The Bare-Faced Truth: A Lenten Experiment With Makeup and Faith

I’m not saying that my decision to put on makeup earlier that morning caused the car accident on the I-5, but as I inched along in traffic, the two events grew more connected.

I was on my way to a large speaking event at a church in Orange County. When they’d reached out a few months ago, I hadn’t realized it was going to be a ninety-minute drive from my home in San Diego. When I said yes, I also didn’t know that I would be working full-time for my own church. I was grateful that their group met on my day off.

The night before my big speaking event, I led the kids’ program for our Ash Wednesday service. It was my own boys’ first introduction to the concept of Lent, and at 9 and 10 years old, they had some questions. The one that kept ringing in my ears was: “What are you giving up for Lent, mom?”

I didn’t grow up in a faith tradition that acknowledged Ash Wednesday or emphasized Lent in any way. This was only my second year participating, but it bothered me that I didn’t have a ready answer for my son.

“I’m still not sure,” I hedged.

In truth, I had an idea of what I should give up for Lent, but I had rejected it and waited for an alternative to present itself. A week or two earlier, as I was sitting in silence and solitude, I’d considered my options. What can I go without for forty days in order to grow closer to God? Options were rejected as soon as they sprang to mind. Until makeup, which brought about a spirited internal debate:

“Abstaining from makeup is perfect. Every time you see yourself in the mirror you can be reminded that God loves you for who you are.”

“But I hardly spend five minutes putting on makeup. It’s really not that important to my life.”

“But you do care about what other people think about you. You like to manage other people’s impression of you.”

“But… it’s unprofessional!”

“I think you know I’m right.”

“Shhhhh.”

The matter was settled in my mind. It was only when my ten-year-old asked his question on Ash Wednesday that I realized no better option had come along to save me.

I feel like a failed feminist to even admit that going without makeup is a hardship. Isn’t the beauty industry just a lucrative arm of the patriarchy, leading us all to believe that if we don’t conform to its imposed standards of youth and perfection, that we don’t matter? Shouldn’t a woman of faith inherently embrace her dignity and worth from her identity as God’s beloved rather than relying on outward appearances?

Yes, and—I’m still drawn to shiny jewelry, new clothes, and the right shade of lipstick. I still feel a jolt of self-confidence after transforming my tired-mom face to my slay-the-day face. I rely on my outward appearance to communicate to the world my competence, my professionalism, my ability to have it all together.

That morning on the I-5, crawling forward in between bursts of rain, I glanced back and forth between Google Maps and the rearview mirror. It had taken me two hours to drive 40 miles. And my eye makeup was impeccable. I called my contact at the church and told her my estimated time of arrival would now be right as their group was ending. She was understanding; we would reschedule.

I hung up and tested whether or not my new mascara was actually waterproof.

A rainstorm and a car accident are to blame for my disappointment that day. These things happen. In our attempts at meaning-making, it’s tempting to put ourselves at the center of the story, but as I glanced into the cars of the other frustrated drivers on the highway that morning, I realized my drama was only a side note.

The rain and the traffic were not all about me, but God used them to get my attention, to nudge me to action.

I didn’t wear makeup for the rest of Lent that year, not to film announcements for my church, not even at my next speaking engagement. Every time I saw my naked face in the mirror, my heart sank, and in the same beat I had to remind myself: God loves me for who I am. My worth is not contingent on what I look like or what I do. I can stop chasing the approval and affection of others. God made me and delights in me.

Even now, ever since that season has come and gone, every glance at my reflection is another opportunity to internalize this truth.

What habit of faith might you need to add to your life this Lent?

It might be helpful to reflect upon how you most long to connect with God: through scripture? Through prayer? Through others? At the soul level? And then choose a spiritual practice accordingly. If you’d like to some guidance in this type of reflection, I’d love to share my Connections Quiz with you. I created this as a bonus for my course: Spiritual Practices for the Busy Modern Woman.