To SiRMetMan:
I suppose, putting it at its most succinct, I'd be inclined to say that human existance is a by-blow, an epiphenomenon, of God's creative enterprise in the universe at large. And our self-centered fascination with what God thinks of us, his supposed consuming interest in the life of Man here on Earth and elsewhere, is something on a par with a worm or nematode supposing (if they could suppose) that the foot that crushes it does so because of some purpose impenetrable to it and entirely mysterious - rather than the mere unthinking accident that such an event actually is.
We are, in comparison to the unspeakable vastness, beauty and terror of the universe, so utterly and entirely insignificant that to imagine God taking cognizance of our existence at all (let alone with sufficient interest to bear us good or ill-will) is in itself a crime of lese majeste, and an act of hubris entirely worthy of damnation - if God had any interest in our damnation or salvation - which I doubt.
I believe that to most people of a religious cast of mind (or spirit, or person - however you may wish to describe it) such a perspective is one of horror and futility. But it makes a deal more sense to me than supposing that infinite wisdom, infintie power, and infinite creativity, would stoop to involve itself in one infinitesimal fragment of its endless creativity.
Which is not to say that God cannot be approached, cannot be experienced, cannot be evoked within the life of a person whose cast of soul, whose personality, whose spirit, is bent upon doing so. That which is created (and life, in all its forms, wherever it is found, whether or not it is by us perceived to be life, is a function of God's creative enterprise) bears the stamp, the imprint, of its Maker. All life bears within it, in some entirely incomprehensible manner, the Imago Dei.
It is because we, as much as dolphins, dahlias, and mountaintains, bear that imprint that such evocation is possible. Largely, for most of my life as a spiritual person, my approach to God was one of supplication. I begged and whined and complained and bitched, I stamped my feet and threw hissy-fits in the face of God - which, so far as I can see (at least among Christians, the one great religious tradition with which I am intimately familiar) is the substantial meaning of both 'prayer' and 'worship'.
I need a job, God. Give me one.
My car is broke, God. Fix it.
Someone I love is dieing, God. Don't let them.
The world is a bad place, God. Make it better.
Or -
We love you God, gives us what we want.
We know what you want the world to be, God. Make it like we say.
Craven slaves, crying on their knees in the dark, begging their Master for favors. Such things disgust me.
The tenets of Thelemic High Ritual completed my divorce from Christianity, while re-acquainting me with the God I had had intimations of in my childhood. A God amoral, nihilistic, utterly unconcerned for anything other than beauty. And in the ritual it teaches I found the means to evoke the presence of God, and that of those ministering entities referred to as 'angels' and 'demons'. And I found too that even the least of the least of the least may collaborate in God's creativity.
If, that is, they are willing to bear the attentions of the Artist in question.