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This chapter considers the influence of Roman comedies, such as those of Terence, on the development of a Prodigal Son tradition in Elizabethan literature. It is argued that the potential danger of rebellion against authority, and fears about change and its consequences in a period of stability following religious and economic upheaval, offer a context in which the parable might be meaningfully adapted. The ubiquity of the paradigm is explained in the light of this historical setting, and the tendency for writers to identify with the figure of the Prodigal is explored.

While there are many examples of Prodigal Son poems, the works of Bishop and Smith are compared as they both struggle to make sense of ‘home’ from a perspective of exile. For Bishop, home is shown to have little or no meaning; for Smith, it is full of meaning and cannot be ignored. Both have to come to terms with the loss of home, while accepting its role in their formation, and this is a feature of their poems which both implicitly and explicitly references the Prodigal Son parable. The role of Robinson Crusoe as a type of Prodigal Son is explored and contrasted by both in terms of Crusoe’s experiences of homecoming and his relationship to the wider community.

An overview is given of the ways in which the Prodigal Son appears in various literary genres and periods, as well as his waiting father and older brother. Reading the literary texts as contextual exegesis of the parable, the main findings of each chapter are summarized and compared. Colm Tóibín’s reflections on the new power of religious language in literary contexts, beyond the realm of belief, are offered as a way to understand that which has been lost and found in the journey the Prodigal Son has made through literature.

This final chapter discusses the merits of the project, showing how examining George Balanchine’s earliest ballets allows us a better understanding of his mature works. Comparisons are drawn between his lost ballets and those that are in the repertory: Prodigal Son, Apollo, Serenade, Jewels, Stravinsky Violin Concerto, and others. This conclusion shows the merits of a dance reconstruction project like Funeral March and demonstrates how it enables historians, dance artists, and audiences to gain greater depth in their understanding of ballet as an art form.

On his return from Leipzig, Arthur Sullivan earned his living as a church organist while making his way as a composer of anthems and serious orchestral works. In the mid-1860s he began a close, life-long friendship with George Grove, founder of the music dictionary which still bears his name and a leading Biblical scholar. As well as promoting Sullivan’s music and securing its performance at the Crystal Palace, Grove introduced him to leading figures in the world of Victorian culture and religion, and influenced his spiritual development and beliefs. He also played a key role in Sullivan’s first and rather tortuous love affair. The death of Sullivan’s father inspired his In Memoriam overture and he put much of his own faith into his first oratorio, The Prodigal Son (1869), which drew on an eclectic selection of Biblical texts and emphasized the themes of repentance, forgiveness, and reassurance that would recur in many of his sacred works.

In this chapter, Kevin Hart argues that Jesus’ parables present (or phenomenalize) a type of phenomenological reduction from world (kosmos) to kingdom (Basileia). The goal of the parables, then, is to “nudge” readers to live according to the kingdom even while still in the world. More radical than Husserl’s reduction, Jesus’ reduction proceeds from kenosis (an “emptying out” of worldly meaning and value) to epektasis (“stretching out” toward God). Focusing on the character of the father (and Father) in the “Prodigal Son” (Luke 15:11-32), Hart maintains that compassionate fatherhood is an important aspect of the kingdom, and is ultimately (and paradoxically, from a worldly perspective) inseparable from the realities of the cross and resurrection

As a composer for dance, Prokofiev has an international standing in the twentieth century that was second only to Stravinsky. Both composed specific scores for ballet and both have had other works mined by choreographers for new productions. Yet even now Prokofiev’s reputation as a composer for dance rests largely upon just two scores, both for full-program ballets: Romeo and Juliet and Cinderella. In this, Prokofiev differs from Stravinsky. However, it was as a composer of shorter, more experimental pieces—mostly written for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes—that Prokofiev not only learned his craft as a ballet composer but also refined his theatrical and musical idioms. His music for Chout, Trapèze, Le Pas d’Acier, and L’Enfant Prodigue were formative in his stylistic evolution. This chapter traces the development, design, production, and early reception of these relatively unfamiliar works and their later revivals.

The introduction defends politics against its many detractors. It argues that despite its dreadful reputation, politics not only matters a great deal to our collective life, it is the best means we have available for living together in freedom, respecting others as equals. The introduction makes its case for politics by introducing the main subject of the book, Hannah Arendt. Arendt argued that politics, far from being reproachable and despicable, is a good, and even beautiful, thing. For politics happens whenever people freely come together as equals to speak about, or act on, matters of common concern.

Arthur Sullivan was no saint and certainly no ascetic. He enjoyed life to the full and was an unashamed pleasure seeker, adding gambling to the usual trinity of women, wine, and song. It is not surprising that he related so closely to the biblical figure of the Prodigal Son whom he resembled both in terms of his somewhat profligate lifestyle and in his bouts of remorse and regret. He had a remarkable capacity for generosity and a simple and trusting Christian faith. Although his life was not without its apparent contrasts and contradictions, his character, like his music, was distinguished by its simplicity, straightforwardness, and utter sincerity. Both exerted a softening and uplifting effect which it is not too much to describe as a divine emollient.

The Introduction proposes a new approach to studying the sacrament of penance in the Russian tradition from the seventeenth century to 1917. Overly political emphases have reduced penance to the Petrine requirement for priests to report anything treasonous they might hear at confession. Narrowly theological studies over-emphasize Orthodoxy’s ‘therapeutic’ approach versus such notions as ‘satisfaction’, ‘merits’, or ‘justification’. Here, confession is situated both in its broader social, liturgical, and legal context, and in the context of other traditions (Roman Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish). Confession in imperial Russia was not an exclusively private act, but also a seasonal and communal one. As part of govienie, a week-long Lenten penitential process incorporating fasting and daily church attendance, it culminated with confession and communion. This liturgical context, described in the context of Lenten texts and services, allowed the sacrament to maintain its integrity even when rulers sought to use it for political, disciplinary, and educational purposes.