The Butter Thief (249 words)

Antoine Vollon, Mound of Butter, 1875/1885, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

In one version of the story, Krishna’s mother catches the mischievous baby stealing butter. She says, “Krishna, you stole the butter,” and he replies, “I didn’t steal the butter.” She places the butter pot on a high shelf, but he is wily and resourceful, and he gets the pot down on the floor again. She comes in, and the baby is sitting with the pot, laughing and dripping in butter, butter everywhere, and he sees her and says, “I didn’t steal the butter!” And she smiles at him and relents, saying, “No, Krishna, you didn’t steal the butter.” She sees his pleasure, the deliciousness of his experience, and her love for him knows no bounds.

The story is explained to me thusly: the mother’s love is God’s love. Can this be? That God (let’s call it the Infinite, since “god” is such a fraught term)—that the Infinite shows love through indulgence? Through letting our playful baby selves get away with mischief? No, the Infinite shows love through agony, though grimly sacrificing its child. How else did Western Civ come to dominate the world over the last 2,000 years? By driving ourselves relentlessly, by telling ourselves that pleasure is suspect and weakness is sin, by not telling ourselves stories about god-as-mother indulging the baby god in his delicious pleasure in the world.

And I am fascinated that the Infinite—that the mysterious notion of unconditional love—can have so many infinite interpretations carried in the hearts of our species.