"The Peace of Love" | Shana McCauley | Sunday, May 25, 2025

I have had a weekend full of learning opportunities. Friday I DIYed a homemade gel ice pack. Two parts water and one part rubbing alcohol will make a cold pack that doesn't quite freeze, and that nearly frozen slush will mold around a swelling body part—like a knee, for instance. Did you know that a bruised knee sometimes hurts more than a skinned knee? I can confirm that I have one of each.

I also learned that when the US Forest Service says that a trail is difficult, they really, really mean difficult.

On Friday, I went to the Ape Caves with Maria McDow, who some of you know. I'm telling you my version of the story because it's the truthful one—and sometimes people exaggerate certain parts. I don't know why they're called the Ape Caves, but they are long lava tubes at the base of Mount St. Helens.

There are two trails at the Ape Caves. One is easy. This is the one I've done before. It's 3/4 of a mile and goes deeper and deeper down, but it's always easy to stand and walk in. Once we finished this one fairly quickly, we decided to try the other side. To be honest, I thought the sign said moderate, not difficult.

But this direction is a mile and a half, and throughout, the cave has collapsed and you have to climb over and through giant boulders. Now, one might think a bunch of collapsed boulders would be some sort of, like, "Hey, don't go this way" indication.

There should have been extra signs at the beginning of this trail that could have said things like, "Really, I mean gently—like, it gets harder. But also, at your age..."

When we started this trail, the boulders were stacked to the top of the cave, and only when you got to the top could you see that the cave kept going. As we huffed and climbed, we passed an older man by himself. For a long time after that, as we scrabbled and scaled, I kept thinking about this man by himself.

It really did take two of us fanning out and looking for the best ways over or through—one holding the flashlight for the other. Because, of course, in a cave, it is pitch black. It wasn't long into the cave that I wanted to quit, but also the thought of going back the way we came felt unimaginable. And—and if the cave is moderate, the trail is moderate—then I figured on average we had gone through the hard part, and the rest would be easy.

Time stretched on and on, and we kept seeing signs that meant we were close to the end. But the cave would turn, and there would be no daylight in sight. At one point, we came through a harder section of boulders only to run nearly straight into a wall—no boulders to climb, no niches to stick a foot in. It was well over our heads and seemed impossible.

I could have cried there. There may have been swearing—like, a lot of swearing. Mostly Maria, of course. But don't tell her I told you.

It defies gravity and logic, but I managed to plant my right foot and get up high enough to grab something and pull myself up. I think that's when I hurt myself the most.

When the two of us somehow got to the top, we sat for a stunned, exhausted moment. My God, what had we gotten ourselves into?

About that time, we saw some headlamps coming behind us. We paused to let them pass, and while they were going by, Maria asked if they had seen a man hiking solo. A very young man said, "You mean this guy?"

These three teenagers were on their senior skip day and had picked up a senior instead. The old guy needed a rest too, and instead of trucking on, these kids let him sit a bit.

I asked if they knew how much longer the trail was, and nonchalantly, one of the kids said, "Oh, I'd guess we're about halfway."

The three of us older folks sounded in unison like we'd been kicked in the gut.

From then on, we followed these boys—Gabriel, Jonas, and Aiden—as they gently walked the solo hiker, Thomas, through the cave. They asked if he needed water—he did. They brought extra and snacks.

I knew this trail would be harder than the first. The sign said easy, and I thought moderate. But we didn't figure that out—and we didn't figure out that it would be as hard as it was—until we were too far in.

Have you been there? A scary place that you didn't mean to go and had to work your way out of?

Jesus knows that his time on Earth is coming to a close, so he begins to prepare his friends for what is next.

"The Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything and remind you of all that I have said to you."

He promises, "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you."

Before my trek through the Ape Caves, I'd been thinking about peace. When we talk about world peace or peace among nations—when we pray for the war to cease in Ukraine or Sudan or Gaza—what we usually mean is a cessation of military action. No more bombs and killing and hostages. Each side going back to where they started or to some agreed-upon division, like East and West Germany so many years ago.

This is what so many peace talks are about: governments coming together to make some kind of tolerable agreement that makes both sides stop military action.

Jesus does mean that kind of peace. But Jesus did not set the bar that low. He left us with God's peace—with the Holy Spirit to guide us to a peace founded in love, and not merely military accord.

I listened to a webinar this week through the Episcopal Parish Network called Resilience and Faithfulness for the Current Moment. The speakers were three people I admire very much, and I knew that it would be a good conversation. They talked about this time, each of them from a different angle, but talking about the pain and sorrow and anxiety of this challenging and scary season.

The Reverend Yejide Peters Peterson, Associate Dean and Director of Formation at Berkeley Seminary at Yale Divinity School, gave an impassioned challenge for us to not be complacent—to be people of the Way, who fight for justice as Jesus did. We cannot stop as long as God's people are suffering.

The Reverend Jorge Ortiz is the Associate Director of Community Engagement at Trinity Church in New York, and he talked about how their church is supporting refugees suddenly all around Manhattan. Trinity Church recently did a wedding for 60 couples. I teased my friend that they were becoming Moonies, but they did this mass wedding so that these refugee families had legally recognized marriages and could be promised to stay together. They feed and translate and advocate for some of the most vulnerable of God's people.

As they spoke, I felt my blood pressure rise. Of course, of course, of course—I must use my privilege to help those I can. And there are just so many who need help.

I was driving up Barnes Road to church as I listened to them talk. But also there was this little broken part of me that whispered, "But I'm so tired, and I don't know how to do anything else. I'm so scared to give up, and going forward seems impossible."

When the Reverend Lydia Bucklin, President of Episcopal Divinity School, told a story about her seminary, she said that they were hosting a webinar that afternoon and one of the speakers was missing. She asked for prayers for Ruth Lopez, who had been disappeared by the National Civil Police in El Salvador.

But then Dean Bucklin talked about resilience. She reminded us that in hard times, we have to be intentional about refilling ourselves with goodness.

"Go spend time with children," she said.

Not my children, maybe. No, no—I love them too. I love you guys too.

I filled in other things for myself: help someone, be kind, touch the dirt, spend time with a friend, go hiking, I thought...

And so I was, three days later, climbing through a cave with a dying flashlight, wanting badly to give up and knowing that it was not an option. When, out of nowhere, three children showed up—little embodied holy spirits, nonchalantly escorting elder strangers back to the surface.

As we made our way, one teen would run ahead and scout while the other two would walk with Thomas, who is a nurse from Puallup. The six of us made our way through the cave, helping each other along.

After one tricky climb, a family of six caught up with us. As he was catching his breath, Thomas fell. He cut his forehead and the bridge of his nose, where his glasses dug in. The mom bandaged his head, and we all insisted that he eat a snack and drink some water.

From then, we were a group of 12, making our way with headlamps and gentle conversations. Gabriel, Jonas, and Aiden were so excited when we got to the skylight—a small break in the cave where moss wens its way down—and we could bask in a spot of sun. We stayed there for a long time, taking pre-pictures and breathing in the fresh air and remembering that we were headed back to the light.

By the last hard climb, Thomas needed steadying support even just to walk. We silently wondered how we would get him out. We lined up along the way, ready to pass him from person to person, and three people set to push and pull him up the last big boulder. But it just looked too dangerous.

After some discussion, Gabriel and Aiden gave their packs to Jonas and went running to the ranger station. A few of us sat with Thomas, making echoey small talk in the cold, dark cave. And the rangers came, and they did, in a professional way, exactly what these teenagers had been doing for a mile—finding the best path and walking side by side with Thomas until he made it up the ladder and out of the cave.

At one of our rest points, I told Jonas how I was nearly in tears when they came up and how glad I was that they were there.

"If we didn't come, would you have turned around and gone back?" he asked.

"I don't know. I don't think so. It had been too hard, and it was just as hard going forward, but I kept going forward, hoping that it wouldn't be."

And I see so many parallels in this hard world. There are days when it feels too much—when I can't go back, but forward is just more hard.

I debated naming these guys in my sermon today, worried that their parents might not know, and a friend of a neighbor of a cousin might somehow hear me talking about them and rat them out.

If that happens, I hope that their parents know this: those three boys—those three boys—give me so much hope for the future. They could have run right by Thomas and the middle-aged women in front of him, but instead, they gave snacks and encouragement and helped us to find the best way.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid," Jesus said. "The Holy Spirit is here, blowing among us and through us, even in the darkest places. We have only to listen, to become agents of peace."

It is hard—too hard—and we can't do it alone. But we don't have to. We have all of these people to do the work with.

When it is too dark, and when hope is going, pause and ask: when was the last time you filled your tank, touched grass, or talked to children, or helped someone?

Wild as it is, one of the most subversive things that we do here at Trinity is feed people six days a week. No vetting, no identity verification or citizenship tests. Each person who comes gets protein, vegetables, pastries, and a cup of coffee—often their pets as well (not the coffee).

It may take effort to find God's peace again, and we may not find refreshment in the same places. Wells are tricky sometimes.

For me, these kids—these 12 people working together, 10 of whom I probably would not recognize in the daylight—they filled my heart with hope and love.

Jesus promised us the Holy Spirit to guide us, and I find it easier to work with her when she isn't dragging my tired, hopeless self. To be clear, the Holy Spirit has the strength to pull or push or lug—but she's pretty amazing to walk alongside.

Jesus said, "Peace I leave with you. My peace I give you. Not the peace of military cessation, but the peace of love. The peace that passes all understanding. The peace of 12 mismatched people coming together to help one person in need and awakening the better angels in all of us."

Amen. Amen. [Applause]