When
I was a junior in high school, I was 5’8” and weighed 190 pounds. I’ll save you
a Google search and show you my place on the BMI Scale. A few more pounds and I
would’ve been in the dark orange section and everything.
I always knew I was
overweight. My sisters were born skinny, and their combined waistlines equaled
my upper thigh. I constantly compared myself to them and every 120-pound
celebrity that gallivanted around the beach in a bikini with her Thor-like
boyfriend and cute puppy. After a combination of neglected abuse and watching one
too many Disney movies, I decided I would stop eating my feelings away. I
stopped eating altogether, and in three months I dropped thirty pounds and
three dress sizes. Going into my senior year, I felt confident for the first
time in my life because everyone paid attention to me. Boys thought I was
pretty, I enjoyed shopping for clothes, and the popular girls let me hang out
with them. It was everything I ever wanted. I wasn’t simply accepted, but
worshipped. Eating disorders come in all shapes and sizes, but mine was
packaged with self-hatred, self-love, starvation, and the occasional gag-yourself-until-you-vomit
bit as a punishment for eating chocolate.
Adding to the mess, I fell in
love with Jesus around the same time. As the months passed, God revealed the
upside-down truth that I would not be satisfied until he was worshipped instead of me. I was competing for his throne by demanding
the world’s worship and affirmation. After listening to a hundred million sermons
on body image, I found that most teachings fell into one of two categories:
First, there’s the “You’re so
awesome and beautiful and perfect and the Lord doesn’t find one single flaw in
you because you’re a sweet daughter of the King” teaching. I’ve always been turned
off by this because I’m flawed, you’re flawed, and we all know it. My body
isn’t perfect. If I sit down, I can count on having a roll in my stomach. If
I’ve had Baja burrito, a second one is bound to show up. Zits frequent my face.
I have a birthmark shaped like a strawberry on my stomach. My thighs have
cellulite. Sometimes a singular hair grows on my chin like an 89-year old
British lady with boils on her face. I’m not trying to be unnecessarily hard on
feel-good teaching, but it seems that, while sprinkled with hints of God, this ultimately
ends with more unsatisfying self-worship.
Second,
there’s the “Eating disorders are idolatry!” method. I’ve heard lots of people
say things like, “You’re thinking of your body more than you think about the
Lord and his supremacy and perfection! Stop thinking about yourself and take
every thought captive, like NOW!” I don’t even disagree with this theology, but
many times it lacks grace. While it is true that most eating disorders ironically
stem from idolatry and pride, we cannot forget that all of us are hurting. It’s
not a simple, “Stop being prideful and you’ll stop binging on Oreos” fix.
People are (literally) killing themselves for acceptance, hope, and love. Is it
pride? Sure. But we need to be gentle about it, remembering that the prideful are
covered with waterfalls of grace.
The whole reason I started
thinking about this is in the first place is because I dyed my hair purple last
week and all sorts of self-hatred, self-obsessed feelings came rushing in. Then I thought to myself: If
my security was drastically shaken by a bottle of purple dye and a pair of
scissors, there’s a problem. I also realized how many thoughts I have that deal
with my weight: my arms being too fat or my face looking swollen. It’s become
normal for me to obsess over my body and myself. I’m startled by how fragile
the foundation is on which I’ve built my self-acceptance. It’s an “incurvatus
in se” foundation— turned inward on myself. In the midst of these emotions, the
Lord reminded me of a parable in Matthew 7:
“Therefore
everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a
wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose,
and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it
had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and
does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on
sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against
that house, and it fell with a great crash.”
I want to build my identity on a foundation that
cannot be moved by society, the media, or “fat days.” I want to stake my acceptance
on a Rock that knows and loves based on His
worth, not mine. I want to remember that
there is a better way of living, generously made available by a wonderful God. I
do not have to be a slave to empty self-obsession. I have been made a
worshipper of Christ by the cross. I have been founded on the Rock.
Children of God, be
encouraged: you do not have to be enslaved by self-obsession, pride, eating
disorders, and the like. Through the power of the Spirit, you and I can turn
outward and become worshippers of Christ. If you are stuck in a cycle of
self-obsession, there is room for you at the cross. Turn around and run to him.
He makes self-denying worshippers out of self-obsessed rebels. There is hope. Run
to him.
(PS: I don’t know if you’ve
ever written a blog post, but sometimes you feel confident about them and
sometimes you feel like you want to vomit. I am particularly nauseated about
this post because it seems scattered and sloppy. But that’s also how I feel
about the subject. That being said, please be gracious with me as I struggle
through a difficult area. I’m not married to anything I’ve said; I’m just in
the process.)
