Memorial of Saint Bonaventure, Bishop and Doctor of the Church

First Reading: Isaiah 10:5-7, 13b-16
Responsorial Psalm: Psalm 94:5-6, 7-8, 9-10, 14-15
Gospel: Matthew 11:25-27
Daily readings: https://bible.usccb.org/bible/readings/071526.cfm

Isaiah gives us a portrait of a man at the height of his power. Assyria has conquered nations, seized treasures, moved the boundaries of peoples. And the king's explanation is simple: by my own power I have done it. By my wisdom, for I am shrewd. Nobody fluttered a wing, nobody opened a mouth. I took all the earth. It reads like a performance review where everything is five stars and the only name in the document is your own.

Then Isaiah asks the question that punctures the whole thing: will the axe boast against him who hews with it? Will the saw exalt itself above him who wields it? The Assyrian king is an instrument — powerful, yes, but an instrument. The glory he is claiming belongs to someone else. And the cost of missing that is not just theological. It is the kindling of fire where his glory used to be.

Then Jesus prays — and what he praises God for is remarkable. Not for revealing these things to the powerful, the successful, the wise and learned. For hiding them from the wise and revealing them to the childlike. The word is nepioi — infants, little ones, those with no credentials. The things of God are not unlocked by intelligence or achievement or the right kind of resume. They are received. Given. The childlike do not grab them — they are handed to them, because their hands are open.

Saint Bonaventure was one of the greatest minds of the medieval Church — theologian, philosopher, Minister General of the Franciscans, Cardinal. He could have worn his learning like armor. Instead, he wrote: "The beginning of wisdom is to know yourself as you truly are before God." When the pope sent messengers to tell him he had been made a cardinal, they found him washing dishes at the friary. He asked them to hang the cardinal's hat on a nearby tree and come back when he was finished. The greatest scholar of his age met the Gospel of the childlike and took it seriously.


A few questions to sit with today:

1. Where in my life am I most tempted to say, even quietly, "by my own power I have done it"? Is there a success, a skill, a way I present myself that I have stopped referring back to God?

2. Am I approaching God with open hands — ready to receive — or with my credentials and achievements already listed, trying to earn my way into the conversation?

3. What would it look like for me to be more childlike in my prayer today — less polished, less managed, more simply present and open?

4. Is there someone in my life I have underestimated spiritually because they are not educated or accomplished? Have I missed something God was revealing through them?


One small thing for tomorrow:

When you sit down to pray tomorrow, resist the urge to make it impressive — no long petitions, no careful vocabulary. Just say something simple and true, the way a child would. "I don't know what I'm doing. I need you." Three sentences is enough. Let your hands be open.


Lord Jesus, you praised your Father for hiding these things from the wise and learned and revealing them to the childlike. I want to be among the childlike — but I know how often I approach you with my hands full of my own competence, my own plans, my own explanations. Empty my hands today. Let me come to you the way Bonaventure came back to his dishes — not impressed with himself, just faithful to the small thing in front of him. You have been handed all things by the Father. I do not need to hold anything back from you. Receive what I bring, and give me what I cannot earn. May Mary, the most childlike of all the disciples, teach me how to say yes with open hands. Amen.


If you'd like to share: where do you find it hardest to come to God with open hands — and what are you usually holding onto instead?