Angels have a thousand jobs. For each job, a shape. For each task, celestial engineering in the factories of the gods. Not many of us are made according to such most minute & intricate blueprints.
In an angel’s philosophy, it was once said, two times two equals thirteen. This is not slander. Angels are not crazy, could not be further from madness. They have, insofar as any theologian understands, absolute purity of purpose. A stiletto-sharp fidelity to the task of keeping Heaven clean.
To messy-minded humans, to Homo Vorago Aperientis, so glass-clear & precise a drive makes no sense at all. It is considerably less comprehensible than the ravings of those we call insane.
Angels, unremittingly & absolutely sane, cannot but seem to poor humanity relentlessly & madly murderous.