Give Jesus All Your Freedom

Divine Appeal Reflection - 175

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 175: "Of the many sacrifices that I want from you, I beg you to give Me all your freedom...Open your heart and give me all your freedom"

Among the sacrifices Jesus may ask of a soul, there is one more interior than fasting, more hidden than poverty, and sometimes more difficult than suffering: the surrender of one's freedom. He does not destroy the dignity of our will; rather, He invites the freedom He created to freely return itself to Divine Love (cf. Sir 15:14–17; CCC 1730–1731). The soul discovers the great paradox of grace: it becomes most free not when it does whatever it desires, but when its freedom becomes completely available to God (cf. CCC 1731–1734).The prodigal son imagined freedom meant leaving the Father and determining his own life, yet his apparent independence eventually became another form of slavery (cf. Lk 15:11–24). Our Adorable Jesus therefore does not say, “Stop being yourself,” but, “Do not allow anything other than Divine Love to govern your will.” This reaches our hidden attachments: the need to control outcomes, insistence on being understood, attachment to reputation, resistance to correction, demands upon God, and determination to make life follow our preferred design (cf. Prov 3:5–6; Mt 6:10).True surrender means placing even these hidden territories before Christ: “Lord, You may redirect my plans, correct my desires, change my expectations, and lead me where I would not choose for myself.” Like Mary, whose free consent became the doorway through which the Word entered history, the soul discovers that grace does not destroy freedom but elevates it into love (cf. Lk 1:38; CCC 1742). Thus the deepest freedom is no longer merely freedom to choose for ourselves, but freedom to belong entirely to Love .

To “open your heart” is far more demanding than it first appears, because the heart can become a hidden chamber whose doors remain closed even while the rest of life appears surrendered. A person may give away possessions yet fiercely defend a personal opinion; accept physical suffering yet resist the humiliation of correction; serve the poor generously yet secretly hunger for recognition. A religious may renounce worldly comforts while still wanting ministry arranged according to personal preferences; a priest may surrender much for his vocation while quietly clinging to control over parish decisions; a married person may love faithfully yet refuse to surrender the need to have the final word; a young person may sincerely ask for God’s will while inwardly deciding which answers God is allowed to give (cf. Mt 16:24; Lk 9:23; CCC 1731–1734). Thus a life can look deeply religious outwardly while the heart remains selectively unavailable to grace.Samuel offers a beautiful image of this openness. Before he understood what God would ask, he learned to place himself at God’s disposal and become attentive to the divine call (cf. 1 Sam 3:1–10). Mary enters this mystery even more profoundly. Her freedom stood before the divine invitation without knowing the full cost, yet her consent became the human doorway through which the Word entered our history (cf. Lk 1:26–38; Jn 1:14). Grace did not destroy her freedom; it drew her freedom into its highest act. Her surrender shows that authentic freedom is not merely the power to choose what we desire, but the capacity to give ourselves wholly to the One who is Love (cf. CCC 1742).To open the heart, therefore, is to allow Our Adorable Jesus to enter territories we would rather keep under our own management: our preferences, fears, ambitions, memories, wounds, disappointments, plans, attachments, and even our carefully guarded interpretations of what our life should become (cf. Ps 139:23–24; Heb 4:12–13). Sometimes the most difficult surrender is not giving up something sinful, but allowing Christ to touch something legitimate that we have quietly made untouchable. A priest may have to surrender his preferred way of serving; a mother her imagined future for a child; a religious a cherished apostolic plan; a worker the recognition he believes he deserves; a young person the future he has already designed; a wounded soul the right to keep reopening an old injury (cf. Phil 2:5–8; Col 3:12–15).

This is why such prayer can feel almost dangerous in its holiness: “Jesus, You may enter even where I have previously told You not to enter.” It is an invitation for Christ to cross the interior boundaries we have constructed around ourselves—not to violate our freedom, but to heal it and make it wholly His (cf. Rev 3:20; Jn 8:31–32, 36). The soul begins to discover that the places it feared surrendering are often precisely the places where divine healing is waiting. What was once defended becomes an altar; what was once controlled becomes an offering; what was once feared becomes a place of trust (cf. Rom 12:1–2; 2 Cor 5:17).At the deepest level, opening the heart means allowing Christ not merely to visit our lives, but to become Lord of their hidden interior movements. It means permitting Him to question our motives, purify our desires, redirect our plans, soften our judgments, heal our memories, and transform our wounds into channels of compassion . The soul no longer says, “Jesus, enter everywhere except here,” but gradually learns the freedom of total availability: “Take even this, Lord. Enter even here. Touch even this wound. Correct even this desire. Change even this plan.” Then the opened heart becomes more than a place where Christ is welcomed;(cf. Jn 14:23; CCC 2563) it becomes a living sanctuary in which His love is increasingly free to reign .

The surrender of freedom becomes especially profound when God's will contradicts our immediate desires. Here the Garden of Gethsemane becomes the supreme school. Christ's human will, without ceasing to be truly human, is perfectly united to the Father's saving will (cf. Lk 22:39–46; CCC 475). The mystery of Christian surrender is therefore not passive fatalism. It is an active movement of love in which the person says yes to God even when the emotions protest. Abraham experienced this mystery when asked to surrender Isaac, the very promise through which he had imagined God's future would come (cf. Gen 22:1–18). Hannah surrendered Samuel to God's service after receiving him through prayer (cf. 1 Sam 1:24–28). The Virgin Mary accepted a future she could not fully comprehend (cf. Lk 2:19, 34–35). St. Maximilian Kolbe offers an extraordinary modern manifestation of surrendered freedom: in Auschwitz, his freedom became an offering for another man's life. St. Josephine Bakhita's life demonstrates another dimension: after experiencing the theft of human freedom, she discovered in Christ a freedom that no earthly master could finally possess. These mysteries speak directly to daily life. You may have planned a career but encounter an unexpected vocation. You may want marriage but remain single. You may desire children and face infertility. You may want to remain in one ministry but be transferred. You may want reconciliation but another person refuses it. You may have carefully planned your future only to encounter illness, unemployment, family responsibilities or unexpected service. Surrender does not mean refusing prudent action; it means refusing to make our preferred outcome the condition for peace. The surrendered soul still acts, plans, studies and works—but it leaves the final word with God.

One of the most hidden sacrifices we can make is to surrender our reactions to Christ. We often think of freedom in terms of great decisions, yet holiness is frequently decided in the few seconds between what happens to us and how we respond (cf. Jas 1:19–20; Prov 16:32). An insult gives us the choice to retaliate or remain peaceful; another person’s success tests whether we can rejoice without envy; a colleague’s mistake invites exposure or mercy; a harsh word from a spouse can either deepen a wound or become the place where the cycle is broken; a child’s failure can provoke humiliation or patient correction; an online provocation can awaken the need to win or the freedom to remain silent . These apparently insignificant moments become hidden altars where the soul places its freedom before God.The profound question is therefore not merely, “What will I choose with my life?” but, “Who governs me in the instant when I am wounded, praised, contradicted, ignored, or provoked?” . Paul speaks of refusing to become mastered by anything that diminishes our freedom in Christ, while James exposes how quickly the tongue can turn an interior impulse into destruction (cf. Jas 3:2–10). Peter likewise presents Christian freedom not as permission for self-indulgence, but as freedom placed at the service of God and neighbour (cf. 1 Pet 2:16). The soul therefore begins to practise small acts of surrender: “Jesus, take my desire to retaliate. Take my need to be praised. Take my need to control this conversation. Choose Your response through me.” Such offerings may last only seconds, yet those seconds can become decisive encounters with grace. Gradually, Christ begins to govern not only our major choices, but the hidden movements from which our words, relationships, and actions arise . In this way, freedom is quietly transferred from the rule of self to the reign of Divine Love.

When Our Adorable Jesus asks for “all your freedom,” He is inviting the soul to surrender not merely its actions, but the hidden interior places where self-will, attachment, fear, ambition, and disordered desire can still claim possession (cf. Lk 9:23; CCC 1731–1734). This surrender is not the destruction of personality or responsibility; it is the liberation of the person so that he or she can become what God created them to be. Paul’s confession that Christ lives in him reveals this mystery: the more completely the self is given to Christ,(cf. Gal 2:20; 2 Cor 5:14–15) the more deeply the person becomes capable of authentic love and apostolic fruitfulness . Grace does not destroy reason, conscience, freedom, or legitimate human responsibility; it heals, elevates, and perfects them (cf. CCC 1742).This is why surrender to Christ should make the soul more responsible, not passive; more courageous, not timid; more capable of love, not less human . To give Jesus our freedom is to place before Him the future we cannot foresee, plans He may redirect, ambitions He may purify, reputation we may need to release, preferences we may need to surrender, and questions whose answers may never come (cf. Prov 3:5–6; Mt 6:25–34). The soul eventually discovers that divine surrender is not imprisonment but purification: Christ does not take freedom away; He frees freedom from everything that prevents it from becoming love (cf. Jn 8:31–32, 36; CCC 1738).At the Cross, this paradox becomes luminous. The hands surrendered to God are not chained; they are released from the exhausting necessity of possessing, controlling, explaining, defending, and winning everything (cf. Phil 2:5–8; Lk 23:46). The soul begins to live from belonging rather than possession, from trust rather than control, from love rather than self-protection. And this purified freedom becomes profoundly apostolic: free to forgive, free to serve, free to sacrifice, free to obey, free to remain faithful when unseen, free to love those who wound us, and free to begin again after failure (cf. Mt 5:44; Jn 13:14–15; Phil 2:13–16). Ultimately, the soul becomes free enough to echo Mary’s total availability to God—not only in moments of consolation, but in every circumstance (cf. Lk 1:38). This is the freedom of a heart that no longer belongs to itself, because it has discovered the greater liberty of belonging entirely to Love.

Prayer

Our Adorable Jesus, enter every hidden chamber of our hearts and receive our freedom completely. Free us from self-will, fear, pride, control and disordered attachments. Teach us to choose Your will joyfully, especially when it costs us. May our surrendered freedom become an altar of love, obedience, reparation and service to souls. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.