I resolved to wear a mask on my first trip to Target since the new “stay at home” policy was enacted in California. When I left the house, my only concern was enduring the mildly suffocating sensation. But as soon as I parked outside the store and stepped outside, I wanted to take it off. Because in the sea of red shopping carts, I was the only person wearing a mask.
A good friend had handed me the supply of masks on Sunday before I officially shut myself in. He warned me not to leave my house unless I had to, and if I did, to wear a mask at all times in proximity to other people.
“These are your best bet. Everyone should be wearing a mask if they’re going out and seeing people.” I had nodded, soaking in the all-too seriousness of the situation.
All week I had braced myself for the apocalypse-cornucopia that I fully expected from a trip to the grocery store under mandatory lockdown. And here I was surrounded by shoppers who seemed to be packing their carts for Thanksgiving dinner while I looked like I was entering a warzone.
Were we not currently in a pandemic? I had braced myself for a near-empty parking lot, but instead I was surrounded by shoppers with overloaded carts. Maybe they had the same idea as me, I reasoned. They just want to get up early on Saturday and grab groceries before they sell out. “But the masks,” I wondered, “Where were the masks?”
At the time, the CDC only recommended masks for people who have COVID-19 symptoms and those caring for them. But as our country only had limited testing and people didn’t know if they are carrying the virus, it seemed sensible for me to wear a mask in public areas, saving the most effective ones for hospitals and health care workers.
As I moved through the aisles, I felt as if every uncovered face I passed was staring at mine, peeking out above the ridiculous white and yellow monstrosity I had strapped on for their safety. I wanted to strip it off and throw it aside.
The urgency, the gravity, the careful planning and measures I had taken to avoid any risk of spreading my germs — all of it suddenly felt meaningless. Did no one get it? Was no one taking this seriously?
But with each corner I turned, my frustration slowly dissolved into a realization: I wasn’t burning in righteous anger for their lack of prudence. I was burning in shame from being the only one wearing a mask. I was embarrassed that maybe I was the only paranoid one, the only one stupid enough to believe I was going to kill some poor old man with the virus, and the one who would keep us in lockdown forever if I didn’t wear this hideous mask everywhere.
This feeling was another way God was bringing me face-to-face with one of my greatest fears: drawing attention to myself for being different. Bring me a spotlight of praise and glory, and I’m all ready to soak it in. But set me out from the crowd with a glaring floodlight, and I yell, “Don’t. Stop. Get that away from me!”
Anger was the real mask I wore to hide my pride and fear. I thought I was free from the sin of anger because I rarely lost my temper. But I learned my anger was more silent and more dangerous. It may have never bubbled over, but it was a low simmer of self-righteous pride stewing in a fear of being marked out like a blot in this world.
I’ve been wearing a mask even before the virus. I’ve been concealing my faith out of fear of judgment and ridicule. I followed the stream of the crowd so they wouldn’t see that I was different.
If others wore a mask, I’d put it on, too; if they took it off, I’d follow suit. The feeling I had wearing a mask that Saturday in a sea of unmasked faces was the same feeling I had as a child standing with my mother as she passed out Bible tracts to strangers. I was doing the right thing, but felt ashamed and vulnerable at being the only one. In a small, ordinary moment God revealed to me my deeper shame of sharing the gospel out of fear of ridicule and judgment.
Christ bore the cross alone; He carried His shame and humiliation to Calvary, enduring far greater ridicule and suffering. His strength should enable me to preach His gospel without fear and shame. I pray my love for Him will outshine and dethrone my fear of this temporary spotlight amidst darkness—for His light will one day flood out both.
As I left the register carrying my carton of eggs, I saw an older Asian man wearing a mask over his face. I smiled at him. I couldn’t see it, but he might have smiled too.