Chap­ter I – For Greater Things opens with a strik­ing image of Stanis­laus Kost­ka, a sev­en­teen-year-old noble­man, qui­et­ly slip­ping through the west­ern gate of Vien­na in August 1567. Though clothed in gar­ments befit­ting his high birth, his steps are direct­ed not toward a roy­al court or mil­i­tary glo­ry, but toward Augs­burg, where he hopes to fol­low a divine call. The con­trast between his noble attire and his hum­ble bread meal reveals a young man com­mit­ted to shed­ding priv­i­lege in favor of a deep­er pur­pose. Rather than chas­ing the acco­lades typ­i­cal of his sta­tion, Stanis­laus walks away from the com­fort of his family’s wealth with a heart set on ser­vice and a soul drawn to God. Each stride away from Vien­na marks not a retreat, but an ascent toward a greater spir­i­tu­al des­tiny. With only a change of clothes and his unwa­ver­ing con­vic­tion, he begins a pil­grim­age that will define not only his future, but his sanc­ti­ty.

Despite his aris­to­crat­ic bear­ing, Stanis­laus wastes no time in renounc­ing the world­ly mark­ers of nobil­i­ty. Short­ly after leav­ing the city, he offers his lux­u­ri­ous out­er­wear to a poor man and dons a peas­an­t’s tunic—an out­ward sign of his inter­nal detach­ment from sta­tus and pos­ses­sion. His choice of cloth­ing becomes a tes­ta­ment to humil­i­ty, not dis­guise. As he moves through small towns and open fields, peo­ple are drawn to him, sens­ing some­thing noble not in his appear­ance, but in his qui­et resolve. He nev­er boasts of his her­itage or com­plains of dis­com­fort. Instead, he meets each challenge—hunger, fatigue, or the uncer­tain­ty of shelter—with seren­i­ty and prayer. The road becomes his chapel, and every encounter a qui­et act of evan­ge­liza­tion, not through words, but by the wit­ness of sim­plic­i­ty and faith. In each vil­lage, he blends into the mar­gins of soci­ety, nev­er assert­ing rank, but always radi­at­ing peace.

Stanislaus’s deci­sion to leave behind his fam­i­ly’s wealth, influ­ence, and expec­ta­tions is not impul­sive. It fol­lows months of inner strug­gle, ignit­ed by a pro­found spir­i­tu­al long­ing and sus­tained by a divine grace that sur­pass­es fear. While oth­ers might have hes­i­tat­ed under the weight of pater­nal dis­ap­proval or social dis­grace, Stanis­laus moves with clar­i­ty. His call­ing to the Soci­ety of Jesus, though not yet for­mal­ized, feels to him like a fire that can­not be quenched. This inner flame lights his path even when the road becomes rough or lone­ly. Each night in unfa­mil­iar places only deep­ens his trust in God’s prov­i­dence. Though phys­i­cal­ly alone, he remains spir­i­tu­al­ly anchored. His qui­et joy in hard­ship is not naïve but root­ed in the con­vic­tion that obe­di­ence to God’s will brings the only last­ing peace.

What makes Stanis­laus remark­able is not sim­ply that he left a priv­i­leged life behind—it is that he did so will­ing­ly, with­out bit­ter­ness or spec­ta­cle. He does not cast him­self as a mar­tyr of fam­i­ly resis­tance but as a joy­ful ser­vant of some­thing greater. He choos­es the dis­com­fort of the road over the cush­ions of com­fort because he sees them as nec­es­sary steps toward his mis­sion. His eyes are not on Rome yet, but on the Lord who calls him for­ward. When peo­ple ques­tion his jour­ney, he answers gen­tly and with con­vic­tion, nev­er try­ing to con­vince but always invit­ing by his exam­ple. Even when met with skep­ti­cism, his sin­cer­i­ty wins hearts. A host at a coun­try inn, impressed by his poise and gen­tle words, offers food and rest with­out charge. Such moments affirm that his path, though unmarked by sta­tus, is pro­tect­ed by grace.

This chap­ter lays the foun­da­tion of Stanis­laus Kostka’s trans­for­ma­tion from a noble youth into a pil­grim of pur­pose. He does not seek sainthood—he sim­ply desires to be faith­ful. Yet in that fideli­ty, even in these first steps, his sanc­ti­ty takes root. His jour­ney is not defined by miles walked or towns crossed, but by the unwa­ver­ing devo­tion that turns each step into an act of love. In a soci­ety obsessed with wealth and recog­ni­tion, Stanis­laus becomes a qui­et counterpoint—one whose great­ness is mea­sured not in gold, but in the strength of his spir­it. The chap­ter leaves us with the image of a young man walk­ing alone yet accom­pa­nied, poor yet pro­found­ly rich, begin­ning a jour­ney not toward escape, but toward eter­nal ful­fill­ment.