Love & Instincts at the Tomb

An Easter sermon on the power of love to change our instincts

Luke 24:1-12 

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. 2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3 but when they went in they did not find the body. 4 While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. 5 The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here but has risen. 6 Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, 7 that the Son of Man must be handed over to the hands of sinners and be crucified and on the third day rise again.” 8 Then they remembered his words, 9 and returning from the tomb they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. 10 Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. 11 But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. 12 But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened. 

A few weeks ago, I was out walking in the evening with one of my children. 

The sun had just set, and as we walked, we moved from dusk into darkness and then into deep darkness. 

As we rounded a curve, the path dimly lit, all of a sudden, from the bushes just ahead of us, a large, towering figure emerged and came barreling toward us, arms up, yelling threats, running at us at full speed. 

In that moment, my heart was gripped with utter fear. You know the sensation. 

Terror. 

But in another moment, my instincts kicked in. I pushed my child behind me, and I stepped toward this large figure, adrenaline having taken over. I was ready. For what, I didn’t know. 

But I was ready. 

It was only then, in another moment, that my brain started to notice a few details. This figure was not large, but quite small. And the threats were not scary, but ridiculous. And that the shouting was not threatening, but covering up a most amused, nearly hysterical giggling. 

It was… my other child.  

It took some time for my heart to slow down and my breathing to return to normal and my laughing to finally join the laughing of this child. But later I got to reflecting. About our responses in a split second. And I realized that those little moments, those split seconds, reveal to us something about our instincts. And how these change over time. And what that means. 

You see, it is not in my nature to show up to every fight I am invited to. And in my younger years, my instincts would have told me to run. And I would have. 

But since becoming an adult, particularly in the presence of someone more vulnerable, my instincts have changed. And what has changed them – quite simply - is – love.   

And I wonder if that is what we see – in full display – in our Easter story.  Instincts that have been changed by love.    

In Luke’s account of the Resurrection story, Luke gives us a detail that the other three Gospel writers do not.  You see, all four Gospels – Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John – tell us this Easter story - though they do it with varying details. One pays attention to this, another to that, another to this. But in Luke’s account, which we hear today, Luke gives us this fascinating detail. He tells us that on that third day, when the women showed up to the tomb to anoint the body and instead encountered these two men in dazzling clothing, they were terrified and - here’s where it gets interesting – they bowed their faces to the ground. 

They were terrified -- and bowed their faces to the ground.  

What a strange response to fear. 

They see the angels, and they put their faces into dirt. 

See, we would understand if they started running as fast as they could. After all, the other disciples had done this at the cross. They had fled. It was too much, too hard. Fleeing is a response to fear that we understand. 

And we would understand if they launched into fight mode. After all, the other disciples had drawn a sword and cut off the ear of a servant. The other disciples had denied with passion that they knew Jesus. Fighting is a response to fear that we understand. 

And we would even understand if they froze. After all, Matthew tells us that the guards at the tomb were so frightened by the angels that they became like dead men. They passed out. Freezing is a response to fear that we understand. 

Fleeing, fighting, and freezing – those are responses to fear that are known to us. Familiar to us. We have been there. 

We can see ourselves doing the same if we, too, were at that empty tomb and our hearts were gripped by terror.             

But bowing? 

Being so terrified that they bow their faces to the ground? This was their response to fear? 

This little detail – told only by Luke - has captivated my attention this week. Why? On that first Easter morning, why did these women bow? When they could have run, should have run, when they could have fought, when they could have frozen, instead – when their instincts kicked in - they stayed - and they bowed. And that makes me curious. What had happened to these women? What would make them do this? 

My guess is that your instincts have changed over the years.  That as life has shaped you, as you have moved into adulthood, as you have taken responsibility for others, as your own abilities have shifted and changed, your responses have changed as well. 

That was certainly the case with a Salvadoran bishop named Oscar Romero, who was assassinated while leading worship some forty-five years ago last month.  

Romero’s story is a fascinating one, and I would commend it to you if you do not know it. What makes it remarkable is his change of instinct. When he began his ministry as a priest, he was known as a church hierarchy guy, hands-off, disinterested in the plight and suffering of the poor, intentionally removed from the abuse and killings that were rampant all around him at the hands of his government.             

He did what he was told, and he stayed far away from danger. But as he grew in faith, as he encountered the suffering of the people, as he learned to love his people, his instincts changed. He began to call out the abuses of the poor and the vulnerable, and he became a voice for those who were suffering, making him a target.             

His faith put him right in the middle of heartache, of his neighbors. And he was deeply changed. By love.  

It is one of the most remarkable conversion stories in our faith history. How an already deeply religious man was converted to love, converted to the Gospel.  

Through the call of the spirit, his insides changed. His instincts changed. Even at a cost to himself. In fact, it would cost him his life. 

And when I think about these women at the tomb, that’s what I think had happened to them. That in the continual presence of Jesus, in serving him and loving him for those many years, in watching how love interacted with the world, their instincts changed. 

Their insides changed. 

After all, the women had heard the stories. How many times had Mary recounted that visit from Gabriel? How many times had Elizabeth told them about her leaping boy? How many times had they heard about the shepherds? These stories lived in their friendship with one another. And then lived in their friendship with Jesus. They had seen, firsthand, what happens when love is set loose in the world. The healings, the miracles, the danger, the hope. Because they had lived closely to Jesus, their instincts had changed.  

So that when messengers of love showed up beside that tomb in flashing clothes, they knew – even as they felt terror - that it was love. And so they bowed their heads in trust, submitting to wherever this love might lead them, even if it scared them. 

For these women, these first arrivers at the tomb, love was stronger than  fear. Because their insides had changed.  

And I don’t wonder if that is where God is calling us today, on this Easter morning. To bow in the presence of love.  

Because we live in a time of fear. We are afraid for our neighbors, for our children, for the vulnerable, for ourselves, for our world, for our schools, for immigrants, for the poor. It is hard not to be overcome by fear in these moments. But what if instead of being overcome by that fear, we practice bowing instead?             

We bow towards the transformative power of love? 

Because the more we practice bowing toward love, the more it becomes who we are. So that in those split seconds, it is simply what we do. We too have been changed by love.   

And we can practice in so many ways –             

Volunteering at the food pantry             

Attending a protest             

Working in schools             

Calling our reps             

Quilting for the world             

Caring for those who are vulnerable                         

Cupping our hands to receive bread and wine; dipping our fingers in the font 

That’s how we practice bowing, because it is in those places, these places, that we see the risen Christ, that we come to know his story, that we are changed by his love. That’s what I think Easter is about.  

Early that Easter morning, God literally changed the inside of that tomb – from death to life. From the dead to the living. From despair to hope. From fear to love. 

And that is God’s invitation to us as well. 

So that what is dead in us – fear and hatred and division – rises to new life – hope and joy and friendship and love for all. That we might then be these things for a world so desperately afraid. 

What Good News, my friends. That we, too, stand outside the tomb, changed by love. May we bow in the presence of hope, and may the love of God rise in us this Easter. 

Thanks be to God. Amen.