Apparently, I Would Also Like to Be the Greatest

A reflection on Luke 9:46–48 for Monday of the 26th Week in Ordinary Time.

The disciples are arguing about which of them is the greatest, and every time I read this Gospel, part of me wants to roll my eyes at them. Really, gentlemen? You are walking around with Jesus, witnessing miracles, hearing Him teach, and somehow you still found time to have a status competition?

Then I remember that I do the same thing. I just use better manners.

I may not openly ask whether I am the greatest, but I notice who gets thanked. I notice who seems to have everything together. I notice whose children are sitting quietly at Mass while mine are reminding me that sanctification is often loud. I notice who is doing more at the parish, who gets asked to help with something important, who receives praise, and whether anyone noticed the thing I quietly did in the background. Apparently, the desire to be important survives quite well even when dressed in sensible shoes and carrying a diaper bag.

Comparison can be sneaky because it often arrives disguised as observation. I am not competing, I tell myself. I am simply noticing. I am simply being aware. I am simply keeping track of who has been complimented three times and who has not been complimented at all, which is definitely a neutral spiritual exercise.

Of course, it is not neutral. Somewhere beneath the surface, I am often measuring myself against other people and waiting for some invisible scoreboard to confirm that I am doing well enough. If someone else appears holier, more capable, more generous, more organized, or more appreciated, I can feel my peace wobble in a way that reveals far too much.

Jesus responds to the disciples by placing a child beside Him. He does not give them a lecture about leadership strategy or explain how to build a more impressive résumé for the Kingdom. He points to someone with very little social status and tells them that welcoming the least is the path to greatness.

That is not how I naturally define greatness.

I tend to think greatness should look visible. It should look competent, impressive, fruitful, admired, maybe even a little enviable if I am being very honest. But Jesus keeps redirecting my attention toward smallness, service, humility, and love that does not require applause.

That can be hard because recognition feels good. There is nothing wrong with gratitude or encouragement, and sometimes a kind word is exactly what someone needs. The trouble starts when I begin to depend on it, when my willingness to serve changes according to whether anyone notices, or when another person’s success somehow feels like a subtraction from my own worth.

I have caught myself doing this in family life too. There are days when I want credit for being patient, for remembering the appointment, for making the meal, for handling the thing no one else noticed needed handling. I can perform an act of service and then immediately begin a private internal campaign about how underappreciated I am. It is remarkable how quickly a good deed can become a tiny monument to myself.

And that is probably why this Gospel is so useful to me.

Jesus is not asking me to become invisible or pretend that I do not have gifts. He is asking me not to build my identity around being seen as important. There can be peace in that. If I do not have to be the greatest, I also do not have to constantly prove that I am doing enough, achieving enough, parenting well enough, serving visibly enough, or being spiritual enough.

I can simply be faithful.

That sounds simple, but it is not easy. Faithfulness often looks unimpressive. It looks like doing the next good thing, loving the person in front of me, showing up when I would rather be praised for having shown up, and resisting the urge to turn every act of service into evidence for the case that I am, in fact, doing a very good job.

There is something deeply peaceful about letting go of the need to rank ourselves. The Kingdom of God is not a contest, and holiness is not a ladder where someone else’s climb pushes me down a rung. Another person’s gifts do not threaten mine. Another mother’s calm children, another woman’s beautiful prayer life, another volunteer’s recognition, another person’s apparent ease do not diminish the work God is doing in me.

The child Jesus places beside Him has no résumé to offer. No impressive credentials. No status to defend. The child simply receives, trusts, and depends. Perhaps that is part of what Jesus is inviting me toward too: less performance, less calculation, less anxious comparison, and more willingness to become small enough to receive what He gives.

I suspect I will continue noticing who gets thanked. I may even continue noticing whose children are behaving beautifully in public, because I am still a human being and not yet a desert hermit with perfect detachment. But maybe the grace is in noticing what I do next.

Do I turn inward and start comparing, or do I bless the good I see in someone else? Do I resent being overlooked, or can I quietly offer that hiddenness to God? Do I need everyone to know what I contributed, or can I trust that the Lord already knows?

Apparently, I would also like to be the greatest.

Jesus, help me be content to be faithful instead.