In a tweet that upset many people, the prominent atheist Richard Dawkins declared that he loved listening to the bells of Winchester Cathedral, which were “so much nicer than the aggressive-sounding Allahu Akbar” calling Muslims to prayer. My brother lived in an Islamic country for 20 years, where the call to prayer would be announced from minarets and across offices five times each day.
I agree with Prof Dawkins that the sound of church bells is “so much nicer”, but disagree with his conclusion that it is because I am culturally conditioned to think so. Instinctively we are drawn to truth, goodness and beauty. We try to do good and avoid evil, and church bells have a role in warding off the latter.
Our liturgy needs to be a holy assault on our senses because this is where the Devil always attacks: our sight, our touch, our smells, our hearing, our taste. We pray as a Church with all these sensual things because it repels the enemy; historically, church bells were exorcised so that every time the bell was rung it would resound into the area to drive out demons as far as the sound could be heard.
On Ascension Day I visited the Cornille Havard bell foundry, one of the last remaining bell foundries in France, which has been tasked with restoring the bells of Notre Dame. Bell founders used to make bells at the bottom of church towers, but as railway lines were put in place, foundries like Cornille were set up.
Before this visit, my knowledge of bells could have been written on the back of a postage stamp. By the time I left, not only did I have pages to fill, but a great many angels received their wings.
“Comment fabrique-t-on une cloche?” I asked my guide, hoping I hadn’t enquired how to make waterproof trousers. “Each bell,” she replied, “is a musical instrument. First it will swing, and the clapper will strike the inside, and then it will be struck on the outside with a hammer. This causes it to vibrate for a long time.” “Effrayer les demons,” I said. She smiled awkwardly and I made a mental note not to go in too early with the demon stuff.
“Bells are made of bronze,” she continued; “78 per cent copper and 22 per cent tin; the clapper is made of steel. To hold it in place we use leather for flexibility. You have to keep an eye on the leather and change it when necessary. If it becomes too long the clapper goes down and doesn’t strike at the right place causing the bell to break; if it’s too short it can’t give enough resonance.”
My French, at this point, was not up to discussing lengths of leather, and so I said nothing, looked interested and waited to see what gems of bell-making came next.
“To make a bell, you need to make a mould. Bronze is poured into the mould, which is then broken to release the bell. The mould is made of three parts; the core, the dummy bell and the cope. The dummy bell is the pattern of the real one. To create it you need a special mixture made of clay, goat hair and horse manure.” It was at this point that I regretted ignoring the “ne pas toucher” signs on the way in. “The goat hair,” she went on, “binds the clay and manure. The manure allows the clay to resist the heat when it is cast at 1,200 degrees. Bell founders have not changed this method since the Middle Ages.”
The clanging of a gong or cymbal is a practice that dates back to ancient lands and ancient times, but the bell (moulded to the shape we recognise today) has its origins in the Catholic tradition. The first Christian writer who frequently speaks of bells is Gregory of Tours (c. 538-594). We learn from him that they were struck, and we find mention of a cord being used for this purpose.
In Rome, the Liber Pontificalis (The Book of the Popes) tells us that Stephen II (752-757) erected a belfry with three bells (campanae) at old St Peter’s Basilica. It was probably this name which led the German poet and theologian Walafrid Strabo, in the first half of the ninth century, to make the assertion that bells were of Italian origin and that they came from Campania.
However, the word clocca (related to cloche), which is Irish in origin, was understood to mean “bell” during the seventh century, 100 years before the appearance of the Italian campana. Its use is found in the Book of Armagh and was then imported into Germany by Irish and English missionaries. The development in the use of bells as an essential part of the equipment of every church can be traced back to the eighth century, and it was also then that the practice of blessing them by a special form of consecration became prevalent.
In the 21st century it is easy for Christians to forget that daily life was intimately tied to the rhythms of the liturgy, in tune with God’s creation. In an age of chaos and incoherence, many young men in the West are drawn to what they see as the order and discipline of Islam, with its Five Pillars including daily prayer, fasting and pilgrimage. That we have lost this from our own Christian culture is devastating both to our sense of identity and to the souls of our children whose religious instincts are left unmet.
If we could find an old DeLorean and modify it for time travel, we might take them back to a time when bells would be rung before daily Mass, Matins and Vespers. Where every church bell in the country, from the smallest villages to the city cathedrals, would ring their bells on the evening before a fast day to remind people of their obligations on the morrow.
These lines, quoted in the Corpus Juris and often found in inscriptions, describe the principle functions of a bell. “<em>Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum, defunctos ploro, nimbum fugo, festa decoro</em>” (I praise the true God, I call the people, I gather the clergy, I cry out for the dead, I scatter the storm clouds, I adorn the sacred days).
Meanwhile, while my brother lived abroad, a sign in my nephew’s school read: “All students and staff are expected to be respectful, considerate of each other’s religion, but acknowledge that the Islamic religion is the official religion of our country.” And didn’t they know it.
Perhaps it’s time for us to do more to celebrate our own Christian heritage, with bells on.
