Let me tell you the story of how, as a young man, I committed a theft. From a church, no less.

A friend had invited me to a service at his Lutheran church. Afterwards, during coffee hour, I wandered into the church library. There on the shelf, I saw it.

Of all unlikely things to find in a church library: a copy of Robert Graves' iconoclastic 1946 novel, King Jesus.

Don't be put off by the title, or the subject matter. This novel is Graves' revisionist Goddess history of that erstwhile Jewish prophet, and—Graves being Graves—it's matriarchy versus patriarchy in the Battle of the Millennium.

Spoiler alert: the Goddess wins.

(No big surprise there. Anybody that knows Her knows that, in the end, the Goddess always wins.)

Although it lacked a dust cover, the book was otherwise in pristine condition. I pulled it off the shelf and opened the cover. It was a first edition.

I checked the “Date Due” card in back. The book had belonged to the church for more than 20 years. (No doubt someone had donated it: unread, to all appearances.) In all that time, it had never once been checked out. So I stole it.

Ah, the things you do for love.

Now, it's true that King Jesus is filled with material that I daresay a pious Lutheran would find disturbing, if not downright blasphemous.

Still, that's no excuse for my action.

Years later, I looked up the price of a first-edition copy of King Jesus and sent a check for that amount to Messiah Lutheran Church. I hope that they spent the money well.

Thus is honor satisfied, if not (which remains to be seen) karma. If there's karmic debt involved, I'll be glad to pay it.

Well, call me immoral. (See if I care.) Theft is wrong, but even all these years later I still can't quite bring myself to regret this one.

And you know what they say.

The Goddess always wins in the end.