Ringing the Bell

My father insisted that I be an altar boy and so I was. And, looking back on that time, I am grateful for being an altar boy, grateful not simply for participation in rituals which have, from time to time, ceased to have meaning in my life. But more than this or that ritual I am grateful for a sense of holiness, of holding out an honored place for the deepest truths of human dignity and its perseverence against a world run amok. For I have known many people--insincere, ironic types--quite common in our age without conviction or inner strength or depth of feeling. Theirs is a flat world of funny, cheeky lines and tepid pasttimes--a true throw away world for throw away people.

I remember in the summers riding my bicycle from my house to the Saturday afternoon mass, arriving early to ring the bell in the bell tower. The old priest giving me the nod and I, grasping hold of the long rope extending upward into the beams and rafters of the bell tower, hefting down on the rope with all my strength. The mighty gong of the bell rippling through our valley. Gong...Gong...Gong...Gong.

The miles I rode to complete my task I would now gladly traverse on hands and knees like some Tibetan pilgrim around the base of Mt. Meru, the world mountain. For in the end, the holy feeling can only come from sacrifice, from love of suffering for a just cause, from the transcendence of the ironic mind. There are other bells to ring now and I ring them, in my heart, with such feeling. Somber, deep, overcome with powerful joy.