My wife, Barbara, and I
have been married for more than 30 years, and yet some corners of our
inner lives remain dark to one another. We know a lot about each other—a
lot. But we're still learning how to reveal secrets. It's still scary
after all these years.
When we take a step back from marriage and think of other
relationships, it becomes clear how much we hide from each other. Most
of the time, we try to make a good impression: on the boss, the
coworker, the neighbor, the stranger we hold the door for at the bank.
We share various and sundry intimacies with friends, lovers, parents,
children, and priests or pastors—but we do not tell everything to
anyone. We hold back.
We hold back in wisdom. It's probably not a good idea to tell coworkers
of the opposite sex about your temptations to lust. It's not wise for
parents to tell their young children how they sometimes wish they hadn't
had children.
But we also hold back in fear. What would he think if I told him how
hateful I feel? Would she still speak to me if I admitted my addiction
to pornography? Could I still work in the church if they knew how many
doubts I have?
Would I be accepted if I told all? That's the
question. We long to be accepted, to be in the company of someone who
will not blink regardless of what we say. But long ago we came to
believe that this isn't possible. At some point we have all chosen to
share a vulnerable secret, only to later endure humiliation or shame. So
now we live with a low-grade fear that somebody is going to find out
something about us we do not wish to reveal. It's a fear that nags us
for life.
Bringing God into the picture does not seem to help at first. But bring
him in we must, because a key attribute of God is his omniscience (lit.
"all knowledge")—that he knows everything, in particular everything
about us. Jesus makes this clear time and again when he says things
like, "Your Father knows what you need" (Matt. 6:8). He admitted that
while his own knowledge was temporarily limited—for example, he does not
know the "day or hour" of his own return—the Father does know (Mark
13:32). Jesus always frames God's complete knowledge as a point of
comfort, but if we're honest with ourselves, we see that we aren't
always comforted.
For example, we're rightly told over and over that God accepts us just
as we are. But truth be told, we're skeptical. If there is anyone whom
we're really anxious to make a good impression on, it's God.
Sure, we confess things to God that we confess to no one else. But many
of our confessions are attempts to manage the relationship so that we
are acceptable to God: I admit my greed or selfishness in a moment of
contrition. I'm sincere, but I'm also looking for absolution,
forgiveness, and acceptance. If I do my part, God will do his part, and
all will be well.
I know I'm managing the relationship with God because while I'm willing
to bring some areas of my life before him, I find it difficult to speak
with him about other areas. Like an alcoholic in denial, I struggle to
admit my various addictions. I'm hiding the truth from myself,
and in that sense, I'm hiding it from God. Many times when circumstances
or the loving rebuke of a friend force me to acknowledge some dark area
of my life, I have to admit that I was aware of it for some time, like
being aware of the low speaker hum while you're listening to a speech.
You do not hear that hum if someone is chattering into the microphone,
but when the person stops talking and you just listen, the hum is there.
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