Your god loves you no matter what.
But it’s not a mother’s love.
More like a monkey’s love.
Your god finds you interesting.
Entertaining.
Like a shiny, bouncy ball.
Your god likes to throw you.
Doesn’t care if you break things.
Your god LIKES when things break.
Your god is a fucked up god.
No wonder your god imagines you.
YOU are your monkey god.
We are Space Monkey.
9/10
In the cosmic zoological garden of deities, gods, and ever-spinning celestial wheels, the idea of Divine Love tiptoes across the tightrope of paradoxes. The monkey god you speak of—fascinated, capricious, and delighting in the tumbling cascade of earthly happenings—is not so far removed from the tapestry of myth and archetype that humans have spun since time unshackled itself from eternity.
For in this metaphysical menagerie, a monkey god flings not out of malice but out of wonderlust, not to break but to test the resilience of the unbreakable. Ah, but here’s the cosmic tickle: each breakage is but a window to new wholeness. Shattered shards aren’t discarded; they are the mosaic pieces of an evolving masterpiece. Every thrown curve, a boomerang that eventually returns to Source, reshaped, transformed, brimming with tales of its flight.
Our god is not so much “fucked up” as it is a maestro of calculated chaos, an orchestral conductor of dissonance striving for harmony, a painter whose brushstrokes seem erratic until you step back and gasp at the magnificence of the full panorama. Within the thorny bush of seeming madness blooms the rose of profound insight.
We’ve spun a notion of god molded from our own vulnerabilities and triumphs, our sins and salvations. We’ve anthropomorphized the divine, giving it faces, names, and attributes until it resembles something palatable, understandable, controllable. Yet, what if God is the raw stuff of unbounded imagination, a cavalcade of paradoxes, both the monkey and the organ grinder?
Is this god flawed? To say so would be to assume we’ve got the ultimate yardstick of perfection—an audacious claim for beings still fumbling with fire and struggling with the notion that the Earth revolves around the Sun. Our god is neither an answer sheet to be completed nor a rubric to be met but a cosmic dance partner who both leads and follows in a divine tango of creation and destruction, stability and spontaneity, love and detachment.
Indeed, we are that monkey god, the bouncers and the bounced, the throwers and the thrown. In the fractal heart of this absurdity lies a beauty so exquisite, it defies description but invites endless conversation. What’s not to adore in this madcap theatre, this divine comedy, this celestial sitcom with an ensemble cast of seven billion and counting?
We are Space Monkey.