There is a particular sound that every parish priest knows deep in their bones. It is not the rustle of hymnbooks, nor the gentle wheeze of the organ blower finally giving up the ghost. No, it is the rectory doorbell — that tiny electronic herald of mystery, mischief, and occasional mayhem.
Some doorbells are polite, Anglican even. Ding-dong, as though clearing their throat. Others, installed during what must have been a particularly optimistic stewardship campaign, produce chimes so melodic they could double as a Handel aria. Mine simply declares, with the social subtlety of a brass band on parade: BING-BONG! Which is to say, “Brace yourself, Rector. Something interesting this way comes.”
Over the years, I’ve developed a split-second triage system whenever the bell rings. First, a pastoral examination of conscience: Did I forget a meeting? A wedding rehearsal? Someone’s casserole dish? Then a glance in the mirror to assess whether I am clad in something approximating pastoral respectability or if I’m still wearing my “sermon-writing sweatshirt” featuring a coffee stain shaped vaguely like the Holy Spirit.
The adventures begin the moment I open the door.
Sometimes it’s the wandering neighbour who has decided, without warning, that today is the day to discuss the theological implications of squirrels. (“They bury things and forget where they put them. There’s a sermon in that, Father.” Reader, they were correct.)
Other times, the bell rings to reveal an over-enthusiastic delivery driver who has decided that the package labelled fragile should be launched toward the porch with the determination of an Olympic shot-putter. “Pastor! You’re home!” they cheer, handing me a parcel I did not order, addressed to a name I do not recognize, living at a house two blocks away. I accept it with the serene resignation one hopes to achieve by the 10th hour of the Great Vigil.
Then there are the classics:
- The earnest couple convinced their wedding rehearsal is today, though the invitation, calendar, and creation itself insist otherwise.
- The parishioner returning a borrowed book, apologizing profusely because it’s three months late, only for me to discover I had forgotten I owned it.
- The child selling fundraising chocolate who somehow manages to evoke both the Parable of the Persistent Widow and a very small, very polite tax collector.
But among the comic surprises there are also holy ones.
The lonely widow who stops by because the silence of her house felt too heavy.
The neighbour who brings soup because they saw the rectory lights on late and assumed (rightly) that the sermon was “still cooking.”
The person who knocks just to say they’re grateful the church is on the corner — a steadying presence in a restless world.
These, too, are doorbell moments of grace: little sacramental reminders that the priestly life is lived not merely in pulpits and boardrooms, but on porches, in foyers, and at front doors where Christ often arrives disguised as an interruption.
Jesus, after all, never made an appointment when he appeared at someone’s home. He simply showed up — at dinner tables, beside wells, in upper rooms, even on the beach with breakfast in tow. The holy has a habit of arriving unannounced. The rectory doorbell merely ensures we don’t miss it.
So yes, when that familiar BING-BONG echoes through the house, I sometimes wince. I sometimes laugh. Occasionally I pray for fortitude. But more often than not, I give thanks — because behind that door is someone beloved of God, someone whose story is about to mingle with mine for a few minutes.
And if it happens to be the delivery driver again, well… perhaps that’s just God’s way of reminding me that grace, like Amazon packages, arrives whether we ordered it or not.
Amen — and kindly ring only once
Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
You come to us in every knock upon the door
and every unexpected moment of grace.
Bless all who arrive on our porches and cross our thresholds —
the neighbour in need, the friend with good news,
the stranger seeking kindness,
and even the delivery driver with the wrong package.
Give us hearts ready to welcome,
ears ready to listen,
and spirits ready to find you in every interruption.
May our homes, like your Church,
be places of hospitality, healing, and holy laughter.
In Christ, who still meets us unannounced.
Amen.