Preached on Friday, July 17, 2026 at Trinity Cathedral, Little Rock, in memoriam Margaret “Peggy” Mary Dickinson (February 18, 1950 – July 11, 2026).

The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:7)

These are words that Peggy Dickinson knew quite well, because she heard them every Sunday at Church. At the end of the service of Holy Communion, just before we all leave and go on about with our lives, the priest pronounces God’s blessing with those same words: “The peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of His Son, Jesus Christ our Lord” [1]. I was honored, as one of Peggy’s priests, to bestow that blessing on her. I know that the rest of the Cathedral clergy feel the exact same way.

But even more than just as ancient words from Scripture, or as something said by a pastor in funny clothes, I really think that Peggy knew these words for herself. She knew these words. And for those of us who might not know this “peace of God,” let’s talk about it for a bit.

When Paul writes these words, “peace of God” to the Church in Philippi––and for that matter, to this Church in Little Rock, too––he means exactly that. That is, this peace cannot be given by the world––not at all. No, it’s a peace (εἰρήνη), a harmony, a safety, a security, a welfare, that comes from God, the author of all peace (Ephesians 2:14). It is a “peace of God,” from God.

That is important because so much of our lives is spent trying to create peace for ourselves. We spend ourselves trying to hold everything together. We look to make peace, harmony, safety, security, welfare by our own hand. But not this peace, no. This peace comes from God, Who takes the disharmony and the insecurity of our lives and fashions for Himself and for us peace, wholeness. This peace is not something we build. It is something we receive. God takes lives that have become fractured by sorrow, anxiety, sin, and death, and He begins, slowly and often quietly, to make them whole. He gives a peace that the world cannot give because it does not originate in the world. It originates in Him.

That all may sound hard to believe. I’m right there with you, and so was Peggy––and honestly, so was the apostle Paul. That’s why he calls it “the peace of God which surpasses all understanding.” Not only does this peace come from beyond us, but its rationality comes from beyond us, too. Not only can we not achieve it for ourselves; we can’t even understand it for ourselves.

Be that as it may, it’s a peace that we can hang our hat on. It’s a peace we can rely on. It’s a peace that, when the going gets tough, will protect us. Our hearts will be guarded by it. Our minds will be preserved by it. And nothing––not one thing!––can undo us because of it. We are safe and secure because we have a peace that comes from God. God’s peace stands watch over us. It keeps vigil. It does not promise that suffering will never come. Christians have never believed that. But it does promise that suffering will not have the final word.

Which brings me back to Peggy, who, as I have said—and as all of you know—knew this peace quite well. I do not mean that Peggy escaped suffering. She did not––unfairly so. She knew the burdens that can come to human life all too well—and she had more than a fair share of burdens. “She suffered quietly,” her family has frequently told me. Illness, both of the physical and mental variety, had a cruel hold on her for decades. And let me say to the family and to those closest to her––and especially to her dear husband––you cared for her amidst it all beautifully.

And yet, amidst all that Peggy suffered, there was something else. There was a steadiness about her, a gentleness, a settled confidence that was difficult to account for if all you looked at were the circumstances of life. She carried herself with something that seemed larger than herself––and that is what Paul means by this “peace of God.”

And frankly, words escape me when I try to explain it. The fact that I cannot fully explain Peggy’s peace is evidence that her peace came from somewhere beyond both us all. And that is exactly what Paul says should happen. The peace of God surpasses our understanding. We should not expect to be able to dissect it or explain it away. We simply recognize it when we encounter it in someone else’s life––and we thank God for it. We meet a person who has every earthly reason to become bitter, fearful, or anxious, and yet instead possesses a deep and quiet confidence. We see someone who has been guarded—not by their own strength, but by the peace of God.

And perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts Peggy leaves behind. The peace she received did not remain locked away inside her. Peace rarely does. It overflowed into kindness, into faithfulness, into patience, into the quiet ways she cared for others. The peace God gave her became, in turn, a source of peace for those of us around her.

You could see it in the care she had for her friends. You could see it in the care she had for the organizations that meant so much to her. You could see it in the care she had for her Church community—including the Cathedral School and especially here, this Cathedral congregation, where she and her family have worshiped for forty-five years.

But above all, you could see it in the way she loved her family.

She was always a phone call away. The Dickinson home was a place where people gathered, where Peggy would hold court, always ready with a listening ear. As her children told me this week, “When she asked about you, she actually listened”—which feels like such a rarity these days.

She loved to see her family happy. Eleanor showed me a list her mother had been working on in preparation for Eleanor’s birthday in just a couple of weeks—a list with plans for a gift, a birthday cake, and all the little details that mothers somehow remember long after the children have grown up. Even near the end, Peggy’s thoughts were still turned toward those she loved.

But Peggy’s love for her family wasn’t all phone calls and birthday cakes. As you know, she was made of tough stuff. She had no issue telling someone to “pull it together” or to “get a grip.” (Remember Thomas’ story about the canoe, and the kids, and the snake—the unmatched strength of an Arkansan mother.)

She loved her family deeply: her children, Eleanor, Haskell, and Thomas; her six grandchildren, who lit up her world; and above all, her beloved Haskell, who, for nearly fifty-six years, was, as our Prayer Book so beautifully puts it, “[her] strength in need, [her] counselor in perplexity, [her] comfort in sorrow, and [her] companion in joy” [2].

This is how God’s gifts so often work. They are given to us, and then through us they are given to others. So it was for the peace that Peggy knew, despite all that she carried: that peace blessed everyone around her.

So, today we gather to do at least two things:

First, of course, we grieve. We grieve because someone we loved has died. Christians do not pretend that funerals are easy or that loss is insignificant. Peggy will be deeply missed, and it is right to say so.

And second—and most importantly—we gather because we hold to the same promise that Peggy held to. The peace of God she knew by faith, she now knows by sight. The wholeness she received only in part during this earthly life has now been brought to its perfection in the nearer presence of Christ her Lord. And the same Lord who guarded Peggy throughout her earthly pilgrimage now offers that very same peace to each one of us.

As we commend Peggy into God’s eternal keeping, may we also receive the gift she knew so well: that peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guarding our hearts and our minds in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen.

[1] Book of Common Prayer, page 339.

[2] Book of Common Prayer, page 444.