Paul Walker, “Masks Won’t Work With God”

One of the traumas of the pandemic is mask wearing. I recognize that it is necessary and a form of protection for oneself and for others. And we may think that it is no big deal, having grown used to it by now.

     But think about it. If you had been asleep since March 2020 and just now walked out into the world, you would probably freak out. You would wonder what kind of dystopian universe you were in – with everyone’s face covered. The universal language of a smile – which travels across all cultures – has disappeared. The crinkle at the corner of the eyes is just not enough.

     Our English word mask derives from the 1530’s Middle French word “masque”, which was a covering designed to hide or guard the face. The French word was derived from the Italian word “maschera”, from which we get mascara, which many of you have on right now. Tellingly, that word was derived from the Medieval Latin word “masca”, which means specter or nightmare. Hence, we are back to our dystopian trauma.

     Let’s transition now from etymology lesson to preaching. The irony of wearing actual masks is that we all wear all kinds of masks without strapping on the swath of cloth over our mouths, chins, and noses. No one I know doesn’t present some kind of false self in certain situations. Or at least, doesn’t hide the actual self from others. Usually, some kind of shame is involved. We are ashamed for others to see us as we are.

     Social media is the obvious milieu of the curated self, but masks are everywhere. We seated at a table at a wedding reception recently next to a woman we did not know. You know how these things go: you make polite conversation and try to make connections. 

     About 15 minutes into our meal, she said, “I’m sorry. Weddings bring out all kinds of insecurities in me. That’s why I did all that name dropping earlier.” We said, “Wow! What a lovely person you are. Nobody ever says that!” She dropped the mask – at least one of her masks – and as a result we felt a bond with this person we had not known before the wedding.

     Dropping the mask is precisely what we all do, like it or not, when we walk into church. Sadly, we tend to keep them up with one another, but masks won’t work with God. This is the God, as we say in our service, “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid.” 

     That liturgical riff is indebted to today’s lesson from Hebrews. “The word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And before him no creature is hidden, but all are naked and laid bare to the eyes of the one to whom we must render an account.”

     All are naked and laid bare to the eyes of the one to whom we must render an account. When you have a bad dream, a nightmare, what happens in it? If masca means nightmare, then the ripping off of masks is just a journey from the frying pan to the fire. Many nightmares involve being exposed, helpless, defenseless, laid bare. Shrinks tell us that nightmare means we are afraid or ashamed that what we are hiding will be revealed.

     Truth has a way over rising to the top, even when we try to mask it.  The famous scene in  Macbeth is the classic example. Guilty about her regicide of King Duncan, Lady Macbeth sleepwalks. She obsessively washes her hands, trying to expiate the stain of murder. 

     “Yet, here’s a spot. Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” And yet, even in her dreaming state as she rubs her hands over and over and over again, she barters with herself. “What need we fear who knows it when none can call our power to account? Yet, who would thought the old man to have so much blood in him.”

     What need we fear who knows it when none can call our power to account? The Hebrews passage uses that very language, doesn’t it?  All are naked and laid bare to the eyes of the one to whom we must render an account. And though we may not have committed murder, there are still damned spots in our lives that we cannot rub out, or that “all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten.”

     And here is where our Hebrews reading becomes the tale of two cities. First the law (render an account), but then the gospel. First the accusation, and then the comfort. The author of Hebrews continues. He says we have a great high priest named Jesus, the Son of God, For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

     The gospel is the One to whom we must render an account has already paid our account in full. The gospel is the damned spots of blood on our guilty hands have already been washed clean by the blood of Christ. The gospel is the masks we wear to present ourselves as better than we are have been switched out for the righteousness of Christ in which we are eternally robed.  “You broke the bonds and You loosed the chains. You carried the cross of my shame.”  So, it’s no wonder we can approach the throne of grace with boldness!

     Theodore Parker Ferris was the rector of Trinity Church in Boston in the last century. One evening, Ferris was having dinner with a young man. They were talking about the young man’s father, who was known to be a stern man.  The son said that when he was in the Army he had made a terrible mistake, gotten into trouble, and was given a dishonor- able discharge. He knew that what he had done had disgraced his family, and he was sure his father would be outraged. 

     He also felt that he had to tell his father what had happened. “So I did,” the son said. “I wired him and told him what happened. He sent a telegram back. The telegram has three sentences in it.”  I will stand by you no matter what happens. I will be there in the morning.
Remember whose you are.”

     Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace in the time of need.

     Amen.