Mask
Lift not the festal mask! — enough to know,
No scene of mortal life but teems with mortal woe.
Sir Walter Scott, Lord of the Isles.
One of Nathaniel Hawthorne's most thought-provoking stories is "The Minister's Black Veil," and one of his most enigmatic characters is the man who wore it. He was a young minister in a small parish who astonished his congregation one Sunday morning by appearing with a black crepe veil over his face. He kept it on while he read the Scriptures and while he prayed and they went from astonishment to a vague uneasiness. But when he kept it on through his sermon on secret sin, they went into a mild state of shock. The real shock came later, though, as the days went on and then the weeks and he did not take the veil off. The townspeople speculated, some in awe, some in fear — what dreadful secret lay behind that black crepe veil?
Well, the years went on and he never did remove it. And the story concerns the effect that veil had both on his life and the lives round him. It completely isolated him from his fellow men. At the end Hawthorne said: "All through life that piece of crepe had hung between him and the world; it had separated him from cheerful brotherhood and woman's love, and kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own heart."
But the real shocker comes when on his deathbed he cries out to the spectators gathered around: "Why do you tremble at me? It is not my black veil that has kept people from me — it is what it
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stands for. For no one shows his inmost heart — to his friend or to his lover — we even vainly try to shrink from God. I look around me and lo — on EVERY face — a black veil!"
Well!
The tale leaves one with the eerie feeling that everybody who crosses one's path — and indeed, one's closest friends and even loved ones — are wearing "black veils," or masks, and one can never really get to know anybody. "We pass [other human beings] like ships in the night" and "each of us is an isle of loneliness" are desolate thoughts indeed. But in the last cold analysis, they are true.
Edna St. Vincent Millay's "we sit in each other's souls" is a beautiful concept of friendship, but the truth of the matter is that the most we can ever do is sit in the vestibules. Even those of us who are most communicative and uninhibited in airing our secret thoughts to those nearest us, can never really do a thorough job, for there are too many doors that lead to dark unexplored corridors and the doors are locked and we ourselves do not know what is behind them.
I had a friend once who used to lament periodically, "I have quite given up hope that anybody will ever understand me!" She was remarkably intelligent in every other way, so her naivete in this area was surprising. For naturally nobody really understood her and nobody ever would.
Sometimes there are doors we are afraid to open.
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Another friend once asked me to find out the whole truth about a problem she was enmeshed in, for I had access to facts that she did not. I was foolish enough to tell her part of the truth, but she could not believe even that and I thereby lost a friend. I did not realize that she could not face opening that door, but I could never hold it against her, for there are doors in my life I've been afraid to open, too.
Masks can hide so many things that it would be impossible to tackle the subject in one chapter, or even in one book. But they fall into two general categories. The sorrows and wounds that are tangible — we can describe them. We know when they happened and how. And the intangibles — the vast and deep morass in each of us that can never in this life be dredged. I shall never try in this chapter, nor indeed would I ever try, to discourse at any length upon this second category. In the first place I would be beyond my depth. In the second place I have no intention of peeking behind masks and dissecting my friends and loved ones, and even less intention of peeking behind my own to dissect myself.
It is enough for us to understand that everybody lives behind one — the people who are hard to get to know, the ones who are difficult to get along with, the ones we envy because they seem to have been blessed with all material blessings and a problem-free life — and even the artless carefree
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ones who are always gay, always good for a laugh.
For the story in this chapter, I have chosen a radio script about two women. One had a serious problem, and she had wandered in the Door of Hope Mission for wayward girls, in New York City. When she found she was to be interviewed by, of all people, Mrs. Whittemore herself, she cried out to the attendant — well she cried out many things, but the essence of them was: "How can she understand?"
Indeed it did seem unlikely. Mrs. Whittemore was a wealthy society woman who might have founded the Door of Hope Mission as a hobby and taken a dilettante interest in such things just to show what a good fellow she was. But as the story unfolds, Mrs. Whittemore's mask is tilted a bit, and we find she is quite human after all. I chose this story because one of our greatest failings in this direction is to look at other persons who were born in the proper families, made the proper marriages, bore the proper children and lived happily ever after — and think in our hearts: "How could they understand sorrow? And we quite forget that they are wearing masks too.
You will meet Frankie in this story too — and at the risk of being discursive I want to explain something about him, because he seems too good to be true. He was true, nonetheless; I have not doctored him up to prove a point. In all the conversation between Frankie and his mother, includ-
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ing the tender name he dubbed her, I have lifted their words verbatim out of biography. There was no poetic license need for dramatic effect; indeed, in all my life I could never dream up words as beautiful as Frankie's, nor would I dare attempt to put such insight into the heart of a child if it were fiction. It would be a travesty on realism — too much to expect anyone to swallow.
So true it is, the whole of it, except for Jeannie and the matron at the Door of Hope, who are products of my imagination. But I suspect there were hundreds of Jeannies who passed through the portals of the Door of Hope.
* * * * *
LITTLE MATE
There's a certain pseudo glamour about being in the public eye — even in Christian service. There shouldn't be, of course, but there sometimes is.... It struck me all over again, that morning, while I was helping Jeannie on with clean clothes. Jeannie was a new girl, just come to us at the Door of Hope Mission, and she was a little bit resentful. I was used to that, tho'. I'd been a matron there for years. And I'd seen them come and
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go. They were often resentful when they came. Or seemed to be. They were really scared.
"I'm afraid of her," she said. "What's she like?"
"Who? Mother Whittemore?" I said. "Well she's certainly no one to be afraid of! Here's your watch. She's a great Christian."
She took the watch. "It ought to be easy for a woman like that to be a great Christian."
"Well." I cleared my throat and took my time. I knew what I was going to say. And I took my time getting around to it. "She's a friend — and adviser — to hundreds of girls who pass through these doors. I suppose it's hard to conceive that she has a private life."
"Private life? Huh! She's got some private life! She's got everything. Riches, position, beautiful home, a husband who loves her. Why couldn't a woman with such a life be a great Christian?"
"It would seem easy, wouldn't it?" I said reasonably. "One long procession of trips and lectures and noble deeds. Surely that's a life to envy. But there's another side to Mother Whittemore. First, she had to get down on her knees and ask the Lord to save her, same as you or I."
"Yeah?"
"And second — she's every inch a wife — and mother — and woman."
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"She's got kids, huh?" Ah. I had her.
"Oh yes." I said. "Several children. Wonderful family and a story could be told about each one — but I was thinking of Frankie."
"Frankie?"
"Your watch reminded me of him. The story of Frankie just gets all mixed up in your thinking with a watch, somehow. Want to hear it?"
"What've I got to lose?" she shrugged.
Well she was a captive audience. And I had nothing to lose either. "That's right. We've got a good thirty minutes to wait. Might as well have some coffee. Want some?"
I didn't wait for her answer. I poured it from the pot on the sideboard and sat down and made myself comfortable, as if there was nothing else to do anyhow — we might as well talk. She pulled her clean wrapper around her and sat down. She was heavy and miserable with unwanted pregnancy, but a little less on guard.
"There we are," I said, as if we had been doing this for years. And I cleared my throat and began.
"Before I was a matron here, I worked in the Whittemore home. And Frankie — well, there was just something special about Frankie. He was so friendly and full of love and laughter — he had friends from the most important dignitaries in his mother and father's circles — down to us in the servants' quarters. We called
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him 'Little Mate.' His real name was Frankie Whittemore, but we seldom thought of it, for his grandpa had called him 'Little Mate' and he'd called his grandpa 'Captain.' Before his grandpa died, they'd gone off on many an adventure together — and afterward, the name had always stuck. He was a funny little fellow, Frankie... used to come around to the kitchen often....
'Hi! Good morning!' he'd say.
'Good morning,' I'd say.
'May I come in?'
'Noooo. You certainly can't. I just scrubbed the floor and it isn't dry yet.'
'Oh. How long do I have to wait?'
'What do you want?'
'You know — a cookie.'
'I thought so! You have to wait till it's dry — that's how long you have to wait.'
'Oh.'
'Why don't you go play and come back later?'
'Say, I've got a death-defying idea.'
'What's that?'
'If I could put the ladder from the counter to the sink, and crawl in through the window, and jump from the window to the ladder, to the sink to the cupboard, I wouldn't have to wait till the floor gets dry.'
'Go 'way with you! You'll do no such thing.
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Find something to do. Go play with your ball.'
'I can't. It's up on the roof.'
'How'd it get up there?'
'I threw it up after my hat to get my hat down.'
'How'd that get — never mind — don't tell me. I can guess.'
"He'd laughed. 'That's right. I threw that up too. I didn't think it would really land. When I get that cookie, may I have two? One for Tommy? He never gets cookies.'
'Goodness yes. You're always thinking of somebody else. Now go way with you or I'll sweep you right off the porch!'
'You wouldn't dare! I'm your friend!'
"That's the way it usually went — Frankie was always thinking of someone else. And into everything! When he wasn't helping some other kid out of a jam he was jumping off docks and nearly drowning. And when he wasn't busy drowning he was sliding off roofs and nearly breaking his neck. But about the watch. I guess wanting a watch was in his mind a long time before he actually got it. He probably told his mother about it — he told her everything. They were very close. And they had the most grown-up conversations.
'Mother — '
'Hello, darling — '
'Mrs. Whittemore, I believe?'
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'Yes, I am Mrs. Whittemore.'
'Are you the Mrs. Whittemore?'
'The very same. And who might you be, young man?'
'Well, I'm Frankie Whittemore, your son. Better known as Little Mate. Remember me?"
'Why of course. Now I recognize you. How do you do.'
"And they would talk, or fall silent, as the mood struck them. Sometimes they would go into gales of laughter. And sometimes they'd be very serious. Frankie had a quick and sensitive mind. And she would steer his thoughts and then listen while he explored them. She was good at listening. But one day they got into a conversation that — well neither of them knew at the time how significant it was. It was about the watch. It began in the usual way.
'How do you do,' he said. And then, 'Move over.'
'Funny face. What do you want?'
'Want? Nothing! Just to be with you, Pet.'
"And then he sighed and leaned against her. "I'm tired,' he said.
'You? Tired?'
'My bones ache.'
'Your bones? We'll have to have the doctor look at you.' And, after a pause. 'Love mamma, darling?'
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'Love you? Hm! Well I guess! Do you know what I'd like to have — if I could have anything I wanted?'
'What?'
'A watch.'
'You're too young for a watch.'
'I know. But I'd like to have one, all the same. I'd wind it and know what time it was.'
'What do you care about time?'
'Whether time is long or short — you know. Anyhow I'd like to have a watch.'
"It was strange that he'd be so crazy for a watch — and think so much about time,' cause time figured so importantly in his life, it turned out.
"It wasn't long after that, that aching bones and tired spells added up to a real serious thing, and we realized how sick he was. From then on, Mother Whittemore's private heartbreak got pretty mixed up with her public self....
"It started with a routine checkup and then more doctors and then they ordered Frankie to bed. We were upset but we still didn't realize, or we didn't want to. I guess we didn't want to.
"The day the blow fell, I'll never forget. She was in the upstairs hall talking with the doctor and I was putting away linen and heard it all.
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'Mrs. Whittemore —' the doctor said.
'Yes, Doctor?'
'Your son's condition is far more serious than we thought at first. Now with great care, we can —'
'What are you trying to tell me, Doctor? That my son is going to be ill all his life?'
"He paused a moment. 'That your son isn't going to live, Mrs. Whittemore.'
'Oh! I couldn't see her face. But I could hear it all in her voice. Anguish. And a desperate hope. 'How long, doctor?'
'A few weeks — months, perhaps.'
"I dropped some towels and scurried to pick them up and waited for her to answer. It turned out she didn't have to. Somebody called up from downstairs.
'Mrs. Whittemore — the committee's downstairs in the drawing-room — about the extension on the Door of Hope.'
'Yes,' she called back. 'I'll be down in a few moments. Tell them — ask them to wait. I'm going in to see Frankie.' She left us there and went into his room.
'Hi, Little Mate,' she said.
'Hi, Pet.'
'My what a lot of pillows. You're sure propped up.'
'Um hm. Aye aye, Pet. Can breathe better this way.'
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'Little Mate —'
'Aye, aye, Pet. What?'
'Nothing.'
'Would you please hand me that vase?'
'Um hm. What's that?'
'I've been saving. A dollar and seventy cents.'
'My, that's a fortune.'
'Is that enough — to send a boy to camp?'
'Oh my darling,' she said. Then quickly, 'Look — we'll — papa and I will send a boy to camp. Why don't you put that toward a watch?'
'A watch? Ohhh.' He struggled with the decision. 'But I was going to send a boy to camp. I shouldn't change my mind.'
'You send a boy to camp with your money, then. And papa and I will buy you a watch — just for fun. I'll buy you one next time I go shopping.'
'Oh boy! A watch! I wanted a watch more than anything!"
"And so it was decided...
"My, the day that watch was bought! It was the most important day in Frankie's life. He waited with his nurse, his little face feverish, his eyes bright.
'Nurse — '
'Yes, dear?'
'How long has she been gone?'
'Most two hours now. You must be patient.'
'What time is it?'
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'Four o'clock.'
'I wish I'd asked her to buy a chain too. It would be so nice to have a watch with a chain — he raised himself beyond his strength. 'I hear someone coming up the stairs! Maybe it's — Ohhhhhhhhh.'
"She came in then, triumphant.
'Hello, Little Mate!'
'Aye, aye, Pet!'
'Here!' She sat on the edge of his bed and opened the package. 'Here it is. There.'
'Ohhhhh. And a chain! A watch and a chain! Isn't it a beauty!'
'It's all wound and set.'
'Same as yours?'
'Same as mine.'
'It's a beauty.' He fondled it lovingly.
'Love me, darling?' She said it playfully. It was a part of a routine.
'Love you? Hm! Well I guess!'
"The days went by quickly, too quickly. And they were all mixed up with time.
'You've been with me all day, Pet.'
'I love being with you.'
'Don't forget to wind my watch.'
'I won't.'
'Same as yours?'
'Same as mine.'
'Then I'll know what time it is when I wake up in the night.'
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"Time. Emma Whittemore carried on her work at the Door of Hope Mission by remote control and spent day and night with her son. And that little watch ticked away precious time, numbering the hours of Frankie's life. Not a minute could be wasted — not a minute wasted to prepare that little mate to meet his 'captain' grandpa — and the Captain of his salvation — the Lord Jesus Christ.
"There were drives in the country, Frankie propped up on pillows, leaning on her shoulder — and hours poring over books and playing simple games — and hours over God's Word. During those days there were two Emma Whittemores. One, the capable superintendent of the Girls' Home, solver of other peoples' problems. The other, Emma Whittemore, all mother — all woman. And on that last day —
"It happened while she was giving her secretary the routine orders.
"Tell the committee to report to me on Monday. You'd better drop a note to the folks in Boston — tell them I won't be there. Postpone it indefinitely. And while you're at it —'
'Mrs. Whittemore —' a nurse called from upstairs.
'Yes?'
'You'd better come. It's Frankie.'
"She flew up the stairs. But when she went into his room she was quiet and serene.
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'Hi, Little Mate.'
'Hi, Pet.'
'Oh, my darling. Can I change your position?'
'No. I feel good now. Pain is gone. I — just had some things to tell you.'
'Uh huh.'
'Louie can have all of my presents. Give baby some of my toys.'
'Yes —'
'Give Hennie my knife. Emma my seal ring. Minnie my pocketbook.'
'Why, Little Mate —'
'Mama' — his eyes demanded the truth. 'I'm going to die, aren't I?'
"She struggled with her voice. 'Would — would you be afraid to go with Jesus?'
'No, mamma.'
"Then — yes. You are going, darling. With Jesus.'
"He looked at her. And the wisdom of the ages was in his eyes. 'Was that hard for you to say?'
'Very hard.'
'Don't cry, Pet. Ask me if I love you.'
'Do you love me?'
'Love you? Hm! Well, I guess. Give Papa all my money. He's so good. There's most four dollars saved. And I want you to have my watch. Only sell it and give the money to the Door of Hope.'
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"It was too much. She looked at him, wordless, her throat aching, her eyes stark and naked. At the end, she was the helpless one, he the comforter. But then he was closer to God. He was already away. He raised himself as he had not been able to do for weeks. His eyes were brilliant.
'Aw, Pet,' he cried. 'Don't cry. I'll give your love to Grandpa and wait till you come.' And then — and it was a cry of triumph. 'Get on — get on the other side of the cross.'
'What do you mean?' She whispered it. They were on holy ground.
'The other side!' He cried. And then, 'Why, Mama, I'm going to be all well!'
"And he sank back and the watch slipped from his hands and he was gone.
"We found her there holding the watch, her head on his breast. And in her eyes was a look of wonder.
"The other side of the cross!
"This side — sorrow, crucifixion. The other side — resurrection, victory...
"Next day a telegram came from Frankie's grandmother, saying: 'PUT LITTLE MATE ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF HIS CAPTAIN.' Little Mate had gone to meet the other Captain too — the Captain of his salvation — the Lord Jesus Christ."
Jeannie and I were silent for some time after
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I finished my story. We'd long since finished our coffee. The spell was still upon us. I didn't say any more. I didn't preach. I'd wait for the story to settle, like the coffee grounds.
"I'm awful glad you told me that," she said at last. "What a kid. And it makes her more human. More real."
"Jeannie," I said. "Whenever you see a great Christian whose life is serene and joyful and powerful — it doesn't always mean there haven't been wounds. Look deep for sorrow in everyone's life — it is always there. Sometimes it's the sorrow that made that Christian great. Sometimes — Oh! Here she is now." The sliding doors opened. "Good morning Mrs. Whittemore," I said.
"Good morning," she said, looking at Jeannie.
"This is Jeanne," I said. "Just come this morning."
"Good morning, Jeannie." Emma Whittemore's face was frank and down-to-earth and without any pretense of piety or sticky kindness; Jeannie would not have understood either. Then, "Won't you come into the parlor and tell me about it?"
They eyed each other for a moment, two women. Then they went into the parlor and the doors slid closed behind them.
* * * * * * *
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Well.
Mother Whittemore's mask hid a tangible wound. The story is true, all true. But as we said before, masks don't always hide great sorrow. Some of the most trouble-free persons we know are trapped behind their masks in the insoluble complexities of their own natures.
My favorite aunt was one who wore her mask with uncommunicative dignity. I lived on her farm as a child, knew her up until her death, often heard her laugh, but never really knew what made her tick. Her mask never slipped in front of others. The only time I ever remember that it did was one day when a couple of errant bossies (cows were always "bossies" to her) wandered up by the main house and got into her tiny flower bed and trampled it to bits. She got them back quietly, speaking to them in gentle tones. Then she called a farmhand to mend the fence where they'd escaped, and went back to her devastated flower bed and knelt, digging her fists into the ground, and wept silently. The weeping done, she simply went on about her duties and the subject was not mentioned again. The mask was back on.
It is true that the exacting business of helping to make the farm pay took all her time and she never had a moment for herself. To indulge in a flower garden was heresy! It is true that wherever they lived, the most she had time for was one tiny spot of beauty — her little flower bed. And it is true that
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the flowers were her greatest joy — her one indulgence. But I do not think the trampled flower bed, in itself, was what made her cry. Perhaps it was symbolic of all the beauty in her life. It is possible that years of frustration and a great accumulation of pent-up disappointments went into that weeping. We never knew for sure. She was not one to air her private dreams. She died in quiet uncomplaining dignity, and her mask went with her.
God makes it very explicit that we are all behind masks and, what is more, they are, beyond a certain point, impenetrable. And He has four important things to say about it.
First, we cannot thoroughly understand others. For "man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart" (1 Sam. 16:7).
Second, we cannot really understand ourselves. "Man's goings are of the Lord; how can a man then understand his own way?" (Prov. 20:24).
And third, we cannot judge others, and He tells us in no uncertain terms that we had better not try. "There is one lawgiver, who is able to save and to destroy: who art thou that judgest another?" (James 4:12).
And last, we are not even to judge ourselves. Paul thunders: "But with me it is a very small thing that I should be judged of you, or of man's judgment: "yea, I judge not mine own self. For I know nothing by myself... but he that judgeth me is the Lord" (I Cor. 4:3, 4).
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Of course we are to confess our sins — but the distinction here is that we are not to take it upon ourselves to decide what our own motives are in anything we do — good or bad. Only God knows what is behind our masks. The ways in which we can deceive ourselves are so many and so subtle and so reasonable that we are helpless without the Holy Spirit's searching. The real motivation behind some of our behavior, if faced, would give us quite a jolt.
"I fell into this sin because that person tempted me. If he hadn't crossed my path nothing like that would ever have happened." (That person ran into an incipient desire in you that was clamoring for attention all the time, and although your physical feet did drag a bit, didn't the feet of your mind "run swiftly to destruction?" But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.)
"I am always giving because I am so generous." (You are not. Giving gives you a sense of power. With you it is a fetish and the recipients of your favors are forevermore tied to you in constant demands for gratitude and reminders of your love. Your gifts do not have strings — they have nooses.)
"I fell into the habit of drinking through despondency after my children got married and left home. I had devoted my life to them and they were all I had to live for — and I still worry so about them." (Or were you so emotionally dependent upon your children and had you so enslaved them with devotion
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and demands for gratitude that they were glad to get out from under it, and now you don't have the courage to live without substituting another prop?)
"I slaved for an alcoholic husband, just threw away the best years of my life — and now that he is gone, of course I'm bitter over the years I lost." (Come now. Didn't you have a sneaking feeling of superiority and power over another human being, and didn't you enjoy being a martyr — and when he died and you no longer had anything to complain of and no reason to exact sympathy from your friends — didn't it knock the props from under you and isn't that the real reason why you went off and had that nervous breakdown?)
"I used to like him, but now we live in different worlds. He has changed so!" (Has he really? Or is it you who have changed? Can it be that you could easily like him as an inferior, but you cannot accept him as a success?)
"I felt it was best for the group if she dropped out. She is really too competitive." (You manipulated her out of the group because you are competitive and she got in your way.)
"I don't know what will become of me if he doesn't straighten out. I can't stand it much longer." (You are having the time of your life. If he straightened out, you wouldn't have anything to live for.)
"Let the others push ahead. I'm content just to stay on the sidelines. You know me — always letting others push me around." (You are afraid to tackle
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anything for fear you will fail. Letting others push you around is a handy excuse for not trying.)
"One thing about me — I'm honest. I always say what I think." (You are tactless and rude, and hurting other peoples' feelings gives you a sense of importance.)
"I love my daughter-in-law, but the poor child doesn't know how to do anything and her cooking is killing my son." (You are jealous of your daughter-in-law, and it would kill you to admit that she is a lot smarter than you were at her age.)
"Well, that is one thing I would never do!" (You have never been faced with that temptation. You don't know what you would do. It is easy to defend a fort that has never been assaulted.)
"I would never succumb to the temptation that made him fall. I've been tempted by the same thing myself." (No, but you might succumb to another temptation that he would resist).
"I did not commit that sin because my principles are too high." (You did not commit that sin because you were afraid of the consequences).
"I failed in that job because nobody understood my talents." (You failed in that job because you were lazy).
"I forgave her for doing that to me because I am a Christian and love her in the Lord." (And don't you feel smug about it? And if you can still talk about the offense, was it really forgiveness after all? And how about loving her for herself too?)
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"I like him anyway in spite of his faults." (You like him because of them. His faults make you feel superior. If he did away with them you might not be big enough to like him anymore).
"I told these friends what she had said to me in confidence because I thought it was for their own good." (Or were you jealous of her and itching to undermine her with these friends?)
Shocking? — these pathetic and sometimes ludicrous examples of self-deception? Not at all, when we apply them to other people. Even though we know we have neither the right nor the ability to diagnose the other fellow's motivation, we cannot resist conjecture, for we are all armchair psychologists at heart. It is our own blind spots that trip us up, for when it comes to ourselves we do not even speculate, but rather accept the explanation that fits most comfortably and is easiest to live with.
The crux of the whole subject of understanding ourselves and others, hangs on the word "motive." The only way an equitable judgment can be made is to judge the real motive behind the act or attitude, and God reserves that right for Himself. "Therefore judge nothing before the time, until the Lord come, who both will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and will make manifest the counsels of the hearts: and then shall every man have praise of God" (I Cor. 4:5). It is not merely that we mustn't; it is that we can't.
I do not discount Christian psychology or Christian
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psychotherapy. There is nothing like taking tests and seeing yourself laid out objectively and impersonally on a graph, to straighten you out in a hurry. But any good Christian psychologist will be quick to admit that this is only a part of the answer, a start in the right direction — and that the mask, beyond a point, cannot be penetrated. A good psychologist can steer our thinking but only the Holy Spirit of God can probe our bottomless depths, teach us, enlighten us, and pray for us with "groanings that cannot be uttered."
In Bunyan's The Holy War, when various Diabolonians were not allowed to be seen in the market square, they hid in cellars and at the opportune time, decided to come out incognito. Bunyan says they "clothed themselves in sheep's russet" to escape detection. Mr. Anger came out as Mr. Good-Zeal. Lord Covetousness, that old villain, called himself Mr. Prudent-Thrifty and was hired by Mr. Mind. There were many more. Those rascals, undetected, kept Mansoul hoodwinked for years.
Now of course we do not go around like ghouls, probing behind every mask we meet, and it would be a morbid thing if we did. In our culture the stock question is "How are you?" and the stock answer — and the only polite one — is "Fine." If you asked me how I was and I told you I had a splitting headache and a trusted friend had deceived me and I was working hard because I had a compulsion to succeed due to the fact that I had been knocked about
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and over-criticized as a child and that I really wasn't as happy as I looked, I would be a crashing bore.
But the stock answer of "Fine" is never the whole story.
Years ago I was a student in the psychiatric department of a hospital. On my way on duty I went through a surgical floor every morning, and usually in a hurry. One morning a male voice called out to me from one of the rooms and I went back to see what was wanted. He was a young fellow with a most contagious grin, and he told me he had been wondering for weeks what I looked like. "You bounce along with springs in your feet, but you're going in the wrong direction and all I see is your back," he said. "I just wanted to say hello and tell you I've dubbed you 'Happy Feet.' "
Well, we chatted for a moment and I promised him I wouldn't just sail by after that — but would drop in and say hello. I did, every morning. I always said, "How are you?" and he always said, "Fine." But one morning I skidded quickly around the doorway and got halfway into the room before I realized he was not alone. Doctors and nurses were there changing his dressing. I backed out at once, but I had seen.
The bedclothes were down and the dressings were off and there, exposed, was the most horrible X-ray burn. The flesh of his abdomen was completely gone, and there was nothing but membrane between his vitals and the outside world. The doctors were
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picking off infected pieces of an unsuccessful skin graft. And the stench was beyond belief.
I went on my way, sober and a little sick with what I'd seen.
Next morning I found him bathed and clean and covered again. I greeted him as usual with "How are you?" and he said, "Fine."
But I knew he wasn't fine. For I had stepped into his room in one unguarded moment and smelled a stench and seen a gaping wound that would not heal.
Behind our masks are — if not wounds — inexplicable jungles of hopes and dreams and ambitions and frustrations and losses and fears of failure and all the gnats that plague us; the myriad of things behind masks, good and bad, are legion. Some of them we are aware of. And some of them have slipped into the deep maelstrom of our subconscious to be churned around and around, perhaps never to come to the surface again. And the sum total of them would fill all the books in the world.
We hand God our conscious selves and commit ourselves to Christ and let the deep freeze of our subconscious dangle along as best it can, hoping it won't give us too much trouble by clamoring for attention in devious guises. How many of us have handed over our subconscious to God in so many words? Or prayed for — not the symptom — but the unfathomable cause of the symptom — in another?
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But that is a subject in itself and too vast to discuss here.
The problem at hand is to remember that what we have seen of another's personality is only a very small part of the total person. He is behind a mask, and if we could only step inside his life in one unguarded moment we might find an ugly gaping wound that will not heal.
"But I have wounds too!" we cry. "Don't others realize the same truth about me?" They probably do not. And if they did they might not care. And even if they cared, they might not be able to understand.
We hand our own wounds to God.
