I did not compose my work as one might put on a church

Host: The concert hall was empty, save for the faint echo of memory lingering between the red velvet seats. The grand piano stood at the center of the stage — its black body gleaming faintly beneath a single spotlight, like a relic, or a confession. The air smelled faintly of polish and rain, and the city beyond the tall glass doors whispered through its own symphony of wind and wheels.

Jack sat at the edge of the stage, one foot tapping absently against the floor, cigarette unlit in his hand. Jeeny stood near the piano, her fingers hovering above the keys, tracing them as if they might still remember the touch of Liszt himself.

In the stillness, her voice broke the silence — quiet, but alive with something sacred.

Jeeny: “Franz Liszt once said, ‘I did not compose my work as one might put on a church vestment... rather it sprung from the truly fervent faith of my heart, such as I have felt it since my childhood.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “So even the wildest pianist thought he was a priest of sound.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Not a priest — a believer. There’s a difference. He didn’t wear faith like ceremony. It wasn’t costume — it was current.”

Host: The piano lid gleamed under the light as Jeeny pressed one key, a single note blooming into the air — delicate, trembling, yet infinite in its resonance. Jack watched her, his face caught somewhere between cynicism and surrender.

Jack: “You think art really comes from faith?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Not necessarily religious faith — but something larger than reason. Creation always begins with belief. Even doubt is a kind of faith — faith in uncertainty.”

Jack: (chuckles) “You make it sound mystical. Maybe Liszt was just romanticizing his own obsession. Artists always do.”

Jeeny: “Maybe obsession is a form of devotion. He wasn’t talking about religion; he was talking about sincerity. The difference between performing and praying.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands drifted over the keys, her fingers touching the ivory with reverence, not pressure. A few scattered notes emerged — fragments of melody, half-formed, half-felt. The sound filled the empty hall with something haunting and human.

Jack: “But art’s not about faith anymore. It’s about fame, money, likes, galleries, headlines. The age of creation has turned into the age of consumption.”

Jeeny: “That’s only the noise, Jack. Beneath it, the real music still exists — people still create because they have to. Because something in them burns to be known, not by others, but by themselves.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re describing prayer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. For Liszt, music was prayer — not to God, but to truth.”

Host: A light rain began tapping against the tall glass doors, faint and rhythmic, like applause from heaven’s patient audience. Jack stood, pacing slowly, his hands deep in his coat pockets.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of faith. The way he could believe his work was divine without needing proof. I can’t even believe in my morning routine.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Because you confuse faith with certainty. Faith isn’t knowing — it’s feeling deeply enough to create anyway.”

Jack: “So you think faith is the fuel of art?”

Jeeny: “No. I think faith is art.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, shimmering with the echo of piano notes fading into silence. The spotlight flickered slightly — a pulse, like the heart of the hall itself.

Jack: “But faith without discipline is chaos. You can’t just feel your way into genius. Liszt trained for years, like a soldier.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he said his work didn’t come from technique. He wasn’t showing off — he was offering. That’s the paradox of real creation: the better your skill, the more invisible it becomes. What’s left is pure feeling.”

Jack: (sitting back down) “You make him sound like a prophet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was. Prophets don’t predict the future — they reveal the soul.”

Host: The rain deepened, the windows streaked with trails of silver. The piano reflected both of them now — two silhouettes in a shared mirror of sound and silence.

Jeeny: “When Liszt performed, people said it felt like he was possessed. Women fainted, men wept. Not because of the notes, but because he played as if his heart had a voice. That’s what he meant — his faith wasn’t worn; it was lived.”

Jack: “You think that kind of purity still exists?”

Jeeny: “In rare souls, yes. In moments, in glances, in songs that never make the charts. Faith doesn’t disappear; it just hides where people have stopped looking.”

Jack: “And you? You believe your art still carries faith?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “I believe if it doesn’t, it isn’t art. It’s performance.”

Host: The piano hummed faintly under her touch again. This time she played a single chord — deep, resonant, like the tolling of an unseen bell. It seemed to vibrate through the room, through their bones, through something wordless.

Jack: “You know what I think?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Jack: “I think Liszt was terrified — that if he stopped believing, the music would stop coming. Maybe that’s why he talked about faith like it was oxygen.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. But that fear — that hunger — that’s what makes the human divine. He wasn’t worshipping God. He was worshipping the spark that makes creation possible.”

Jack: “And you think that spark lives in everyone?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But most people bury it under practicality, cynicism, fear of failure. Only a few dare to treat it as sacred.”

Host: The light dimmed further now. Only the piano glowed faintly under the remaining beam — black and gold, like night caught holding fire. Jeeny closed her eyes, playing a soft melody that sounded like memory made audible.

Jack watched, transfixed — not by the music itself, but by the purity of her attention.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what faith really looks like.”

Jeeny: (eyes still closed) “What?”

Jack: “Someone doing what they love with no guarantee anyone’s listening.”

Host: The final note trembled and fell into silence — soft, absolute. Jeeny opened her eyes, her expression serene.

Jeeny: “That’s the only kind of prayer that matters.”

Host: The rain stopped, and for a moment, even the hum of the city seemed to fade. The air was full, alive — not with noise, but with the residue of something sacred.

Jack rose slowly, almost reverently, his usual sharpness tempered by awe.

Jack: “You’re right. Liszt didn’t wear faith. He breathed it. Maybe we all have, at some point — before the world taught us doubt.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the task isn’t to find faith, Jack. It’s to remember it.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed to darkness, leaving only the faint reflection of two souls in the polished piano surface — a silent testament to art, to belief, to the childlike fire Liszt spoke of.

And in that darkness, his words echoed again — not as nostalgia, but as truth reborn:

That art is not the robe of piety,
but the pulse of faith,
and that the purest creation
springs not from the mind’s mastery,
but from the heart’s memory of wonder.

Host: Outside, the rain began once more — gentle, rhythmic, eternal —
as though the heavens themselves were keeping time
to a melody only faith could hear.