The Cellist of Sarajevo

October 7, 2014

Dear St. Paul’s Family,

I just finished reading a book by Steven Galloway titled The Cellist of Sarajevo, a fictionalized retelling of the horrors of the Bosnian War in the early 1990s, in which the capital city of Sarajevo underwent the longest siege of a major city in modern warfare.  It lasted from 1992 to 1996, during which time nearly 14,000 people were killed and about 100,000 buildings were damaged or destroyed. 

One of those buildings was a bakery, which was bombed on May 27, 1992, killing 22 people waiting in line for bread.  In the immediate aftermath of the attack, rescue personnel and neighbors rushed to the scene to help the victims, including a 36-year old gentleman named Vedran Smailovic.

Smailovic was not a doctor, or politician, or soldier.  By many standards, he was essentially powerless to address the persistent rain of mortar shells and random sniper fire that deluged his beloved city on a daily basis.  Instead, Smailovic was a musician, an accomplished cellist with the Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra. 

In the wake of the bombing at his nearby bakery, Smailovic did the one thing he knew how to do well.  He took his cello to the very site where those 22 innocent victims were killed, and he began playing the hauntingly melancholy Adagio in G Minor by Tomaso Albinoni.  For twenty-two straight days, one for each of the victims, the cellist played the same song, in various places around Sarajevo where violence and destruction had consumed the city.  He often played right in the midst of rubble, or at funerals of the deceased, or even in open courtyards in the dead aim of sniper rifles, as bombs and bullets continued to wreak havoc around him.

His music brought comfort to the grieving, and a therapeutic salve to a war-weary country.  He provided a real-time soundtrack to the agonies of the suffering, and expressed both latent and blatant pain in a way only music can.  But more than that, his public performances embodied a bold confrontation to the powers at large, proclaiming that no act of violence, and no evil deed, could thwart the spirit of a people determined to live in freedom.

Smailovic is now living a life of relative seclusion, but his reputation has spread globally and caught the attention of celebrities far and wide.  Bono, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, and many other noted musicians have clamored to perform with him, and composer David Wilde wrote a piece entitled The Cellist of Sarajevo, which famous cellist Yo-Yo Ma recorded as a tribute to him. 

After reading the book and subsequently learning more about Smailovic’s life, I began to wonder if he represents the kind of holy task to which God is calling the church.  Like the cellist, we have no rightful claim to political power or military might.  The church is neither politician nor soldier, and history has shown the tragic consequences whenever the church has tried to assume either.  And our discipleship demands that our tactics to address evil must be born of a separate standard and a different ethic, lest we become the very evil we strive to overcome.

The cellist of Sarajevo might remind us that the church’s calling is one of melodic defiance.  Our task is neither to fight nor to cower, but to sing.  It is to claim the songs of peace, comfort, and courage, and dare to perform them where the world most needs to hear them:  not in the shadows, or in the security of safe distances, but directly in the face of the oppressor, in the line of fire, as a living, lyrical witness to the power of the resurrection. 

Despite what the secular voices may say, the church is far from weak, or powerless, or irrelevant.  Rather, the church can offer the very thing that would most remedy a world caught in an endless cycle of self-destructive behavior:  a subversive, surprising song.  A song whose lyrics speak of self-giving love rather than self-addicted agendas.  A song whose sounds are counter waves to the thrum of war chants and the clanging of swords.  A song whose melody drives us upward towards holiness and purity, rather than into the darkest recesses of our sinful instincts.  A sacred harmony that pulses with God’s unconditional love, and calls us to forgiveness. 

Yes, it is a dark and broken world.  And the temptation might be to cower in fear.  But ours is a holy calling.  The church has a song to perform, and we each have instruments to play.  And God has stepped onto the podium, baton in hand. 

Grace and Peace,

Magrey

The Rev. Magrey R. deVega

St. Paul's United Methodist Church

531 W. Main St.

Cherokee, IA  51012

Ph:  712-225-3955

Email:  mdevega@sp-umc.org