For Whom the Bell Tolls

John Donne's line, made famous by Hemmingway's novel, resonates with each of us as we consider the ties that bind the human family. The death, darkness, and doubt that trouble others also wounds us. When sin and sadness shroud the divine sparks behind the eyes of strangers, it is we who see through a glass but dimly. Often we are made to feel the oppressive weight of our humanity. That we are doomed not only by our own failings, but by the frailty of our species. Fallen beings who are helplessly bound by our common experience and parentage.  Yet, it is in these innumerable and adamantine fetters that we find the greatest of human joys. I need not send to know for who whom the sun rises, the birds sing, or the flowers bloom. Their joy is mine. Their hope is my  light. Their love is my solace. No man is an island.    What manner of men then ought we be? Each of us some small clod of clay facing the might of the sea? Even as He who was most involved in mankind, that great Promontory. Because we are things of earth, meant to end in the storm and surf we simply must choose the manner in which we will end. As that great one who lifted the whole of our family with His fall. Or as as the mean and slimy stone that sinks into the abyss and drags each of us closer to it. Though we are base in form and substance, we may follow each day we live the course set by Him who great love blesses all of us. That love that lives because He chose to die.  No man is an island. Bells do not only ring at funerals.