6th Sunday

Last week’s scriptures reminded us that the love of the Gospel and the search for truth rise and fall together because the scriptures are not just comforting sentiments but the living Word of God – Revelation itself.

This week, Paul speaks of the “hidden wisdom of God” - a wisdom that often lies dormant in the depths of a human heart, waiting for the right catalyst to awaken it bring it into the light.

It’s a thought that might be reassuring for those who worry about loved ones drifting from the faith or, indeed, about the weakness of their own faith. It echoes something of C. S. Lewis’s image of a “twitch upon a thread” - that gentle but unmistakable tug of grace which happens in the depths of an otherwise doubtful heart.

I witnessed for myself the hidden wisdom of God at work in two extraordinary years when serving as Chaplain to HMS Raleigh, the Navy’s boot camp on the Cornish coast. Every Monday afternoon coaches arrived carrying up to 120 new recruits. Drawn from across the nation, most were barely out of school. They spilled onto the parade ground blinking in the Cornish sunlight, clutching their belongings, many clearly wondering what on earth they’d signed up for.

The gunnery officer would appear before them, his stentorian voice corralling them into what passed for serried ranks which were then marched, in a fashion, towards the accommodation blocks. That fashion is called ‘tik-tocking’ in the Naval Service.

Arms swung out of time, legs moving independently of each another, kit bags colliding with ankles. It was deeply moving, though, to see how many of them were trying so hard to get it right on that very first day – anxious to make a good impression. They reminded me of mine first days of initial training at the Naval College in Dartmouth. Marching is not the most natural movement but when it comes together it’s a strangely satisfying experience.

Within hours the transformation began: hair shorn, jewellery removed, phones surrendered, uniforms issued. Individuality giving way to uniformity - the first and lasting lesson of military discipline.

On day three they were led in a now more respectable fashion to the church for a short ecumenical service after which I would “carve off” the Catholics – the “left footers” – so called because, in the war years, they would fall out of church parade by the left foot to attend Mass.

We’d make our way to the Catholic chapel, what would be their spiritual home for the weeks ahead - a sanctuary: a place for Mass, but also for reflection, conversation, and sometimes tears.

Sunday Mass drew around 100 young people, average age 17. They sang terribly but with tremendous enthusiasm, showing deep respect to all things of faith. It mattered that the Commanding Officer, a Catholic, knelt among them. The sight of a senior officer praying before the Lord spoke volumes - more powerful than any sermon.

He and I reunited a couple of weeks ago when I was in the west country on retreat. We both agreed those times at Raleigh were some of the best and most privileged of our Naval careers.

Each month some of the recruits were baptised. Others received Holy Communion for the first time or were confirmed. I confirmed more people of that age group each year in HMS Raleigh than the local bishop confirmed in the whole diocese. In the midst of firefighting drills, sea survival training, assault courses and long treks over Dartmoor, faith became an anchor for many as, driven beyond their comfort zones and stripped of familiar supports - St Paul’s ‘hidden wisdom of God’ had been awakened within them.

Peer pressure reversed itself in an extraordinary way as they encouraged each another to attend Mass and seek spiritual guidance.

Twelve weeks on they stood proud in their best uniform, traditionally flared trousers flapping in the breeze as they marched smartly past the commanding officer to join the Fleet. Parents spoke of the transformation - not only in discipline and confidence, but in faith as well. Sometimes it was the child who led the parent back to Church. The Lord turning the world upside down.

The wisdom Paul speaks of was already present in those young hearts, instilled by family, teachers and catechists who would have been proud to see the result of their work. The challenges of initial training had awakened latent belief.

The Church’s ongoing task is to enliven that same wisdom in those who face no such dramatic challenges and may be drifting amid the distractions and the ease of modern life. To provide the catalyst that stirs the spark first lit at baptism.

Theologians have long reflected on this hidden wisdom. Origen, one of the most brilliant thinkers of the very early Church spoke of it as the fruit of perseverance in faith. Augustine said such wisdom was only hidden from the proud, being most readily revealed to hearts made fertile by love. There’s a thought that deserves further reflection.

One of the great theological minds of the twentieth century, Fr Hans Urs von Balthasar, called it the wisdom of the Cross. For him, this hidden wisdom contradicts human calculation and can be discovered only through the self-giving love reflected in the figure on the cross.

The parable of the sower may come to mind. Faith can be choked by distraction or scorched when made thin by shallow thinking. It can the victim of a powerful grief which causes us to question God’s very existence. The spark of faith may be dampened by those who do not believe in God, who swoop in to snatch away the first seeds of faith sown into an innocent heart. The arguments of militant unbelievers can easily be dismantled under rigorous scrutiny yet they still have the power to waylay the unwary, distract them from the path that leads to salvation.

We must never tire of praying for those who drift. God can soften even the hardest heart and loosen the effect of the pursuit of worldly success or materialism, of pride or the pernicious influence of others. Often the awakening comes not through comfort but through loss or grief – it’s often in testing times that the deeper questions break through.

God’s work unfolds in His time, not ours. Those who sow seeds of faith - parents, grandparents, teachers, catechists, priests – we may never see the full flowering of what we have planted. The bloom may come in the autumn - or even the winter - of now young lives, after storms have stripped away illusions and suffering has tilled the hardened ground of the heart.

Yet bloom those seeds often do as was evident in that windswept corner of the Cornish coast.

Quietly. Patiently. Almost imperceptibly.

For the wisdom of God works beneath the surface, in hidden roots and unseen transformations. And one day, perhaps long after the sower has gone home to the Lord, the seeds of that hidden wisdom will break forth in courage and forgiveness, in faith reclaimed and love chosen again. What was planted in hope often becomes a living testimony.

So we should take heart. Nothing offered to God in love is ever wasted. Every whispered prayer, every tear shed for a child, every lesson taught, every Eucharist celebrated is gathered into His providence. And, in His time, in His way, the seeds will rise. And when they do, they reveal not our accomplishment, not our efforts, not any inspiration we give, but the patient, faithful, unstoppable love of God.