Very marvellous is the dignity conferred upon the body by the fact the “Word was made flesh.”  From that flows forth the high position of the Christian, whose body is a “temple of the Holy Ghost.”

It is through the body that we receive the Sacraments, which are means of grace to the soul.

Did time permit, it would be deeply interesting to trace out the use of the word body in this connection—­the natural body of our Lord, His spiritual body after the Resurrection, His mystical body, the Church, in which sense He Himself is called “the Saviour of the body” (Eph. v. 23), His Sacramental Body, of which He says, “This is my body.”

The discipline of the body.

The thought is prominently before us at the present moment, and first let us look at it from its purely material side.  Thousands of youths who a few months ago were slouching, narrow-chested, feeble specimens of underbred humanity, have now-expanded into well set up, hardened men.  The body has been disciplined by drill, exercises, route-marching, and the like.  Those who return from the war uninjured will, we may hope, be in such improved condition as may somewhat compensate for the terrible loss of vigorous life which is taking place.

Had there been universal military training of the youth of our land for the past few generations, either the present war would never have taken place; or the results of the first three weeks of it would have been vastly different from what they were.

Now take another significant fact:  letter after letter from the front says, “We are all very fit.”  The average “fitness” in the trenches is, broadly speaking, higher than that of training camps at home, especially of those where little or no supervision is exercised as to strong drink.  How plainly this shows that hardness, even of an extreme character, braces up the body; softness and self-indulgence enfeeble it.

S. Paul affords a wonderful illustration of this; obviously a man of very delicate health, frequently ill (probably this was the thorn in the flesh), yet accomplishing vast labours, and, in addition, buffeting his own flesh lest it should get the upper hand.

Here, then, we reach the first great principle in the discipline of the body.  It must not have its own way, or it will infallibly assert its sway over the man’s real self.

That is what happens in the case of the habitual drunkard or the slave of lust.  That which at first is a temptation, perfectly capable of being resisted, becomes at last what the doctors call a “physical” craving that, humanly speaking, cannot be overcome.  By constant yielding the will has been weakened to such an extent that the personal “I” no longer reigns; the usurping body has taken its place and rules supreme.

Let us take the main thought of self-control, which is the true rendering of the word temperance, the state in which, as S. James says, the man is “able to bridle the whole body” (S.  James iii. 2), and test ourselves by it this Lent.  Am I retaining my dominion over my body, or is it gradually pushing itself into my place?