The Masks We Wear

“I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.”
Charles Dickens

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
Kurt Vonnegut

“God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.”
William Shakespeare

“The greatest hazard of all, losing the self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all.”
Søren Kierkegaard

“We are the hollow men. We are the stuffed men. Leaning together, headpiece filled with straw.”
T. S. Eliot

“To be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son—it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But so it is.”
C. S. Lewis

We have learned the art of self-construction. Of becoming something visible, something noteworthy, something palatable. We shape and refine, offering the world a version of ourselves that is carefully edited and perfectly contained. We do not call it hiding—we call it curation. But it is hiding and deep down, we know it. It started in the garden and the first instinct of fallen humanity was to cover—fig leaves hastily sewn together, feet retreating into the shadows, hoping that what had been done might be concealed (Genesis 3:7-8). But fig leaves cannot undo exposure, and shadows do not make us invisible. God called out to Adam, not in ignorance of his location but in invitation to honesty: Where are you? (Genesis 3:9). The question was never about geography. It was about distance. About separation. About the growing chasm between who Adam was and who he was now pretending to be. And we have not stopped pretending since. The impulse remains. We cover, we curate, we project an image. Not with leaves, but with perception. With approval. With applause. We crave the assurance that we are seen, but we want to dictate how we are seen. We want recognition without risk, affirmation without exposure. And so we sculpt ourselves into something worthy of being admired. It feels safe. It feels rewarding. But it is a slow erasure. Because the longer we sustain the image, the less we remember what it feels like to be real. The longer we hide, the less we remember what it means to be fully known.

The Seduction of Applause
“Look at me, I did a good thing!” Being seen is the quiet plea of every human heart. We want recognition, a nod of approval that affirms our worth, our success, or our goodness. We are not content with merely existing. We want to be acknowledged. Applauded. Seen as significant. It is a desire as ancient as Cain, standing over his rejected sacrifice, his heart darkening with resentment (Genesis 4:5- 7). He wanted validation. He wanted to be enough. And when his offering did not receive the approval he craved, he took matters into his own hands, silencing the one whose righteousness outshined his own. We are not so different. We may not strike with a blade, but we carve out versions of ourselves, slicing away the parts we fear will not be accepted. We trade truth for perception, preferring to be seen as good rather than be good. We want the outward recognition of righteousness, of success, of value— but we do not want the exposure that comes with true vulnerability. And so we tailor the narrative. The story we tell about ourselves becomes a performance, the audience our measuring stick. And the more we perform, the more we become prisoners to the stage. Because when our identity is built on applause, we are only as secure as the volume of approval. When we live for validation, we become addicted to its presence and undone by its absence, but the applause always fades and the recognition never lasts. The performance demands more and more, and yet it will never be enough to fill the gnawing void left by a life lived for an audience that is never satisfied. Jesus warned of this trap. “Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them” (Matthew 6:1, ESV). It is not the acts of righteousness that are wrong—it is the motive. The hunger to be seen, the craving for affirmation, the restless pursuit of significance in the eyes of others. It is a subtle form of idolatry, the shifting of our sense of self from the unshakable foundation of God’s truth to the fickle tide of public opinion. And when we live this way—when we let the opinions of others dictate our worth—we do not just lose authenticity. We lose ourselves every time we chase after the approval of others rather than resting in the approval of God. It is the sacrifice of integrity on the altar of public opinion.

Social Media: Our New Fig Leaves
The digital age has not created this problem. It has merely amplified it. Social media offers the perfect hiding place, a garden of new fig leaves where we can shape perception with precision. We control what is seen and what is concealed. We crop and filter and edit, showcasing a version of life that is polished and perfected. We curate righteousness in a way that looks effortless, success in a way that appears natural. And we convince ourselves that it is harmless. But what happens when the notifications slow? When the algorithm moves on? When the applause dwindles, and all that is left is the unfiltered reality of who we are? The tragedy is that for many, the person behind the mask has been neglected for so long that they are unrecognizable—even to themselves. It is not merely the deception of others that is at stake. It is the erosion of identity. We tell ourselves we are in control. But we are not. The performance owns us. The curated image dictates our choices, our priorities, our affections. We do not live honestly because honesty is costly. Vulnerability is dangerous. And so we play the game, knowing that it is hollow, knowing that it will not satisfy, but too afraid to step away. But Jesus was never interested in the performance. He never applauded the curated righteousness of the Pharisees, the ones who lived for external approval while their hearts rotted inside (Matthew 23:27). He did not commend the carefully crafted self-image. He called for something deeper. Something real.

The Courage to Remove the Mask
The world thrives on comparison, and we fear falling behind. So, like Adam and Eve, we hide —polishing, posturing, covering ourselves with carefully arranged fig leaves of competence and composure. But the tragedy is this: the very act of hiding, meant to protect us, is what leaves us hollow. We fear vulnerability, yet in avoiding it, we cut ourselves off from the connection we were made for. We tell ourselves that if people really knew us, they would turn away. That if the cracks showed, love would not remain. But this is where the Gospel speaks with unshakable clarity: “But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8, ESV). He does not love the polished version, the curated persona. He sees through it all—the contradictions, the failures, the sins we cannot shake—and He loves us still. But to live in that love, to fully embrace it, we must step into vulnerability. We must allow ourselves to be seen, truly seen, and that requires the kind of courage that faith demands. And yet, we resist. We prefer the safety of the mask, the illusion of control. If we can manage perception, we believe we can avoid rejection. But the mask does not protect us—it only isolates. To remove it is to risk misunderstanding, to invite scrutiny, to step into the discomfort of being known. It costs something. But comfort has never been the calling. Truth is. The truth about ourselves, about our sin, about our desperate need for grace. And true courage is not found in preserving the façade—it is found in the willingness to be real, even when it costs us. “But even if you should suffer for righteousness’ sake, you will be blessed. Have no fear of them, nor be troubled, but in your hearts honor Christ the Lord as holy” (1 Peter 3:14-15, ESV). This is not an easy way. It is not a comfortable one. But it is the only way that leads to the deep, unshakable freedom that Christ offers.

Living Unmasked in Community
The Church was never meant to be a theater. And yet, in many places, that is exactly what it has become. A gathering where we do not come to be known, but to be seen. We know the right words, the right posture, the right way to look put together—because church, for too many, is just another stage. Another place to curate an image. It is far easier to maintain the façade, to keep relationships shallow enough that no one gets close enough to see the cracks. But what kind of life is that? What kind of faith is that? The early Church did not function this way. They did not meet to perform, they met to share— everything. Not just their possessions, but their lives (Acts 2:44). There was no illusion of perfection, no careful concealment of struggle. They did not gather to uphold an image but to be refined by truth, sharpened by one another (Proverbs 27:17). This is what real community requires: not applause, but accountability. Not curated masks, but the raw honesty of lives laid bare before God and each other.

Dear reader, we were never meant to walk alone, but we cannot be truly loved if we are never truly known. And we will not be known if we refuse to remove the mask. Paul said it plainly: “But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us” (2 Corinthians 4:7, ESV). The vessel is fragile. Weak. Unimpressive. But that is the point. Because when we stop striving to appear whole, God’s power is made visible through our brokenness. So enough with the pretending. Enough with the fear of exposure, enough with the carefully managed image. The Church is not a place for performance. It is a place for truth. For grace. For a people who are done with the exhausting work of hiding and ready to live in the freedom of being fully known. It is time to put the mask down. Let the world’s applause fade. Because in the silence, you just might hear something far more valuable—the voice of the One who sees you completely and loves you without condition. And that is the only voice that ever mattered. So, why are you still hiding?