Jesus never found it difficult to attract a crowd. News of His preaching and miracles spread quickly, and people came from every part of the region to see Him. They were struck by the authority with which He taught, so different from the manner of the scribes. They watched Him heal the sick, forgive sins and perform signs unlike anything they had witnessed before. Some saw Him as a prophet, while others hoped that He might be the long-awaited Messiah who would deliver Israel and bring them a better life.

For much of His public ministry, Jesus enjoyed great popular support. Many people admired Him, listened eagerly and wanted to remain close enough to benefit from His power. Yet He was looking for something more than admirers. He wanted disciples: men and women prepared to follow Him wherever He led and to allow His teaching to transform their whole lives.

The same distinction remains important today. We can be strongly attracted to Catholicism without having surrendered ourselves completely to Christ. We may attend Mass and parish activities, listen to Catholic speakers, participate in conferences and enjoy the friendship of other practising Catholics. We may say our prayers, defend the Church’s moral teaching and support causes consistent with the faith. All these things can be good, but they do not necessarily prove that Jesus occupies the centre of our lives.

It is possible to be surrounded by Catholic practices and still remain inwardly attached to our own plans. We may admire Christ while reserving the right to decide how far His demands will reach. We accept His teaching where it confirms our preferences but become hesitant when it challenges our ambitions, relationships or desire for control. The decisive question is not simply whether we are interested in Catholic things, but whether we have placed our lives in the hands of Christ.

Jesus seeks people who are willing to do what He asks, speak when He wants them to speak and go where He sends them. He may ask us to surrender something we value or to accept a path very different from the one we had imagined. The disciple does not offer Christ a carefully selected portion of life while keeping the rest under personal control. He desires to belong to Him completely.

Such commitment represents a decisive turning point. It does not mean that everything belonging to our earlier life was wrong or that we must abandon every natural desire. Work, success, possessions, friendships, marriage, family life and plans for the future can all be genuine goods. The change lies in the order we give them. Once Christ becomes the centre, we begin to see every other good in relation to Him.

Money is no longer valued simply for the freedom or status it can provide, but as something to be used responsibly in fulfilling our vocation and serving others. Professional success is not pursued merely for recognition but as an opportunity to develop our gifts and contribute to the common good. Relationships are no longer expected to satisfy every longing of the heart, because we know that no human being can occupy the place that belongs to God. Even our hopes for those we love are entrusted to Christ rather than shaped entirely according to our preferences.

Jesus does not wish to be one interest among many. He asks to stand at the centre from which everything else receives its meaning and proper place. “Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness,” He tells us, “and all these things shall be yours as well.” When we put God first, we do not necessarily lose the good things of life. We learn to receive them according to His will and without asking them to give what only He can provide.

This surrender requires trust. We often hesitate because we fear that God’s plan will diminish our happiness or take away something essential. We imagine that He may call us towards a life that is narrower or less fulfilling than the one we would choose for ourselves. Yet God knows us more deeply than we know ourselves. His plans are larger than our plans, and He desires our true happiness more than we do.

The difficulty is that we like to retain control. We may willingly give God certain areas of life while protecting others from His influence. We pray about our work but not about a relationship we do not want questioned. We ask His help in achieving our plans without first asking whether those plans correspond to His will. We want Him to accompany us along the road we have selected rather than allowing Him to choose the road.

For many years, my own faith followed this pattern. I had been raised Catholic and had never left the Church. I attended Mass each Sunday, participated in parish life and showed more interest in religion than many people my age. I wanted to deepen my faith and took part in Catholic activities that helped me grow. From the outside, I appeared to be a committed young Catholic.

Jesus was certainly part of my life, but He was not yet at its centre. Other desires regularly received more attention: good grades, professional success, a satisfying relationship, friendship and enjoyment. None of these things was wrong in itself. The disorder came from treasuring them more than my relationship with God. They shaped my sense of identity and security more deeply than faith did.

Christ says that where our treasure is, there our heart will be. We discover what we truly treasure not primarily by what we claim to value but by what governs our choices, fills our imagination and causes the greatest fear when threatened. A person may say that God comes first while organising almost everything around success, comfort, approval or a particular relationship.

God used two experiences during my young adult years to reveal this division within me. The first came through a simple conversation with a friend. We were sitting together over coffee when he asked, “Are you happy?”

No one had ever asked me the question so directly. I immediately felt uncomfortable and answered that I supposed I was happy. My friend did not argue. He simply remained silent, allowing the question to remain between us.

Feeling the need to justify my answer, I began listing the good things in my life. My grades were strong, I had secured an internship, the band in which I played was doing well and I had a girlfriend. By ordinary standards, I had many reasons to be pleased. Yet the more I explained, the less convincing the answer sounded.

The conversation stayed with me for weeks. I gradually recognised that beneath the appearance of success I was not deeply at peace. I carried fears about the future, insecurities about myself and a persistent sense that something was missing. I had acquired several of the things I believed would make me happy, yet they had not reached the deepest longing of my heart.

St. Augustine’s words helped me understand what I was experiencing: the human heart remains restless until it rests in God. My dissatisfaction did not mean that study, friendship or love were unimportant. It meant that I had expected created goods to bear a weight they could not support. I had made them central, while the One who alone could give unity to everything had remained at the edge.

That conversation prepared the way for a more decisive encounter some time later. I attended a weekend retreat with other young adults. On the Saturday evening, a priest preached about the rich young man who approached Jesus and asked what he must do to inherit eternal life.

I had heard the story many times, but that night its meaning became personal. The young man was admirable in many respects. He cared about his relationship with God and came voluntarily to Jesus. When the Lord reminded him of the commandments, he could say that he had observed them from his youth. His moral life was serious, and his question revealed a sincere desire to do more.

Jesus looked upon him with love and showed him the one thing still lacking. He asked the young man to surrender his possessions and follow Him. The Lord was not arbitrarily trying to deprive him of something good. He was revealing the attachment that prevented complete freedom. The young man wanted eternal life and wished to remain close to God, but he could not take the final step of entrusting everything to Christ.

He walked away sorrowful. His sadness did not arise because Jesus had ceased loving him. It arose because he was divided. He wanted Christ, but he also wanted to preserve control over the treasure to which his heart remained attached. He could not receive the new life being offered without releasing the old source of security.

As I listened, I recognised myself in the young man. I was doing many of the right things and sincerely wanted to live as a Catholic. Yet I had not handed over my entire life. I wanted Christ to bless my plans, but I had not truly invited Him to direct them. I wished to follow Him while retaining the power to decide how far the following would go.

I remained in the chapel long after the other retreatants had left. I knew that the Gospel was asking for an answer. I did not want to walk away sorrowful. Kneeling before the Lord, I told Him that I wanted to give Him my life, not simply the religious part of it. I wanted His will rather than my own to become the final standard.

That prayer did not provide a detailed map of the future, nor did it remove every attachment in an instant. It was an act of surrender, a willingness to let Christ become Lord. I wanted to follow Him fully rather than conditionally and to trust that whatever He asked would lead towards life.

Every Christian needs to make such a surrender. It may occur during a retreat, in a period of suffering or through the gradual recognition that God has been asking for a deeper response. The circumstances differ, but the essence remains the same. We tell Christ that we belong to Him and that we desire His will more than the preservation of our own plans.

Many saints have expressed this gift through prayers of abandonment. St. Ignatius of Loyola prayed, “Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding and my entire will.” Blessed Charles de Foucauld placed himself in the Father’s hands without reserve. These prayers express the deepest logic of discipleship: everything we possess has first been received from God and can be returned to Him in love.

A prayer of surrender should not be regarded as something said once and then completed forever. Our habits of self-reliance soon return. We become absorbed in work, responsibilities and personal projects. Without noticing it, we again begin to act as though the day and the life before us belonged entirely to ourselves.

For this reason, surrender must be renewed regularly. Each morning provides an opportunity to ask not only what we want to accomplish but how God wants to use the day. We place before Him our work, family, friendships and responsibilities and ask that they serve His purposes. This does not mean waiting for a special inspiration before carrying out ordinary duties. God’s will is already present in the commitments and obligations proper to our vocation.

The difference lies in the intention with which we live them. We can study merely to advance ourselves or as a means of developing talents that will serve others. We can work only for income and recognition or offer our effort to God and carry it out as service. We can approach family life as a source of personal satisfaction or as the place where we are called to make a sincere gift of ourselves.

A prayer of total commitment might take the following form:

“My Lord and my God, I belong to you and give myself entirely into your hands. I offer you all that I have, all that I am and all that I do. Receive my poor and contrite heart and make my life serve your glory. Help me to live this offering faithfully in the ordinary circumstances of each day. Strengthen me through the Holy Spirit and free me from the anxiety that comes from trying to control everything myself. Teach me to desire what pleases you and to embrace your will with love.”

Such words should not remain abstract. Christ may ask us to actualise the offering through a concrete decision. We may need to end a sinful relationship, forgive someone, change a dishonest practice or accept a vocation we have resisted. We may be called to care for a family member, give more generously, seek help for an addiction or make time for prayer despite a crowded schedule.

At other times, the surrender is expressed through fidelity to a life already chosen. The married person gives himself again through patience, forgiveness and service to his spouse and children. A priest renews the offering of his life through prayer, pastoral charity and faithful ministry. Someone called to celibacy for the Kingdom remains available to God and others rather than turning the vocation into an independent and comfortable existence.

The offering also reaches our interior life. We surrender our need to be admired, our insistence upon being understood and our desire to control how others respond to us. We entrust to God the future of those we love and accept that their lives do not belong to us. We allow Him to purify even our worthy hopes when they become sources of anxiety or possessiveness.

When Jesus truly becomes Lord, we encounter the apparent paradox of self-giving. We fear that surrender will erase our freedom, yet it leads us towards a deeper freedom. By placing our plans, desires and hopes in God’s hands, we do not become passive or lose our personality. We are freed from the exhausting attempt to construct our happiness entirely by ourselves.

Christ does not ask us to abandon reason, initiative or responsibility. We still make plans, work hard and use prudent judgment. Surrender means that we make these decisions within our relationship with Him and remain willing to accept correction. We act vigorously without treating the success of our plans as the ultimate condition of peace.

The moral teaching of Christ is part of this surrender. We cannot acknowledge Jesus as Lord while refusing His authority over the way we live. His commandments are not arbitrary restrictions imposed upon human flourishing. They express the truth about the person He has created and redeemed. When we accept them, especially where they conflict with the surrounding culture or our own desires, we trust that He understands our happiness better than we do.

This trust can be difficult because the Cross remains. Total commitment does not make problems disappear or protect us from suffering. Christians experience illness, disappointment, failure and grief like everyone else. The difference is that these events are no longer interpreted merely as meaningless interruptions or bad luck. They can be received as crosses and united to Christ.

We also discover that we are not alone. Jesus does not demand surrender and then leave us to carry out the consequences through our own strength. He remains with us and provides grace for each stage of the journey. The future may remain hidden, but the One who leads us is faithful.

Those who commit themselves to Christ often discover a deeper peace, joy and sense of purpose. This does not mean that they live in constant emotional consolation. They still experience frustration, sorrow and uncertainty. Christian joy lies at a deeper level than mood. It comes from knowing who we are, to whom we belong and where our life is going.

Before surrender, our identity may depend heavily upon achievements, relationships or the approval of others. These goods remain valuable, but they become unstable foundations when asked to define us. Success can disappear, relationships can change and the judgment of others remains beyond our control. Our identity in Christ rests upon His unchanging love.

This new centre also allows us to enjoy created goods more freely. When a relationship is not expected to save us, we can love the other person for his own sake. When achievement is not the measure of our worth, we can work diligently without being destroyed by failure. When possessions are no longer our security, we can receive them gratefully and share them generously.

Putting Christ first therefore does not impoverish the rest of life. It orders and enlarges it. Lesser goods become more genuinely themselves when they are no longer treated as ultimate. We can appreciate their beauty without becoming enslaved to them.

The happiness that follows surrender is not a reward for having mastered the spiritual life. We remain works in progress. Old habits return, and self-will repeatedly reasserts itself. We may discover new attachments that were hidden when the first offering was made. Total commitment is expressed through a lifetime of conversions.

This should not discourage us. Christ already knows our weakness. He is not surprised when we realise that our surrender was less complete than we imagined. The discovery gives us another opportunity to place that area of life in His hands.

We should therefore examine where our treasure lies now. What occupies our thoughts most consistently? What loss do we fear above all? What plan would we find hardest to surrender? Which teaching of Christ do we keep at a distance because accepting it would require a change? These questions can reveal the places where we remain divided.

The answer need not lead to anxiety. Jesus looked upon the rich young man with love before asking for everything. His demands arise from the same love. He shows us our attachments not to humiliate us but to set us free.

Our Lady offers the perfect example of total commitment. At the Annunciation she did not know all that her consent would require. She understood enough to recognise God’s call and replied, “Let it be done to me according to your word.” Her surrender included Bethlehem, the flight into Egypt, the hidden life of Nazareth and the Cross. She remained faithful because her life was centred upon God rather than upon her understanding of every event.

We can ask Mary to teach us to say yes in the circumstances we cannot foresee. She will help us trust that God’s will is not the enemy of our happiness and that every genuine surrender makes room for grace.

The difference between a fan and a disciple is ultimately the difference between admiration and self-gift. A fan remains near Christ while the experience is attractive and compatible with his expectations. A disciple remains because he has come to believe that Christ possesses the words of eternal life. He may not understand where the Lord is leading, but he knows whom he is following.

Jesus continues to seek such disciples. He does not ask us simply to approve of His teaching or identify ourselves publicly as Catholics. He asks for our hearts, our plans, our talents, our relationships and our future. He asks to become not merely part of our life but its centre.

When we give ourselves to Him, we do not cease to have hopes or desires. We place them within a greater hope and allow them to be purified by a greater love. We discover that the life entrusted to Christ is not lost. It is returned to us with a unity, purpose and fruitfulness that we could never have produced alone.

We may therefore renew the offering without fear: “Lord, I am yours. Use my life for your purposes. Teach me to seek your Kingdom first and to trust that everything else will find its proper place.” This prayer does not solve every problem at once, but it establishes the direction of the heart.

The question “Are you happy?” can then receive a deeper answer. We may still be passing through sorrow or uncertainty, and much within us may remain unfinished. Yet beneath these changing experiences there can be a lasting peace. With Jesus at the centre, we know that our life belongs to Someone who loves us, guides us and can bring good from everything we place in His hands.

That is the joy of discipleship. It is not the satisfaction of having achieved complete control but the freedom of surrendering control to Christ. We follow Him not merely because His teaching impresses us or because His gifts attract us. We follow because He is the Lord, because He has loved us first and because only in giving ourselves to Him do we discover the fullness of life.

*By the Via Virtutis team
Photo by Faris Mohammed on Unsplash