Content Note: Before beginning this sermon, I want to share a content warning. Much of this sermon focuses on eating disorders, particularly anorexia. I know that this can be a challenging topic for many by either personal testimony or because people we love have suffered from these diseases. As such, I first want to say thank you for entering into this difficult space with me and for allowing me to be vulnerable with you. Secondly, let us take a moment to prepare ourselves emotionally.
Let us pray. May the words of my lips and the meditation of ours hearts be pleasing to you, O Lord, our God. May they do honor to the saints who came before. And may I speak in the name of the Mother, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. So I wasn’t sure where to start with the sermon… I wanted some clever build up, to exegete this text well, to be the “perfect seminarian…” but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. Why? Because 3 years ago tomorrow my friend and roommate died from a disease that first consumed her mind and then consumed her body. And, truly, I’m still grieving…and learning to grieve. So I stand before you today in my grief, offering this sermon as an imperfect way towards continued healing. More importantly, offering this sermon as a testimony to Elizabeth’s life and her continued legacy; how even in her death from her physical transformation, God was – and is – present. Elizabeth died of Anorexia – an eating disorder that commanded her to restrict the number of calories she could eat each day because her mind told her that her body was ugly, unworthy, and unattractive. A mental illness that commanded her to restrict her caloric intake so much so that she did not have the nutrients needed to sustain her body. A disease that literally transformed her from a healthy, young woman with a promising future in psychology and an incredible gift for music to nothing more than skin and bones. So when I read our Scripture on the transfiguration for today, I cannot help but think of Elizabeth:
The transfiguration tends to be a story about Christ’s divinity revealed through the transformation of his face and clothing into a radiant, sparkling white beam of light. In this story, we receive confirmation from God that Christ is, indeed, the Divine Parent’s son. It has parallels with the story of Moses descending the mountain in Exodus (Exodus 34:29-35), face shining from God’s glory, thus implicitly conveying that Christ is the fulfillment of the Law. Jesus, clearly, is the focus of our story. He was transfigured, as Matthew and Mark write; or, as Luke in our Gospel for today writes, Jesus’s appearance changed. He does not use this word “transfigured.” Rather, Luke then makes the distinction that Jesus didn’t just undergo some internal transformation on the mountain. No. His entire body morphed into something else. Such was the case with Elizabeth. At her healthiest, Elizabeth was vibrant. She sparkled. Her deep blue eyes shone brighter than anything I had seen before. Her operatic voice filled a room. She appeared strong, though her body small. But then, in the words of Luke, her disease changed her; it altered her appearance and her spirit. Anorexia turned Elizabeth from the young woman with a promising future to a statistic that comprised the 30 million people in the US who have an eating disorder (NEDA). It seemed impossible that her body could get any smaller, but it did. Elizabeth and Jesus were transformed externally, but there were also internal transfigurations in both stories. Though Jesus is the focus of our narrative today, we cannot overlook the friends who witnessed Jesus undergo this physical alteration. What would they have been feeling? We read in Luke’s version of the transfiguration that Peter and his peers were “terrified” by Jesus’s transformation (9:34) …so much so that they kept silent (9:36). Silent. The fear they felt as a result of watching their friend physically change before their eyes silenced them. Just like my fear from watching my friend physically change before my eyes silenced me. Because of my fear, I did not talk about or to Elizabeth after her parents pulled her out of school and admitted her to the hospital. Because of my fear, I refused to even consider how I was supposed to still show love to Elizabeth even after she left school. Because of my fear, I rebelled against talking to anyone about how I was truly feeling. My confusion left me terrified; and my fear left me silent. I can only imagine that Peter, James, and John must have felt something similar. Yet, a quick search on this word “terrified” reveals that fear comes up in the Old Testament and the Gospels primarily in reference to commands or acts ordained by God. The Israelites feared coming towards Moses when he shone with God’s glory in Exodus (Ex. 34:29-35). The Israelites were afraid when Israel’s destruction at the hands of God was prophesied in Jeremiah and 2Kings (2 Ki. 25:26, Jer. 41:18). Nature fears the sight of God in Psalm 77:16. The crowds experienced fear after witnessing Christ’s healing miracles in Matthew, Mark, and Luke (Matthew 9:8, Mar. 5:15, Luk. 8:35). In Mark, the women were afraid when they went to the tomb and Jesus was gone (Mar. 16:8). And in our reading for today, the disciples were terrified after observing Christ change. For each of these events, fear was felt after experiencing God’s glory. Maybe, then, we need to listen to our fear because, perhaps, it could be a sign that the Holy Spirit is at work. For this reason, I think it important to consider who else may have been transfigured, or brought into a more spiritual state, as a result of Christ’s physical transformation. Because friends, our encounters and experiences impact our hearts. At least, this was the case for me in knowing Elizabeth. And, I’d wager, this was the case for Peter and the disciples. Though the disciples kept silent immediately after Jesus’s transformation, we know that they did not stay silent forever. Rather, after descending the mountain and allowing their fear to quell, they were commissioned to tell the world about Christ. Their hearts were transfigured after watching Christ physically change from human to Divine – so much so that they devoted their lives to spreading the Good News about Jesus. I can now say that this is my reaction to Elizabeth’s death, too. Elizabeth’s transformation terrified me. As an 18 year old, I had no idea what was happening and, much like Peter in offering to make Jesus, Elijah, and Moses dwellings, had no idea how to respond. Yet, three years later, I am beginning to make sense of why Elizabeth was placed in my life. Through witnessing her physical change and failing multiple times along the way, my heart was transfigured. Elizabeth’s death became for me the impetus I needed to shine God’s glory onto others. To never let anyone fall through the cracks unnoticed. To have the faith to look at someone and say, “You are God’s Child, God’s Chosen…” Jesus’s transformation changed Peter. Elizabeth’s death changed me. Yet, the transfiguration of Peter, James, and John’s hearts was only possible because they remained awake, as we read in vv. 32. By remaining awake, they experienced Jesus’s physical transformation first hand and enabled this transformation to transfigure them, to bring them closer to God. What would happen if we were awake? What would we see? Would the changes we observe move from being sources of fear, to instead being sources of comfort that the Holy Spirit is at work? This, I believe is where Grace enters our story of the transfiguration. Peter was given God’s grace. God’s grace to process what he observed, grieve the changes he perceived in his friend, and reflect on all that occurred. Grace, because God knew that, eventually, Peter and the disciples would share all that they had seen and heard about God’s glory with the entire world. Elizabeth’s middle name was Grace. Through her transformation, God taught me what it means to be given and to give Grace. Through all the changes we observe in the world, we’re given the opportunity to witness how Christ transfigures us and imparts grace on our souls…almost, sacramentally. We may not be able to understand what is happening, we may be afraid, but we can find comfort in having faith that the Holy Spirit is at work. Thus, there is hope in change if we remain awake to all the encounters of this world. Change may hurt and it may be confusing, but change can shine God’s glory and inspire the transfiguration of all who bear witness to this transformation. But, in order to talk about how change has the potential to transfigure our hearts – or move them to a more beautiful state rooted in Christ – we need to talk about the real, hard realities that bring about change. We, as the leaders of the church, need to talk about mental illnesses, in general, and eating disorders, in particular, from the pulpit. We cannot remain silent, otherwise every 62 minutes another person will continue to die from an eating disorder because eating disorders have the highest mortality rates of all mental illnesses (ANAD). And this isn’t just a white, straight woman’s disease.
Eating disorders impact people of all identities (NEDA). So educating ourselves, looking out for one another, and giving voice to this silent killer is all of our responsibilities. I can’t help but laugh that this week, the week in which we observe Elizabeth’s anniversary, is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. I also couldn’t help but laugh when I read that our assigned text was the transfiguration. God truly does have a sick, ironic sense of humor. Yet, this irony is exactly where I encountered God… Because friends, I had no idea where to start this sermon. But I know where it ends. It ends with me proclaiming that the transformations that we observe can serve as lenses to bear witness to the Holy Spirit at work in our world. A witness which then enables internal transfigurations of our hearts so that we are drawn closer to God. Is this a perfect solution to grief? By no means. I am still grieving; still learning. I am still wrestling with how God could permit a vibrant, intelligent, and talented 21-year-old to die – even if her death taught me how to better be with others. But, this is how I’ve made sense of Elizabeth’s death for my own life. Finding Christ in Elizabeth’s transformation is how I acknowledged my shame, guilt, and anger and used these emotions as motivation to allow God to transfigure my heart and not let Elizabeth’s story die, in hopes that other people will not die from the same disease. For me, this is the power of the transfiguration. The transfiguration, therefore, is an outward sign of inner grace at work. Yes, Christ is at the center of the narrative who underwent the visible transformation. However, I believe that Peter, too, underwent a transfiguration of the heart from watching in fear as his friend changed before his eyes. Thus, change – no matter how painful – is an opportunity to be drawn closer to Christ, hear the comforting voice of God the Mother, and see the Holy Spirit at work. This is Elizabeth’s legacy. Amen. |