The minister knew all about evangelists. False prophets each and every one, most of them funded by shady American churches that monetarised Christ. Slick organisations taking a tithe direct from wage packets to fund private jets and lavish lifestyles. Why did the flocks not realise they were being fleeced? The similarities between sheep farming and religion were not lost on him; for God’s sake, it was even spelt out in the bible. He glanced at the figure of Christ on the cross, suspended for all eternity behind the altar and looking forlornly down on him. Was that an accusatory look? His eyes weren’t what they used to be.

Pulling an oversized key from his pockets with some difficulty, he inserted it into the lock of an ancient oak door securing the entry to the bell tower. A turn of the key released the door, and it swung open to reveal the small stone ringing chamber at the base of the bell tower. With the habit of years, his eyes travelled up beyond the thick red and blue banded Sally until the rope disappeared into a hole in the ceiling, some distance up the tower. Many years ago, when he had first taken the ministry, bellringing was the job of the church warden. He remembered walking to church with a straight back, acknowledging the smiles and greetings of his parishioners as they heeded the clarion call of the single bell. Now there was nobody left with the strength to pull the rope and soon the day would come when he too could no longer manage.

He locked the door back into place behind him to prevent it from swinging open, revealing the iron clasp set into stone that held the end of the rope. Ignoring the pain in his back, the rope was unwound and then wrapped into three large loops, turn after turn held in his hand to form an intimate bond between himself and the bell, high above. He had instructed generations of bell-ringers in how to hold the rope, how to allow sufficient slack for the recoil as the bell traversed its arc above their heads, how never to wrap the rope around their arms. He pulled on the rope, feeling the weight of the bell resisting his initial attempts to overcome inertia. The strength in his arms alone was insufficient these days to pull the bell up successfully. For the last decade he had needed to add his body’s own weight, letting himself fall almost to the ground to bring the bell round into position. The corollary of this, of course, was that he was then lifted up off his feet as the bell swung back, his arm attempting to pull the rest of his body heavenwards at each rotation. He imagined this must be what it would be like on the day of Rapture, when the godly are called to heaven. Bell ringing had become a transcendent event for him. Every Sunday his body fought against the increasingly reluctant rope, overcoming the adversity of gravity and friction before experiencing that brief dizzying moment when ascension appeared possible.