Sermon preached by the Reverend Daphne B. Noyes at The Church of the Advent
Sunday, November 18, 2007, The Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

On this Sunday before we celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday, I want to share with you a story – a parable, really – that comes from my father. He first preached this tale on November 21, 1976, when he was rector of Grace Church in Newton, and I am pleased to share it with you today.

This sermon is “The Story of the Bell Rope.”

Many, many years ago, on the flat plains of Eastern Europe, there lived a tribe of people who had no village, nor owned any houses. They were nomads very much like the Gypsies who still wander all over Europe and Asia. They lived in tents and when they got tired of a place or when they needed more grassy fields for their rugged horses – which they loved and treated with deep respect – they simply moved on. They had lived this way for centuries.

But the countryside was being settled by other tribes. Towns were springing up and farmers were tilling the soil. It became harder and harder for the tribe to find places where they were welcome. The rich, grassy fields now belonged to others. The farmers didn’t welcome them because they took from the land but never replaced.

The elders of the tribe knew that they, too, would have to settle down. Soon there would be no open land left and the tribe would starve. They began looking for a good place to live. And one day they found it: a tiny, remote valley surrounded by towering mountains. A river ran down the middle of rich, green pastures. There, they built their own village; their nomadic days were over. They now had a home where they would be warm and secure. Their children would no longer be hungry and they would have a place that was theirs, where they knew they belonged.

The village they built was typical of the neat, tiny towns that dot the lush valleys of Switzerland and Germany. There were small, tidy houses lining narrow cobblestone streets. In the village square there was a fountain, and a lovely stone church with a tower. And that tower, or more especially what was in that tower, is what this story is about. There they hung a large bell, and to this bell the villagers tied a rope which hung down outside the tower, where it nearly reached the ground. On the tower, next to the dangling rope, where everyone could read it, they fastened this sign: “If you need help, pull this rope.”

Why had they done this? Because those people remembered what it was like to be cold and hungry and to have no place to sleep. They knew what it was like to be bone-weary and tired and have well-fed farmers order them off their land. And so they said to each other, “We’ve been through all that and we know what it is like. If people in need come to us, we’re going to treat them as we would have liked people to have treated us. All they have to do is pull that rope and ring the bell.”

Now that was what they said, and that is what they meant, but something happened to the people in that village. The times were good. No one ever came by to ring the bell. A whole generation of boys and girls grew up who had never heard of it. The older people forgot to remind their children it was there. The paint on the sign weathered and peeled; the letters faded so much they could no longer be read. The bell rope rotted and fell off halfway up the tower so that no one could reach it even if there was a need to. Birds made their nests on top of the old bell because it never turned and there was nothing to frighten them away. Ivy grew up outside the tower and hid the belfry windows. But it seemed to make no difference anyway; who needed the bell any more? They were quite contented and pleased with their comfortable life.

The people grew fat and lazy. They had nothing to challenge them. Then one year, times got bad. A drought ruined the wheat crop and a swarm of locusts ate the corn. People from the farms began to come to the village because things were even harder back in the country. There was no work and no food and men and women found themselves knocking on doors asking for help for their families. But the villagers, secure in their warm houses, resented these ragged, dirty strangers and gave them cold looks and sent them away.

“Our grandparents worked hard for what we have. Why don’t you do the same?” they scolded. And they slammed shut their doors.

Then one bitter cold night, a strange thing took place that changed everything in that selfish village. Here is what happened.

Everyone was in bed and all was quiet. It had snowed all day long but now it had stopped and a full moon lighted the village square. It was very beautiful. And then, the bell began to ring. First muffled, because there were birds’ nests all over it. Then louder, as the nests fell off in a cloud of dust. Louder and louder, more insistently.

The young people didn’t know where the sound was coming from. But some of the older people did remember. Something curious stirred within them. Indeed, some of them had even pulled the bell rope when they were younger and needed help. They hurried to their windows and looked out into the snowy square. There, in the shadows of the tower, they saw a large, dark figure, but they couldn’t make out who or what it was. They dressed quickly and hastened to the tower.

There, they found an old horse. She was hungry, lame, and covered with unhealed sores. Some poor farmer could no longer feed her and had turned her loose to shift for herself. She had wandered into town. She was eating the ivy, only green thing to be found in that snowy place. But the ivy had grown up and coiled itself around the frayed end of the old bell rope. As the horse tugged and pulled at the ivy, the bell rang – Clang! Clang!

Well, the people were ashamed. They had not properly honored their grandparents who had put that rope there as an act of gratitude. They led the old horse to a warm, dry stable. Someone put a thick blanket on her shivering, bony back. Others got water, clean hay, oats, and even red, juicy apples for dessert. Soon the children joined their parents and they all stood around watching the old horse eat, the steam rising from her back. Nobody said very much; they were all too busy thinking.

The next day was Sunday, and the minister, instead of the usual sermon he had planned, told the people – especially the children – about the bell rope.

He likened it to a person’s attitude. “When we are warm, and friendly, and sympathetic,” he said, “it is like the bell rope. People see it and know that we really understand. Help is available for them. They are not alone. That was the idea in the minds of the good men and women who put the bell and its rope there. But people had forgotten. And when people forget what it is like to be cold and hungry, they become bitter and selfish and quite unlovely.”

The people looked very uneasy as he said these things. They shifted in their pews and shuffled their feet. Some of them dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs. A few of the men cleared their throats and blew their noses.

Then the mayor stood up. The ivy, he said, would be removed. People must be able to see the bell rope and the sign, which was going to be repainted. A new bell rope would be installed first thing in the morning. Never again would children not know about the bell and its meaning. Never again would their parents be allowed to forget. Every year at Harvest Festival, the bell would be rung so everyone would know what it sounded like. And on that day, the sermon would be “The Story of the Bell Rope.”