, the disciples, and his followers. That is where he now invites us: to come into that inner circle of his, to find our place again beside him.

For those of us who are so helped by the beauty of sacred images this is a rather challenging time — where are we supposed to look when we are praying in church? We can of course take our favourite holy card out of our missal or breviary — the sacristan isn’t going to suddenly jump out and snatch it from us or throw purple paint over it. The real challenge is that invitation to close our eyes, to close our ears to the noise of the world, and to seek the Lord where we know he is to be found, or at least to invite him in. That is what St Philip prayed: “I look for you, but I do not find you. Come to me Lord Jesus”.

In my family, whenever death visited us, we covered the mirrors and emptied the vases of water. The veiling of mirrors was something to do with ghosts that I can’t fully remember, but maybe there was also something about not looking at oneself, not entertaining all those thoughts of guilt and regret that come with the passing of those we love, not brooding by looking at ourselves but remembering that life goes on.

Our veils invite us inward — not to focus on ourselves, but to direct our gaze to God. To use this time to walk with him to Jerusalem, to the Cross, and to live again that moment when the veil of the Temple is rent in twain, and our hearts with them. To go to Calvary with him, that we might find him in the Garden then, and greet him not in shock, not in embarrassment, but in profound and awe-filled gratitude when the veil of death is lifted at last and for ever, and finally we are able to see.

I don’t keep a journal, and I’m not a great believer in writing notes to my future self. But it’s at this point in Lent each year that I am tempted to put a note in my calendar for the start of Lent next year to say: It’s not that bad!

Lent seems always to begin with a feeling of dread at the thought of spending every day hungry and longing for the small amount of food I have to give up. And it always begins at such a cold and dark time of the year. February is hardly a meteorological highlight in the UK.

But, in fact, that’s all an overreaction. Lent works. And one of the ways it works is to make us realise that, actually, it’s not that bad. Those things we give up, that we fear we can’t live without — we can. And by this point in Lent, we should be feeling something of the freedom that saying “no” to ourselves can bring.

That’s not the only thing we can forget each year. Lent is really a rather beautiful time. Not only should we quite like the extra time we give ourselves for prayer and works of charity, but the days get longer and the temperature is rising. And that makes it just that bit easier for us to picture what we are looking forward to: the bursting forth of Life from the tomb.

This year, our series of Lent talks have proved popular: Saints for Sinners. And it’s easy to see why. We like to know that holiness — to which we are called — is possible. And the Lives of the Saints are a tremendous gift to us for they illustrate one of the consoling truths of the Christian faith: holiness is not the reward of the perfect but the triumph of grace in the imperfect. These men and women recognised their sin and chose to do something about it, allowing God to transform them.

When we look closely at the saints, we discover something striking. Many of them began far from sanctity. St Peter denied Christ three times. St Augustine spent years wandering in error and moral confusion. St Mary Magdalene had a troubled past. St Paul persecuted the Church he would one day serve with heroic fidelity. And yet the Church honours them not because they never fell, but because they did not remain fallen.

Holiness begins not with perfection but with honesty. A saint is someone who stops pretending before God. The sinner who says, “Lord, have mercy on me,” is already closer to holiness than the person who imagines he has no need of God’s mercy. This is why the Gospel is such good news for sinners. Christ did not say, “Come to me, all you who are already holy.” He said: “I have not come to call the righteous but sinners.”

In fact, the very weakness we lament can become the place where grace works most powerfully. St Philip, used to pray each morning: “Lord, watch over Philip today, or Philip will betray you.” That prayer was not despair; it was realism. And from that realism grew great joy and the freedom of the Children of God.

The saints are therefore not distant beings meant to daunt or discourage us. They are companions on the road, living proof that grace can work in ordinary, fragile people like ourselves. If God could make a saint out of Peter the coward, or the errant Augustine, or Paul the persecutor, then no life is beyond hope. It simply requires that we allow God to be merciful and that we let him forgive us.

“Every saint has a past. Every sinner has a future.” Words of Oscar Wilde, a former resident of our parish, who knew the truth of those words which illustrate the point that if not all the saints began well, they all ended well. Hope for us all!