The question wasn’t new when the disciples asked it.
It’s never new, really.
“Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”

It is a question with a thousand faces—politicians at podiums, influencers under ring lights, athletes on podiums, startup founders, etc. In Jesus’ day, it was whispered among fishermen turned followers, wondering who among them would get the gold chair. Today, it hums at dinner table conversations.

And Jesus, as He often does, answers in a way that makes our ego choke.
He puts a child in front of them.

A child. Not a king. Not a warrior. Not someone with a blue checkmark.
A child—small, dependent, without power, without an audience.

The Modern Hunger for Greatness

Somewhere deep in our wiring is this craving: to be remembered, to be applauded, to be more than just ordinary.

It’s not entirely bad. Desire can be a holy spark. But in the wrong hands—our own—it turns into a gnawing hunger that drives us into restless nights and pursuits.

Muhammad Ali called himself “The Greatest.” People bristled. How dare he? And yet we can’t stop talking about him. Long before him, Alexander earned the same adjective. So did Cyrus, Catherine, Charlemagne, Alfred. “Greatness” has become history’s most glittering badge, pinned to emperors, conquerors, and, sometimes, saints.

Our generation has its own forms: viral fame, follower counts, startup valuations, “world’s youngest” titles. We dress it in language like hustle, grind, boss move. But beneath it is the same old heartbeat: See me. Validate me. Make my name too big to forget.

The Fear Behind the Quest

If you peel back the layers, the chase for greatness hides something tender and almost embarrassing: fear.

Fear of being invisible.

Fear of being ordinary.

Fear that our life will pass like vapor and no one will remember we were here.

The craving for affirmation is not just vanity—it’s survival instinct. We are social beings, and our brains light up when others recognize us. The dopamine of a compliment, a like, an award—it’s intoxicating. But it’s also fragile. The moment applause fades, so does the self-worth built on it.

So we keep building. Bigger. Louder. Faster. More.

Jesus’ Disruptive Answer

Matthew 18 is Jesus’ way of saying, “You’re measuring the wrong thing.”
He calls a child—not because children are perfect, but because they are free from the burden of self-importance. A child does not enter a room calculating how to be remembered. They live in the moment. They depend. They trust.

Jesus doesn’t say, Don’t be great. He says, Be great in a way that doesn’t rot your soul. Greatness in the kingdom is not about being above—it’s about being small enough to be lifted by God, noticed or unnoticed by people.

The Phantoms of “Making It Big”

Young adults today are under siege by phantoms.
The phantom of the perfect life—curated feeds that convince us everyone else is already “there.”
The phantom of falling behind—career timelines that make us sprint in panic.
The phantom of self-comparison—the measuring stick that never shrinks, only grows taller.

These phantoms whisper the same lie: You’re not enough until they say you are.

But here’s the twist: no generation has ever escaped this. The kings and conquerors who wore “the Great” before their name still died. Their titles remain, but their power has long been dust. Their greatness bought them fame, but not immortality.

The Other Kind of Great

Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep (Matthew 18:12–14) feels like a footnote until you realize it’s part of the same conversation. A shepherd leaves ninety-nine safe sheep to find one stray. This is His picture of value. Greatness is not securing the fortress of your own success—it’s noticing the one who is lost.

1. Imagine if your résumé read: Found people when they were about to give up.
2. Imagine if your résumé read: Was the rain when the sky was stingy.
3. Imagine if your résumé read: Held the line of truth, though the road led through the alley of disgrace.

Why We Still Need Recognition

Let’s be honest: you and I still want to be seen. That’s okay. Recognition is not the enemy; dependence on it is. We are made for relationship, for affirmation, for the joy of being known. But when the applause becomes the oxygen, we will suffocate without it.

The child in Jesus’ illustration is not immune to being noticed—they just don’t need the noticing to survive. That’s the shift.

For the Ones Trying to Make It Big

If you’re in that restless season—chasing the internship, the degree, the platform, the portfolio—pause. Ask yourself: Would this be worth it if no one knew I did it?

True greatness, Jesus says, might look like smallness in the world’s eyes. It might be raising a child well. Caring for an aging parent. Running a quiet, honest business. Mentoring one person at a time. Being the one who leaves the ninety-nine for the stray, not because it will trend, but because love compelled you.

The world will still crown its Alexanders, its Catherines, its Charlemagnes. But the kingdom will keep crowning the ones who become childlike—who lay down the crushing weight of “proving” and pick up the light yoke of “belonging.”

Maybe that’s the secret the “Greats” never learned.
Maybe the real greatness isn’t about being remembered by the world.
It’s about being recognized by the Shepherd who came looking for you—
and found you.

Fr. Ken Nkadi, O.P.