Perhaps it is the curse of living in a northern climate, the long days without sunshine, the yellowing of pristine snow by the trails of salt trucks and human industry but I find myself hearing the bell ring for that dark tea time of the soul (to steal a phrase from Douglas Adams).
It tolls with the wounding, yet again, of the Canadian democratic process; marking the slow, not quick, death of a much maligned centuries old institution that once expressed, if not always upheld, the principles of a vocal opposition and responsible government. It sounds the death knell of traditions and practices once thought important, valuable, dare it be said, even sacred. It reverberates forcefully to those who hear it because it falls on the deaf ears of those who should and echoes in the silent response of those affected.
The discordant melody is amplified by the harmony on the street mixed with the hollow drone emanating from Copenhagen meeting rooms. The bitter refrain wafts across oceans and lands ravaged by the ceaseless chants of man versus nature, comfort over concern, words not action.
The bell peals louder yet with the shaking of the Haitian ground and vibrates through devastated streets and shattered human lives. It carries the familiar tune through the wasteland of New Orleans’ 9th Ward and cries, not, how could this happen but why is it allowed? The warning bells have sounded for so long, why are they never heard?
Around the globe the carillon clangs in a cacophony of ancient repetitive sour notes of war, poverty and violence. A thunderous melody that makes one want to cover ears and shut it out or, worse, answer the gong and dine in that dark parlor of despair.
And yet, even among that oppressive harsh tune sweet notes escape. Such subtle notes that one must listen closely for they are drowned out by the discordant caterwauling of avarice and greed. It is heard from a man, having lost his wife after 60 years – oh! so much more than a wife, an integral part of his very being – say quietly through profound grief, “Now I have to start my life over”. There is the rising swell of thousands saying this is not how governments, corporations, nations, people should operate. There is motivation even to one who shut the world out to stir in protest. In near and far off places venerable bells begin to chime, “The time is now for change”.
Perhaps it is with luck that living in a northern climate, I am reminded each year of the possibility of hope. For even on the most dismal days of a dreary January, I know that spring will come. The rains of April will wash the dirty snow away. The lifeless black branches will bud in soft greens, yellows and pinks. The sun will stream through those dark parlor windows and renew the soul. The bell will sound that “change is here”.
Let us not be weary in well doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not. Galatians 6:10