My greatest war is the war against my own heart. I don’t lie because I want to; I lie because I’m not accustomed to spaces I can’t trust. I don’t cheat because I dislike my current state; I cheat because I dislike myself. I don’t steal because I need something; I steal because I don’t know what I have. I don’t kill because I hate them; I kill because I hate me. I like to be polished on the outside and lend no hint of needing help. On the rare occasions of one too many Merlots, or a trustworthy late-night chat, you might barrow my flimsy walls. And once there, you inevitably find needs, pleas, and most notably, me. Rarely will I let one in by choice though. “It feels too weak, or isn’t worthy of your time. When you ask if you can pray for me, I’ll go on to convince you to focus elsewhere…God has to handle everyone else’s problems, right? (Plus inner dialogue of, “What would they think if they actually knew what I was thinking)?” In short, in my weakest states, I hide. I hide my thirsts, inabilities and insecurities, thereby protecting myself from ever being truly seen, heard, or known.

Masks mask us and that can be good. But, masks hide us and that can be bad, preventing that we never actually see ourselves. We never actually see what’s true. We never see the Truth. Masks keep us convinced that who were are is too much, or not enough. And that God’s pursuits of restoration, then, are insufficient. Masks convince us that we’re only safe behind the lie. Such “fig leaves” may change throughout the ages, but we all wear masks—and a multitude of them, at that. Some contemporary menu options are busyness, isolation, noise, notoriety, porn, perfectionism, asceticism, athleticism, sarcasm, self-comfort, self-help, self-loathing, self-help, false securities, false stories, false idols, fake identities, fake interests, fake lovers, fake boobs, fantasy anything, web surfing, “soul searching,” stock markets, subcultures, culture, cults, religion, reason, intellect and the list goes on. Some look stronger, or sexier, or more significant than others, but at the end of the day, they’re all still forms of fig leaves. And no matter how spiritual or self-helped I get, some form of hiding will always be at my bay. Masks will eventually start illegitimately sleeping with my longings, and stuff will get ugly, and destructive. It’s suppressions breed secrets; secrets breed shame; shame breeds silence; silence breeds silenced hopes; silenced hopes breed sequential let-downs; sequential let-down breeds exponential shame, and the cycle goes on.

That’s the paralyzing news. The freedom is that God knew of man’s Fall, before we fell. He knew all brands of our “fig leaves,” and how they’d fit on every human wardrobe, dressing nakedness and covering what we considered “too much,” or “not enough,” of ourselves. And He made a way out. The question is, can we trust that He’ll still be with us when we choose to lay down our masks?