"Ringing to Worship"

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23020, 23 April 1938, Page 6 (Supplement)

"Ringing to Worship"

THE APPEAL OF THE CITY BELLS

f)UTSIDE, a tram clatters past, bright with lights and an occasional green flicker against the line; a few old cronies lean against the "pub" door and better the world in their own politics; two girls in the shadow of the fence giggle furtively. There is an air out hero in the street of teeming life, although the houses stand dark and still, and few people pass in the street. Yet* still that atmosphere of bustle, rush, continual moving and breathless life is paramount. And above it all, for it is Sunday night, swing and clap tho great bells of the church, ringing sweetly in half tones, then bursting into full round melody as tho time draws near for evensong. . . . Inside, there is a dim cool peace. The fluted pillars rise in their white strength, so symbolic, so proud, so sure . . . and the lectern eagle, too, is striving upward. The whiteness of the stone seems to emphasise tho serene

By WHETURANGI

everything. A true pillar of the church —and one who keeps its wisest and least followed commandment —"to be cheerful and of good countenance. A more sedate, feminine counterpart of Joo is the rotund Sunday school teacher. Pink cheeks, rimless spectacles, a breathless manner —this round-faced busy little lady is always early for church. With her conies her girlhood friend (they are both now verging on the 30 mark, but keep it well hidden), a gaunt woman, hollow cheeked and hollow voiced. Probably this is the only time they see each other during the whole week, if one can judge by the feverish whispering that goes on during those few precious moments before the service begins. "There is No Joy But Calm" There are so many characters here at this service, so many people who bow in reverence together for one brier hour a week, then return aloofly to their own spheres. The lass and the sailor lad, smart in his gold braid and buttons, and she so proud of him; the semi-bald floorwalker, who throws back his head and sniffs the air like a warhorse as he shouts the Psalms; the man who settles his back against the side of the pew and turns his perfect profile to the congregation behind him: the dark young beauty with the proud chin and the heartbreak in her eyes . .they are all here, lured by the call of the city bells. What does it mean to them, all these gathered by the clanging and the clamour of the bells within these stone walls? Have they come in all gladness to rejoice in a worship of praise; have they come to unburden their souls of some deep and poignant sorrow that can be calmed only in this sweet atmosphere; or have they come spurred by habit and pricked by duty; or to gather 6trength to " . . dry one's eyes and laugh at the fall And baffled get up and begin again?

Or have they each in their own varying degree of sensitiveness (but with British phlegm not even admitting it to themselves) felt the deep and terrible beauty of it all? Have caught in the ringing of the bells some faint glimpse of austere loveliness . . . "She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.

Deeply rooted is the age-old primitive need for worship, and kneeling in quietness here, with the organ notes filling the air, somewhere the faint sweet scent of flowers —the solemnity, the grandeur, the simplicity, ringing through our bodies like the deep notes of the' bells, we melt our souls again into harmony with the world.