The wall

November 9, 1989. The Berlin Wall came down. It was a monumental day in the history of Germany, as well as for humanity. Hard to believe that was only 35 years ago. As I pondered the anniversary of that pivotal moment, it made me consider the walls I’ve built up to protect my own little kingdom. Whether they are physical boundaries of picket fences or barbed wire walls, or the imperceptible borders I set in my life and mind that only allow people to see whatever propaganda I want them to see, we are surrounded by walls of separation keeping some things in and others out.

I’m tempted here to talk about the heartbreaking tragedies that happen around our borders. I’d like to discuss Leviticus 19, where God says, “When a foreigner lives with you in your land, don’t take advantage of him. Treat the foreigner the same as a native. Love him like one of your own.” That seems like a pretty good place for us to start when we consider how to make America great. But, I’m going to save that for another day. Today, I want to look inward. I want to be real and honest and vulnerable. I have my own walls that need to come down. Next week I’ll turn 49, starting my 50th trip around the sun. I’d say that’s long enough to be imprisoned behind the walls I’ve built.

Sometimes when I feel too exposed emotionally, I deflect the attention away from myself by generalizing my feelings rather than acknowledging them honestly and admitting my own struggles. If I feel afraid, I make a joke so I don’t have to face my fears. When I feel rejected, I put up walls and withdraw in order to protect my fragile ego. God forbid I disrupt the false peace I’ve established in my mind and expose myself to anyone or anything might push me beyond my personal comfort. Meanwhile, I have family and friends standing outside my walls begging to get inside and know the real me, to hear my honest thoughts, to see my faults and watch me fall and get back up again. But it’s scary. What if they see how much of a mess I really am? Will they leave? If I remove the happy, plastic mask to expose my own brokenness, am I still enough to be loved?

I’m inviting myself to remove the mask. I’m giving myself permission to be seen, to be known, to be honest and vulnerable and……free. I have nothing to prove and no one to impress. There is nothing wrong with me that God doesn’t already know, and he chooses to love me anyway just how I am. Here is a poem I wrote a while back, and it carries particular significance for me in this season, as I consider who I am and how I want to live and how I want to show up both for myself and for those around me. If this is a struggle for you as well, I invite you also. I assure you, it is safe, and you are enough.

Welcome to the king's masquerade.
We all dance around pretending
with smiling, shiny masks that hide our pain.
"They won't love me if they see the dirt, 
the cracks in my skin, or the ugliness"
so, we all hide to protect ourselves, 
to protect each other from ourselves.
We've come to dine at the king's table 
without truly even knowing who sits right next to us.
We may at times catch a glimpse
of a tear in their eye,
but the smiling mask fools us to believe 
they must be tears of joy.
They are truly happy, while I alone hide my misery.
Everyone else's perfect mask reflects
who they really are.
Mine is just pretend.
Then the king steps forward, taking his place.
He looks at us with compassion, us in our silly masks
His eyes somehow gaze at each of us at the same time,
and he bids us to remove our plastic face.
"Never!", we all cry at once.
They could never accept my true self.
The king then rises from his high place,
and kneels at the feet of each of his guests.
Something in his eyes told me it was safe.
With slow uncertainty, we all took down our masks.
I looked to my side and saw it was my wife,
sitting next to me the whole time.
I couldn't see her clearly.
The mask had blurred my vision.
She looked at me, now unmasked, 
with the same loving gaze as the king.
"You're enough still," she said with a smile.
"You are enough."