From the God of the Law to the God of the Heart: the Revelation of a Relationship of Love

Jean Khoury

Summary: Christian life is often presented from the standpoint of morality: God gives his commandments, man must observe them, avoid sin and progressively become better. This perspective contains an essential truth, but it becomes profoundly reductive when it becomes the centre of Christian life. It then risks transforming the relationship with God into a relationship of conformity, measurement and merit.

Yet biblical revelation leads much further. It reveals a God who seeks man, who calls him, who asks: “Where are you?”, who rejoices when he finds the one who was lost and who, on the Cross, says: “I thirst.” The God who created man in his image does not want merely a morally correct creature: he wants a person capable of responding to him freely in love. He wants his heart.

This perspective makes it possible to reread creation, the mystery of the New Adam, the nuptial symbolism of Scripture, sin, holiness and, finally, the Little Way of Thérèse of Lisieux. In her, the language becomes astonishingly bold: God is “weak at calculation”; one must know how to “take Jesus by the heart”, and know his “character”. Christian perfection is therefore not primarily the art of never falling, but the art of giving oneself to God and always returning to his heart.

This does not mean eliminating Christian morality, still less the Ten Commandments, but restoring them to their true place: they are at the service of a relationship of love and can in no way substitute for it.

Introduction — What if the problem were not primarily sin?

There is a way of presenting Christianity that begins almost spontaneously with this question: “What is permitted? What is forbidden? What is sin?” This question is legitimate. The Gospel does not abolish good and evil. Jesus did not come to abolish the Law. But a difficulty arises when the whole of Christian life is organised around this single perspective. The Christian then ends up measuring his relationship with God principally according to his actions: have I disobeyed? Have I kept the commandments? Have I done enough good? Am I disciplined enough? Have I fallen?

Such a perspective can even produce a paradoxical situation: a person can be outwardly very correct, disciplined, even irreproachable, and yet not give himself to God. He can do many things “for God” without truly giving himself to God.

It is here that biblical revelation requires us to shift the centre of gravity. The fundamental question is not only: “What have I done?” It is: “What have I done with my heart?” For God does not merely want to produce a creature that exists. He wants a creature capable of responding to him. He does not simply want a being who observes his commandments. He wants a being who can love him.

1. “I will be who I will be”: a God who reveals himself in history

This perspective already appears in the way God reveals his Name to Moses: “Ehyeh asher ehyeh” (Ex 3:14). The traditional Latin translation, Ego sum qui sum, has profoundly marked Christian theology. But the Hebrew form ehyeh, derived from the verb hayah, is an imperfect form which, according to the context, can be translated as “I will be”, “I am”, or even “I will come to be”. The translation is debated and should not be reduced to a single interpretation. The TOB, for example, retains “I am who I will be”.

What is theologically fruitful here is that God does not reveal himself merely as an abstract definition of his being. He reveals himself to Moses within a history, in connection with a mission and a promise: “I will be with you” (Ex 3:12).

The biblical God is therefore the God who comes to meet his people, who acts, who accompanies, who promises and who makes himself known within a history of his covenant.

This dynamic dimension in no way means that God would become other in his essence. It means that God makes himself known in relationship and in the history of his covenant. God does not reveal himself only as “the One who is”. He reveals himself as the One who is with. And this leads us towards a much more radical question: why does God want to be with man?

2. “It is not good that man should be alone”

Genesis 2 introduces an astonishing statement: “It is not good that man should be alone” (Gen 2:18). Man was created “in the image of God” (Gen 1:27), and yet he is alone. God then gives him someone who can correspond to him. The text reaches its summit in Adam’s cry: “Here at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh” (Gen 2:23).

The Bible itself then establishes a connection between this nuptial mystery and Christ: Saint Paul takes up Gen 2:24 and declares: “This mystery is a great one: I am referring to Christ and the Church” (Eph 5:32).

Thus, biblical marriage is not simply a human reality from which Paul would borrow a comparison. It becomes the figure of the mystery of Christ and his Church. Christ is the New Adam. And if the New Adam comes in search of his Bride, then the question of desire takes on a new depth. The Father prepares “the wedding feast for his Son” (Mt 22:2). The Son seeks a bride. God wants a creature who can correspond to him, receive his love and respond to him freely. He does not seek merely a creature. He seeks his beloved.

3. “I thirst”: the one who thirsts is the Lover

Everything then converges towards a word spoken by Jesus on the Cross: “I thirst” (Jn 19:28). This word can naturally be understood in its immediate physical sense. But within the whole of John’s Gospel and in the light of the mystery of the Cross, it acquires a depth that goes beyond bodily thirst alone. The one who says “I thirst” is Christ who has just given his life. He is the New Adam. He is the Bridegroom. He is the one who loves to the end. Then a dizzying intuition emerges: The one who thirsts is the Lover who has desired his beloved.

He has sought her. He has called her into existence. He has created her in his image and likeness. He has made her capable of receiving his love and responding to him. In the nuptial language of Genesis, she is “flesh of his flesh, bone of his bones”. In Christological language, the Church becomes his Body. In the language of grace, man is called to become a participant in the divine nature (2 Pet 1:4).

There is therefore something profoundly real between God and man: God has willed a creature capable of receiving his own life. And this is why the absence of man can be understood, within the relational register of love, as a real absence.

4. The vulnerability of God

We arrive here at a particularly audacious point. God is almighty. He does not depend upon the creature in order to exist. He lacks nothing in his divine being. But love introduces another category: that of relationship. To love means to give oneself. And to love another person freely means accepting that this person may respond or may not respond. God has willed that man be free. He therefore accepts not to constrain his love.

It is in this sense that one can speak of the vulnerability of God: not of an ontological weakness in God, but of the freely assumed vulnerability of Love which accepts the freedom of the one whom it loves. God can be rejected. He can be forgotten. He can be abandoned. He can be betrayed. And he can even be crucified. “I thirst” then becomes the astonishing revelation of a God whose love is exposed to man’s response.

The father in the parable of the prodigal son is likewise presented as one who waits. The son is still far away when he sees him; the father is “filled with compassion”, runs to meet him and throws his arms around his neck (Lk 15:20). The shepherd seeks his lost sheep and rejoices when he finds it (Lk 15:6). Heaven rejoices when a sinner returns (Lk 15:7, 10). These are not merely moral illustrations intended to explain to us that God is merciful. These images reveal something of the heart with which God turns towards man. God seeks. God waits. God desires. God rejoices. God wants man.

5. “Where are you?”: the whole Bible as the story of a God who seeks

After the sin, God asks Adam: “Where are you?” (Gen 3:9). This question is one of the most astonishing in the whole of the Bible. God knows where Adam is. But he asks: “Where are you?” It is the question of the Lover to the beloved who has hidden himself. And the biblical story can then be reread as a long story of seeking. “Where are you?” Then: “I thirst.” Then the shepherd seeks the sheep. Then the father waits for his son. Then Christ knocks at the door: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock” (Rev 3:20). Finally, at the end of Scripture, the Bride responds: “The Spirit and the Bride say, Come!” (Rev 22:17). And the Bridegroom responds: “Yes, I am coming soon” (Rev 22:20). The movement begun in the garden of Genesis comes to an end in the wedding feast of the Apocalypse. The God who asked “Where are you?” finally receives the Bride’s answer: “Come.”

6. God’s treasure: our heart

It is here that the following statement takes on its full meaning: God’s precious treasure is our heart. Our heart is his garden. Our heart can become his paradise. Our heart can become the place of his delights. The Song of Songs speaks precisely of the garden of the Bridegroom and the Bride: “My sister, my bride, is a garden enclosed” (Song 4:12); “Let my beloved come into his garden” (Song 5:1). But this garden can truly become the place of encounter only if man gives himself there freely. God possesses everything as Creator. But he does not “possess” our heart in the sense that he wants to receive its love freely. He can create the heart. He can sustain it in existence. He can call it. He can knock at its door. But he does not force the door. “I stand at the door and knock” (Rev 3:20). The creature belongs to God through creation; but the personal love of the creature is not automatic. We decide to give ourselves to Him.

7. “To love is to give oneself”

The whole mystery can then be expressed in a very simple formula: To love is to give oneself. Not to love is to keep oneself for oneself. God gives himself. Man is called to respond to this gift by his own gift of self. Sin, therefore, is not merely an external transgression of a rule. In its depth, it can be understood as a refusal of self-gift: God gives himself and man keeps himself for himself. This is why reducing Christianity to the observance of the Ten Commandments is a profoundly inadequate reduction of the Gospel.

The Ten Commandments are obviously not anti-Christian. Jesus assumes them and fulfils them. But to make their observance the centre and ultimate measure of Christian life misses the heart of Christianity. The supreme commandment is not simply: “Do not transgress.” It is: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your mind” (Mt 22:37). Christian morality therefore finds its place within a much greater reality: the relationship of love with God.

8. A person can be irreproachable and not give himself

A person can be outwardly very correct, disciplined, even irreproachable, and yet not give himself. He can observe all the rules. He can carry out many religious practices. He can do many things “for God”. And yet keep his heart for himself. Conversely, a person can be extremely weak, fall seriously, carry a painful history and be deeply conscious of his misery, and yet love God, desire him, return to him, throw himself into his arms and want to give him his heart. This obviously does not mean that sin would be indifferent. It genuinely wounds the relationship. But the decisive question is not simply: “Have I fallen?” It is: “What am I doing now with my relationship with Him?” Am I hiding? Am I withdrawing into myself? Or am I returning to his heart?

9. The elder brother: the irreproachable man who does not know the Father’s heart

The parable of the prodigal son offers extraordinary light here. The elder brother did not leave the house. He did not squander his inheritance. He even says: “Look, all these years I have slaved for you and never once disobeyed your orders” (Lk 15:29). Outwardly, he is the correct son. But he reveals a relationship with his father dominated by the logic of performance and reward. He does not understand the father’s joy. He does not understand the father’s heart. He is in the house, but he has not yet discovered that the treasure is the father himself. The parable thus contrasts two ways of being before God: that of the lost child who returns to the father, and that of the apparently irreproachable child who does not yet understand his heart.

10. This is where Thérèse becomes revolutionary

It is precisely within this perspective that certain expressions of Thérèse of Lisieux take on their full power. Thérèse denies neither sin nor conversion. But she refuses to make the spiritual life a moral accounting. She seeks something else: the heart of Jesus.

She writes that, when reading the Gospel, she seeks, so to speak, to know the “character” of God. This expression is extremely revealing: she is not merely seeking to know abstract properties of God. She is seeking to know how God is with her, how he loves, how he acts, what touches his heart. A study on Thérèse’s prayer precisely highlights this link between her use of the Gospel and her search for the “character” of God. It is here that one of the most extraordinary expressions of her spirituality appears: “to take Jesus by the heart”. The formula is almost scandalous in relation to a juridical-moral conception of Christian life. It presupposes that the relationship with Jesus is not merely: “What must I do?” It is: “How can I touch his heart?” “How can I reach his heart?” “How can I respond to his love with my love?”Spirituality thus becomes a genuine science of the relationship with God.

11. “You will have the Good Lord you want”

The Theresian episode in which a nun refuses to take an interest in the way Thérèse understands the spiritual life, and Thérèse responds to her in substance: “You will have the Good Lord you want”, therefore takes on considerable importance. This saying should not be understood as though each person could manufacture God according to his or her imagination. It expresses something much more subtle: the disposition with which we present ourselves before God profoundly determines the way in which we can receive his love.

We do not create God. But we can close or open our heart to God. We can approach him through fear, calculation, suspicion and accounting. Or we can draw near to him with trust, love and abandonment. The God whom we encounter in our spiritual life is therefore also connected with the way in which we consent to receive him. This is why Thérèse can speak with such audacity. She knows the “character” of Jesus. She knows that his heart is merciful. She knows that the child who falls can run towards his Father rather than hide. She knows that love touches love.

12. “God is weak at calculation”

The same logic explains another astonishing expression of Thérèse: God is, so to speak, “weak at calculation”. The expression is profoundly Theresian because it destroys the representation of a God who would keep a cold account of merits and faults. God does not operate according to a simple quantitative proportion. Love does not calculate. Mercy cannot be confined within an accounting system. Thérèse discovers that God can be “overcome” by trust, touched by love, reached through littleness. She therefore does not deny the gravity of sin: she discovers something deeper still, the power of love over the heart of God.

13. The measure with which we measure

This connects with Christ’s words: “With the measure you use, the measure will be used for you” (Mt 7:2). This does not mean conceiving of God as mechanically applying some kind of moral scale to each person. Rather, it means recognising that our way of looking at God conditions our capacity to receive God. The person who approaches God as an accountant will approach his relationship with God under the sign of calculation. The person who discovers the merciful Father will be able to enter into a relationship of trust. The person who believes that God can be touched only by perfection will desperately seek to become irreproachable. The person who discovers that God wants his heart will be able, even in his weakness, to return to him. This is where the Little Way becomes a true spiritual revolution.

14. Holiness is not: “never falling”

Holiness is therefore not: “becoming someone who never falls”. It is: “becoming someone who gives himself entirely to God”. This does not mean that holiness can peacefully coexist with a refusal of the good or a deliberate attachment to sin. It means that Christian perfection is defined by love and self-gift, and not by the mere absence of faults. A person who loves can fall. But he does not want to remain far from the One he loves. He returns. He asks forgiveness. He throws himself into his arms. He begins again. He gives himself. Holiness is therefore less the construction of an impeccable human being than the transformation of a heart that learns to belong freely to God.

15. The Heart of Thérèse and the Heart of Jesus

Thérèse’s theology reaches here something profoundly nuptial. Jesus says: “I thirst.” Thérèse responds with her love. Jesus seeks his beloved. The beloved seeks the heart of the Lover. He says: “I thirst.” She learns to give him her heart. It is a true reciprocity of love. Thérèse understands that her heart can become, in a beautiful expression, a lyre in Jesus’ hands. A study by Father François-Marie Léthel emphasises precisely this theology of the heart and of “heart to heart” with Jesus in Thérèse.

The human heart thus becomes the very place where the mystery of the relationship is realised. God gives his heart. Man gives his heart. God gives himself. Man gives himself. The Lover seeks the beloved. The beloved seeks the Lover.

Theoretical consequences

The first consequence is that the theology of the spiritual life must be fundamentally relational. It is not enough to describe man as a moral subject who must perform good acts and avoid evil acts. He must be described as a person called to a communion of love with God.

The second consequence is that sin must be understood at several levels. It is an objective transgression of the moral law; it is disorder within the person; but it is also, in its spiritual depth, a refusal of self-gift to God.

The third consequence is that grace must not be thought of merely as an aid given to man so that he can fulfil his duties correctly. Grace is above all the gift of God himself, which makes man’s response to divine love possible.

The fourth consequence is that human freedom is not an obstacle to God’s omnipotence. It belongs to God’s very plan. God wants a response of love that is truly free.

The fifth consequence concerns the vulnerability of God. One must carefully distinguish the immutability and perfection of God in his being from the biblical reality of a God who, in the history of the covenant, allows himself to be affected by man’s response: his joy at repentance, his sorrow at infidelity, his waiting, his compassion, his “I thirst”. The appropriate category here is not that of an ontological deficiency, but that of the vulnerability of love.

The sixth consequence is that moral theology must be integrated into the theology of relationship. The commandments are indispensable, but they do not constitute the ultimate goal. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments” (Jn 14:15): obedience is the concrete fruit of love.

Finally, the seventh consequence is that holiness cannot be defined simply as moral perfection. It is configuration to Christ in love, that is, self-gift to the Father and to others, in Christ and through the Spirit.

Practical consequences for our spiritual life

The first question of our prayer should therefore often be not: “Am I doing enough?”, but: “Am I giving myself to God?”  We can do many things for God while keeping our heart for ourselves.

We must therefore learn to speak directly with Him. Not only to ask: “Lord, what must I do?” But also: “Lord, what touches your heart? How do you want me to love you? What do you expect from me today?”

We must learn to know his “character”. And for Thérèse, the privileged place for this knowledge is the Gospel. There she seeks Jesus himself, his gestures, his words, his reactions, his heart. Reading the Gospel thus becomes a school of personal knowledge of Christ.

We must also stop measuring our relationship with God solely on the basis of our falls. The question after a fall is not only: “How could I have done that?” It is: “Where will I go now?” Towards myself? Towards guilt? Towards flight? Or towards Him? This is where the expression “to take Jesus by the heart” becomes a genuine spiritual method. When I am weak, I need not necessarily turn away from God because of my weakness. I can precisely use my weakness to go towards Him with greater confidence.

Finally, we must learn to regard our heart as God’s garden. Our heart is not simply the place where we try to become morally better. It is the place of encounter. The place where the Bridegroom knocks. The place where he wants to enter. The place where he wants to dwell. The place where we can finally say to him: “I belong to my beloved, and my beloved belongs to me” (Song 6:3).

Conclusion — Christianity as a response to “I thirst”

The whole perspective can ultimately be summed up in a dialogue. At the beginning, God asks: “Where are you?” On the Cross, Christ says: “I thirst.” At the door of the heart, he says: “I stand at the door and knock.” And at the end of Scripture, the Bride responds: “Come!” Between these four words lies the whole history of salvation. God seeks man. Man hides. God continues to seek. Christ himself comes as the Bridegroom. He gives his life. He thirsts. He awaits a response. And finally, the human heart can respond. This is why the centre of Christian life is not simply man seeking to become irreproachable before God. It is the Lover who seeks his beloved and the beloved who learns to respond to the Lover. God does not merely want us to do good things. He wants us. He wants our heart. And we then discover the magnificent paradox of the Gospel: the One who possesses everything is the One who asks. The One who gives everything is the One who says: “I thirst.”

And the One who is almighty is the One who accepts to knock at the door. He does not force it. He waits. For he does not simply want a creature who belongs to him. He wants a person who gives himself to him. This is why holiness is ultimately not the art of never falling. It is the art of learning to love. The art of giving oneself. The art of knowing the heart of God. The art of taking God by the heart. And, when we have fallen, the art of knowing where to return: to the heart of the Lover who, from all eternity, has thirsted for us.