Skincare as Liturgy

 

It wasn't until I was well in my 30s that I stopped thinking of worship as boring. 

That might be a surprising thing to hear from a clergy person but it's true. I love the hymns, I love preaching, I love the sacraments but the confessional bits, creeds, words of institution have always felt rote and boring. I get why kids hate it...I hated it as a kid even if I had to "be a good boy" and suffer through without complaining. 

But as you get older, your brain slows down, your life slows down and you appreciate things in a different way. The small things matter. You realize the gift it is to experience life with patience and deliberation.

The traditional word for Christian worship is "liturgy." It's often misunderstood and extrapolated from context as something grander than it is. Having roots in Koine Greek, liturgy or "leiturgia," simply means "the work of the people." As is common with Greek, you have to parse the sentence in order to find a word's specific meaning. "Liturgy" was commonly used to describe a people's work with regards to their worship of the divine. 

I take a broader view of the concept of liturgy because many self-proclaimed liturgists in the institutional church are insufferable. They narrow the many and real possibilities of Christian worship down to a few specifics that usually relate less to what Scripture or tradition says and more how they interpret it. I've always believed there's no one right way to practice worship. There are wrong ways: heresy, sacrilege, etc. But I believe God allows us creativity. After all, God Herself is a lovely creative. She's made us and invites us to remake ourselves with Her. 39 years later, I took her up on her offer.

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Even as I transition, I don't find myself or my existence as special or revolutionary. I know people like to celebrate the trans body as a living, breathing entity against imperially gendered order but really, I'm not that important. I worry that those well-intentioned arguments are just doing the State's work for it: redefining my existence vis-a-vis how my government wants to define it. I'm capable of doing it on my own.

However, I have felt a specific connection to God in the process of transition. One I did not expect and one that has only emerged with time. I figured transitioning would be a paint-by-the-numbers experience, but She's turned it into actual art. There is a beautiful physicality by which She has led me in this process: Her palm over my hand, seeking, guiding, showing the femininity I had long since buried. 

There's intentionality in how I describe this for the enduring image I had of myself in my early days of transition was finding my body in the dirt. I imagined myself brushing my hands over Allison in a loving manner, cleaning the dirt off of her face, gently bringing her to life, reminiscent of the more holistic Creation narrative (Genesis 2) as opposed to its patriarchal supremacist counterpart (Genesis 1). 

With each act of learning womanhood, I have wiped more dirt off of my face. Step-by-faithful-step I have worked to find myself. I'm still not comfortable in wigs but I at least know what I like about them. I'm still figuring out eyeshadow but it looks good when applied (along with eyeliner). Lipstick helps. Concealer is next. And there are other things. Tops, skirts, perhaps boots and perfume. All of it designed to draw appreciation below and admiration above. 

It's important for me to work on my face as much as possible. Most of my dysphoria is centered there. It's not that it's an ugly face; I happen to think it served me well in my Guy Days. But it's never felt like me, especially around my cheeks, mouth and jaw. I can't do much about that short term. But I can take care of my skin. 

And no act of beautification has felt more divine than my skincare routine.

Creams, oils, exfoliation. The instructions are specific like words in a bulletin, like notes in a hymnal. My T-Zone is the space for worship. And skincare becomes liturgy. With each wash, pass, application, with the burning of dead skin and the resulting softness, I praise God with my work. The work of my person. Wiping away the dirt I had buried myself with for so long. Looking at the glow afterwards, trying not to cry, not because there's anything wrong with crying but because I just want to see me clearly again for the first time. 

And it overwhelms. 

I'm so beautiful and imperfect and familiar and different. I'm becoming. The acts of application, repetition, timing are sacred work. It's God's hand over me, it's my hands working. It's making myself and worshipping God at the same time. 

Everyone is different in what they want out of their transitions. I'm still figuring that out for me. I've come a long way. I've got a long way to go. But what I do know is that I'm not going back. I'm going to keep getting better at this and finding ways, for me and for God. 

Clothes, hair, makeup. Maybe some day voice training and working on a feminine gait, lilt, mannerism more intentionally. Coming Out on that glorious day. Finally being free.

There is no plateau in transition. We are always being made new. Even if I some day "pass" by the world's standards, that doesn't mean God is done with me. That simply means we have the next step. 

In my bathroom, after the excitement of the day and before my devotional, I stand at my sink and stare at her. 

God at my shoulder. I take a deep breath and open the cabinet. 

I review the instructions as if I don't know them already by heart. 

Just as I know the Nicene Creed, the Words of Institution, and the Confession and Forgiveness by heart, I still read them off the page because the moment will overwhelm me. 

You are in the presence of God, beloved.

I wash my face. 

I pick up the cream. 

The work continues. 

Liturgy.