The True Model Revealed: Christ as the Anti-Rivalrous Model

Every desire has a model. This is the fundamental insight of Rene Girard with his mimetic theory: that we do not generate our desires ex nihilo, but receive them, almost imperceptibly, from others. These others function as models for what is desirable. What often appears to be self-generated desire is actually the result of a remembered composition of models—a composite model—formed through layers of imitation. This composite model can appear as original or even anti-imitative, but it is in fact a mimetic synthesis, often enhanced, distorted, or combined from past influences. And in a world full of broken, rivalrous relationships, our models often become obstacles, competitors, even enemies.

We imitate others, not only in their desires, but also in their rivalries. This is the contagious dynamic at the heart of so much personal conflict, social breakdown, and cultural decay. Gil Bailie, drawing on the Gospel of Luke, speaks of the “constituting other” — the one who shapes us profoundly, even when that shaping comes through hatred or scandal. A rival, or even a despised figure, can become a fixation and thus a model. These distorted models often become embedded in our composite model, driving our desires while disguising their origin.

But there is another kind of model: one whose presence does not provoke rivalry, but peace. One who does not compete, but gives. One who does not demand recognition, but offers love.

That model is Christ.

The Anti-Rivalrous Model

Christ does not incite us to desire what He desires in order to compete with us. He invites us to share in His desire without fear. His life reveals a form of imitation that does not lead to conflict but to communion. Unlike all other models, He cannot be scandalized. He does not defend His status, His power, or His being. He empties Himself. He becomes poor, weak, despised.

Yet we must acknowledge a danger: it is possible to enter into rivalry not with Christ Himself, but with our idea of Him. A mental construct of Jesus, distorted by fear, pride, or projection, can become a rivalrous figure, a measuring stick or accusation. This opens a rhetorical problem: if we claim Christ is non-rivalrous by definition, yet someone experiences Him as rival, do we say they are simply mistaken? That they have not encountered the real Christ? Such a claim risks becoming unfalsifiable. This is how we end up in ‘my Jesus can beat up your Jesus’ arguments—where different projections of Christ clash, each hardened by the belief that it alone is correct. And yet truth is not merely a matter of perception.

But the Gospels themselves give us a pattern: again and again, Jesus is misunderstood, misrepresented, even hated. The fault is not in Christ’s being, but in the models through which He is perceived. Recognizing this can help us approach Him anew—not as an idea to master, but as a presence to imitate in trust.

And He does this not in resignation, but in revelation. He reveals a mode of being that is utterly non-rivalrous. He shows what it means to be fully human without being trapped in the mimetic tug-of-war that defines so much of our existence. He is the model whose imitation does not produce more envy, but more peace.

The Crisis of False Models

Our world is saturated with models: influencers, celebrities, ideologies, and even institutions that invite our attention, loyalty, and imitation. Many of these appear attractive. But beneath their appeal is a subtle form of rivalry: “Be like me” often means, “Be less like yourself.”

False models offer desires that cannot be shared without conflict. They stir up longing but provide no fulfillment. Their imitation leads to comparison, resentment, and often despair. Even well-meaning models become stumbling blocks when they respond to imitation with rivalry.

This is why the revelation of the true model matters so deeply. It is not just a theological point. It is an existential one.

Revealed on the Cross

Christ’s identity as the true model is most clearly revealed on the Cross. Here, in the moment of utter rejection, He does not retaliate. He does not mirror the violence of those who accuse, betray, and kill Him. He absorbs their hatred without returning it. He becomes the victim, but not the rival.

In doing so, He stands in stark contrast to the false, scandalous, or even diabolic — models that unite a crowd by directing collective hostility toward a victim. These are the models who stir up crowd violence, who incite the growing mob to find and expel the scapegoat “for the good of all.” They point, they accuse, and they justify exclusion with logic like that of Caiaphas: “It is better that one man should die than that a whole nation perish.”

(For a deeper reflection on the difference between blood sacrifice and self-sacrifice—especially in light of modern psychology and the scapegoating mechanism—see my earlier post, “The Lie and the Scapegoat.”)

But Christ offers another model entirely. He is the most complete model of self-sacrifice—not because He is a passive victim, but because He chooses love even in the face of betrayal, abandonment, and death. This is what love means: not mere sentiment or affirmation, but the willing gift of self for the sake of others. In a time when “love” is often reduced to preference or vague goodwill, the Cross reclaims its true meaning: self-sacrifice rooted in divine communion.

In doing so, He reveals the falsehood of the scapegoating mechanism and the futility of mimetic violence. He shows us a new way: to imitate not in rivalry, but in love. The Cross becomes not only the site of salvation but the blueprint for a new anthropology.

Becoming Imitators Without Rivalry

To follow Christ is to enter into a form of imitation that heals rather than harms. This requires a new orientation: away from the models who incite rivalry and toward the model who invites communion. It means reshaping our desires, not by suppressing them, but by letting them be formed in the presence of one who cannot be made our rival.

Christ does not ask us to destroy our mimetic nature. He invites us to redeem it. To become, as Paul says, imitators of Christ (1 Cor 11:1). This is the paradox: in truly imitating Christ, we become more ourselves. We become, in time, anti-rivalrous models for others.

This is the path of sanctity. It is also the only path to peace.

Next: If Christ reorients our desires, then the inner structure of the self must be reformed as well. What would it mean to have a self shaped by love, not lack?