Father Vincent Pizzuto bowed his head as the church bell rang three times, then three times again, then three times more. He kept his head down for a minute, reciting a silent prayer as the bell tolled 50 more times.
“Once that bell rings, it’s an invitation to take a contemplative pause, and commemorate the deepest mystery of our tradition, which is that God is in all things,” he said. “If you go to cities like Rome, at 12 noon, this is happening on every corner. It’s quite beautiful, in my opinion.”
Then he added: “I know that beauty is subjective. It is true that bells are the largest instrument in the world.”
Father Pizzuto was defending himself from complaints that the new bell at St. Columba’s Episcopal Church, which had been ringing a total of 177 times every day before going silent last week, ruptured the tranquility of Inverness. Its peals came in two-minute bursts, at 9 a.m., noon, and 6 p.m., and did not travel far in the forested, hill-and-valley topography. But for those whose homes are perched around the natural amphitheater where the 70-year-old Episcopal church sits, the sound could be distracting.
An anonymous neighbor or group of neighbors have made six calls to the Marin County Sheriff’s Office since June. Susan Rangitsch, who lives immediately uphill from the church, brought the matter up at the annual Inverness Association meeting, later telling the Light: “However laudable the motives may be, the audible impact on a once quiet and peaceful community is huge.”
Cathy Davis, who has lived on another neighboring property for nearly 40 years, said the sound was “extremely disruptive to my peace.” The old church bell rang only one day a week, she said, and its sound was less piercing.
A few houses away lives Suzanne D’Coney, who said she loves the sound, though she admitted her property is likely more shielded. Bells have a meditative association for her. “I have a Buddhist practice, and we use bells, and they’re considered a mindfulness tool,” she said. “I find it a sweet sound.”
But Kathy Hartzell, the president of the Inverness Association, said the bell was causing anxiety in the community, though she does not live close enough to hear it. “If indeed there is more than one person who is aggrieved by this, that should concern the church,” she said. “The church should be wanting to be a good neighbor.”
Last Wednesday, Father Pizzuto ceased ringing the bell while he waits to hear back from the association. He said the church has not yet received a response from Ms. Hartzell. “As an act of respect for our neighbors, we are awaiting that dialogue,” he said. “We’re in a holding pattern.”
In late June, in response to a complaint, a sheriff’s deputy visited the church, determining that the bell wasn’t violating any ordinance. He left a message for Father Pizzuto asking if the noise could be dampened or redirected, but the priest said the bell’s manufacturer told him any muffling would make only a minor difference.
Marin County municipal code includes incessant car horns, radios, loudspeakers, construction activities and yelling or shouting as among the “loud and unnecessary noises” that could result in fines. The list doesn’t mention bells, though it is not intended to be exhaustive. St. Columba’s bell never rang at night or before 9 a.m.
The old church bell at St. Columba’s rang regularly just once a week for almost 50 years, to mark Sunday morning services and occasionally a funeral. The priest or acolyte had to pull a rope at the altar, connected to the bell through a hole in the ceiling that would leak during heavy rains.
Father Pizzuto, a professor of Christian mysticism at the University of San Francisco who describes his approach as contemplative Christianity, said when the pandemic closed the church, he saw an opportunity to repair its roof and install a new bell. He has presided over the growing congregation at St. Columba’s for five years, and was partly motivated by a wish to memorialize his father, who died in 2019. For nearly two years, there was no bell at all, and Father Pizzuto said he heard from congregants who missed the sound.
The new bell corresponds to the Angelus, a prayer commemorating the incarnation of Christ. A common practice of Anglican churches in the English countryside and Catholic churches throughout Europe, the Angelus bell is less common at California’s Episcopal churches. At St. Aidan’s in Bolinas, the bell rang only once a week: nine times on Sunday mornings to announce the service. Since the pandemic, Rev. Carol Luther said, it has been silent. At St. John’s in Ross, the bell rings on Sunday mornings, for weddings and for funerals.
Father Pizzuto speaks proudly about the new Tree of Life belltower, which is dedicated to his father and four recently deceased relatives of parishioners. The Celtic cross that sits atop the tower holds their ashes. The bell itself is housed in a patinated copper structure, with a design that pays homage to Celtic knotwork and tree roots. Father Pizzuto wanted the sound to have a deeper meaning than announcing Sunday service or gonging to mark the hour. The Angelus bell is an ancient tradition, he said, and is a meaningful call to prayer for participants in the church’s residency programs, and the community as a whole.
“St. Columba’s has done a tremendous amount for this community and still does,” he said. “The last thing I want is for my nearest neighbors to be disgruntled around something that, for us, is a celebration.”
He suspected that the sheriff’s calls came largely from one person, a former parishioner who had a conflict with the church, whom he asked the Light not to name. “For people who haven’t heard the bell, they’re being given the impression that this bell is ringing constantly,” he said. “I am perfectly happy to sit with neighbors and say: ‘Let’s have a conversation.’”
But the reactions of the incensed neighbors suggest a lasting stalemate. “There’s nothing to discuss,” Ms. Davis said. “It just needs to stop.”