garments of skin

They give us excuse not to speak, not to interact, not to look each other in the eyes. We stare at the chest of the t-shirt, read the text, silently agree or disagree, pass without a true connection. Instead of speaking, saying what we're feeling, pleading for what we need, we express our thoughts, feelings, very souls through them. And if no one sees? We weep and shrivel within ourselves, devastated that no one picked up on our code.

They give us an acceptable way to hide. We don't want to be seen, and we can manipulate them toward that end. They provide a safe way to attain comfort, build confidence, present only our best attributes. Instead of connecting, looking past the fabrics, we compliment the shirt, the skirt, the shoes—like that's what matters. And if for a moment someone is exposed, even accidentally, we avert our eyes, clear our throats, pretend it didn't happen.

It does happen. We are flesh and blood; we do have bulges where we aren't supposed to, blemishes we want to conceal, embarrassments about our bodies, and shame.

Clothes, at their very essence, are a means of distinction, separation. They keep me from you, and you from me. They allow snap judgments, first-sight definitions, quick identification. Instead of giving us space to seek and find another's thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, faith, they give us the one-minute version of the soul cloaked beneath. The evening gown, the tichel, the screen tee, the keffiyeh, the drain-pipe jeans, the burqa, the letter jackets, the plain cape dress, the kanga, the baggy sweatshirt, the sari, the power suit, the kimono, the flannel shirt—they're all simply excuses to look once and know what the other is.

I wonder if the first man and woman realized the utter tragedy that had befallen them when they were first sheathed in clothes—not their own slipshod attempts, but the skins God gave them. I wonder if that was when they realized that their sin really meant separation—not only from God Himself, but from each other.

Ever since, we've been feeling it, haven't we? In our school-uniform requirements, in our business-dress expectations, in our embarrassment and shame when we miss a dress-code memo.

We're not just talking about clothes with those things, are we? We're talking about our insecurities, our fears of being inadequate, our terror of failure. We're talking about our uncomfortable feelings of some type of dysfunction and wrong-ness, our shadowy knowledge that something is just not quite right about us. We can never quite put our finger on it, maybe, but what we're really talking about is the deepest shame of being naked. Not just unclothed, but naked—truly and fully uncovered, vulnerable to humiliation and pain and terror. But it is only when we admit the truth about ourselves—the bulges and blemishes and embarrassments and insecurities and inadequacies and failures and dysfunction and wrong-ness— that we can experience the truest and deepest healing possible. And it's only in those moments of nakedness and honesty that we experience our clearest glimpses into a pre-Fall world—a world where there is no separation.

Being exposed is the last thing we want . . . but is the only thing we really need.

So here's to being naked.