The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Discipline of War, by John Hasloch Potter This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Discipline of War Nine Addresses on the Lessons of the War in Connection with Lent Author: John Hasloch Potter Release Date: November 1, 2005 [EBook #16979] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DISCIPLINE OF WAR *** Produced by Irma Spehar and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) THE DISCIPLINE OF WAR Nine Addresses on the Lessons of the War in Connection with Lent FROM ASH WEDNESDAY to EASTER SUNDAY WITH AN APPENDIX CONTAINING SUGGESTED SUBJECT FOR MEDITATION, AND SUITABLE PASSAGE OF SCRIPTURE, FOR EACH DAY IN LENT BY THE REV. J. HASLOCH POTTER, M.A. Hon. Canon of Southwark and Vicar of St. Mark's, Surbiton, Surrey LONDON SKEFFINGTON & SON 34, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. Publishers to His Majesty the King 1915 AUTHOR'S PREFACE page 1 9 18 27 35 44 52 62 70 81 The war has introduced into countless lives new conditions, and has strangely modified, or emphasised, those already existing. These Addresses, prepared under much stress of other work, are intended to supply, in very simple fashion, hints for conduct and points for thought along the lines of our fresh or deepened responsibilities. An Appendix gives a suggested subject and a passage of Scripture for each day during Lent. May God the Holy Ghost, without Whom man's best labours are in vain, bless this little book to its purpose. Please say a prayer for the writer, who, as much as any, needs grace that he may try to practise what he preaches. J. HASLOCH POTTER. Surbiton. The Conversion of St. Paul. 1915. FOREWORD Kingston House, Clapham Common. January 19th, 1915. My dear Canon,— You have invited me to say a few words introductory to the little book you are putting forth, and of which you have sent me the advance proofs. From the great excellence of that which I have read, I am convinced that your Lenten meditations on the Discipline of War, will be of pre-eminently spiritual value in a time when publications on the subject are multiplied. That the war is to leave us on a higher plane of self-discipline, and with higher ideals of citizen life and responsibility, every Christian must acknowledge. Your little Lenten scheme is just that which is needed to give reality and action to what might otherwise be left in the realm of theory. May the Holy Spirit make use of your work to the benefit of us all and for the Glory of God. Your sincere friend, CECIL HOOK, Bishop. CONTENTS I The Discipline of the Will II The Discipline of the Body III The Discipline of the Soul IV The Discipline of the Spirit V Discipline through Obedience VI The Discipline of Sorrow VII Discipline through bereavement VIII Discipline through Self-sacrifice IX Discipline through Victory Appendix THE DISCIPLINE OF WAR I The Discipline of the Will ASH WEDNESDAY Isaiah lviii. 6 "Is not this the fast that I have chosen?" Discipline is the central idea of the observance of Lent. An opportunity, rich in its splendid possibilities, comes before us this year. Much of the discipline of this Lent is settled for us by those tragic circumstances in which we find ourselves placed. God seems to be saying to us, in no uncertain tones, "Is not this the fast that I have chosen?" Our amusements are already to a large extent curtailed, maybe by our own individual sorrows or anxieties; maybe by the feeling of the incongruity of enjoying ourselves while anguish and hardship reign supreme around us. Our self-denials are already in operation, under the stress of straitened means, or the vital necessity of helping others less favoured than ourselves. Our devotions have already been increased in frequency and in earnestness, for the call upon our prayers has come with an insistence and an imperiousness that brook no denial. To this extent, and further in many directions, our Lent has been taken out of our own hands; ordered and pre- arranged by that inscrutable, yet loving, Providence which has permitted the War to come about. Thus, at the very outset, we are brought into harmony with the central idea of discipline—not my will, but God's will. Broadly, discipline is defined as "Mental and moral training, under one's own guidance or under that of another": the two necessarily overlap, and therefore we shall speak of God's discipline, acting upon us from outside, and of our own co-operation with divine purposes, which is our discipline of self from within. In the forefront of the subject, and including every aspect of it upon which we shall touch, stands that tremendous word—will. Have you ever attempted to gauge the mystery, to sound the depth of meaning implied in the simple sentence "I will"? First of all what is the significance of "I"? You are the only one who can say it of yourself. Any other must speak of you as "he" or "she"; but "I" is your own inalienable possession. This is the mystery of personality. That accumulation of experience, that consciousness of identity which you possess as absolutely, uniquely your own; which none other can share with you in the remotest degree. "A thing we consider to be unconscious, an animal to be conscious, a person to be self-conscious." This leads on to a further mystery, alike concerned with so apparently simple a matter that its real complexity escapes us. "I will": I, the self-conscious person, have made up my mind what I am going to do, and, physical obstacles excepted, I will do it. The freedom of man's will has been the subject of endless dispute from every point of view, theistic, atheistic, Christian and non-Christian. Merely as a philosophic controversy it has but little bearing upon daily life. The staunchest necessitarian, who argues theoretically that even when he says "I will" he is under the compulsion of external force, yet acts practically in exactly the same fashion as the rest of mankind. When the freedom of the will is considered in relation to religion, then it bears a totally different aspect. If the will be not free, religion, as a personal matter, falls to the ground, for its very essence is man's voluntary choice of God. Here too those who deny the freedom of man's will doctrinally yet accept it as a working fact. Calvin, whose theory of Predestination and Irresistible Grace seems to exclude man from any co-operation in his own salvation, yet preached a Gospel not to be distinguished from that of John Wesley! For us Christians the freedom of the will is absolutely settled by Him Who says, "Whosoever will let him come." If you are sometimes troubled by certain passages in Scripture which seem to imply that God's predestination overrides man's will, remember, that whenever we are considering any question which concerns both God's nature and man's nature, difficulty must arise, from the very fact that our finite mind can only comprehend, and that but imperfectly, man's side of the transaction. Things which now seem incompatible, such as prayer and law; miracle and, what we are pleased to call, nature; God's foreknowledge and man's free-will in the light of eternity will be seen as only complementary parts of one divine whole. Remember too that you must take the general bearing of Scripture; not isolated passages in which, for the necessity of the argument, one side is strongly emphasised. The Apostle who, thinking of the boundless power of God's grace, says, "So then it is not of him that willeth nor of him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy" (Rom. ix. 16) is the one who says "He willeth that all men should be saved" (1 Tim. ii. 4). The love by which the Father gave up His Son; the life and death of that Son; the ministry of God the Holy Ghost; the whole dispensation of the Catholic Church, form one great tender appeal to the free-will of man. Your free-will, my free-will, before which is placed the tremendous responsibility of choosing or rejecting. And now from the broad thought of will, at its highest point, occupied with eternal choices and spiritual decisions, we turn to will as the governing power in our lives. It is, to a certain extent, self in action, for before even the slightest movement of any part of the body, there must have gone, automatically and unconsciously, an act of will. Before every deliberate action there takes place a discussion, which ultimately decides the attitude of the will, that is your final purpose. Put quite simply, the motives determine the will, and are themselves decided by the principles at the back of them. Let us make this plain by an illustration. It is pouring with rain, you are sitting cosily over the fire with an interesting book. The thought comes into your mind, I ought to go and see my sick friend. Then follows the deliberation: the flesh says, "To-morrow will do just as well." The spirit says, "No, it won't; you may both be dead to-morrow." The flesh says, "Perhaps I shall catch a cold"; the spirit says, "That fear wouldn't keep you from going to a Picture Palace." The flesh says, "Perhaps he won't care to see me to-day"; the spirit replies, "It's a dull, wet afternoon, and he's very likely to be alone." Now notice that at the back of each set of motives is a vital principle. In the one case the lower self, in the other the higher self, that is to say "I" and "God." The purely natural, human side of even the greatest saint would prefer to sit over the fire; but then our nature is not left unassisted, and even in a simple thing like this God the Holy Ghost comes to our aid with His suggestions of the higher course, and illuminates the path of duty. That is one of the most blessed features of the ministry of the Spirit; He enlightens, He persuades, He never compels: if He did, your will would not be free. This explains what the discipline of the will really means. It is just the laying of ourselves open to the voice of the living God, speaking within us. As we do this, day by day, the will itself becomes braced and strengthened, so that the struggle against the lower nature grow less and less fierce, the power of choosing the higher course more and more easy. Here is our first practical thought for this Lent. Watch yourself and your life, especially in those particulars in which you know that you have been getting out of hand. The prayers omitted, curtailed, said carelessly, said or attempted in bed, instead of on your knees: what a grievous failure, isn't it? The carelessness about preparation before and thanksgiving after Communion, the irregularity of your attendances; the habit of Self-Examination, or of Confession, dropped—why? The Bible neglected. Then the self-indulgences in the matter of sleep, food, drink, and purely wasted hours. All these things are sapping the manhood and dignity of the will. Sometimes even more dangerously and insidiously than open sins, because with regard to these conscience does speak; but when we are merely drifting down the stream of time, the pleasant lapping of the ripples on the side of the bark lulls conscience into fatal sleep. Look at your life, ask yourself the question, boldly and honestly, what is the principle upon which it is being lived, God or self? When the answer comes you will see clearly the first steps to take in the disciplining of the will. Glorious examples of what can be done abound around you. Think you there has been no struggle on the part of those tens of thousands who have given up comforts, home, prospects, harmless pleasures, in exchange for the ghastly miseries of the trenches, the appalling risks by land, on or beneath the sea, in the air, all at the call of a stern, compelling duty, which told them that the life really worth living was the one spent, laid down if need be, for King and country? Think too of the heroism of the wives, the mothers, the sweethearts, on whose lips there must have trembled over and again, "I will not, I cannot let you go." Yet the will was disciplined, the words remained unspoken, the tears were shed in secret, and these brave hearts, even in breaking, shall find their reward. It was at Waterloo one afternoon, a young officer was being seen off for the front by father, brother, and fiancée. The two former bravely and cheerily said their good-bye, and withdrew a little to leave the young couple for their farewell; a kiss, a close embrace, outward smiles, but tears very near the eyes; and then as the officer got into the carriage just this one remark: "It's precious hard upon the women." What a world of meaning there was in that. Above all, as your pattern and your power, look to Him Who said, "I came down from Heaven not to do mine own will but the will of Him that sent Me." For suggested meditations during the week, see Appendix. II The Discipline of the Body FIRST SUNDAY IN LENT 1 Cor. ix. 27 "I buffet my body, and bring it into bondage." On Ash Wednesday we were considering some purely subjective realities, such as principles, motives, will—things we could not see. To-day we think about a very objective substance, ever present to our senses—our body. A man may deny point blank the existence of his soul—using the word in its ordinary acceptation—he cannot say, "I have not got a body." Even if he should conceive of that body as a mere bundle of ideas, an accumulation of sensations, yet there it is, making itself felt in countless ways. So intimately bound up is it with every part of our life, apparently so infinitely the most real part of us, that we often think of it as being our true self. Yet every cell and fibre of it changes in the course of seven years. Therefore in itself it cannot maintain our identity. Have you ever pinched your nail, right down at its base, and watched the dark mass of congealed blood making its way to the tip of the finger, and then dispersing? This gives you some idea of the pace at which the body is being burned up and renewed. All the while the personal "I" remains, deep-seated in the self-conscious intellect, memory, will. Of course the body plays an immensely important part in the complex story of our existence. It is the machine by which the personal self acts, speaks, loves, hates, chooses, refuses; therefore we can neither ignore it nor despise it. The popular notion concerning religion is that it is meant only for the salvation of the soul. If this were so, then the coming of the Holy Ghost would have sufficed for all needs. One manifest purpose of the Incarnation was to give to the body the possibility of holiness here, resurrection hereafter. 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? Self-examination, honestly performed, will reveal this at once, for conscience, unless blunted by neglect, will speak infallibly. For instance, when you find some indulgence of the flesh concerning which you say "I can't help it," there your body has vanquished you. It is absorbing your personality, robbing you of your divine birthright, in which you say, "I will," "I will not." And now to go a step further—the disciplining of the body, care in regard to eating, drinking, amusements, and the like; strictness as to luxuries and things which, though lawful, may not be expedient, not only tend to bodily strength and mere physical well-being, but brace up the will power, because they entail the constant exercise of it. Here is where the practical wisdom of the Church comes in as regards fasting. One day in every week is set apart, beside other days and seasons, as a reminder of the fact that fasting is a duty of the Christian life, just as much as almsgiving and prayer—a duty sanctified by the example enjoined by the precept of our Lord Himself. True, no hard and fast rules are laid down, but a little sanctified common sense will dictate to us how to make fast- days a reality, by some simple acts of self-denial. Our last thought is one of intense practical importance—our attitude at the present moment towards strong drink. Lord Kitchener and the Archbishop of Canterbury have both on several occasions called the attention of the nation to the terrible evils arising from the unhappy custom of treating soldiers to strong drink. Punch, always on the side of morality and rightness, has dealt with it in the following trenchant fashion:— TO A FALSE PATRIOT He came obedient to the Call; He might have shirked, like half his mates Who, while their comrades fight and fall, Still go to swell the football gates. And you, a patriot in your prime, You waved a flag above his head, And hoped he'd have a high old time, And slapped him on the back, and said: "You'll show 'em what we British are! Give us your hand, old pal, to shake"; And took him round from bar to bar And made him drunk—for England's sake. That's how you helped him. Yesterday Clear-eyed and earnest, keen and hard, He held himself the soldier's way— And now they've got him under guard. That doesn't hurt you; you're all right; Your easy conscience takes no blame; But he, poor boy, with morning's light, He eats his heart out, sick with shame. What's that to you? You understand Nothing of all his bitter pain; You have no regiment to brand; You have no uniform to stain; No vow of service to abuse; No pledge to King and country due; But he has something dear to lose, And he has lost it—thanks to you.1 A man who had so distinguished himself at the front as to be mentioned in a despatch came home slightly wounded. In less than twenty-four hours he was in a cell at a police station, and the next day fined forty shillings. Oh! the pathetic pity of it. That man got into trouble through the exhibition of one of the purest and best features of our human nature, the desire to show kindness. In their well-intentioned ignorance this man's friends—yes, they were real friends—knew of only one way of displaying friendliness—they gave him liquor. I am not going to blame them, nor him entirely; I am going to lay some of the fault upon ourselves. Since the beginning of the last century the habits of the upper classes, to use a generic though unpleasant term, have improved immeasurably. Then excess was more or less the rule among men of good position, was to a certain extent expected and provided for; witness The School for Scandal, or the leading novels of the period. Now, the man who disgraces himself at a dinner-table is never invited again. And even as we go down in the social scale much improvement is apparent. Those who remember Bank Holidays on their first introduction will recollect that the excess of the working classes was quite open and shameless; but to-day some effort is generally made by the victims, or their friends, to hide the disgrace, because Public Opinion is improving. That is where we come in. Many causes of intemperance in strong drink are matters for legislative or municipal action; for example, overcrowding, insanitary dwellings or surroundings, sweating, excessive hours of labour, adulteration of liquors. But there are two factors upon which we can exercise direct influence, because they are connected with that great corporate entity called Public Opinion. First let us take the one upon which we have already touched—the notion that friendliness and good fellowship are essentially connected with strong drink. This is at the bottom of those terrible scenes when troops are leaving our great London railway stations. Scenes so inexpressibly sad to all thinking people. Everyone who abstains entirely, or who takes the khaki button—a pledge not to treat nor be treated to strong drink during the continuance of the war—is helping to knock a nail into the coffin of one of the silliest and most fatal delusions that has ever wrought havoc to body, soul, and spirit. And then there is that other weird notion that you cannot be really strong and healthy without stimulant. For you the glass of beer or wine may be a mere harmless luxury, in the way in which you take it. I purposely exclude spirits, which I am fanatic enough to think should only be used medicinally. But every individual total abstainer helps to swell the testimony not only to the non-necessity of alcohol, but to the fact that, according to the view of a large part of the medical profession, the human frame is better without it. You may say, "What good will my abstinence do to people with whom I never come in contact?" Tell me what influence really is; how it spreads, by what unseen modes it ramifies and extends. Tell me the real significance, the true spiritual value, of the fact that "if one member suffer, all the members suffer with it: if one member rejoice, all the members rejoice with it." Then perhaps you can explain in some way, how your abstinence shall spread to desolated homes, to stricken lives, in crowded slums or quiet villages, in fire-raked trenches or storm-tossed ships. No act of self-sacrifice for His sake, Who though He was rich yet for our sakes became poor, ever went without its rich reward. No tiny wave of influence ever yet sped forth from a Christian heart, but what reached its mark and wrought its work of beneficent power. For suggested meditations during the week, see Appendix. III The Discipline of the Soul SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT St. John vi. 38 "For I am come down from Heaven, not to do Mine own will, but the will of Him that sent Me." To-day we are going to speak of the soul not in its popular sense, as set over against the body, but in the scriptural meaning of the word as the broad equivalent of life. To enter upon a philosophical discussion might prove interesting from a merely academic point of view, but would be eminently unpractical. Suffice it to say that when S. Paul speaks of the "body, soul and spirit" (1 Thess. v. 23), he takes the two latter as different faculties of the invisible part of man. Soul (ψυχη) is the lower attribute which man has in common with the animals; spirit (πνευμα) the higher one which they do not possess, and which makes man capable of religion. In this sense, then, the soul would mean the life the man or woman is leading, in the home, the business, the pleasures, the relaxations, as distinct from the definite exercise of devotion or worship. Of course it is absolutely impossible to draw a hard and fast line between sacred and secular. All secular affairs, rightly conducted, have their sacred side; and conversely all sacred matters have their secular side, for they form part of the life the man is living "in the age." It is the neglect of this truth which is responsible for much of the moral and religious failure of the day. Business is secular, prayer is sacred, and so they have no practical connection each with other. Amusement is secular (often vastly too much so, in the very lowest sense of the word); Holy Communion is sacred; therefore there is no link between them. Whereas the prayer and the Communion should be the ennobling and sanctifying power alike of work and play. Bearing this caution in mind, we shall to-day look at certain features of the so-called secular life of the day in which discipline needs to be strongly exercised. No doubt about it, the soul of the nation has been growing sick, sick "nigh unto death." Luxury has been increasing with giant strides; the mad race for pleasure has helped to empty our Churches, to rob our Charities, to diminish the number of our Candidates for Holy Orders, to make countless ears deaf to the call which the country, through that magnificent Christian soldier, Lord Roberts, and many others, has been making to manhood of the land. Week-ending, meals in restaurants, turning night into day, have robbed home-life of its grace and power, and produced a generation of young folk blasé and discontented before they are out of girlhood and boyhood. With this has come, inevitably, the loss of sense of responsibility. So long as I can enjoy myself and get my own way, why should I vex myself with the outworn question, "Am I my brother's keeper?" No! That has gone into the limbo of effete superstition. And further, loss of the sense of proportion. There are some to whom it causes no moral shock to wear a dress costing a hundred guineas, while a vast number of seamstresses, shirtmakers, artificial flower makers, boot-closers, and the like, are working seventy hours for 5s. to 8s. a week. One mantle-presser, in Dalston, receives ½d. per mantle; she is most respectable, has four children, and earns from 5s. 6d. to 7s. a week! We do not grumble at the hundred guineas being spent upon the dress, or a thousand guineas even, if the money went in due proportion all round to supply the full living wage to each one engaged in its production: and if the wearer interested herself keenly in social problems, and used her means wisely and well to afford relief where it was needed. This, alas! does not happen when the sense of proportion is lacking. Take another case—alas! a fearfully common one. Men and women will gamble recklessly at Bridge, lose heavily, pay up, at whatever cost, because it is a debt of honour. All the while a hard-pressed tailor, a famished dressmaker and her children are kept out of their money, because it is only a debt of commerce. Could there be a more ghastly parody on the word honour? Yet once more—the lack of seriousness. By seriousness we do not mean gloominess, nor withdrawal from society, or anything of the kind. We mean the flippant attitude towards life, the lack of serious, sustained interest in literature, in music, in art, in the legitimate drama; witness the theatres being turned into cinema shows, and the terrible paucity of sound, strong plays. Everything must be scrappy, light, and if a little (or more than a little) risky, so much the better. We do not for a moment say that these evils are universal, God forbid, but none can deny that they have eaten deep into a large part of society, using the word in its broadest, not in its technical sense. The soul of the nation needed discipline, and it has come suddenly, sharply, but, who shall dare to say, not mercifully? And even in its very coming it brought a tremendous opportunity, for we were not compelled to make war, notice that! We had an option. The temptation was subtle. You have no concern with Servia, throw over Belgium, let France take care of itself. For a time, probably a very short time, we should have avoided war and its horrors. The bait was held out by some peddling politicians that we should have stood in a magnificent position to obtain trade, to control markets, to dictate prices to the rest of the world. Magnificent prospect! We went to war, and, by a strange paradox, secured peace with honour: peace of the national conscience. Had we forsaken Belgium we could never again have held up our heads among civilised honourable nations. Thus the very circumstances under which the War came about formed an appeal to the soul of the nation as embodied in its legislature; the Government rang true, and the nation, as one man, endorsed its decision. And now the discipline has commenced. Who can be flippant and careless with our coast towns liable to bombardment, and over a hundred lives already sacrificed in this little island, which we have always deemed to be the one absolutely secure spot in the whole world? Five months ago an earthquake in London would have seemed a far more likely event than the bombardment of Hartlepool, Scarborough, Whitby, and the dropping of shells on Yarmouth foreshore, or of bombs at Dover and Southend. Who can be unconcerned when our ships are liable at any moment, and apparently in almost any place, to be sent headlong to the bottom of the sea by torpedoes or mines; possibly sometimes by those very mines we have been compelled to lay, and which happen to have broken loose? This is one of the unavoidable hazards of war under modern conditions. It does not make us ignore the magnificent work of our Fleet, nor tremble for the ultimate issue. Who can be giddy and careless with darkened streets, trains, trams, all telling of the awful possibilities of the new development of aerial warfare? Who, even among those not directly touched by anxiety or bereavement, can go on just as usual in luxury, self- indulgence, and ease amid the crushing mass of suffering around them on all sides? Thank God that, though we may have erred very grievously through softness of living, we are not a callous people, but we needed a strong, stern discipline of the national soul; some stirring and trumpet-tongued appeal to the national life, and in the righteous mercy of God it has come. Some of the immediate effects are obvious; but what are the lasting results to be? The Guardian, of a few weeks back, thus soundly comments upon the matter:— "It is true that the outbreak of war put a sudden end to much that was thoughtless, stupid, and even base in contemporary life. 'Tango teas' and afternoon Bridge among women have receded almost as far into ancient history as dinners at Ranelagh or suppers at Cremorne. But human nature is easily frightened into propriety by a crisis; it is not so easy to maintain the new way of life when the fright is safely over. The things that are amiss in our national life, and above all that lack of seriousness which so many observers have lamented during the last few years, can be amended only by a clear conviction of the inherent unsoundness of our outlook, and a firm determination to rebuild it upon new and more stable foundations." The soul of the nation needs discipline, and that can only come through the effort of the individual to discipline his own life. There is a ceaseless temptation to echo the cry of the disciples in regard to the few loaves and fishes: "What are they among so many?" Of what value or power is my feeble little life among the teeming millions that go to make up the nation? Put away the thought, for it is a direct temptation of the Devil. It was just when, in the very depths of his human despair, Elijah cried out, "I, I only am left," that God revealed to him the seven thousand men who had not bowed the knee to Baal. It was because Athanasius was content to stand contra mundum, against the world, that the Catholic faith was preserved to the Church. Let us very seriously examine ourselves as to the use we are making of our life with regard to other people. We have considered that life, in various details, in respect to ourselves, and only incidentally as it affects others, but now let us put away all thought of self. Take the one absolute standard of life as set in the text, "I came down from Heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of Him that sent me." The result was a life entirely devoted, from the first moment to the last, to one stupendous cause: the lifting up of humanity to the very throne of God. You and I cannot reach even a fraction of the way towards that perfect standard; but it is our pattern, our plummet, our measuring-line. Very practically, then, we must ask ourselves such questions as these: What proportion of my time is spent for others? Have I any method of employing time or any stated hours that I give to philanthropic or religious work; or do I just, in a casual way, let other people have odd moments, when I happen to think of it? Similar questions should be asked as to money. Many people, especially those who do not keep accounts (which everyone ought to do), would be shocked if at the end of a year they could see the enormous disproportion between the vast amount they have frittered away on self, and the pitiful little doles they have handed out in the cause of charity. One man, who kept three cars for private use, reduced an already paltry allowance made to a dependent because the price of petrol had gone up! It is not that people cannot give; it is often only that they do not think. Look at the vast sums being poured into the Relief Funds. Why has not some proportion of it gone long ago to Hospitals obliged to close their wards, Waifs and Strays Societies compelled to refuse poor little outcasts? The money was there; it could have been spared then as well as now, but it needed some great shock to wake its owners up to the sense of proportion, the realisation of responsibilities. And so in regard to such gifts as music, painting, acting, mechanics, stitchery; even such simple things as reading and writing. Have you ever read a book to, or written a letter for, anyone else? We might multiply these questions indefinitely, but enough has been said to enable us seriously to take in hand the disciplining of the soul, remembering that this life of ours is a precious loan entrusted to us by God the Father, redeemed for us by God the Son, sanctified in us by God the Holy Ghost, to be used by us, in due proportion, for our neighbours and ourselves. For suggested meditations during the week, see Appendix. IV The Discipline of the Spirit THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT St. Luke vi. 12. "He continued all night in Prayer to God." Last week we looked at the soul as that faculty of life which, to a certain extent, we share with animals; to-day we pass on to consider, under the title of spirit, the higher endowment by which man is enabled to look up and, in the fullest exercise of his whole being, to say "my God." A man without religion is undeveloped in regard to the highest part of his complex nature. In attaining to self- consciousness, and the special powers it brings, he has gone one step further than the animal, but has utterly failed of his true purpose. The supreme object of the self-consciousness, which reveals to him his personality, is that it should disclose its own origin in the personality of God. One very striking effect of the War has been to produce a vast amount of testimony to the fact that man is, broadly speaking, religious by nature. The services in the places of worship all over the land have been multiplied, intercession is becoming a felt reality, congregations have grown. It is asserted, by those who have the best means of knowing, that by far the majority of the letters from the front contain references to religion, such as acknowledgments of God's providence, prayer for His help, or requests for the prayers of others. Sometimes, in the strange double-sidedness of human nature, accompanied by expletives obviously profane. Mention is often made of the bowed heads, and the prayer, in which both sides join, at the time of a joint burial during a temporary truce. All these things show that the deeps of the fountains of natural religion have been broken up in wondrous fashion. Our question to-day is: How shall we discipline that spirit which enables us to realise religion as a fact? Let us try to get to the root of the matter. There are two chief derivations of the word religion. One comes from the verb which means "to go through, or over again, in reading, speech, or thought." Hence religion is the regular or constant habit of revering the gods, and would be represented by the word devotion—an aspect most important to bear in mind. The other derivation, and the more usual, derives religion from the idea of binding together, and tells of communion between man and God. For us Christians this thought finds its highest ideal and fulfilment in the Incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ. The great characteristic action of religion is prayer; varying in its methods and degrees from merely mechanical performances, like the praying wheels of the Chinese up to the heart devotion of the Christian, poured out when commemorating, in the Holy Communion, the death and resurrection of His Lord. The first essential of any prayer which is to be of value in the discipline of the spirit is regularity. No words can exaggerate the importance of morning prayer. Yet, alas! tens of thousands of professing Christians are content with evening prayer alone. The one who goes forth in the morning prayerless is just as ill-equipped to do his duty, and meet his temptations, as the foodless man is to perform physical work. The whole story of the saintly life, alike in the Old Testament, the New Testament, and the Church, is that of diligence in prayer. It was to promote that spirit that the Church of Christ, following on the lines of the Jewish Church, from very early days adopted special hours for stated devotions, with the daily offering of the Holy Eucharist linking the whole system together. The lowest standard to aim at is private prayer morning and evening, midday too if possible, and regular attendances at God's House on Sundays and Feast Days. The guiding principle, to be kept ever in mind, is not what my own inclinations suggest, but what the glory of God demands. Were this always the case, what magnificent congregations there would be. Prayer represents a real business of the spirit into which we put the whole endowment of our being, intellect, memory, emotion, will. Oh! those wandering thoughts, how they do distress us; and just in proportion as we wish to pray and are learning to pray, so we feel our deficiencies the more keenly. A few moments before we commence our prayers spent in saying very quietly, "Thou God seest me," or "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost," coupled with a simple yet earnest act of the realisation of God's presence, will be of infinite use. The railway train coming into a station does not draw up with a jerk, but gradually slows down. So with us; we cannot come out of our rushing lives all in a moment into the quiet of God's presence; we need to slow down. But much of the wandering in prayer is the direct result of the habit of wandering in life. Flitting from one subject, one book, one occupation to another; scrappy reading, talking, thinking; then, as a natural consequence, scrappy praying. A great master of the spiritual life used to say, "You will get far more help in your prayers by leading a more useful life, than by making tremendous efforts after concentration when you are actually at prayer." The one who tries to keep alive the habitual sense of God's presence makes his whole life a prayer, of which the stated devotions only form a natural part. It is comparatively easy for such a one to concentrate his thought and to keep his attention fixed when engaged in his prayers. Just a word or two about books of devotion. They serve a most useful purpose, especially in preparation and thanksgiving for Confession or Communion, but should never be allowed to take the entire place of the Christian's glorious privilege of pleading the "Abba Father," and speaking to God in his own words, day by day. Be careful not to use prayers which are manifestly beyond your own standpoint or out of harmony with your own feeling. The mere repetition of phrases that do not represent your inner attitude towards truth only tends to formality; the effort to force a kind of artificial conformity, because you think you ought to feel this or that, invariably ends in unreality. Given these cautions, devotional books may be of great use, even for regular daily prayer, and often help to call back the thoughts which are flying off at a tangent. To speak of discipline without touching upon Confession would be to omit one of its most essential features. Nightly self-examination must be performed, and that not perfunctorily, but with real intention of repentance and strictness of living. Self-examination is nothing more nor less than spiritual account-keeping; without it the man has no real idea of how the business of his soul stands. When it reveals the fact that sin is making headway and the spirit losing ground, then the wise teaching of the Prayer Book should be followed; "the grief"—for such it ought to be—opened in Confession to God, before one of God's ministers, and the benefit of absolution secured. Much of the terrible prejudice felt against this practice arises from the mistaken idea that the priest professes to forgive us our sins. The words of the Absolution in the Visitation of the Sick, in our own Prayer Book, put the matter on its true footing:—"Our Lord Jesus Christ, Who hath left power to His Church to absolve, ... forgive thee ... and by His authority ... I absolve thee." The source of all pardon and the right to exercise it rest in God alone, but the message declaring the fact is part of the "ministry of reconciliation," committed, in the infinite condescension of God, to the "earthen vessels." An illustration may be taken from the pardon of a criminal condemned to death; the Home Secretary recommends it, but the King, on his sole authority, grants it, and then the message, the absolvo te, which lets the man go free, is delivered by the governor of the gaol. Penitents, especially after a first confession at some crisis in mature life, often bear witness to the fact that it seemed to bring them straight into the presence of Jesus Christ; to make them feel the reality of His pardoning blood in a way they never could have believed possible. How strange that the very thing which by so many pious and thoroughly honest souls is dreaded because it is supposed to bring a man in between God and the soul, should yet so often be used by the Holy Spirit to give a wondrous and precious vision of Christ the Saviour. Thus far we have spoken only of that kind of occasional Confession which is obviously contemplated by the Prayer Book; we have no time to dwell on its habitual use. Suffice it to quote some words from the first English Prayer Book:— "Requiring such as shall be satisfied with a general confession, not to be offended with them that do use, to their further satisfying, the auricular and secret confession to the priest; nor those which think needful or convenient to open their sins to the priest to be offended with them that are satisfied with their humble confession to God, and the general confession to the Church." That staunch Evangelical Churchman, Bishop Thorold, who was strongly opposed to habitual Confession in our Communion, once said, "We cannot ignore the fact that the giants of old owed much of that saintliness, which we of the present day can only wonder at but cannot reproduce, to the practice of Confession." If you should be in doubt about it for yourself, consult some spiritually-minded person who possesses experience in the matter. Not, on the one hand, the man who will tell you that it is the greatest curse the Church has ever known; nor, on the other, the one who would have it practised by everybody. Surely for us sober Church folk there must be a loyal middle course, which leaves absolute freedom, so long as the individual "follows and keeps the rule of charity, and is satisfied with his own conscience." Last, but most important of all, in the discipline of the spirit comes the Holy Communion, about which we shall speak next week. As our closing thought, let us go back to what we said just now. The object of religion is God's glory, not man's enjoyment. See how this puts feelings down into their right, and subordinate, place. They are sometimes very delightful, sometimes very depressing, but always liable to be misleading. A great saint of old used to say:—"If God never gave me another moment of sensible devotion in prayer, I would go on praying, because His glory demands it." Religion has to do with facts: the facts of what God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost have done, and are doing, for us; the facts of what we have to do, to make the finished work of Christ our own. Here, as always, our Lord Himself gives us the highest illustration. Neither as God, nor yet as perfect Man, was there an actual need for Him to pray; yet His whole life was punctuated with prayer: first because the glory of the Father required it, and next because His chosen Apostles must be taught by example as well as precept. Let the same mind dwell in us. It is for the glory of God that I should have salvation; therefore by the help of God I will discipline my spirit. For suggested Meditations during the week see Appendix. V Discipline through Obedience FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT St. Luke xxii. 19 "This do in remembrance of Me." Our subject of to-day flows quite naturally out of what we said last week. Religion rests on facts, and its object is God's glory, not merely our profit. Our duty, therefore, is an absolute submission to those facts—in other words, implicit obedience. This is being illustrated on all sides in regard to the War. The facts are indisputable. Lord Selborne put the matter in a nutshell when he said: "The task in front of us is colossal. We are fighting for nothing less than our lives, in circumstances which make it the duty of every Englishman to put everything in the world he possesses, everything that he values, into the scale to ensure success, and I am sure there is not one of us, whatever his position, who would flinch in the slightest from the duty he owes to his country and to his deepest self." The response to the facts has been obedience, immediate and unquestioning, on the part of a vast number. True, not all have yet been reached who ought to come forward, and some are even now crying out for that compulsory service which may yet prove inevitable. They forget that the obedience of one free man is worth more than the forced submission of many. Let us wait hopefully, energetically; losing no opportunity of pressing the stern logic of facts wherever we may. And those who have joined the services have come at once under a discipline totally different from that of the sternest school or the strictest house of business. The surrender has been made voluntarily, and it has placed the whole life in each detail under the claim of an absolute obedience. The disposal of every moment of time belongs to the authorities. The private in high social position must obey the orders of a young lance-corporal just as exactly as he expected his own commands to be carried out in his business or his household. Who can estimate the immense development of moral fibre that surely must take place in succeeding generations from the fact that so vast a number, in all ranks of society, are now under obedience? Not because they were driven to it, but because they embraced it by an initial act of obedience. —Th...