Today’s Gospel contains one of the most beautiful prayers of Jesus.
“I bless you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, for hiding these things from the learned and the clever and revealing them to mere children.”
At first hearing, it sounds almost anti-intellectual.
As though Jesus prefers ignorance to learning.
But that cannot be right.
After all, today we celebrate St Bonaventure, one of the greatest minds in the history of the Church.
A philosopher.
A theologian.
A university professor.
A Doctor of the Church.
A man whose writings still influence Catholic thought eight centuries later.
So what does Jesus mean?
He means that there is a kind of cleverness that can become blind.
A kind of learning that can become proud.
A kind of intelligence that becomes so impressed with itself that it can no longer receive.
The first reading gives us a perfect example.
The king of Assyria has become immensely powerful.
His armies have conquered nations.
His empire stretches across vast territories.
And he begins to believe that he has done it all himself.
Listen to his words:
“By the strength of my own hand I have done this, and by my own wisdom, for I am intelligent.”
There is the problem.
Not intelligence.
Pride.
The king no longer sees himself as dependent on God.
He sees himself as self-made.
Self-sufficient.
The master of his own destiny.
And God responds with a devastating question:
“Does the axe claim more credit than the man who wields it?”
The image is almost humorous.
Imagine a saw boasting about how clever it is.
Imagine a paintbrush taking credit for a masterpiece.
Imagine a violin congratulating itself after a concert.
The instrument has forgotten the musician.
The tool has forgotten the craftsman.
The creature has forgotten the Creator.
That is the danger Jesus is warning about in the Gospel.
Not intelligence itself.
But pride masquerading as intelligence.
The attitude that says:
“I do not need God.”
“I already know.”
“I will decide what is true.”
The truly wise person knows something different.
The truly wise person knows how much he does not know.
That is why some of the greatest saints have combined immense learning with profound humility.
St Thomas Aquinas.
St Augustine.
St John Henry Newman.
And today, St Bonaventure.
Bonaventure lived during one of the most brilliant periods of Christian civilisation.
Universities were flourishing.
Philosophy was advancing.
Theology was reaching extraordinary heights.
He stood among some of the greatest minds Europe has ever produced.
Yet he never forgot that knowledge alone does not save.
One story tells how St Thomas Aquinas visited Bonaventure and asked to see the library from which he drew such wisdom.
Bonaventure led him to a crucifix.
And said, in effect:
“There is my library.”
Whether the story is historically exact or not, it perfectly captures his spirit.
Bonaventure knew that the deepest truths about God are not discovered merely by study.
They are received through love.
That is why Jesus speaks of children.
Children are not necessarily more intelligent.
But they are more receptive.
More trusting.
More willing to receive a gift.
Think about a small child.
A child asks questions.
A child knows he does not know everything.
A child depends upon others.
A child is willing to learn.
The proud person does the opposite.
The proud person already knows.
Already judges.
Already decides.
Already places himself at the centre.
And so the irony is this:
The truly learned person eventually becomes childlike again.
Not childish.
Childlike.
Humble enough to receive.
That was Bonaventure’s greatness.
He possessed immense learning.
Yet he never allowed learning to replace prayer.
Never allowed study to replace worship.
Never allowed theology to replace God.
In fact, one of his great insights was that knowledge should lead to love.
The purpose of theology is not simply to know more facts about God.
The purpose is union with God.
That is a lesson every Christian needs.
Because we all have our own forms of pride.
Some are proud of intelligence.
Others of success.
Others of wealth.
Others of experience.
Others of virtue.
Yet all of us are ultimately dependent.
Every breath is a gift.
Every talent is a gift.
Every opportunity is a gift.
Everything comes from God.
The Assyrian king forgot that.
Bonaventure remembered it.
One became proud and fell.
The other became humble and became a saint.
Perhaps that is why the Gospel is such good news.
The deepest truths of God are not reserved for an intellectual elite.
They are available to anyone with a humble heart.
The scholar can know them.
The labourer can know them.
The professor can know them.
The child can know them.
For in the end, the greatest knowledge is not knowing many things about God.
It is knowing God Himself.
And that knowledge begins where all holiness begins:
not in pride,
but in humble wonder before the Lord.
St. Mary's, St. John Bosco and St. Edward's 