Summary: This article examines the apparent paradox between God’s absolute aseity—His complete self-sufficiency and independence from creation—and the biblical and mystical witness to a God of passionate love who desires and rejoices in His creation. Rather than viewing these as contradictory, this investigation proposes to see a development in God’s Revelation. Drawing on the Incarnation and the Passion as the theological key, and on the mystical testimony of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, we argue that aseity itself demands a reconsideration: God’s absolute perfection includes both transcendent impassibility and an infinite capacity for merciful love. The metaphysical tradition and the Gospel must be reconciled not by denying either pole, but by recognising that God’s nature is infinitely more capacious and more personal than scholastic categories alone can express. We conclude that the Incarnation itself and the Passion provide a strong hermeneutical principle.

Introduction

A fundamental tension runs through Christian theology: How can God, who is absolutely self-sufficient and happy in His eternity, need us? How can God, who possesses the fullness of being and requires nothing outside Himself, be described as yearning, desiring, and rejoicing over His creatures? This is the problem of reconciling divine aseity with the God revealed in the Incarnation—a God who dies for us, who is ‘deeply moved’ in His entrails, who shows us the Father’s love through the image of the father embracing the prodigal son.

The classical metaphysical answer—that God is absolutely impassible, immutable, and unaffected by creation—appears to conflict with the Gospel portrait of a God intimately involved in the world, who weeps over Jerusalem, suffers on the Cross, and manifests a mercy that exceeds justice. This article does not aim to dismiss the metaphysical tradition but rather to argue that both truths—aseity and divine love—are partial expressions of a fuller reality that the human mind struggles to encompass.

Our approach relies on three key resources: First, the Incarnation itself, which reveals that God did indeed enter human history, did suffer in His human nature, and did make Himself vulnerable to human rejection—thereby showing us that God’s transcendence is compatible with, and indeed expresses itself through, radical self-gift. Second, the mystical testimony of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, who discovered in God a face of merciful love that transcends the juridical God of pure justice, and whose theology of a ‘weak’ God (God weak in mathematics but infinitely strong in love) offers a corrective to an overly abstract theodicy. Third, the nuptial theology of Saint John of the Cross, which insists that divine love by its nature requires, desires, and seeks union with the beloved soul.

The structure of this article is as follows: We first examine the classical doctrine of aseity and divine impassibility, acknowledging its strengths. We then turn to the biblical and mystical testimony of a God who loves, desires, and rejoices. We explore the Incarnation as the theological principle that reconciles these apparent opposites. Finally, we propose that authentic Christian theology requires holding both truths in creative tension, grounded in the conviction that God’s nature is infinitely more personal and more loving than any single theological system can capture.

1. Divine Aseity and the Metaphysical Tradition

The concept of divine aseity—from the Latin ‘a se,’ meaning ‘from itself’—stands as one of the pillars of classical theism. It asserts that God is absolutely self-sufficient, subsisting entirely from His own being, and requiring nothing from creation for His perfection or happiness. This doctrine developed through the medieval theological tradition, particularly in Thomas Aquinas and his successors, as a necessary safeguard for God’s transcendence and infinite perfection.

Aseity preserves a crucial insight: God cannot be dependent on anything, cannot be enriched by creation, cannot become more perfect through His works. To admit otherwise would be to place God within a system of causality and dependence, subordinating Him to principles outside Himself. The doctrine protects the radical distinctiveness of the divine nature and guards against reducing God to the status of a creature who happens to be very powerful.

Closely related to aseity is the doctrine of divine impassibility—the view that God is not subject to passion, emotion, or modification. If God is the unmoved mover, the eternal source of all being, He cannot be ‘moved’ or ‘affected’ by external forces. The classical formulation holds that God experiences no sadness, no joy, no desire unfulfilled; He exists in a state of perfect actuality, without any capacity for change or development.

This metaphysical vision is internally coherent and has much to commend it. Yet, as we shall see, it creates a profound tension with the biblical and mystical portrayal of God. The question becomes: Is this tension unresolvable, or does it point to a deeper truth that transcends the categories of classical metaphysics?

2. The Biblical and Mystical Testimony to God’s Love and Desire

The Gospel presents a strikingly different portrait of God. Jesus reveals to us ‘the true face of God’ (le vrai visage de Dieu) through His teachings and above all through His actions. This God is not remote and impassible but intimately involved with His creation, moved to compassion, and willing to sacrifice Himself entirely for those He loves.

2.1 The Incarnation as Self-Gift

The Incarnation itself stands as the supreme theological problem and answer. God did not remain in transcendent aloofness; He became incarnate. Critically, the entire Second Person of the Trinity was clothed in human nature—not a portion of the divine, but the whole divine person in human flesh. In John’s Gospel (3:16), we read that ‘God gave His Son,’ and more remarkably, He ‘gives Him entirely’ during Communion. This is not partial engagement; this is total self-gift.

Through the Incarnation, we can attribute to God properties that strictly belong to human nature: God cried, God suffered, God ate, God slept. We say truly that ‘God died.’ We call Mary the ‘Mother of God.’ This is not metaphor or anthropomorphic language in the sense of a merely external accommodation; it is orthodox theology. The divine nature, in the person of the Word, assumed a complete human nature and lived it fully. This means that whatever Jesus experienced—hunger, thirst, pain, abandonment, death—was experienced by God. Not just by a divine being with a human costume, but by God Himself.

If aseity means God needs nothing from creation, then the Incarnation would seem to contradict aseity. Yet we cannot deny the Incarnation. Therefore, we must reconsider what aseity truly means. Perhaps it means that God’s perfection is not enhanced by creation, but it need not mean that God cannot freely choose to give Himself in love.

2.2 The Passion and Compassion of Christ

The Gospels describe Jesus as ‘deeply moved’ (splagchnizomai)—a word that denotes visceral, emotional movement in the bowels, the seat of compassion in ancient physiology. Jesus weeps over Jerusalem and over the death of Lazarus. He is distressed in the garden of Gethsemane. He cries out on the Cross: ‘My God, my God, why have You abandoned me?’

Most strikingly, the risen Christ still bears the wounds of His Passion. This is not accidental to Christian faith; it is central. God’s redemptive act cost Him something—not in the sense that He lost power or perfection, but in the sense that He freely accepted suffering out of love. The Passion is not a regrettable necessity that God endures; it is God’s revelation of the depths of His love.

Jesus’s parable of the Prodigal Son reveals the Father’s heart. The father embraces his wayward son ‘at length’ (longtemps), holding him close, unable to let go. This is not the God of abstract metaphysics; this is a God who desperately wants His child to return, who is ‘about to explode’ like ‘immense waters behind a weak dam,’ yearning to give Himself.

2.3 Divine Desire and the Mystical Tradition

St. John of the Cross, the great doctor of mystical theology, taught that ‘love by its nature requires, needs, equality.’ The soul is never satisfied until she loves God as she is loved by Him. There is in this teaching a recognition that God’s love is not passionless; it calls forth a response, it seeks union, it is fundamentally relational. God’s infinity of love requires the infinite response of the beloved soul.

Saint Thérèse of Lisieux discovered a God of ‘merciful love’ (amour miséricordieux) that goes beyond justice. She was not content with a God who simply executes the divine law; she knew there must be a God who is weak in mathematics but infinitely strong in love. Toward the end of her life, she said: ‘I want to make Him known and loved as I know Him and love Him.’ She had discovered a ‘totally moving’ (bouleversante) face of God hidden beneath the juridical exterior.

Thérèse’s vision was that the mercy of God covers His justice. She did not deny God’s justice, but she perceived that it was encompassed within and transformed by mercy. This is not poetry or sentimentality; it is a genuine theological insight born from lived experience of God’s action in her soul.

Scripture confirms this movement of God toward His creatures. We read in the Old Testament that God is ‘moved in His entrails’ (Hebrew: ‘racham,’ related to the womb—rechem—speaking of God’s maternal tenderness). In the Gospel, we learn that there is ‘joy in heaven’ over the return of one sinner. But what is this joy? If joy is a modification of the state of the one who experiences it, and if God is immutable, how can God experience joy? The question forces us to reconceive both joy and immutability.

3. Toward an Integration: Aseity and Love Reconciled

The resolution of this tension does not lie in dismissing either pole—neither the God of metaphysics nor the God of the Gospels. Rather, it requires a deeper understanding of divine nature and a recognition that finite concepts strain to capture infinite reality.

3.1 Truth as Multidimensional

A fundamental principle emerges from contemplative theology: ‘Sometimes we hold part of the truth and make it whole. One truth is not the whole truth.’ When we say ‘God gives His grace to whom He wants, how He wants, when He wants,’ this is true. But it is only half the truth. The other half is equally true: ‘He is yearning to give Himself to us.’ Both are necessary; both together approach the full reality.

This is not a contradiction but a paradox—a paradox that mirrors the reality of infinite nature encountering finite understanding. God’s absolute freedom and His passionate desire are not contradictory; they are two aspects of the one divine will. God is perfectly free precisely because He freely chooses to love; He is impassible in His essence precisely because nothing can move Him against His will, yet He is moved by love because He freely allows Himself to be affected by His creatures.

The classical theological principle of analogy offers some help here. When we speak of God’s love, we use human language, but we must remember that God’s love is infinitely more than human love. Saint Paul’s formula encapsulates this: ‘If you, though you are sinners, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven?’ Jesus uses the ‘trampoline’ method: He takes a human reality, shows us its best form, and then says, in effect: Multiply this a hundred times, make it infinite, make it divine. God’s goodness is human goodness infinitely multiplied, divinized.

3.2 Imago Dei and the Capacity for God

We are created in God’s image and likeness. We are ‘capax Dei’—capable of receiving God. But this itself raises a profound question: How can the infinite God create finite beings in His image? How can the infinite be imaged in the finite? How can the uncreated be somehow present in the created?

The answer lies in the understanding that God’s creative act is itself a free act of self-gift. By creating us in His image, God sets up a capacity within us for receiving His infinite presence. The Incarnation fulfills this: In Christ, God not only images Himself in us but dwells within human nature itself. The ‘capacity for God’ within the human soul is fulfilled in union with the divine Word.

This means that God does, in a real sense, ‘need’ us—not because His perfection is incomplete without us, but because He has freely made us necessary to the expression of His love. He has willed that there be creatures to love, and having willed it, His will stands immutably oriented toward us. We are eternally held in God’s loving gaze, not as an afterthought or accident, but as part of the divine design from all eternity.

God’s happiness in His eternity is not a barren solitude but an infinite life of self-giving love. The Trinity itself expresses this: The Father eternally gives Himself to the Son; the Son eternally receives and returns the gift; the Holy Spirit is the eternal communion of their love. When God creates, He extends this overflowing love outward. He becomes, in a real sense, dependent on His creation—not for His existence or perfection, but for the manifestation and expression of His love.

3.3 The Incarnation as the Key

The Incarnation provides the hermeneutical principle for reconciling aseity and love. In the Incarnation, we see that God’s transcendence is expressed through radical immanence. God is fully transcendent precisely in becoming fully present. God is fully impassible in His divine nature, yet becomes fully passible in His human nature. God is fully self-sufficient, yet gives Himself completely.

The Incarnation shows us that God’s love is not a diminishment of His divinity but an expression of it. ‘God is love,’ Saint John tells us. If love is part of God’s essential nature, then God’s nature includes an orientation toward the other. Love inherently requires a beloved. This is not to say God needs the world to be love, but it is to say that God’s nature is essentially self-gift, and creation is the expression of this.

Furthermore, the Incarnation reveals that God’s transcendence is infinitely larger than classical metaphysics imagined. God is not a being who exists in timeless immutability, unaffected by time. Rather, God is a living God who enters into time, who suffers, who responds, who acts in history. This is not pantheism, which would deny God’s transcendence; it is something deeper: a recognition that true transcendence is compatible with, and indeed expressive of, radical involvement and love.

4. Addressing Objections

4.1 Is This Anthropomorphism?

Some will dismiss the biblical language of God’s emotions and desires as merely anthropomorphic—a concession to human weakness in understanding the divine. But if we accept that God became truly human in the Incarnation and truly suffered, then we cannot dismiss all divine passion as mere accommodation.

Rather, the language is sacramental. It points to something real about God’s nature, even if it necessarily falls short of the fullness of that nature. Moreover, since God assumed a complete human nature and lived it fully, the emotions that Jesus experienced—compassion, sorrow, joy—were truly God’s emotions. God did not experience them as an external observer but from within His human nature. This is not anthropomorphism; this is the revealed structure of Incarnational faith.

We might say that God is ‘more human than human.’ Human love, at its best, is a participation in and image of divine love. To experience true love is to touch something divine. God, in becoming human, did not contradict His divinity; He revealed it more fully. ‘All God became incarnate.’ He was not clothed ‘with alien feels and acts.’ Rather, He showed His nature through and inside His human nature, and it was revealed that ‘God is a hundred times better than the human being.’

4.2 Scripture’s Testimony to Divine Initiative

A careful reading of Scripture reveals a God who does not merely respond to human initiative but acts first. ‘He first loved us’ (1 John 4:19). God goes ‘after the lost sheep’; the shepherd seeks the lost one before the sheep seeks the shepherd. God’s love is not passive but active, seeking, searching, yearning.

Even more striking is the saying: ‘I am thirsty.’ It is God who says this. God is ‘thirsty’—thirsty for souls, thirsty to love and to be loved. What does this mean for divine aseity? It means that God’s self-sufficiency does not entail indifference. God wills that there be beings to love, and having willed it, He pursues this will with the intensity of infinite desire.

Another revealing text: ‘If you keep my commandments, the Father will love you’ (John 14:21). This language suggests a kind of conditionality—not in the sense that God’s love is earned, but in the sense that God’s explicit favour and manifestation of love are responsive to our obedience. Even God’s love, infinite and eternal though it is, expresses itself differently toward different states of the human soul. This is perfectly compatible with God’s immutability in essence; it reflects the infinite flexibility of His love in expression.

5. Choosing: The God of the Mystics and the God of Metaphysics

In the 1970s, theological works began to challenge the classical doctrine of divine impassibility (see bibliography). Writers like François Varillon S.J. questioned whether the God who created human feelings could Himself have no feelings. Before that, psychologist Carl Jung, in audacious move, challenged the image of a perfect God  in himself, recognising that such a God could not be the source of need to be completed.

This is not to embrace process theology or pantheism, which would deny God’s transcendence. Rather, it is to recognise that there is a mystical knowledge of God that goes deeper than conceptual theology. Saint Thérèse wrote: ‘I want to make Him [known and] loved as [I know Him and] love Him.’ She had not simply learned about God from books; she had come to experiential knowledge of a God whose love is merciful, tender, and infinitely desirous of union with His creatures.

Thérèse famously said: ‘The floods of love are compressed in Him.’ This is not metaphor but mystical insight—a perception of the infinite intensity of God’s love held in the infinite depths of God’s being. She knew that many people saw God primarily in His justice, as it was the case of her time with Jansenist residues. But she discovered that Jesus revealed another face of God, a face that was ‘bouleversante’—completely moving, overturning, transforming.

Note: this discovery took place primarily as she contemplated the Holy Face of Jesus; through this, she was led into the hidden depths of his beauty and came to perceive a wholly different face of God.

When a novice under Thérèse’s care refused to accept Thérèse’s vision of God’s tender mercy, Thérèse said: ‘Well, you will get the God you want.’ This is not a threat but a recognition of a profound truth: our image of God shapes our relationship with God. If we approach Him expecting severity, we will receive the severity. If we approach expecting mercy, we will receive mercy—not because God changes, but because the infinite God meets us where we are and manifests Himself according to our capacity to receive.

Note: when God reveals himself to Moses, the accent is placed explicitly on his mercy and tenderness: “The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation” (Exodus 34:6–7); this same tenderness is expressed with striking force in Isaiah: “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!” (Isaiah 49:15).

Let us not underestimate the profound difficulty experienced by the Jewish authorities in Jerusalem, including the Pharisees, in accepting Jesus’ revelation of God. What is at stake is not simply opposition, but a real tension between their received interpretation of Moses and the definitive revelation brought by Jesus. The Gospels themselves testify, with great honesty, to this examination and resistance: “They came to test him” (cf. Matthew 22:35), and again, in the case of the adulterous woman, “they were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him” (John 8:6). In their perspective, fidelity to Moses was the criterion of prophetic authenticity; thus, anyone who appeared to diverge from Moses could not be recognised as a true prophet. This explains the depth of the conflict: it is not merely moral or disciplinary, but theological—concerning the very face of God. The difficulty lies in moving from an interpretation of the Law to the acceptance of its fulfilment and unveiling in Christ. The Gospel does not conceal how demanding this passage is for the human heart. Yet it is precisely here that the decisive affirmation is made: Jesus does not abolish the revelation of God—he brings it to its fullness. As St John expresses it with striking clarity: “No one has ever seen God, but the one and only Son, who is himself God and is in closest relationship with the Father, has made him known” (John 1:18).

I am almost tempted to transpose such a “tension” to our present question: the metaphysical, perfect, distant God, or the God revealed by Jesus? If Jesus is truly God, then what he reveals cannot stand in opposition to the metaphysical understanding of a perfect, self-sufficient God. Yet the question remains: can both be affirmed, each in its own way?

We are, after all, speaking of the divine nature itself—of that superabundant reality which is “trabboccante” in Jesus and through Jesus. There is here something of the mystery of God that our limited intellect struggles to grasp: how he can be, at one and the same time, this and that.

Is it then a matter of choice, as Thérèse suggests to her novice: “you will get the God you want”? One recalls her poem on the Unpetalled Rose. She chose not to have her rose restored in heaven, whereas a nun from another monastery added a final stanza in which the rose would indeed be recomposed. Thérèse refused this: her sole desire was to please him, expecting nothing in return—“I shall appear before you with empty hands.”

This stance is inseparable from her understanding of who Jesus is and of what truly pleases him.

It essentially brings us back to the Lord’s strong warning: “Consider carefully how you listen” (Luke 8:18), for the way one listens determines the outcome. Paradoxically, we do play a real role in the image of God that emerges for us. We may desire a pure objectivity, as if we could remove ourselves entirely from the equation; yet God indicates otherwise: we are part of that very equation. The possibilities are set before us—but the way we receive, and thus the image of God we come to perceive, involves a genuine response on our part.

The human being, being created at God’s image and likeness, has a divine mission, the one of determining who  God is, choosing who God is. Therese’s word to the novice continues to resonate in me: you will get the God you want.

Remember her well-known example of who God is: two boys are playing in the living room and break a precious vase. The first runs away and hides, out of fear of his mother’s anger. The second goes to her, confesses what they have done, explains that it was not intentional, asks for forgiveness, promises they will not do it again, and even asks to be punished with a kiss… What a powerful example! This story illustrates, for me, the decisive element of choice. We are confronted with different images of God—which one do we embrace? In a certain sense, this is a godlike, even divine, responsibility. Aren’t we created at his image and likeness?! And Jesus himself underlines the gravity of this vocation: “he called ‘gods,’ to whom the word of God came” (John 10:35).

The question becomes: Who do we believe? The God of the metaphysicians, or the God of the mystics? The God not yet incarnate, fruit also of our imagination and of our philosophy, or the incarnate God who revealed us in a clearer way who God is?

We can affirm both. Thérèse’s God is not a denial of classical theology, but its completion: it brings into lived experience the infinite love that metaphysics had already affirmed, though often remaining at the level of abstract principle. The alternative is not between the perfect, metaphysical God and the merciful God of the Gospel revealed in the Incarnate Word. Rather, the real question is whether we receive the one God who is both perfectly immutable in his essence and, in his merciful manifestation, mysteriously “vulnerable”, both utterly self-sufficient and yet infinitely desirous of our love.

Is he not also “a devouring fire” (Deuteronomy 4:24)? We may understand this fire in the following way: a fire moves, it devours, it transforms, it changes all that it touches.

Can we consider layers of revelation? In the Old Testament, God is, in a sense, “covered”, and he progressively reveals himself, as though lifting a veil from his own being. If one is vulnerable, this will not be shown immediately; it is hidden, kept in reserve as a secret. Thus he appears strong, majestic, powerful. Yet as revelation unfolds, and as time advances, he discloses himself more fully, removing one layer after another, according to our capacity to receive him.

St Paul already points to this paradox: the Jews seek signs of power, whereas Christ, in his Passion, appears weak, even as though he is losing everything. Yet is it not precisely in the Passion that the very heart of God is revealed?

This is why Isaiah, contemplating the utter vulnerability of God’s servant, cries out: “Who has believed what we have heard? And to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?” (Isaiah 53:1).

In this revelation, God shows that he has a heart, and that this heart can be wounded by us. Yet his response is not withdrawal or retaliation: through this very wound, he heals us, drawing us back into communion, even into the mystery of his opened side.

In Jesus, and especially in his wounds, God reveals his very nature: that he is, in a certain sense, vulnerable. In the strict sense of the term, “vulnerable” comes from the Latin vulnerabilis, from vulnus (“wound”), meaning “capable of being wounded”. It is precisely this “wound-ability” that is disclosed in Christ’s Passion.

In his crucified humanity, God allows himself to be reached, pierced, and affected. The wounds of Jesus are not merely signs of past suffering; they become the place where the divine mystery is made visible in a paradoxical form. In them, God does not cease to be God, but he reveals that divine love is not impassible indifference: it is a love that enters into exposure, into being-wounded-for-the-other, without ceasing to be divine.

Being vulnerable, weak, available to be wounded, but paradoxically stronger than the wound—his love being stronger than the wound—is an extraordinary and final step in the revelation brought to us by Jesus about the nature of God. “Who has believed our message and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?” (Is 53:1)… I think that this is the answer!

Note: “Vulnerability” comes from the Latin vulnerabilis, derived from vulnus (genitive vulneris), meaning “wound”. The suffix -abilis indicates “capable of” or “liable to”. So, at its most literal level, vulnerable means “capable of being wounded” or “open to being wounded”. The noun “vulnerability” therefore names the condition of being exposed to harm, injury, or suffering. Etymologically, it does not primarily refer to weakness in the modern psychological sense, but to the possibility of being wounded. In classical Latin usage, vulnus referred to a physical wound, especially one inflicted in battle, but it could also be extended metaphorically to inner harm or moral injury. From this root, the semantic field developed in medieval and modern languages to include emotional, relational, and existential openness to being affected or hurt. So in its strict etymological sense, vulnerability is not simply fragility, but “wound-ability”: the state of being such that one can be pierced, affected, or marked by another.

Conclusion

The question ‘Does God need us?’ admits of a paradoxical answer: In His infinite perfection and aseity, God needs nothing. Yet he reveals himself to us: in His love, He has freely willed to make Himself dependent on us—dependent on our response, our love, our cooperation in His redemptive plan. This is not a contradiction but the revelation of the expression of a freedom so radical that it includes the freedom to limit oneself, to commit oneself, to bind oneself eternally to the beloved.

The Incarnation and the Passion are the final word on this matter. In Jesus, God showed that He is not content to remain in transcendent aloofness. He came, He suffered, He died. He rose, bearing the wounds of love. He sits at the right hand of the Father, forever marked by His human nature, forever interceding for us. The risen Christ is a God who has, in a real sense, committed Himself to us eternally.

In a way, Jesus’ Revelation of God seems to invite us to choose between the God of metaphysics and the God of the Gospel. The latter corrects and completes the first. It is true that the metaphysical tradition guards us against reducing God to a creature writ large, against losing the infinite transcendence of divine being. The Old Testament constant insistence on God’s Holiness bears testimony to that. The mystical and evangelical traditions guard us against creating a God who is too distant, too abstract, too indifferent to the cries of His creatures. They introduce us in the “bowels of his mercy”, the lasting embrace of the Father, the celebratory Joy in Heaven!

The true task of theology is to hold together these truths: Yes, God is perfect, immutable, and self-sufficient. Yes, God is merciful, compassionate, and yearning for our love. Both are true. Both are necessary. Both are revealed. The coherence we seek is not found by privileging one over the other or by forcing them into a false synthesis, but by recognising that God’s nature is infinitely more capacious, infinitely more personal, infinitely more loving than any single theological system can exhaust.

In the end, we must do as St. Thérèse did: We must choose! In this choice lies the maturity of Christian faith—a faith that is neither sentimental nor abstract, neither merely emotional nor merely intellectual, but fully human and fully divine.

By having mercy (we say and do in the Our Father: “as we forgive”) we certainly draw closer to Jesus’ God, we make ourselves more open to his Revelation, we give ourselves the chance to reach the deepest layers of his heart!

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