The first time I heard the commercial I was confused. It came on in the gap between songs on the online streaming service I use—because I’m too cheap to pay for the ad-free version. The woman’s voice broke through what had been the lull of background music. She invited me to be free of the time and stress of editing holiday photos. Some sort of photo editing software, I thought. And then came the punch line.
The advertisement was for the plastic surgery division of a local medical conglomerate. “Make an appointment today for all of your Botox, implant, and enhancement needs to look great for Christmas, New Year’s, and beyond,” the woman said. They promised confidence, a better time—and of course all of that photo editing time saved.
The first time I heard it, it caught me by surprise. Every time after, it made me angry.
I know that for some people a visit to a plastic surgeon or the use of Botox injections is part of treatment for legitimate medical issues. But that was not the motivation of this advertisement. Far from it.
Here was the gospel according to Botox, the gospel according to cosmetic surgery. Joy to be found in the perfect body. Contentment in nips and tucks. Self-confidence in wrinkleless skin. The gospel that says you’ll be happy if you look different, that you’re more valuable or interesting or attractive if you match a specific definition of “beauty.” The gospel that assumes beauty is found in youth, as if there can’t be beauty in the creases etched by decades of smiles.
The ad made me angry because it preyed on a vulnerability I see in so many people—and one that I have battled myself. It’s a vulnerability based a lie. A lie that says your worth is in your appearance. A lie that says beauty is defined by body dimensions or flawless skin or a number on a scale. A lie that says achieving that ideal is more important than being healthy or finding contentment.
These lies can drive us to distraction—or despair. They make some of us embrace hunger as salvation, willing ourselves to eat less and less, starving ourselves to meet an ideal. They take some of us to the gym, spending hours fighting off calories. They drive us to all sorts of gimmicks—this new diet pill and that at-home remedy. They leave us ever insecure, ever comparing, ever hiding from another’s eyes.
We set goals, thinking that if we get to such-and-such a point, we’ll be happy and stop our efforts. But those gods are not so easily appeased. They demand more. A few more pounds. Another touch up. Inside is the same insecurity, the same doubt, the same convoluted sense of beauty and worth.
And so I sat angry at a radio advertisement. Because there is a better way. There has to be a better way.
What if, instead of buying into this faulty gospel, we encouraged people to be healthy—to eat well and exercise because their body is part of God’s good creation, the most intimate part of his world that they can steward and care for? What if, instead of a quest for elusive youth, we celebrated aging for what it does offer—wisdom, experience, a wealth of stories? What if we taught ourselves to find confidence and value in things deeper than our skin?
It is not wrong to seek to be healthy—which for some of us, yes, may mean hitting the gym or adjusting our diet. And it is not wrong to want to look good or feel comfortable in your own body. But we act on these desires not in order to achieve our worth, not to buy contentment, but from the basis of our inherent value as a child of God, as one who is loved. When we rest in who we are as the beloved, we can care for ourselves rightly—and resist the striving and abuse and obsessing driven by some cultural ideal.
The photo editing I can’t help you with. But confidence and a good time? You don’t need Botox for those.