Imitation of God opens our senses

Why does faith elude so many people these days? We dream of a pure and crystalline faith that would arise spontaneously. Yet, bombarded by all kinds of stimuli, our soul, the true vessel of faith, remains hidden.

Faith, this theological virtue, which must first take root, rests on gestures to be received. No one showers us with gestures more than Jesus, who, by entering our senses, elevates them. Because this is how we believe: by receiving a form, by repeating gestures, often, for a long time before we grasp their depth. It is precisely there that Christ takes the deaf-mute aside, "pulling him out of the crowd," putting his fingers in his ears and saliva on his tongue. Christ requires intimacy to work. Certainly, intimacy is not holy; it is also the realm of sin, but it is nonetheless the realm of choice par excellence, since it compels us to look at ourselves honestly.

Jesus did not give his life on the cross; he gave it from the very beginning of his public ministry. He gave his life as a model! And all who followed him began to act according to this model, perfectly tailored, seamless, without flaw. The life of Jesus is a concrete demonstration. But Christ knows the difficulty of rising above humanity without falling back. He says, "Do this," not, "Imitate me." He asks us to become his actions. Within this demonstration lies another extraordinary teaching: it is about following Christ with our own resources; he asks us to follow him and to do as he did, even and especially if it is beyond our strength. 

Christ leads the deaf-mute man away from the crowd to test his intimacy. He touches his ears and tongue, conveying his taste. Then he speaks to the deaf man, asking his ears to be opened. And the mute man "spoke distinctly." His subsequent requests are no less significant, for he asks him to say nothing, to remain silent about this miracle. He asks a deaf-mute man to say nothing when he has just regained his hearing and speech! Jesus hates noise and loves paradox. He opens paradoxes in our lives to break the chains we ourselves have forged. He hears, through the clamor of the crowd, the lament or prayer of the penitent. He cannot refuse the crowd, for there is faith in that crowd, but he is wary of it long before his own judgment comes, knowing the human heart is full of changes and turmoil. In this passage, a delicate lesson is instilled in us: learning to listen precedes self-expression.

Faith is neither entirely internal nor entirely private. It thrives on intimacy, but it is not what the modern era would have us believe: something one possesses or lacks. This idea of ​​powerlessness and resignation is, in Chesterton's words, a Christian virtue gone mad, for it stems from the Church's definition of theological virtue. Yet, must we resign ourselves to it? No, and the attitude of Jesus Christ on earth teaches us the opposite. By acting like Christ, we are not copying him, for our weaknesses do not allow us to do so. On the contrary, we can conform ourselves to him (The Imitation of Christ is, in this respect, a great teaching, for this book makes us conform in everyday life and in countless situations). The episode of the deaf-mute also teaches us that we must hear before we speak. Let us remain attentive, especially to ourselves, to our innermost selves. There is no reason why faith should be less present in our time than in the Middle Ages, or why God's grace should be less frequent, but it is stifled and we refuse to see it, we forget it, like the soul, and, as the two are linked, they wither away.

To begin to believe, one must act like a believer. If we want to see something magnificent that escapes us but delights a neighbor, we must put ourselves in their place or draw closer to them. This shift in perspective awakens our soul. It draws us out of the noise of the crowd and our own lives. This gesture initiates our love. It places us in the patience of grace, which touches us in our innermost being, with gentleness, and opens us entirely to the freedom of Christ.