At some point, each of us has felt the sting of inadequacy – the ache of brokenness we can’t quite name. Sometimes it wells up after a grave sin, when we’ve crossed a line we never thought we would. Other times, it whispers in the comparison we make with others or resurfaces when past wounds still hunt us with shame. In those moments, we begin to feel a deep, almost primal nakedness – a baring of the soul that compels us to reach for something, anything, to cover our flaws, our failure, our fears. This impulse is not new. It echoes all the way back to Eden. As the story in Genesis recounts:  

Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked. And they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loincloths… But the Lord God called to the man and said to him, “Where are you?” And he said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked, and I hid myself.” He said, “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten of the tree of which I commanded you not to eat?” The man said, “The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit of the tree, and I ate.” Then the Lord God said to the woman, “What is this that you have done?” The woman said, “The serpent deceived me, and I ate. Genesis 3:7-13

Before the fall, Adam and Eve walked freely through Eden, unashamed and unburdened. But after sin entered the garden, guilt and shame crept in like a shadow. In a desperate attempt to cover their nakedness, they stitched together fig leaves. It sounds almost pitiful – but hauntingly familiar. We all carry moments from our past – or struggles in our present – that we wish we could erase. Maybe, like me, you’ve tried to bury them under distraction or mask them with a polished surface. But over time, they find a way to resurface, undeterred. And that’s because every effort to conceal our sin – no matter how clever or well-intentioned – is as fragile and fleeting as fig leaves in the wind.

The size of the leaves we wear often reflects how deeply guilt and shame have taken root in our hearts. Sometimes we reach for religion itself – as a refuge, a disguise. We fill our calendars with ministry, kind deeds, rituals, even memorized prayers. But all the while, our hearts remain closed off from the One who longs to heal them. We try to impress God rather than invite Him into our broken places.

This reminds me of the film The Way Back, where a group of men escape a Siberian Gulag during World War II. Among them is Voss, a reserved, devout priest who constantly recites prayers, seemingly the image of virtue. In contrast stands Valka – rough around the edges, emotionally blunt, yet perceptive. Sensing something hidden, he confronts Voss with a piercing line: “You say too many prayers for an innocent man.” And Valka was right. Burdened by a past sin – having once killed a man – Voss is tormented by guilt. Though cloaked in religious routine, he was trying to earn what could only be received: grace. Until he faced his brokenness, he couldn’t grasp the forgiveness that had always been within reach.

Unconfessed sin doesn’t lie quietly dormant – it enslaves us. It condemns, corrodes, and hardens the heart. The one entangled in adultery, deceit, or theft, lives not only in guilt, but in constant fear of being exposed. The one who wounds others – whether with fists or words – dwells beneath the shadow of their own anger, shackled to the very violence they refuse to surrender to God.

Without accountability, the soul begins to sour. We grow cynical, quick to defend ourselves, skilled at crafting excuses. When God confronted Adam, he blamed Eve. And Eve, in turn, pointed to the serpent. How little we’ve changed. We deflect, accuse, and compare, hoping that by spotlighting others’ sins, the weight of our own will somehow disappear. But sin cannot be blurred by distraction – it must be brought into the light to be healed.

Sometimes, our sense of inadequacy doesn’t come from sin alone, but from comparison. We look around and begin constructing false identities – projecting strength, success, independence – not to reflect who we are, but to disguise what we fear we lack. For some, insecurity hides behind strict diets, cosmetic procedures, or carefully curated images online. We spotlight our highlight reels and conceal the fragile truths beneath.

Like Adam and Eve, we fashion modern-day leaves designed to muffle the ache of shame or silence the voice of guilt. Yet even as we hide, God waits – not with condemnation, but with compassion. Genesis 3:21 reveals that after confronting Adam and Eve, God Himself made garments of animal skin to clothe them. It was the first covering – one that required a sacrifice. This was a foreshadowing of the Lamb to come. In Jesus, God gave us the only perfect and sufficient sacrifice. Through His death, the covering of grace is offered once and for all. No more sacrifices. No mores striving. Just an open invitation to receive forgiveness, freedom, and eternal life next to our Creator.

When we reject the sufficiency of Christ’s sacrifice and insist on making our own, sin becomes a silent burden – heavy and relentless. Guilt and shame drive us into hiding, into shadows that slowly consume our peace. No matter how noble our efforts, they cannot bring the freedom we seek – only deeper condemnation.

History offers a sobering reflection of this truth. From the 18th century until 1996, Ireland was home to the Magdalene Asylums – or Magdalene Laundries – run by the Catholic church. These places claimed to rehabilitate “fallen women”: former sex workers, unwed mothers, women who had terminated their pregnancies, or even girls deemed too rebellious or flirtatious. But behind the façade of spiritual purification lay a system of forced labor, emotional and physical abuse, and dehumanizing control. Women were stripped of their names, denied education and medical care, and subjected to grueling work. Many were confined against their will; others entered voluntarily, hoping that a life of religious service might redeem them in the eyes of God and society. But instead of redemption, they found shame and condemnation. They were hopelessly trained to stitch fig leaves to cover their wounds and earn worthiness.[i]

We cannot wait until we feel worthy one day to draw near to God – that day will never come. It was never about our sacrifices, but about receiving the sacrifice He already made for us. The Apostle Paul is a striking example of this grace. Before encountering Christ, he persecuted believers, dragging them into prison and consenting to their suffering (Acts 22:4). The weight of guilt he carried must have been unbearable. And yet, Paul didn’t try to hide his past. He declared himself guilty and opened his heart to the forgiveness Jesus offered. In utter desperation, he cried out, “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:22). But he didn’t stay there. He didn’t let condemnation write the final word. He turned – again and again – toward the cross and proclaimed, “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:25).

The truth is, there is no such thing as fixing our hearts once and for all. Transformation isn’t a single moment – it’s a lifelong journey, shaped one step, one day at a time. We begin to see growth when we clothe ourselves in the humility and love of Christ: acknowledging our transgressions, seeking forgiveness, and extending it to others. Embracing our brokenness doesn’t mean giving up – in means coming again and again to the feet of Jesus, choosing dependence over pride.

Some stay away from God because they don’t feel worthy. Others stay away because they think they’re too righteous. But both miss the heart of grace. Ezekiel 33:12 says, “The righteousness of the righteous shall not deliver him when he transgresses, and as for the wickedness of the wicked, he shall not fall by it when he turns from his wickedness.” If you don’t feel worthy of God’s love, that’s precisely what qualifies you to receive it. As 1 John 1:9-10 declares: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.” Denial may feel safe for some time, but it keeps us from the healing light of truth.

God knows us fully – our fears, our failures, our longings. There is nothing hidden from His sight. It’s not His knowledge of us that’s lacking, but our willingness to truly know ourselves: to examine the hidden places of our hearts and confess our need for Him. The psalmist captures this beautifully in Psalm 139:

O Lord, you have searched me and known me!  You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar. You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways… Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence?... For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb… Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts! And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!

It's natural to feel guilt and shame over our transgressions. In many ways, it’s the most honest response to sin. But our healing hinges not on whether we feel those things, but on what we do with them. If we chose to mask our wounds with fig leaves, we only deceive ourselves. Eventually, those coverings fall apart, leaving us exposed and aching. But if we run to Him – into the shelter of His presence – we find forgiveness, peace, and love. To run to Him is to draw near through His Word, to make space for His Spirit, and to let grace do what our striving never could. Receive His sacrifice. Ask for His forgiveness. Open His Word and discover how much He longs to speak life over you, to restore you and to make you whole again.