The emphasis on self-care is intense. It requires time, money, and a form of ritualistic devotion. There is something deeply religious about it—the repetitive acts, the hope of transformation, the communal participation, the promise of reward. People wait for the right products to arrive, follow trends faithfully, seek counsel from beauty professionals, and share testimonies of what worked and what didn’t. Beauty here is more than skin deep—it is a way of life. It says something about who you are, how seriously you take yourself, and how much you respect others. A polished look translates as competence. A well-toned face signals self-respect. To look tired or undone is to risk being interpreted as lazy, careless, or socially unaware. While there is a celebration of aesthetics, it often comes with unspoken rules, exclusions, and pressures that dig deep into the human psyche.
As a Christian living in this beauty world, I find myself simultaneously fascinated and burdened. The effort that goes into skincare and personal grooming can be admirable. It reminds me that humans are created with a desire for beauty, for wholeness, for care. God made the world beautiful, after all. The flowers of the field, the colors of the sky, the intricate design of the human face—all speak of a Creator who delights in form and function, in wonder and detail. To care for the body, to cleanse and moisturize and protect it, is not in itself vain. It can be an act of gratitude. The body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, Paul tells us in his letter to the Corinthians. It is not to be abused, neglected, or treated with contempt. Cleanliness and order are not worldly inventions—they are echoes of a divine order, a God who declared creation “very good.”
But as with all good things, beauty can become distorted when it is pursued for its own sake or exalted above all else. In Korea’s beauty world, I sense a quiet desperation beneath the surface. The longing for acceptance, the fear of judgment, the anxiety of not being good enough without the right concealer or the perfect lighting. Beauty, once a gift to be enjoyed, turns into a standard to be met, a burden to be carried. Social media platforms are filled with curated faces, angles perfected to conceal rather than reveal. Filters edit out not only flaws but authenticity. A person becomes an image, and that image becomes the reality others expect you to perform every day.
The language of perfection is seductive. In church, we speak of sanctification, the process of becoming holy, becoming more like Christ. In beauty culture, sanctification is replaced with beautification, but the underlying drive is similar: to improve, to ascend, to transcend one’s current state. Yet while sanctification is a spiritual journey empowered by grace, beautification in this culture often demands personal striving with no end in sight. There is always a new product to try, a new flaw to correct, a younger standard to emulate. Time becomes an enemy. Aging is not a natural process but a condition to be resisted. Wrinkles, pores, discoloration—they are not signs of a life lived but signs of failure. And so the ritual continues, day after day, mask after mask.
In such a context, I am drawn again to the figure of Jesus. Isaiah prophesied that the Messiah would have “no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.” This is a striking description, particularly in a world that equates beauty with value. Jesus, the incarnate Son of God, did not come clothed in aesthetic superiority. He did not captivate crowds with radiant skin or striking features. His glory was not skin-deep. He touched lepers, ate with sinners, wept openly, bled visibly. His body bore wounds, and after the resurrection, he still carried the scars. The resurrected Christ was not airbrushed or filtered. He was glorified, but not in the way our world defines it. There is something profoundly countercultural in his embodiment—a beauty that embraces brokenness, a glory that dignifies the wounded.
This vision of beauty speaks to a deeper human need. Beneath the layers of foundation and the careful routines, what we long for is to be seen, known, and loved. Not in our filtered versions, but in our full humanity. We want someone to look at us—not through the lens of societal standards or peer comparisons—but with the eyes of grace. This is what Jesus offered the woman at the well, the woman with the hemorrhage, the woman caught in adultery. He saw them. Truly saw them. Not just their sins or their secrets, but their souls. His gaze did not shame them into hiding; it invited them into healing.
It is hard to rest in such love in a society that measures worth by outward perfection. But the gospel offers this radical rest. It says you are beloved, even when you are blemished. You are known, even in your imperfection. You are beautiful, not because of what you apply to your skin, but because you bear the image of God. This is not a call to abandon beauty practices altogether. Rather, it is an invitation to reframe them. To remember that care for the body must flow from an understanding of the body’s sacredness, not its shame. Skincare can be worshipful when it is rooted in peace, not panic; in gratitude, not anxiety.
As I walk through this beauty world, I find myself having to guard my heart. It is easy to slip into comparisons, to feel inadequate next to the glowing skin and sleek silhouettes. But I return, again and again, to the Word that tells me I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I remember that the fruit of the Spirit is not flawless skin or youthful glow, but love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. These are the qualities that reflect the beauty of Christ. These are the features that endure.
I also find that being a Christian in this context calls for discernment and compassion. It is tempting to judge the world of beauty as vain or superficial, but such judgment often ignores the pain and longing behind the practices. For many, skincare is not just about appearance—it is a form of coping, a small act of control in a chaotic world. It can be a mother’s way of caring for herself after sleepless nights. A student’s way of managing stress. A teenager’s way of carving identity. These routines, though shaped by culture, can be deeply human. To dismiss them outright is to miss an opportunity to understand. Instead, I ask: how can we bring grace into these spaces? How can we speak of a beauty that does not fade, a love that does not depend on performance?
Perhaps part of the answer lies in living as signs of another kingdom. Not in flaunting neglect or rejecting appearance altogether, but in modeling a different relationship with the body. One that embraces care without obsession. One that values wholeness over perfection. One that celebrates aging as growth, not decline. One that remembers that our bodies are not just canvases to be perfected but instruments to serve, temples to be stewarded, and vessels through which God’s love flows.
In the end, I am reminded that all flesh is like grass, and all its glory like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of the Lord endures forever. This is the truth that anchors me. This is the beauty that lasts. Not the beauty of glass skin, but the beauty of a tender heart. Not the glow of youth, but the glow of a life surrendered to grace. In Christ, we are being transformed—from glory to glory—not into the image of cultural ideals, but into the likeness of our Savior.
So I walk on, among the beauty shops and glowing signs, among the men and women who have labored over their routines and curated their appearances. I see them not as vain or shallow, but as fellow image-bearers, searching—whether they know it or not—for something more. And I pray that in me, in us, they might glimpse a beauty that cannot be bottled or bought. A beauty that comes from being seen, known, and loved by the One who formed us in the secret place, who called us good, and who even now is making all things new.
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