Dear jealous creative, what if this was the answer all along?

At the risk of sounding like a cliché, I gotta tell you something.

I had planned to write Part Two of my 3-part series recapping my Edinburgh Writing Retreat this week, but a different topic has been gnawing away at me, and usually that’s my cue from the Spirit.

Now, before I get going, I need to get all of the stereotypical online comparison clichés out of the way so that we can establish a few things: firstly, yes, I am aware that this topic has been done to death; and so therefore, yes, I am also aware that everything I’m about to say has been said before in one way or another, though hopefully I’ll be encouraging you to dig deeper than the platitudes and/or approach it from a new angle.

So here we go. Cliché list forthcoming:

• “A rising tide lifts all boats.”

• “Let’s focus on an abundance mindset, not a scarcity mindset.”

• “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

• “Stay in your lane.”

• “God never tells us any story but our own.” (My personal favourite as a paraphrase from Aslan).

• *Insert any that I have forgotten here.*

Jealousy is something I’m keenly familiar with – like an old, toxic friendship that I can’t seem to quit. In fact, back when I used to use the Enneagram to explain my personality, it was the Enneagram 4’s description of struggling with envy (particularly the envy of other artists and the beauty that they create) that first made me feel “seen.”

I used to dread even going to gigs (concerts, for my American friends) because I was so envious of the artist on stage that I struggled to lose myself in the music and actually enjoy the songs (songs which I specifically chose – even paid money – to listen to!)

And it’s important to clarify here that it wasn’t the fame of the artist which I envied – no, it was their art. I was almost angry that I couldn’t participate in the creation of something that beautiful. I’ve since abandoned my Enneatype as an explanation for this phenomenon, instead digging deeper into what it means to be made in God’s image and yet fractured. And surprise surprise, I have found the words of C.S. Lewis to be a far more helpful description of this thing which I truly believe all of us experience in one flavour or another:

“We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words — to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.”
- C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory¹

The first time I read that quote, I felt an invisible force rise from my gut and lodge itself in my throat. Yes, I thought. This is IT.

About a year ago, I wrote an essay detailing how I used to feel guilty about my desperate need for beauty – not just physical beauty but holistic, aesthetic beauty. Living in one of the biggest vanity capitals of the Western world (Southern California), I recoiled at the way in which beauty had been commodified like a product which could be re-packaged and sold back to the highest bidder (or the most willing volunteer to go under the knife). And yet, I could not reconcile my hatred towards this corruption of beauty with my simultaneous need for beauty – a need so deep that it manifested itself as an envy which was powerful enough to rob me of the enjoyment of beauty in the first place.

The result of such a strange inner conflict was a cocktail of guilt, shame, and festering bitterness: I resented my need for beauty – my envy of it, my longing for it – just as much as I resented those who had commodified beauty for their own means. God has since revealed deeper truths to me about the nature of beauty (which I talk about in that essay), but even so, this struggle has been a lifelong battle which has stolen so much of my joy and ability to appreciate the art of others. I believe it to be a tiny pocket of my life in which the enemy has taken great pride.

But I digress.

The reason that Lewis’ words hit me so is because he described the sensation I’d been wrestling with my entire life in a way which finally made sense of it all.

Last month, the HarperCollins team allowed me the honour of guest writing an essay for their Official C.S. Lewis Substack, and I even had the opportunity to choose which of Lewis’ works I’d like to focus on. I picked Surprised by Joy because I truly believe that it is this book – a book in which Lewis traces the journey of his conversion to Christianity – that connects all of the dots in the rest of his collected works.

From his essays to his novels, we often see Lewis wrestling with the concept of beauty, and Surprised by Joy tells us why: because “Joy” itself is described as the sensation of utter captivation by a beauty which transcends this world, a beauty which is so rich and familiar yet so ethereal and heavenly that Lewis himself came to faith in Christ on the basis of having experienced even a glimpse of it. This “glimpse” plunged him into a cycle of longing in a way that he’d never longed for anything else in his life – even before he understood what it was that he was longing for.

Put simply, and in a fantastic essay by Isaac Angel Meza, beauty was not (and is not) some sort of subjective, elusive, abstract entity: Lewis realised that “Beauty is a person.”²

I strongly encourage you to grab a cuppa and read Isaac’s brilliant essay if you want the full intellectual, philosophical, and quite frankly poetic breakdown of this concept, but I’m just going to cut to the chase here: the Christian God literally is beauty. We’re not describing Him as beautiful. We’re not even saying that He created beauty. He literally IS beauty itself.

And so if we keep that fact in mind, Lewis’ words from The Weight of Glory suddenly help us make sense of, like, everything.

When I see a piece of art which is objectively stunning, I truly believe that it is like staring at a mirror which is reflecting a shred of God’s radiance through our creative worship of Him. I believe this so deeply that it is literally one of the core values of my brand and my business: creativity is an act of worship, and through it, we experience wholeness. Because when we make beauty (and experience beauty) we are exercising a part of God’s image in us and thereby re-acquainting ourselves with a tiny, tiny piece of what this world was like before the Fall (of what we were like before the Fall).

How? Ohhh friend, I’m glad you asked.

This used to be my home in the Peak District. How I miss it so.

Let’s get meta here for a sec: when we experience beauty, it often evokes a visceral response. It engages our bodies and our souls. We do not merely want to behold it. If you’re anything like me, you experience a deeper ache, just as Lewis describes, “to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.”

Now re-read that quote, and replace “beauty” with the word “God.”

The Fall robbed us of the ability to sit in the full, undiluted presence of the One who made us. The veil drew itself closed, separating our broken, sinful selves from the full, physical presence of the Almighty; and humanity has existed in a hunger, a longing, ever since – not merely to “Look upon the beauty of the Lord” but to be united with Him, to receive Him into ourselves, to bathe in Him, to be ONE with Him.

Because guess what? That was the plan all along. Not to be God, of course, but to be so deeply intertwined with Him that every hunger, every need – whether it be for beauty or safety or belonging or comfort or happiness (all things which stir our jealousy when we look at the lives of others) – was met before we were even aware that the need existed in the first place. His undiluted presence offers such an abundance of everything that we could ever need or desire that in His midst, we wouldn’t conceive of what lack is, let alone experience the symptoms of it.

But alas, in this chapter of Eternity, we cannot bathe in His undiluted presence as we ought.

And this lack, I suggest, becomes the source of our jealousy. Because in our fallen state, our longings (which themselves are proof of our desire to be in God’s presence) have been corrupted, and such corruption prevents us from experiencing the mirror images of His beauty in a way which draws us nearer to Him. Instead, our longings have us at each other’s throats, desiring that image of God in our neighbour rather than simply enjoying it.

I’m convinced that the main reason that we experience jealousy is because we were not designed to be in God’s diluted presence; we were meant to walk with Him and talk with Him in His fullness in the Garden. Having to be physically separated from His total, radiant perfection has revealed just how ill-equipped we are to remember (and trust) that God is who He says He is and that He loves us the way He says He loves us.

Because we forget that even now, in this broken state of things where we are separated from His full presence until we receive our resurrected bodies, EVEN NOW, He is able to satisfy the longings of our souls. If only we would stop staring at our neighbour and fix our gaze back on Him.

Jealousy is merely a byproduct of our forgetfulness, I think. Because why else would He spend the majority of the Bible reminding His people of who He is?³

I realise there’s nuance here, and it’s worth noting that I’m speaking specifically to the jealousy experienced by creatives who long for what another artist might have (or what they might create): a book deal, a gallery exhibition, a beautiful singing voice, a sense of clarity with their art, a body built for dance. Whatever.

And I know that there is jealousy which extends to other, deeper things that go beyond works of art: a single person envying a married person; a person who hates where they live envying a person who lives somewhere dreamy; a childless woman envying a mother; a mother who is bogged down by exhaustion envying the freedom of a childfree woman; a sick person envying a healthy person; a spouse in a toxic marriage envying a friend in a healthy marriage; a child with abusive parents envying a child with good parents; a person who had a dream but is watching that dream be lived out by someone else; a person born into poverty envying a person born into wealth; a person who struggles with body image envying someone who is admired for their beauty.

I mean to do justice to those experiencing the complex tapestry of emotion that comes with envy, but I also realise that even this list is not exhaustive. And yet every single example is proof that we were not designed to be in a world where our needs are not met. God made us for Eden. Never forget that.

Jealousy is a deep, multifaceted, and painful thing. It can feel like a personal failure. It almost certainly feels like a grief. And ultimately, all of those clichés which I listed at the beginning of this essay may be true, but the truth of them doesn’t dull the ache of the longing-turned-resentment that takes root in our jealous hearts.

Still, I do believe, in spite of all this, that there is freedom from jealousy, or at least, a path to freedom. I hesitated writing on this topic at all because the “solution” I’m about to share feels like a trite platitude (so not on brand for me) – and it is, if you only take it at its surface level. So I encourage you: please, go deeper. And know that what I’m saying is said from the position of a person who has known jealousy: I have envied friends whose fathers aren’t addicts, friends whose health doesn’t compromise their ability to walk, friends whose early years of dating their partners weren’t sucked up by depression and Home Office requirements and paperwork and thousands of pounds in immigration fees. Still, too, I acknowledge that I have been the object of others’ envy. My move to the UK, my having an amazing mother and a loving husband, even my ability to write has prompted comments of jealousy from others. This isn’t a boast. It’s simply a fact. None of us are immune.

And yet…

I wonder, sometimes, if the overuse (and misuse) of Psalm 37:4 has numbed us to the truth of it:

Funnily enough, if you read the full Psalm, verse 4 actually sits in the context of advising us how to combat… what’s that, ladies and gentlemen? Oh yes. Jealousy.

This particular scripture was taught in Sunday school, and most of us little Evangelical kids took it to mean that if we were Christians, God would be our personal genie and give us what we wanted. Some of us may have unknowingly carried that belief into adulthood until the cruelty of this world kicked us in the teeth and forced us to see where we’d gone wrong in our theology.

But I invite you to revisit this verse now, bearing in mind all that we’ve said about what it means for God to BE the beauty, to BE the fulfilment of everything we could ever want or desire.

Psalm 37:4 isn’t telling us to delight ourselves in the Lord so that we’ll receive the fulfilment of our dreams; no, it’s telling us that He IS the fulfilment of the dream. Delighting in Him IS to be satisfied. Delighting in Him IS to see our desires handed to us, for He is the only one who can meet every need, and through the person of Christ, He has already offered us Himself.

This truth feels beautifully illustrated in Christ’s speech in John 15:

You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you. Remain in me, and I in you. Just as a branch is unable to produce fruit by itself unless it remains on the vine, neither can you unless you remain in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. The one who remains in me and I in him produces much fruit, because you can do nothing without me… My Father is glorified by this: that you produce much fruit and prove to be my disciples… I have told you these things so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete.
John 15: 3-5, 8, 11

I’m struck by that last line, verse 11: I have told you these things so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete.

As I’ve been reading John’s gospel recently, I’ve noticed just how often Jesus reminds us that he’s only here to do the Father’s will. Jesus exemplifies humanity in total holiness by keeping his eyes fixed on the Father. And we’re told that this man, who never seeks to do his own will, is filled with joy. So when he invites us to “remain in him,” he’s inviting us to, if you like, become “united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.”

Because guess what? We are literally called the Body of Christ. We’ve been given the Divine invitation to be unified to God through the work of the Son on the cross, and in doing so, our oneness with the Son prompts us to fix our eyes on the Father the same way that he did. I believe that this is, at least in part, what it means to “remain in him” as the vine to which we become the branches.

And when we remain in him, we are totally unmoved by what the person over there is doing. No, we don’t have time to be jealous because we are too focused on the Father and what fruit He has asked us to bear. Suddenly, Christ’s joy is in us, and our joy is made complete. Joy is a fruit of the Spirit, and we’re promised to yield MUCH of this fruit (and then some) when we remain IN Christ. To be IN him is to do what he did. And what is it that he did which was so powerful in combating jealousy? He sought only to do the Father’s will.

Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.
Psalm 37:4

The one who remains in me and I in him produces much fruit.
John 15:5

I have told you these things so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete.
John 15:11

[We want] to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it...
C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

I guess this is my long, wordy way of saying that the only salve to the pain of jealousy is to redirect our focus on who God is (Beauty itself), on what He’s doing in our lives (producing very real fruit as He unites us to Himself through the Son) so much so that we lose ourselves in His abundance to the point that nothing else matters (because honestly, nothing else does). You could call it by any of the aforementioned clichés I noted at the beginning:

• Recognising that the work He does in the Body’s life blesses all of us as we are unified with Him (that whole rising tide thing);

• Moving from a scarcity mindset to an abundance mindset (because to look at God is to behold abundance);

• Recognising that looking to others (comparison) was never where the source of our joy would come from (because Christ gives us the road map, and we know where it leads);

• Moving from “having” to stay in our lane to wanting to stay in our lane because our own personal pursuit of God becomes so completely captivating;

• Feeling suddenly free, rather than restrained, by the fact that a cosmic God would look through all time and space and choose to hand craft for us no other story but our own.

But really, it all boils down to this: the person of the Trinity is so deep, so beautiful, so loving, so good, so true, so vast, so utterly compelling that our pursuit of Him – our real, true, insatiable pursuit of Him – causes everything else we could ever envy in this life to pale in comparison to His mere existence.

If we truly learned to want what we already have, we’d find that what lies in our possession is a personal relationship with the Creator of the entire Universe; the One who was and is and is to come, from everlasting to everlasting; the Author of all love, all beauty, all comfort, all art, all purity, all safety, all wholeness, all goodness, all truth, all. Just all. We have, quite literally, everything already.

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A few months ago, I found out that a friend of mine had been handed a dream that I have personally wanted for so long that I can’t remember not longing for it. My immediate reaction was such extreme jealousy that I actually burst into tears. My second reaction was shame, for I love this friend so deeply that I hated myself for begrudging them anything. But my final reaction? After praying and talking through it and looking to God for the truth of the matter? Peace. Utter, total, real peace. (Funny, I seem to remember that being another fruit, no?)⁴

And also, a hilarious epiphany: I realised that the dream they are living out is something that I deeply want some day, but I don’t actually want it now. Because when I paused to think about what God has asked of me in this season and what He’s doing in my life to facilitate His own request, I’m in awe. I’m woo’ed. I’m delighted.

As I truly seek my Father’s heart, I’m romanced by my own life. Because wherever I desire Him, He offers Himself to me. And whatever way in which He chooses to draw me near IS the most compelling, satisfying state of affairs in which I might find myself.

I don’t mean that poetically or abstractly. I mean it practically. Never in my life have I felt closer to God. My life has not been easy (if you’ve been around The Battle Cry for any length of time, you’ll know that), but it has been so utterly and completely fulfilling. Because I just keep chasing Him with everything I’ve got, and He keeps letting Himself be found by me. I am doing work that satisfies me beyond my wildest dreams, but it is work I only stumbled upon because I wanted to serve Him. He guided me to the desires of my heart because I delighted in Him. And suddenly, as I’m reminded of where to fix my gaze, the jealousy in my heart dissolves.

I’m talking totally and completely gone, guys. My friend is living out my longest running dream, and I am nothing but excited for them; nothing but delighted with my own life – to the point that I don’t even WANT what they have. I want what God wants for ME. Not from a place of “ooh look how holy of a Christian I am.” (Lolz. I’m so not). No, this deep peace, this deep contentment, is fruit of the Spirit which stems from a place of “Wow. I didn’t think this was possible. He really did mean it, didn’t He? When He said that it was for freedom that Christ came to set us free.”

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Dear jealous creative, I invite you to this, and only this: Lose yourself. Release your grip. Rest in the grandeur. Allow yourself to awe. By that, I mean turn from the person upon whom you’ve placed your envy and instead fix your eyes on the endless abyss of goodness and beauty that is your God. I cannot urge you to anything, or anyone, who is better equipped to satisfy you with a wholeness so deep that you might, dare I say it, even forget what you were jealous of in the first place.

All my love,

P.S. If one of the longings of your heart has been to write a book about what God has done in your life, but you have no idea where to start with the planning of said book, you should know that I’ll be re-launching my writing course, Pick Up Your Sword, at the end of this month. You can find out more about the course here, and you can join the waitlist here to get an early bird discount when the cart opens.

1. Lewis, C. S. The Weight of Glory: A Collection of Lewis's Most Moving Addresses. HarperCollins, 2013.

2. https://substack.com/@isaacangelmeza/p-153991983

3. Variations of the phrase “I am the Lord” appear over 150 times in Scripture. Looks to me like we need a lot of reminding.

4. Galatians 5:22-23