“Then saith one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, Simon’s son, which should betray him, Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor? This he said, not that he cared for the poor; but because he was a thief, and had the bag, and bare what was put therein.”

John 12:4-6

When I was a kid, I used to wear a mask. It was a Superman mask. Superman was my favorite hero. When I was seven, I read so many Superman comic books that I really thought I was Superman.

I made a Superman suit. I had a Superman t-shirt, a red bath towel for a cape, and a pair of red Underoos that I wore outside my pants. I completed my costume with a plastic Superman mask from an old Halloween costume. The mask had jet black wavy hair with a j-curl that went down in the middle of the forehead. Without the mask, I was just James. I was a mild-mannered, nerdy little kid. But when I put on my Superman mask, I thought I was the Man of Steel.

One morning, I was sitting in the kitchen eating Fruity Pebbles out of a plastic butter bowl. I was wearing my Superman outfit. I lifted the mask to get a bite of cereal and put it back down to chew. In my mind, Superman was having breakfast.

While I was eating, I was also reading a Superman comic book. I don’t know if it was the comic book, the sugary Fruity Pebbles, or a combination of both, but I got all excited and believed that I was Superman. I took off running through the house. I was faster than a speeding vacuum cleaner. More powerful than the dog. Able to leap coffee tables in a single bound. Look! Up on the kitchen counter. It’s a toaster. It’s a microwave. No. It’s a kid in a mask who thinks he is Superman!

I went running through the house. As I jumped over the table in the living room, I knocked off a lamp. It fell off the table and shattered to pieces.

Momma had told me a hundred times not to run in the house. So, the consequence was a spanking. Momma was about to spank me when I said, “Wait.” I took off my Superman mask, bent over, and said, “Okay, now.” I needed to take off the mask because Superman never got a whipping. You must think like a seven-year-old kid to understand this, but when I put on that mask, I was Superman.

Sadly, many grown intelligent adults do the same thing. They wear a mask. The Bible tells us about a man named Judas. He was one of the disciples of Jesus. But he wore a mask. His mask concealed the truth. His mask hid his true identity.

The point is: It is better to live naked in truth than clothed in fantasy.

What sort of mask of untruth are you wearing?

What are you hiding behind your mask?

James Collins is the pastor of First Southern Baptist Church. Follow him on Twitter @collins_point, Facebook James Collins “The Point Is,” or at the website thepointis.net.

Happy Fourth of July! Today, I sit on my deck, recovering from the Covid-19 virus, grateful that I live in a small town in the Midwest where friends and neighbors have gone out of their way to bring food and run errands. One lake neighbor dropped off chocolates and Twizzlers and flowers on our steps while another, on his drive from Kansas City to Tulsa, stopped to shop for items we needed, including a miracle-find of Clorox Wipes. Pam, my Utah friend, called her homeopathic guru and over-nighted me herbs and vitamins. Cards have arrived, and daily, friends and family members text, asking about my improvement. Many have phoned Dave, my husband, when it was difficult for me to maintain any breath control to speak.

I can’t say enough about Dave. He has been a saint. I was quarantined to the basement for 14 days. Dave made sure I had a thermometer and an oxygen reader, and even though I had no taste buds, I never was without a plate of fruit (a wonderful, stocked refrigerator treat from our Stilwell friends). When I progressed to being able to walk up the stairs and sit on the deck, he stayed a step behind me to steady my walk, brought me blankets and disinfected the area.

All of those were wonderful blessings, but what has touched me the most has been the out-pouring of prayers. Oh, how I relied on those prayers! When I would cough so hard I thought my lungs would explode, when I would chill and sweat and be incapable of taking a deep breath, when every bone ached, when I was so unsteady I could barely make it to the bathroom, I remembered the prayer-warriors who were lifting me up.

And so, today I sit on my deck, taking time to thank a mighty God who, it seems, is not calling me Home quite yet. He is calming my normally-frantic brain and causing me to concentrate on the beauty of life. I am blessed to watch as three fishermen, unaware they are in my eyesight through our deck rails, patiently row around our dock, casting their lines in various directions, enjoying the moment, even though no fish are biting. Two squirrels, playing “tag” for the past hour, have found my peanut feeder and leave not a shell for their friends. Birds, hidden in the cascade of overgrown tree limbs, noisily chatter while a butterfly comes near enough for me to touch it. A sweet visit.

But then 14 geese, determined to visit every morning and leave their “mess” on our newly-concreted sidewalk, show up to eat the grass seed we planted a few weeks ago. Dave makes the walk to our dock, waving frantically to run them off. With their ruffled feathers, they honk and jump into the lake, but it is only a matter of time before they return. Life, as we all know, is not perfect. But a small town in the Midwest comes close.

In a few days, the lake will be a place of celebration as jet-skis and boats and campers come for a day of recreation and entertainment. Fireworks will be shot from docks, music will blare, and we all will be reminded of those whose sacrifice proved just how “unfree” freedom really is. This year, we small-towners have much to be thankful for. Here, we don’t have to worry that our shopping areas will be taken over by misdirected rioters who set up camp and intimidate gutless, city officials into acquiescing to their desires. Here, parents of toddlers playing in the front yard or youngsters watching television don’t have to guard against flying bullets. Here, store owners don’t need to plywood the windows on their stores or protect against thieves helping themselves to whatever loot they can carry away. Here, the American flag is revered, not burned.

Let us count our blessings, and even though there always are reminders (like unwanted geese) that small-town life might not be perfect, I imagine that most of us wouldn’t live anywhere else.