Starving in Silence: How the Church Can Care for Those with Eating Disorders

For months, my eating disorder interrupted Communion.

I sat in the pew quietly trying to calculate how I’d work the calories of my bread and cup into my increasingly restricted diet, which was, in fact, doing the job I’d given it. But as my body shrank, so did my capacity for joy, fellowship, and meaningful relationships.

You likely have someone just like me in your congregation today. An estimated 28.8 million Americans, or roughly 8 percent of the population, will experience an eating disorder in their lifetime, with an even greater number experiencing symptoms but not getting diagnosed. Despite their prevalence and severity, these struggles often remain hidden and unaddressed, especially within the church.

When I was struggling, a friend noticed what I could no longer hide. What followed was a season in which my church stepped in, ultimately reshaping my relationship with myself, deepening my connection to the local church, and drawing me closer to the Lord.

Here are four practical ways the church can support individuals living with eating disorders.

1. Practice hospitality.

In a culture marked by disembodied digital loneliness and screen-perpetuated isolation, the church can offer hospitality and care through the ordinary practices of shared life. This is a tangible way for Christians to actively participate in the communal life for which we were designed. Eating disorders distort people’s relationships with their own bodies, and they also may make ordinary experiences, like sharing a meal, feel complicated and overwhelming.

Hospitality might mean inviting someone battling disordered eating to a meal, not drawing attention to what (or how slowly) he or she eats, and offering consistent presence without scrutiny.

In a culture marked by disembodied digital loneliness and screen-perpetuated isolation, the church can offer hospitality and care through the ordinary rhythms of shared life.

For months, I gathered with friends around tables, at birthday celebrations, and through unexpected snowstorms as I relearned what it meant to feast on both food and the fullness of life in Christ.

This vision of hospitality extends beyond merely entertaining guests or hosting events but involves embracing a posture of meaningful connection and shared life, even amid the hard, messy stuff. It’s using the bodies God gave us to actively care for—and be present with—another embodied person. Those of us who know that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14) are uniquely poised to offer care that’s not only spoken but lived.

2. Speak truth to shame.

Eating disorders feed on shame, thrive in secrecy, and are sustained by experiences of contempt toward oneself. Sufferers often despise their bodies, lack of control, or perceived failure to measure up.

Following the fall of man, Adam and Eve go from “naked and . . . not ashamed” (Gen. 2:25) to feeling the need to cover themselves, hide, and withdraw relationally (3:7–13). Shame isn’t merely an internal emotional experience but a disruption of relational connection with God and others.

The antidote to shame isn’t perfection. We don’t live in a pre-fall world anymore. But God gives us another way out of shame: being fully known and still fully loved. The gospel of Christ alone can offer this remarkable gift. “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom. 5:8).

The church can also demonstrate that love. My church community shared in both the triumphs and the uncertainties of recovery—from celebrating the courage it took to eat a burger again to laughing with me when I learned that orzo was pasta and not rice as I’d long assumed.

As Tim Keller wrote in The Meaning of Marriage,

To be fully known and truly loved is, well, a lot like being loved by God. It is what we need more than anything. It liberates us from pretense . . . and fortifies us for any difficulty life can throw at us.

I’d add this: It frees us from the shame that gives eating disorders their power.

3. Increase mental health literacy among church leadership.

For many experiencing mental health struggles, like disordered eating, the church isn’t a last resort. It’s the first. One study suggests that around 25 percent of those with mental illness sought help first from a clergy member—more than those who solicited initial help from a psychiatrist or physician.

God gives us another way out of shame: being fully known and still fully loved.

Unfortunately, many church leaders don’t know how to respond when met with this information. Well-intentioned care from leadership can miss the depth or complexity of what individuals may be facing.

Pastors and other church leaders can increase their mental health literacy by pursuing basic education, partnering with service providers, and seeking to learn from the experiences of those they serve. They should also seek out others with professional or lived experience with disordered eating, perhaps connecting them with the individual in your church facing this struggle. Those with eating disorders often need professional medical/mental health assistance in addition to church support. Church leaders should be prepared to provide recommendations and encouragement for this kind of professional help, in addition to their own counsel and care.

4. Commit to the long haul.

Recovery from an eating disorder is rarely quick or linear, with the average individual needing several years for substantial or sustained recovery. But self-aware Christians have a taste of the remarkable depths of God’s patience. Every day, we struggle against our flesh, often caving in the face of temptations we’ve battled for years, and yet, God never runs out of new mercies.

Those who have received such marvelous and patient grace from God are called to extend it to one another—to be patient, bearing with one another in love (Eph. 4:2).

God Can Use Your Church to Change Lives

As Christ’s people, we can reflect him by caring for the suffering—noticing unseen hurt and responding with love, wisdom, compassion, and steadfastness in the long work of restoration.

I once did mental math at church, trying to manage a struggle no one could see. I’m not the only one who has sat there, counting the calories in communion, avoiding pizza at members’ meetings, or slipping out before coffee hour, afraid someone might ask, “How are you?”

Yet the care from my church community during this struggle changed my life, drawing me into a deeper, richer relationship with Christ. For those struggling with eating disorders in your congregation, I pray this will be their testimony too.