A Canticle with Creation: Post-Retreat Reflections

What is a retreat? 

A time of calming and refreshment,

maybe an opportunity to reset,

and a gathering up of practices and experiences we can look back to and draw upon.

Afterwards, we sometimes miss the rhythm of our retreat days. And that rhythm is so different from the algorithms that push and shove to shape our lives.

Perhaps a deeper sense of meaning was stirred by our shared contemplations and silence. Maybe we want to keep that sort of meaning nearer the surface of our daily living. 

During our time at Valle Crucis, we considered a Christianity that is closer to the earth than is sometimes modeled. Most Christians’ lives and practices have probably been closer to the earth than ours tend to be in 21st century America. Far from being outliers in this interest, we are arguably returning to the mainstream of Christian traditions by pursuing a more holistic orientation.

To the extent that we participate in the liturgical year, we are already aligning our commemorations of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus with the seasons of the year in a powerfully symbolic fashion. In our time together, we looked for ways to bring such an awareness of God's presence to the more day-to-day levels of our lives. 

We considered that practices of mindfulness often form the foundation for our awareness of our own gratitude. From a place of gratitude, we can close the loop by expressing our awareness of blessing. Such an expression can take the form of a song, a poem, a thank you note . . . or merely confessing within ourselves, “This moment is a blessing. Glory to God!”

That single spiritual movement of mindfulness-gratitude-expression could provide a fresh way of engaging the Scriptures. We might see the opening of Genesis as a mindfulness exercise on the scale of the universe itself; and Revelation is replete with expressions of doxology. Between the two is a richly textured reading of gratitude dawning. 

A related way of processing the Scriptures might be to recognize that, from the first page to the last, God is being named in thousands of subtle ways by a multitude of people in situations from the most joyous to the desperate. We studied and sang how Francis discovered many namings of God and we might be encouraged by his creativity to join in the same. In Genesis 1, for example, we are invited to see God as Universe Unfolder, Light Speaker, Cosmos Framer, Green-Thing Rooter, Ocean Filler, Fin and Flight Propeller, Star Hanger, Animal Shaper, People Molder, and Holy Rester.

Thinking back over our time together, the hike on Beech Mountain seemed to have special resonance with the Franciscan ideals that were on our hearts and minds. At least that was the case for me. I experienced it very much as a hike that was holy, and I cannot begin to think of that sacredness without remembering that it was pursued together. Regardless of the intended content, retreats are largely about the people you share them with. And on that journey, we honored each other’s space and dignity, supported one another’s interests, and fellowshipped through effort and awe. 

I started that hike with a search for crosses on the land (what we dubbed the Bishop Ives practice). Soon I noticed a number of recumbent crosses formed by fallen branches. After seeing a series of these, I started to wonder if I might be carrying something I needed to lay down, some cross that might not really be mine to carry. Not long after that, my eyes fell on a moss-covered stone like a table prepared in the forest, a reminder of Divine provision. 

Next there was a spontaneous blessing and a blessing of spontaneity. A deer was close to the path and turned towards our group. The deer gazed at us through just a few feet of thicket, seemingly waiting for each of us to have some eye-to-eye time as it shared a benediction of seeing and being seen. 

One by one, the members of our group continued along the path to marvel at panoramic vistas, massive trees flourishing atop boulders, and "Zig-Zag" falls. 

As our time out drew to a close and the afternoon light cast greater contrasts, I saw more crosses on the land. In some striking cases, they were created by the interplay of the shadows of trees and the intensely lit features of landscape. For me, this brought to mind St. Francis’s mysticism, his conviction that the healing of the land and our lives are inextricably intertwined with the encounter of such brightness and darkness on the Cross. 

Perhaps these post-retreat reflections illustrate how the spiritual practices we choose serve like crystals through which the glory of God is refracted to us. And it is my prayer that just the right practices will somehow choose each of us so as to provide the balance we need as we face any shortcomings of institutions, experiences, and culture in our time.

I conclude with St. Clare’s exhortation echoing the grateful expressions of Romans 12 and Leviticus 2.

Praise the Lord with your very life,

offer the Lord your reasonable service,

and your sacrifice always seasoned with salt. 

Unto These Hills

Introduction

In moving to Flat Rock, it occurred to me that its elevation is just a little lower than that of Croagh Patrick, that special place where St. Patrick is said to have spent Lent interceding for the people of Ireland. For centuries, pilgrims have made their way to the top of the Croagh, scaling its heights with everything except actual mountain-climbing equipment! What is Croagh Patrick to these pilgrims? I observed it to be a high broad place of joy, vision, and exalted sharing.

 

I like the idea that Flat Rock might, in some way, be a Croagh Patrick to me. Maybe similar experiences of transcendence, creativity, and community are to be found on the plateau of these North Carolina hills.

St. John in the Wilderness

In the Celtic tradition of the early Middle Ages, hermits brought faith to hostile landscapes, and through their blessings and teaching, revealed fresh sacredness to the inhabitants of those places. Around their hermitages, settlements developed from which worship and healing flowed, often giving rise to churches we can still visit today. 

And so it is that places come to be sanctified by memories of the presence of those who brought faith to them; and the communities that spring up in such places cannot help but reflect their founders’ own struggles with the demons of their times and the contrariness of the cultures in which they sought to form lives of faith.  

 

Some founding saints were martyrs. Some were faithful hard workers. And some were benefactors who administered hospitality through creating space and providing support for the formation of the faith of others. In this last category, one might think of Margaret of Scotland, Elizabeth of Hungary, and the earliest members of churches like St. John in the Wilderness where Kathy has been called and I have found a new church family.

Topography

Hills stimulate a mindfulness that draws us into the present moment by focusing our thoughts and feelings on real-time activities like standing, climbing, and viewing.

A church built for proclamation, prayer, and communion brings us into a kind of mindfulness as well. (Or perhaps we could say spiritfulness.) It is a spiritfulness of remembrance, of doing all things for remembrance of Jesus. 

 

As a hill involves us in the present, a church invites us into presence. A church on a hill can provide a distinctly heightened experience blending our own movement over the land with an awareness of God’s movement over the shapes of our lives. In this way, the hill location serves as one more layer of the reverence in which worshipers gather.  

 

Regular visits to such places can serve as mini-retreats and pilgrimages enlivening our daily faith. And it is a privilege to work and serve around a holy hill, to be enlisted in the extension and expansion of the hospitality of its benefactor saints. 

 

A High Place Done So Well

During my first Sunday service at St. John in the Wilderness, I was impressed with a sacred sense of our liturgical words being lifted from a high place already 2200 feet above sea level. 

Not unlike the Areopagus in prominence and form, it is a place of elevated conversation. Rising above its surroundings but still visible from below, it is, like Calvary, a hill of presence. And it is a hill of consecration, encircled by history and the memorials of holy ones.

 

Echoes of glory can be heard from any holy hill. Many a pastor, inspired by the thought of their own local hills, has waxed eloquent about the Judean hills of Jesus’ birth. Through a wider lens, we can see the full circle of Jesus’ ascension from a mount. As the rise and fall of mountain peaks draws our attention to the wholeness of the earth, so our theology brings into view the complete shalom God wants for our world. 

 

Necessarily couched in the dynamics of landscape, church architecture replicates the shapes of Creation, sensitively reifying the theology of our worship. This is particularly evident at St. John in the Wilderness and in virtually any Romanesque or Gothic structure. 

 

Above the sanctuary is a veritable mountain range of arches: hillocks and peaks suggesting views of the earth with a firmament and clouds above. Down below, hills for preaching and scripture reading, the slopes of the choir loft from which worship rises, and many little knolls of kneelers for prayer. In the midst of it all, at the heart of this landscape, there is the altar, the place of communion. 

Hills or Mountains

In considering high and holy places from many angles, I have wondered why we say, “on a hill” but “in the mountains.” Or for that matter, “at the beach.” For all these questions, there are good grammatical answers to be had.

 

More significant to the topic at hand might be the difference between hills and mountains. While there is little agreement about precise definitions of the two terms, there does seem to be a general understanding that mountains are bigger than hills. Maybe a qualitative distinction can be made along the lines of elevation versus prominence. While the elevation of Flat Rock is about a half mile above sea level, the prominence of St. John in the Wilderness above its immediate landscape is only 30-some feet, a mere hill. 

 

It strikes me that hills, and even some mounts, are places of accessibility. Yes, there is climbing to be done to reach the Areopagus or Calvary, even the Mount of Ascension (the Mount of Olives site), but most of us can make our way up those hills to meet with God. In contrast, mountains such as Croagh Patrick, Ararat, Sinai are austere heights reached by individuals for rare moments of religiosity on behalf of whole peoples. 

 

Church

In coming to this new place, I have found myself asking if it is a place of retreat or a place of pilgrimage. Perhaps it is a thin place? And no doubt, it can be these things for those who might be passing through. 

But as I have thought about making a life around its particular hill, of returning to the history and community of St. John in the Wilderness with great regularity, I have realized that it is, first and foremost, a church; a church being an accessible hill of sorts where, through God's hospitality, religiosity can be integrated into daily life. Not so prominent as Croagh Patrick, but a place for joy, vision, and exalted sharing, as well. 

Liszt's Dantesque Monuments

Afterlives: Liszt's Dantesque Monuments

March 6, 2026

New College Conference on Medieval and Renaissance Studies

A complete recording of Liszt's work as performed by Cziffra can be found here. 

Excerpt 1 (first minute and twenty seconds of the linked recording) 

In the world of piano lessons, these first pages of Liszt’s so-called Dante Sonata are often presented as signifying the inscription, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Indeed, this music’s downward spiraling dissonances, halting rhythms, and disconcerting rumblings match Dante’s scene rather well. 

But I have questions about all this, and primarily, questions along these lines:

What was Liszt’s actual engagement with the writings of Dante, and how was that engagement expressed in and around his own work?

Key issues give rise to these questions and complicate the search for insights. Liszt scholarship continues to be involved in unravelling fact from fiction in the highly romanticized early biographies of Liszt, who, himself, famously stated to one author that his biography was “more to be invented than written.”  And in terms of challenges to discerning the creative spirit of this sonata, Liszt provided no program, no specific narrative, linking the unfolding drama of the music to anything particular in Dante. In contrast, he wrote a separate Dante Symphony in which he at least named the two movements “Inferno” and “Purgatorio” and copied some of Dante’s text above a few of the instrumental parts. A close associate of Liszt’s later provided a descriptive plan for that piece. While there is not time in this presentation to address those details, suffice it to say the origins and creation of that symphony are not as obscure as those of this sonata.  

These problems aside, we can see from a few verifiable biographical notes that Liszt’s engagement with Dante was both multifaceted and deeply personal. 

It is now thought that he had some experience with The Divine Comedy in his teens which probably amounted to reading for enjoyment or basic familiarity. But his own description of his literary interests at that time suggests he was already on a trajectory leading beyond the adulation he received as a virtuoso to a desire to enter into broader cultural conversations. 

That said, his deeper reading of Dante seems to have begun during his relationship with the Countess Marie d’Agoult. They met in Paris in 1833 and we can see from their correspondence that they read Dante together and thought of Beatrice and Dante as a model for their own relationship with Liszt being sent on his artistic pilgrimage by Marie’s qualities as a muse. They were, however, a little different from Beatrice and Dante in that Marie left her husband and daughter for Liszt in 1835 and together they had three children out of wedlock. Beginning in 1837 they spent considerable time in Italy being inspired by its history and culture but also feeling an increasing tension between the life of the family they were creating and Liszt’s touring. In the end, touring won out and in the eight years from 1839 to 1847, Liszt appeared in the areas of 21 modern countries from Ireland and Portugal in the west to Russia and Turkey in the east. 

But back in 1838, Marie mentioned in her diary that Liszt was progressing in his large-scale compositional aspirations by sketching, among other things, a “Fragment dantesque.” 

Excerpt 2 (linked recording 1:20 - 2:40)

Although Liszt never mentioned it, this second excerpt from his sonata is sometimes cast as reflecting the whirlwind of the Francesca da Rimini episode. Whatever his intention, the drama of this music resonates with the context in which he wrote the following to fellow composer Hector Berlioz in 1839: “Dante has found his pictorial expression in Orcagna and Michelangelo, and someday perhaps he will find his musical expression in the Beethoven of the future.” Here, like several of his peers, Liszt was starting to position himself as the rightful heir to Beethoven’s legacy. From his own legendary story of receiving the great master’s kiss of blessing to becoming the ground-breaking exponent of Beethoven’s esoteric late piano works, Liszt interpreted himself as a Dante to Beethoven’s Virgil.  

In the years between “Fragment dantesque” and the final version of the sonata, Liszt crossed through several provisional titles for the work. In the most thought-provoking, he described the piece as a “Paralipomènes to the Divine Comedy, a Fantaisie symphonique.” This title suggests several distinct things about his conception of the work at that point. First, being “symphonique,” it was to be no ordinary piano piece. Liszt was thinking of the orchestra while at the keyboard which makes perfect sense for him as he had also been transcribing Beethoven’s symphonies to be performed on the piano since the late 1830s. Second, in referencing The Divine Comedy, he revealed the scope of the sonata to be the entire poem, not just the Inferno, for example. Finally, and most intriguingly, the term paralipomènes, used in some traditions to refer to the biblical books of Chronicles, suggests Liszt viewed the work as something after-the-fact, an appendix or a summary. Maybe even Dantesque material presented in a different framework.

And that brings us to the final title by which the work is known today. In 1856, it was published in the Italian book of Liszt’s three-volume series of piano pieces known as Years of Pilgrimage, and there it was called “Après une Lecture du Dante - Fantasia quasi Sonata.” “Fantasia quasi sonata” is a reference to Beethoven’s innovative piano works bearing the title “Sonata quasi una fantasia.” One of these is the well-known “Moonlight Sonata” which Liszt played. The “Après une Lecture du Dante” part is the name of a poem by Victor Hugo, a reflection which summarizes a perspective on Dante’s journey that understands the journey ultimately to be life itself.  

Here is a slightly abridged translation of Hugo’s poem, “After a reading of Dante”:

When the poet paints hell, he paints his life:

His life, 

a fleeing shadow pursued by specters;

Mysterious forest where his frightened steps stray groping off the beaten paths;

Black journey obstructed by deformed encounters;                                                                       

spiral with doubtful edges, enormous depths,

whose hideous circles go ever deeper into a shadow 

where vague and living hell stirs!

This ramp is lost in the uncertain mist;

…one sees passing there with a faint sound the grinding 

of white teeth in the dark night.

There are visions, dreams, chimeras;

Eyes that pain changes into bitter springs,

Love, an entwined couple, sad, and ever burning, which in a whirlwind passes …

In a corner, vengeance and hunger, impious sisters, crouching side by side on a gnawed skull;

Then pale misery with an impoverished smile …

ambition, pride, lust, avarice … 

All the leaden cloaks with which the soul can be burdened!

Further on, cowardice, fear, betrayal …

And then, lower still, and at the very bottom of the abyss, 

The grimacing mask of suffering Hatred!

Yes, this is indeed life, O inspired poet,

And its misty path cluttered with obstacles.

But, so that nothing is lacking, on this narrow road

You always show us, standing on your right,

The genius with the calm brow, with eyes full of light,

The serene Virgil who says: Let us continue!

Excerpt 3 (linked recording 4:40 - 6:35)

In this final excerpt one might hear a return of the musical whirlwind but in lament form giving way to something more hopeful, a heavenly and noble continuation.

To conclude, having outlined some of Liszt’s multi-faceted and personal ways of processing Dante, it seems reasonable to assert that this sonata does not retell The Divine Comedy so much in any specific way as it invites the listener into reflecting on their own knowledge of Dante. Its narrativity is of a general sort, harrowing and soothing the listener by turns with clangorous sonorities and other-worldly harmonies, all to stir up a remembrance of their own experiences of Dantesque materials. 

Liszt was adamant regarding the crucial role of individual engagement in the experience of music. When he heard pianists perform with little imagination, he accused them of what he called “the Pilate offence” of washing their hands of interpretive responsibility. If he showed up here today, he would likely hold us to a similar standard as listeners. Perhaps he would call the Sonata, “Having read Dante . . .” and would follow it up with a good conversation with each of us about our own insights.