Weekly SpinOn: Eternity

The death of Pope Francis and the following conclave taking place in the Sistine Chapel in the Roman Vatican have inspired this playlist about various compositions on the subject of death, mourning, and transcendence.

The papal conclave is one of the oldest continuously practiced rituals in the Western world. Established in its current form in 1274 and since 1492 held in the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City, it combines centuries-old tradition with spiritual gravity: cardinals gather in strict seclusion (cum clave – “with a key”) to elect a new pope through prayer and secret ballot. More than just a religious procedure, the conclave is a symbolic act of continuity and authority — a ritual that has outlasted empires, revolutions, and modern politics.

So, what could be a better beginning to this playlist than a track from the coronation mass conducted by Herbert von Karajan in St. Peters Basilica in the Vatican in 1985. The concert was an integral part of a High Mass celebrated by Pope John Paul II, who later appointed Bergoglio a cardinal in 2001. Bergoglio was finally elected the 266th Bishop of Rome from March 13, 2013 until his death and thus Pope, head of the Roman Catholic Church and sovereign of the Vatican State.

 

Track 1 – Mass in C Major, K. 317 “Coronation Mass”: Agnus Dei, Mozart

​Herbert von Karajan’s performance of Mozart’s Coronation Mass in St. Peter’s Basilica on June 29, 1985, stands as a profound convergence of music, spirituality, and personal reconciliation.​

The event took place during a High Mass celebrated by Pope John Paul II on the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, a significant day in the Catholic calendar. Karajan conducted the Vienna Philharmonic and the Wiener Singverein, with soloists including Kathleen Battle, Trudeliese Schmidt, Gösta Winbergh, and Ferruccio Furlanetto. The performance was not merely a concert but an integral part of the liturgical celebration, emphasizing its sacred context.

Karajan himself proposed the idea of performing the Coronation Mass during a Papal visit to Austria. His suggestion was embraced, leading to this unique collaboration between the maestro and the Vatican. The choice of Mozart’s Coronation Mass, known for its festive and majestic character, was fitting for the grandeur of St. Peter’s Basilica and the solemnity of the occasion.​

For Karajan, this performance held deep personal meaning. In his later years, he experienced a spiritual awakening, showing interest in Zen Buddhism and ultimately reconciling with the Catholic Church. During the Mass, Karajan, along with his wife and daughters, received Holy Communion from Pope John Paul II—a poignant moment symbolizing his return to the faith.

The rendition of the Coronation Mass under Karajan’s baton was marked by its solemnity and reverence. The acoustics of St. Peter’s Basilica added a celestial quality to the music, enhancing its spiritual impact. The performance was recorded for Karajan’s film production company Telemondial and later released, allowing a wider audience to experience this extraordinary event.

​Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Mass in C major, K. 317, commonly known as the “Coronation Mass,” which he completed on March 23, 1779, in Salzburg, was likely first performed on Easter Sunday, April 4, 1779, at the Salzburg Cathedral.  The name “Coronation Mass” wasn’t assigned by Mozart himself. It gained this title in the early 19th century after being performed at the coronation of Francis II as Holy Roman Emperor in 1792.

The Agnus Dei, the mass’s final movement, is particularly distinguished. It features a sublime soprano solo that bears melodic resemblance to the aria “Dove sono” from Mozart’s later opera Le nozze di Figaro (1786). This connection underscores Mozart’s ability to infuse sacred music with operatic expressiveness.

The Latin text of the Agnus Dei translates to:​

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace. ​

This plea for mercy and peace is central to the Catholic Mass and has inspired numerous composers over the centuries. In Mozart’s setting, the Agnus Dei serves as both a culmination of the mass and a profound expression of spiritual yearning.​

In this recording, Kathleen Battle’s soprano soars with crystal purity, suspended over a gentle orchestral texture that embodies sacred serenity. The interplay between her voice and the choir feels like a dialogue between the finite and the infinite.

Track 2 – Pines of Rome, P. 141: II. Pini presso una catacomba, Respighi

In a playlist inspired by the death of the head of the Catholic Church in Rome and the following conclave in the “eternal city”, an excerpt from the work “Pini di Roma” by Ottorino Respighi should not be missing. This is the second work in Respighi’s Roman trilogy, which he began in 1916 with “Fontane di Roma”, which marked his breakthrough and ended in 1928 with “Feste Romane”.

The symphonic poem “Pini di Roma” (1924) consists of four movements in which different places in Rome where pine trees grow are described musically. This 2nd movement “Pini pressa una catacomba” is one of Respighi’s most evocative musical landscapes—a hushed vision of pine trees standing vigil over the catacombs of ancient Rome.

The Catacombs of Rome are an extensive network of underground burial sites located on the outskirts of the city. Dating from the 2nd to the 5th century AD, they were primarily used by early Christians and Jews to bury their dead outside the city walls, in keeping with Roman law. The catacombs served not only as burial sites, but also as places of worship, especially during times of Christian persecution. The surrounding landscape of the Catacombs, particularly the Via Appia Antica, are lined with stone pines and the have become iconic elements of the Roman countryside.

An extremely interesting fact, that links pines back to our topic, is that in classical and Christian traditions, pine trees often represent eternity, resilience, and spiritual endurance!

The power of Respighi’s “Pini presso una catacomb” lies in its restraint – it offers no dramatic gestures. Through Karajan’s lens—who embraced the stillness of Zen meditation—this becomes more than an orchestral poem. It is a soundscape of collective memory, of the spirits that linger in Rome’s timeless spaces.

Unlike the popular belief, Karajan began studying meditation and yoga very early during his first year in Berlin in 1938. In a conversation with his biographer and friend Ernst Häussermann, he recalled:

Sometimes I had the feeling that there was a glass wall between me and the orchestra. And that was also atmospheric, in bad weather for instance, and I said to myself, that can’t go, because after all, you have to give something close to what is expected of you. And I dealt with that for a very long time and it had become a really difficult problem in my life… And suddenly I see a book on display called “Is yoga for you?”. It’s by an Englishman called … Brown and the translation was there and strangely enough – for me it’s like that with books – there are books that lie in a display and speak to you personally and say: “Take me with you and read me” and that was so strong.

But only later in his life he came in contact with the Jesuit priest Hugo Enomiya-Lassalle, who was a pioneer in integrating Zen Buddhism with Christian spirituality, and his teachings deeply resonated with Karajan.​ Karajan’s engagement with Zen principles, inspired by Enomiya-Lassalle, led him to adopt a more introspective and meditative approach to music. He began conducting with his eyes closed, emphasizing an inner connection with the music over external gestures. This shift reflected his belief in the importance of internal harmony and presence, aligning with Zen’s focus on mindfulness and the present moment.​

This spiritual journey also influenced Karajan’s choice of repertoire and performance style. He gravitated towards works that embodied transcendence and introspection, such as Mozart’s Coronation Mass and Bruckner’s symphonies. His interpretations became more serene and contemplative, aiming to evoke a sense of timelessness and spiritual depth.​

In one of only two chapters Herbert von Karajan completed during his lifetime for a planned book, he compared his work with the orchestra to a collective meditation and reaching an altered stage of consciousness:

“We concentrate on a riddle which is the content of the music we do.[…] And then if we have the common focus of concentration, something else comes to life. […] It is like taking off in the airplane. It lifts us up.The language of Buddhism says not ‘I operate’, it says ‘it operates’. The ‘it’ indicates that something behind you is governing everything. You are only giving it the first control, then you must let it go where it goes. When I forget I make music, I know that it is right.”¹

Track 3 –  Symphony No. 7 in E major, II. Adagio, Bruckner

The Adagio from Bruckner’s Seventh Symphony is often regarded as one of the most moving slow movements in the symphonic repertoire. Composed in 1883, Bruckner wrote it as a kind of homage to Richard Wagner, whose death occurred while Bruckner was finishing the symphony. The movement unfolds as a vast arc of mourning, constructed with sublime restraint. Its deeply lyrical themes, enriched by the use of Wagner tubas, offer a profound meditation on loss and the afterlife.

Anton Bruckner was a devout Catholic whose faith permeated his music. He viewed his compositions not as personal expressions, but as offerings to God. His symphonies, particularly the Seventh, embody the structure of spiritual journeys—filled with struggle, contemplation, and glimpses of heavenly light. The Adagio, in particular, has often been interpreted as a sonic prayer.

Herbert von Karajan’s interpretation with the Berlin Philharmonic brings an unmatched depth of solemnity and spiritual reverence to the work. The pacing is spacious without ever dragging, allowing every nuance of grief and grace to bloom. Karajan’s late style, informed by Zen and inner contemplation, is reflected here in the calm mastery and absence of excess. It is music that breathes—and listens.

This movement is the spiritual and emotional core of the symphony and, in the context of this playlist, it echoes the themes of farewell, transcendence, and quiet surrender. It does not dramatize death—it dignifies it. Bruckner’s belief in the afterlife and his trust in divine mystery resonate in every phrase. The Adagio doesn’t answer the question of death—it makes peace with not knowing. In Karajan’s hands, it becomes not a lament, but a moment of illumination, where music touches the silence that lies beyond.

 

Track 4 – Ein deutsches Requiem, Op. 45: I. “Selig sind, die da Leid tragen”, Brahms

Unlike Bruckner, Brahms was a spiritual but not conventionally religious man. His Requiem reflects this worldview — one that prioritizes human dignity, grief as a shared experience, and the possibility of solace through reflection. By setting German texts from Luther’s Bible rather than using the traditional Latin liturgy, Brahms created a piece that speaks directly to listeners, regardless of faith. Unlike the traditional Latin Requiem, Brahms’ German Requiem is neither strictly religious nor intended for liturgical use. Composed in the 1860s, after the death of his mother and possibly in response to the earlier loss of Robert Schumann, it is a deeply human work. The first movement, “Selig sind, die da Leid tragen” (“Blessed are they that mourn”), opens the piece not with sorrow, but with comfort — setting the tone for a requiem rooted in empathy and consolation.

This is not a requiem for the dead in the traditional sense. Brahms intended it for those left behind — for the mourners. The music unfolds slowly, with a calm and clear logic, allowing space for thought and reflection. It is grounded, inward, and free of theatricality. This restraint was typical of Brahms, whose life was marked by self-discipline, routine, and quiet rigor. He rose early, walked for hours, and wrote only after long contemplation. His creative process was structured, consistent, and deeply private.

There’s a striking parallel here between Brahms and Karajan. Both were intensely disciplined, and both saw music as something that demanded not only technique, but self-awareness. Karajan, in his later years, followed a strict daily rhythm that allowed him to manage his enormous workload which was marveled at in disbelief throughout his life. And so, in one of the few interviews with Herbert von Karajan, a journalist wanted to know how it was possible to manage 3 festivals, 20 records and 3 music films every year. Karajan replied quite surprisingly:

“I actually have a lot of time.” “I use it for myself.” He got up at 6 a.m. every day and devoted himself to yoga and meditation exercises before starting to study the score. This was followed by a rehearsal from 10:00-13:00 and yoga exercises again during the lunch break, after which he swam or went for a walk before the afternoon rehearsal until late at night or a concert.²

 

As the final piece in the playlist Eternity, this movement offers a deeply grounded kind of peace. It doesn’t promise answers or transcendence in the traditional sense — but it gently holds space for loss, for memory, and for the quiet dignity of grief. In Karajan’s interpretation, Brahms’ music becomes a resting place: not an ending, but a threshold. And in that stillness, eternity begins.

—  Pia Bernauer (Karajan Institute, Salzburg)