Why my book won’t change your life…

butterflyTonight, I’ll be standing in front of friends, family, colleagues, publishers and journalists at the launch party for my book Am I Beautiful? which was unleashed on the public a fortnight ago.

I’ll be standing in front of them and talking about the book: this book that is a rallying call for Christian women to wake up to society’s beauty myth, to think less about what they look like so that they can find freedom to be the women they were created to be.

I’m passionate about all this – that’s why I spent months obsessing over it and confronting some of my own body image baggage, spilling out some of my darkest, most private thoughts to give permission to other women to do the same. So that we can move past all this together.

Am I Beautiful? is very much a journey.

But here’s the thing: I’m still on it. The journey has only just begun.

Because as I stand there as the author of this book, they won’t know that I’m still struggling in this area. Big time. They won’t know that I’ve cut down on carbs in the weeks before my holiday. They won’t know that I’ve been waking up at silly o’clock to do a ridiculous US workout DVD. They won’t know that I’ve agonised over what to wear this evening.

I may be passionate about dispelling the beauty myth; but I still live in a world where I’m bombarded by images of outstandingly beautiful women, where both online and offline I’m forever seeing advertising aimed at making me feel bad about the way I look and offering a solution.

Writing this book has not instantly changed my life and the way I see myself. When I look in the mirror, I’ve not yet got to the point of always being completely content with what I see. Because I’ve lived in this looks-obsessed world for 29 years and been smothered by it. I haven’t been transported out and I haven’t instantly unlearnt all society’s beauty messages. But it’s only through having written the book that I’ve become aware of just how much – and how deeply – all this has affected my life and the lives of the women around me.

I’m committed to the eventual eradication of these negative thought patterns, but it’s very much a process – a continual, minute-by-minute choice to work on the complete renewal of my mind (Romans 12:2).

When I started the journey, I was one of the 96 per cent of British women, according to a Dove survey, who was not able to bring myself to believe and say that I was beautiful. But when I ask the question ‘am I beautiful?’ now, I know the answer is absolutely, yes. But this beauty isn’t necessarily anything to do with looking hot. I’m convinced of my beauty because I was created in the image of the one in whom the essence of beauty is found.

Writing the book was not like some magic, instant solution to the body image thing. So reading it won’t  be. But I know that reading it will mean you’re joining me on that journey towards recognising our true beauty and being content in it; of being more aware that inner beauty is far more important than the outer; and of recognising that the ultimate essence of beauty lies far outside any arbitrary, man-made societal standards.

Reading this book won’t change your life instantly…

… but it will start the process. 

Am I Beautiful?, published by Authentic, is out now priced at £7.99.


On Palm Sunday, Giles Fraser and being a loser

ImageI’ve been knocked sideways this week by a simple, profound and totally liberating realisation: I’m a loser.

Let’s take a few steps back.

On Friday night, I was raging. Utterly fuming. Because I’d made an unfortunate bedtime reading choice: Giles Fraser’s Guardian column in which he makes some pretty sweeping generalisations about evangelical Christians. We apparently talk about “Cheesus” instead of Jesus and profess to have a “creepy sort of chummyiness” with this dude who we have made into our “boyfriend or best mate”.

He adds: “And when such people speak of Cheesus they have to wear that sickly smile too. It’s that I-know-something-you-don’t smile. Patronising, superior and faux caring all at the same time. And if you disagree with them they will pray for you. It makes you want to bang your head against a brick wall.”

Fraser claims that evangelicals don’t understand the idea of the suffering non-triumphant servant and caricatures us as the very un-cool Ned Flanders-type in The Simpsons.

I stand by my view that the article was poorly executed, vicious and mean and that it was absurd in its sweeping generalisation. But it upset me more than it should. I voiced my anger on Twitter. I wanted to show him a piece of my mind and became obsessed with looking at his @ replies to see just how many people agreed with me and not him.

I really was angry. So angry that I started to analyse just why I was so. As someone whose job it is to basically say how great the evangelical Church is, the article clearly wasn’t helping me professionally. Was I jealous of Fraser’s Guardian platform? Do I just hate sweeping generalisations about any people group? Or was there something else?

And then I realised that crumpled underneath my rage was my ego.

The evangelical Church of which I’m a part was being ridiculed in public. We were coming off as losers, outsiders, weirdos, not part of the cool crowd; not part of the liberal, rational, Guardian-reading crew of which I so desperately want to be a part. Flashbacks to school and that crippling need to fit in, to be accepted, clever, successful, beautiful – a winner. Or at least to be seen as a winner.

I have always been extremely competitive. I love being the top of the class. I like to be right. I love to win. I thrive on being liked. And as a classic ESFJ in the Myers Brigg personality test, when I think I’m being criticised, or not liked, or when I don’t come out on top – it hurts. I take criticism and failure extremely personally.

But the things that crush me the most are the criticisms that are closest to the truth.

So I read and re-read the Fraser article. And I realised that maybe that drive to be ‘a winner’ is exactly what he was getting at. Maybe there are times when I reduce Jesus to the one who makes me feel better about myself, who whispers that I’m beautiful, who gets me that job or that car park space; the one who makes everything ok, the victorious warrior-saviour. Maybe I’m not too dissimilar then from those Christians I myself judge who claim God is on their side politically and socially. The Fox News-watching evangelical American caricature who wields Jesus’s might over the nation.

And then I get to Palm Sunday.

And as I hold my Palm cross in my hand, I get it.

This Jesus, on this day, doesn’t stride into Jerusalem like a mighty winner. Not like any winner the crowds would have expected anyway. Humbly, he rides in on a donkey; with each step he is coming closer to losing. Inching nearer to being mocked, ridiculed, beaten, shamed, battered, murdered.

Yesterday, I attended the National Secular Society’s Secularist of the Year awards with a friend who had invited me along. Not usually the place you’d expect an evangelical Christian to be. And I was prepared for battle. I sat opposite an older man who was wearing a t-shirt with an atheist slogan on it [NB not all secularists are atheists, but this one was very much so]. Within minutes, he had told our table that he was proudly hostile to all religions. I gulped. At some point I would have to reveal my true identity. And when the moment came, I babbled on about how I may be a Christian, but I’m actually very rational, you see, I’m inclusive, open-minded and clever really – citing my Cambridge degree like some sort of proof that I was not insane, stupid or illogical. Because even in that place – where many secularist atheists spoke about their ideologies with evangelical fervour – I wanted to be a winner. I wanted to be seen in a positive light. I wanted to be seen as alright.

But being a follower of Jesus Christ has got nothing to do with being a winner. In fact, it’s the total opposite.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes in The Cost of Discipleship: “The messengers of Jesus will be hated to the end of time. They will be blamed for all the divisions which rend cities and homes. Jesus and his disciples will be condemned on all sides for undermining family life, and for leading the nation astray; they will be called crazy fanatics and disturbers of the peace. The disciples will be sorely tempted to desert their Lord. But the end is also near, and they must hold on and preserve until it comes.”

If I’m to take up my own cross, I’ve got to lay down that drive to win; that need to be beautiful, clever, good, liked, right, popular, cool. I’ve got to accept that I might take the blame for things, that I’ll be condemned, and called crazy. Because the cross of Christ is foolishness. It’s absurd. And those who follow this Christ have got to be prepared to look foolish, to lose, to be ridiculed in public, and even to be a loser like Ned Flanders. So be it.