Formed by Desire: What Is a Composite Model?

It’s been a while since I’ve posted here—not for lack of interest, but because I’ve been seeking the right voice. One that’s faithful to the work I’ve been doing, and equally faithful to the spirit of the Cornerstone Forum.

The Forum has long been a home for deeper reflection on faith, culture, and the mystery of the human person—shaped by René Girard’s insights and carried forward by Gil Bailie’s careful, prayerful vision.

In that spirit, I want to begin a regular series of short reflections centered around a framework I’ve been working on for some time now—something I call the composite model.

I began thinking about this years ago, but recently I’ve felt more drawn to speak about it, and to work out what it really means. It grew out of my engagement with René Girard’s idea of mimetic desire, but it’s also deeply personal—and, I hope, personally useful.

My goal isn’t to teach theory for its own sake, but to offer small day-hikes into this growing idea. These forays into the world of composite models are meant to help us see things differently—with more clarity, more mercy, and, I hope, more charity.

So what is a composite model? At its simplest, it’s the idea that we are formed—shaped—by the people we’ve loved, admired, feared, imitated, and even resented. Not just externally, in our habits or mannerisms, but internally, at the level of desire. These influential figures become part of us. Their judgments, their longings, their rivalries can echo in our own thoughts without our even realizing it.

A composite model is the layered internal structure of those echoes. It’s not a single voice or figure, but a woven fabric of models—some stable, some contradictory—who have helped shape how we see the world, and what we think we need to be whole.

In Girardian terms, a model is someone we imitate—not just in behavior, but in desire. We don’t come up with our desires from within; we catch them from others. A model is the person who shows us what is worth wanting. Sometimes that’s conscious and direct—like a child copying a parent. Other times, it’s subtle and hidden, like envying a colleague without admitting it.

What I call a composite model grows out of this basic insight. Because we don’t just imitate one person. Over time, we take in many models—parents, friends, enemies, saints, celebrities, fictional characters, even cultural ideals. Some of these models work together. Others clash. But together, they form an interior structure through which we come to desire, judge, react, and relate. That structure is what I’m calling the composite model.

Most of us don’t walk around thinking about “models of desire.” But we’ve all had moments when we caught ourselves sounding like one of our parents—or making a decision we couldn’t quite explain, except that someone we admired would have done the same. We’ve all felt the tug of competing voices within us: one urging ambition, another whispering humility; one driven by fear, another by faith.

These aren’t just abstract impulses. They’re the residue of real people—real relationships—who’ve shaped how we move through the world. Over time, those influences don’t just stay in memory; they take up residence. They form a kind of interior chorus, sometimes harmonious, sometimes discordant.

That chorus is the composite model. And unless we become aware of it—unless we begin to name and examine those voices—we risk being moved by desires that aren’t really ours, and reacting to conflicts that began long before the moment we’re in.

That’s where the idea of a composite model becomes useful. It gives us a way of understanding why we sometimes feel so conflicted, even when we’re trying to do the right thing. It helps explain why one moment we feel pulled toward generosity, and the next toward self-protection; why we might chase approval from someone we don’t even respect. These aren’t just random mood swings or personal inconsistencies. They’re the signs of mimetic interference—of different models within us pulling in different directions.

In the weeks ahead, I hope to share a series of short reflections—little day-hikes—into different corners of this idea. Some will take shape around saints or stories from Scripture, others around cultural moments or interior experiences that reveal something about how desire works—not just in the moment, but in our memories and our history. My aim isn’t to offer answers so much as perspective: a clearer view of how we’re formed, and how we might be re-formed by grace, through the model of Christ.