It was noon.  A few weeks ago.  Maybe, a few months.  Time seems to run together these days.  I write notes to myself so I’ll not forget and then I do.

This note seemed ominous.

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls.  It tolls for thee.“

I wrote the words—a quote from a writing by John Donne in the 1600s—to remind myself of that noontide reverie on a future day when I had time to flesh it out in my thoughts.

On that late morning, I had walked up to the local university where the Lovely Lady has worked for many years.  As on most days, I was simply anticipating a pleasurable walk home with the one who has walked beside me for most of a half-century.

The bells would intrude.

They always do.

I stood, leaning against the brick wall outside the library building on campus, and waited.  As I waited, the chimes in the Cathedral of the Ozarks tower began to sound, beginning with the familiar Westminster pattern.  Then slowly, one after the other, the clock knelled out one dozen slow and distinct tones.

The words popped into my head.  “Ask not for whom the bell tolls…”

It was high summer.  The temperature where I was standing was well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit.  Yet, suddenly I felt goosebumps on my arms.

Was it a premonition?  An omen?

Nah.  Just a silly thought.  But, it did seem important enough that I needed a reminder for later.

Somehow, it also seemed appropriate that, as the Lovely Lady exited the building and, taking my hand, started down the sidewalk with me, the carillon in the bell tower began to play a verse of the wonderful old tune “Beautiful Savior”.

The words from the old hymn—also written in the 1600s—flowed through my mind as we walked;

“Beautiful Savior, Lord of all nations,
Son of God, and Son of Man!
Glory and honor, praise, adoration
Now and forever more be Thine!“

I have thought about the other words that went through my mind that early afternoon any number of times since the day.  Enough so that I explored the origin of the phrase.  I was surprised to learn Mr. Donne simply believed we are all connected, perhaps even dependent on each other.

He wasn’t being prophetic about anyone’s death; he simply believed that any person’s passing affected all of the community of man.

If I expand the meaning a bit, it implies we all feel each other’s pain.  We share in losses; we benefit from each other’s well-being.

I wonder if that’s why the Apostle for whom I am named told us to rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)

And perhaps, it’s why he told the folks in Athens that the “unknown god” they had erected an altar to was the One who gave life and breath to every living creature and who satisfies our every need.

He went on to say, “From one man, He created all the nations throughout the earth.” (Acts 17:26, NLT)

Science bears out our relationship.  We share 99.9 percent of our DNA with all other humans.  There is no arguing our shared humanity, our familial connection.

But, we don’t need science to tell us that, do we?  Over and over, we feel the closeness, the affinity, and yes—the sympathy that only those connected by birthright could feel for each other.

We’ve felt it in the United States this week as we’ve seen the devastation of the hurricane in the Carolinas and surrounding areas. 

Each time we see news on our screens of fresh devastation of war and natural disasters, we weep along with the mourners.

We are all—without exception—made in the image of our Beautiful Savior, who still holds us in His hands.

In my reading of John Donne’s work, I noticed another famous saying which originated from the same short piece of prose.  The reader will surely have heard it also.

“No man is an island, entire of itself.“

Paul Simon begged to differ when he made the familiar claim in one of his songs, “I am a rock.  I am an island.“

He was wrong.  But then, I think he knew that.  His song was a statement of the attempts people make—unsuccessfully—to insulate themselves from hurt and pain. 

I don’t want to be insulated.

Engaged.  That’s what I need to be. 

In engagement, we feel the extreme pain of losses. Still, we also feel the surprising joy of life’s miracles—and we experience the giddiness of undeserved triumphs and the unexpected ecstasy of prodigals who return to the arms of their waiting Father.

Yes.  The bell tolls for us all.  Together, we weep.

And yet, together we labor side by side to repair life’s devastation.

And—still together—we will rejoice again.

Every tear will be wiped away.  Every one.

Even so…

 

 

“The voice so sweet, the words so fair
As some soft chime had stroked the air.”
(from The Mind, a poem by Ben Jonson)

 

“No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were:
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.“
(from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, by John Donne)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.