Dr. William A. Ritter
First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Four Sundays spent. Four candies lit. Four calling birds nested in one never-to-be-forgotten pear tree. And now.... at last.... it all comes down to this.
There is a kind of hush all over the world tonight. Things are quiet now. Almost all of the stores are closed, and almost all of the churches are open.... which should count for something. Nothing much that is newsworthy will happen tonight. Very few guns will be fired. Very few political decisions will be made. No one will hold a press conference, or hold up a party store (one hopes). Neither will anyone fire a puck, kick a pigskin, or shoot a basketball in anger. It will be a night to deeply cherish those you are with, and dearly miss those you are not with. For Christmas Eve is one of those rare and precious times when the giant spinning wheel of the world stops on "Love," and stays there. All this, because God once brought something quite unexpected.... and more than a little bit surprising.... to a people who were expecting anything but.
And nobody understands the incongruity of that appearance better than the people of one particular neighborhood in Sarajevo, that war-devastated city in the midst of the nation we used to call Yugoslavia. Strange things have happened there, too. But none so strange as the appearance of the man they call "The Cellist." But before I tell you anymore about him, let me retreat a step or two, the better to set a proper stage for his story.
Sarajevo, you know. Not because it is a part of the nation that once sent "your people" to America.... although it sent mine. Not because it gave the world a brilliant, and extremely photogenic, Winter Olympics....which, not all that many years ago, it did. And not because you have ever traveled there, skied there, or climbed the beautiful mountains there.... because, as places to go, it's hardly ever been on the beaten track.
Instead, you know Sarajevo because they are fighting a war there... .as wars used to be fought.... hand to hand....house to house....street to street....in the most brutal manner imaginable. In fact, the carnage is so unspeakable that Sarajevo is in the process of writing for the world an entirely new primer on violence. The conflict in Sarajevo is called a "civil war".... an oxymoron, if ever there was one. The conflict is also called "a religious and ethnic war." But the lines become increasingly blurred. At one time or another, everyone in the city becomesthe enemy of someone else in the city. Men…. women.... children.... babies.... grandparents.... young and old.... strong and weak.... Muslim and Christian....Serb, Croat, and Bosnian.... none are exempt. And none are safe. Some kill. Some die. And there are probably others who wish they could die. This is Sarajevo.
Enter, one Vedran Smallovic. See him dressed in formal evening clothes.... sitting in a cafe chair.... in the middle of a street... directly in front of a bakery. Weeks earlier, in front of that same bakery, a mortar barrage landed in the middle of a bread line, killing twenty two hungry people. That's where Vedran Smallovic sits. But it is not enough to simply look at him. You need to hear him. For he is playing a cello in the middle of the street Which he does for twenty two days, braving sniper and artillery fire to play Albinoni's profoundly moving "Adagio In G Minor."
Since he is a member of the Sarajevo Opera Orchestra, he probably knows that this particular "Adagio" was reconstructed from a manuscript fragment found in the ruins of Dresden after World War II. The music somehow survived the firebombing, then. One can only hope that it will survive the firebombing now.
In time, the street corner where Vedran Smailovic plays becomes something of a local shrine. People go out of their way to pass by there.... take friends there.... kiss lovers there. Some lay flowers where his chair and cello once stood. I suppose that flowers and music have always been ways of expressing those hopes which never die.
And then his story (and song) take wings. His picture, depicting him leaning over his cello, appears in an issue of the New York Times Magazine. An artist in Seattle sees it. Her name is Beliz Brother (real person, real name). She promptly organizes twenty two cellists.... to play in twenty two public places.... for twenty two days.... all over Seattle. On the final day, all twenty two play together (in front of a store window displaying twenty two burned out bread pans.... twenty two loaves of bread.... and twenty two roses).
In time, others pick up the song in other cities. And on the twentieth day of January last, twenty two cellists play In Washington, D.C. as Bill Clinton is formerly sworn into office.
The man who tells Vedran's story writes
Is this man crazy? Maybe. Is his gesture futile? In a conventional sense, of course. What madness to go out alone in the streets of war with but a wooden box and a hair-strung bow. But speaking softly with his cello (one note at a time), he does the only thing he knows how to do, making like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, calling out the rats that sometimes infest the human spirit.
Somehow, when I read that story last August, I knew that I would share it with you Christmas Eve. I didn't know whether Vedran Smallovic would approve.... or if he is even a Christian. But his is a Christmas story. For his cello, if it does nothing else, serves up a counterpoint to the agonizing madness of the world, and offers a harbinger of hope, that songs of the spirit cannot be silenced by gunfire, nor can beauty be buried in the ruins and rubble of this world's lunacy.
And what, my friends, is the promise of this very night, if not that one? For God, Himself, once surprised the world in a most unorthodox way.... and in a most unexpected place.... with a gift that became a counterpoint to that world's madness. Bethlehem has seldom been without its own brand of strife. When our Business Administrator, Bertha Fuqua, was there two weeks ago, she almost didn't get to Manger Square and the Grotto of the Holy Nativity, because of another uprising between the Israelis who patrol there, and the Palestinians who live there. For Bethlehem is a West Bank town, and you have no need to look further (for what that means) than the front page of this morning's Free Press.
Yet what Veciran Smailovic could never have known (as he played in front of the ruins of a bombed-out bakery in Sarajevo) is that the very word "Bethlehem" means (quite literally) "House of Bread," with the implication that the child who appeared there once (accompanied by the music of an angelic chorus and one small drum) would be capable of satisfying the hunger of bread-seekers everywhere, including those who (from much of the world) receive nothing but a stone.
One cellist in Sarajevo is not enough (of course), unless we also sing the song that is played there. Just as one baby in Bethlehem may not be enough, unless we also pass the love that is laid there. Christmas may be a counterpoint to much of the world's madness. But somebody needs to preach that truth.... or play it.... in places as diverse (this night) as Sarajevo and Seattle, and in high schools as diverse (this night) as Chadsey and Chelsea. "Comfort ye.... comfort ye my people," says God through the prophet. "And cry unto her that her warfare is ended." All of which is good news, you see. Unless there is someone at whom you are presently sniping.... or a "madness" where you live that needs to be countered. God comes to us, this night, as if to say: "You know, it doesn't really have to be this way. And you don't really have to be this way." My friends, when we stop believing this, the music will surely die, and Christ will come to the earth in December, no more.
Christmas Eve, 1993. Strangely different, for me, this year. But challengingly so. New places. New faces. My only sister gone, from this life, permanently. My two children gone, from this house, Increasingly. The nest is largely empty.
But the nest is also feathered.... with more memories than regrets.... with more friends than rooms.... with kids who are proving to be as fascinating as adults as they were as children.... and with a wonderful woman who fills it (and me) with love. Late last night, in this very nest-like sanctuary, several of us were meeting over mechanics. With Chris and Doris Hall, Dick Kopple and Steve Langley, it was a time for moving pianos, resetting furniture and adjusting lights. Where would I stand? When would I move? Where would I go? All of these things had to do with my "fitting in".... here.... tonight.
Then later last night, with a log on the fire in the family room, came the realization (to Kris and myself) that fitting in was not really something that either of us had to achieve, so much as something that many of you have already made possible. For, like all good things, love has come to us as a gift.... more than either of us has really earned or deserved. And about the only thing we can say to our credit is that, whenever it has come, we have had enough good sense to open the door and let it in.
It is my prayer that love may come to you and yours, as it has to me and mine…. And that you will know what to do with it when it does. Merry Christmas. And may God bless you…. everyone.
