I Know That Mask. I've Worn It Too.
Dave Chappelle said something in his 2020 Saturday Night Live monologue that stopped me mid-scroll.
Speaking to a specific audience, he said:
"Don't even want to wear a mask because it's oppressive? Try to wear the mask I've been wearing all these years. I can't even tell something true unless it has a punchline behind it."
Hands up. White flag. He got me… Because that mask — the one that teaches you to make your truth comfortable enough for everyone else — isn't just a comedian's problem.
Many Black and Brown women know that mask well. Some of us learned to wear it long before we ever stepped inside a church. We learned it in classrooms. Boardrooms. Stores. Neighborhoods. Job interviews. Conversations where we quietly calculated how much of ourselves felt "safe" to bring into the room. We learned to read the room before we entered it. To soften our words. To smile when we wanted to question. To explain ourselves before anyone asked. And to become fluent in the subtle art of making other people comfortable.
Then many of us met Jesus. And for some of us, we discovered something we never expected. Sometimes the mask didn't disappear inside the Church. Sometimes it simply changed shape. Not because the Gospel asked us to hide — it never has. But because churches are made up of people who are still being transformed by the Gospel.
There are churches that have seen us beautifully, listened well, and reflected the heart of Christ. I thank God for them. And there are church spaces where some of us have felt unseen, our experiences questioned before they were heard, and conversations about race avoided in the name of unity. "I don't see color" was offered as reassurance, even though what our hearts longed to hear was "I see you."
The irony is that Scripture has never asked us to become colorblind. The God who created sunsets could have painted every sky the same. Flowers could have all been one color. The God who created humanity could have made one culture, one language, one expression. He didn't. From Genesis to Revelation, diversity is never portrayed as God's mistake. It is His masterpiece. The problem has never been our differences. The problem has always been sin.
Sin distorts how we see one another — tempting us to fear what is different, misunderstand what we haven't experienced, and dismiss stories that don't sound like our own. And sometimes, even in the Church, we unintentionally ask people to leave parts of themselves at the door in order to belong. But the Gospel never asks us to hide the image of God in one another. It teaches us to honor it.
Paul Laurence Dunbar understood this long before many of us found words for it.
"We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes…
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile."
He called them subtleties. What a remarkable word. Not outright lies — subtleties. The editing of ourselves. The softening of our voice. The shrinking so as not to inconvenience or offend. The version of yourself carefully curated so everyone else remains comfortable.
I know. I've done it. I learned when to speak and when to stay silent. How to smile and make sure my convictions never sounded too strong. I wore that mask. And if I'm honest, I became really good at it.
Then one day I realized something. The mask wasn't protecting me. It was costing me.
"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly." — John 10:10
The enemy doesn't always steal through obvious rebellion. He steals through quiet conformity — through becoming whoever the room needs you to be in order to belong. Sometimes it looks like believing your experiences are too uncomfortable to speak aloud. One compromise at a time. One edited sentence at a time. Until we no longer recognize the voice God gave us.
Because every time we believe we must hide part of who God created us to be in order to belong, something precious is being stolen. Not our worth — that can never be taken. But our freedom. Our confidence. Our willingness to occupy the space God Himself has called us to.
This story didn't begin with us. It began in a garden. The moment shame entered the world, Adam and Eve reached for fig leaves. Not because God asked them to — but because shame convinced them they needed to hide.
Isn't that what shame still whispers? If they see the real you… you won't belong.
But God came looking for them anyway. Not for the version stitched together with fig leaves. For them.
"Where are you?" — Genesis 3:9
It wasn't a question of location. It was an invitation to come out of hiding.
Come back to Me.
That is still the Shepherd's invitation today. Not "Can you make everyone comfortable?" or "Can you become smaller so others can remain at ease?" But simply…
Where are you? Where is your heart?
The Gospel has always been God's answer to our hiding. Jesus did what fig leaves never could. He covered our shame, carried our sin, tore down every wall that separated us from the Father — and He is still tearing down the walls we build between one another. Not by asking us to erase our stories, but by redeeming them. Not by asking us to ignore our differences, but by teaching us to love one another as fellow image-bearers, redeemed by the same Savior.
The Shepherd of Psalm 23 isn't asking you to become someone else. He's inviting you to come home. To lie down beside still waters and let Him restore the parts of your soul that learned survival instead of rest.
So take the mask off, sis. Not to make a statement. Not to prove a point. Take it off for Him. Because the Shepherd cannot restore the woman hiding behind the mask — but He can restore the daughter who comes honestly into His presence.
And there, at His table, you'll discover what was true all along.
You never had to earn your seat. The Shepherd prepared it — not because you made everyone comfortable, not because everyone understood your story — but because you belong to Him.
Come to the table with your whole story. Your whole voice. Your whole self.
The Shepherd has been expecting you. And there is room for you here.
You are Unapologetically His.