There is something about the sound of a church bell that stirs the soul — or at least stirs something. For some, it stirs the heart to prayer; for others, it stirs memories of being marched off to Sunday School against their will. For the neighbour’s dog, it stirs an unshakeable conviction that the apocalypse is beginning on Nancy Street.
When I served at the Cathedral, I learned firsthand that bells stir more than nostalgia. A woman moved into a lovely home exactly halfway between the Roman Catholic and the Anglican cathedrals. What she thought she had purchased was peace and quiet. What she actually bought was a front-row seat for surround-sound bell ringing — Anglican peals on one side, Catholic chimes on the other. Very quickly, she began to lodge energetic complaints about this “noise pollution.”
I confess, I struggled to keep a straight face. Buying a house between two cathedrals and complaining about the bells is a bit like moving in beside Niagara Falls and asking the government to turn down the water pressure. But such is the human condition: God calls, and we’re often more irritated than inspired.
And yet, the bell’s very purpose is interruption. It rings across the hum of traffic, lawnmowers, and leaf blowers, insisting: Excuse me — eternity is happening right now. Would you care to join? Some respond with joy, others with groans, but the bell makes no distinction. It calls everyone — the faithful, the forgetful, the curious, and even the determined latecomer who waits until after the bell to sneak into church.
But here at Christ Church, I encountered a story that revealed the deeper truth. Our Presbyterian neighbour, in the final decline of her life, would ask her son to drive her over by Christ Church — not to come inside, (She was far too weak to attend an entire service) not to sit in a pew, but simply to hear the bell peeling. That sound, for her, was comfort and assurance. It was memory and hope all at once. It was, quite simply, the voice of God calling her home.
When I travelled in the holy land, the bells there had been long silenced. By an edict of Saladin, churches were forbidden from ringing bells to call the faithful to worship. Instead you would often hear intricate songs hammered out with sticks on the church doors to make that call to the faithful.
And that’s the mystery of the bell. For one person, it’s an annoyance. For another, it’s the very echo of eternity. It is both interruption and consolation, both nuisance and grace.
The church bell is, in its way, a sacrament of interruption. God uses bells—whether made of bronze, laughter, a child’s question, or even a smartphone notification—to pull us back into awareness of God’s presence. Always untimely, always inconvenient, and yet always grace.
So the next time you hear a bell—whether it annoys you or draws you to tears—pause and remember: it is not just marking time. It is announcing that God is here, and God is calling.
And if you happen to be the one tugging the rope in the bell tower, take heart: you’re not just ringing metal. You’re ringing grace.
A Prayer at the Sound of the Bell
Gracious and Eternal God,
your voice reaches us in ways both gentle and insistent.
Like the bell that rings across streets and hearts,
call us from distraction into your presence.
Help us to hear your invitation in the ordinary and the unexpected,
in sounds that stir irritation and in sounds that bring comfort.
Grant us patience when your call interrupts our plans,
and gratitude when your grace reminds us we are not alone.
May every peal, every chime, every gentle echo of your love
draw us closer to you,
until we recognize your voice as the guide of our days
and the hope of our hearts.
Through Jesus Christ, the Word made flesh,
who calls us each by name. Amen.