In the beginning there was God, only God, and God was bored. Above all, God was an artist, and so to amuse itself, God undertook a great project. This would be a grand and complex construction project, something novel, unique, something of unparalleled beauty. In its unmatched mechanical genius, God designed a layered series of dimensions and raised them from the void. Then, into this new concept of physical space, it crafted and inset a universe.
This new thing, this universe, was gorgeous beyond description, but when it was finished God found itself unable to enjoy it. It hadn’t counted on upkeep and maintenance, evolution and growth, and the time and energy required to run this universe project was enormous. So it built a shining city, the city of Heaven, and in the halls and homes of Heaven, God created life.
The first life was perfect: thoughtlessly obedient, flawless creatures of alabaster skin and fluffy white wings. It called them Angels, its arms and eyes and ears, and it loved them as it loved itself. And so its Angels took to running the universe, enacting God’s directives, repairing, expanding, and maintaining its creation. And God settled back on its throne, in the city of Heaven, and it marveled at what it had done. Now it had time to think.
And for ten billion years it thought. And as it thought, it realized that despite the flush of that first creative act, despite the complexity of its creation, God was still bored. It tried bringing its Angels to it for counsel, to discuss its misgivings, but in this they lacked all capacity. Their thoughts and opinions mirrored its own, endlessly, and God found itself more and more distressed, craving something indefinable. Then one day, in a great stroke of genius, it understood — It knew how it could be surprised. Continue reading “The Morning Star”