Cherubim & Seraphim
January 4, 2004
200 years ago today, the angels announced to the shepherds that a Lord was born who is Christ the King and the Magi visited with their trinity of gifts.
Today, the announcement of the Redemption has evolved into the day to take down all the Christmas finery, put away the extra folding chairs, and take the leaves out of the dining room table. The kitchen is sorely lacking in fruits and vegetables, and the refrigerator only holds a half-pint of sour cream, the dregs of a quart of eggnog, and shriveled up chestnuts that were never roasted. We've subsisted on take-out Chinese, deliveries of pizza, and bowls of cereal for supper. Real time is back and I'm resisting the black and white, second-hand sweep of its pull.
For Christmas, M. gave me a chubby, papier-mâché angel covered in old-fashioned glass glitter. She's a sturdy little thing, definitely more humble than grand. She is not from the same angelic choir as the Fortitudo Dei, in which belong the Archangel Michael, the dragon slayer; Raphael, the healer; and Gabriel, the Annunciator. Neither is she a Romanesque fantasy, all wings and flowing blonde hair and see-through skirts. No, she is young and not yet fully formed from the mouth of God. I believe she may be an angel-in-training. I started her off watching over my miniature crèches, but now that Epiphany is almost over, I am bringing her upstairs and installing her over my computer.
Who couldn’t use a tutelary Angel? There are nine kinds to choose from (even Angels have class distinctions it appears) and certainly there must be one that fits the peculiar needs of a Writer. Archangels are in the highest order and certainly there are times when an Archangel will come in handy to slay our dragons, to heal our pain, and to tell reveal the great truths.
On the next rung down on the celestial ladder are “Powers, Principalities, and Dominations” (duties murkily defined but sound like they’d make excellent agents). Last but not least are the Seraphims and Cherubims. What better for a writer than a host of Seraphim, whose purpose is to stand at your feet and adore? (I can name a few Writers who appear to have had their own choir of heavenly hosts installed many years ago.)
Other times, a writer may need a more practical celestial being, such a cherub, whose purpose is to veil God from the world and be heavenly throne-bearers. Such a being would come in handy when the kids are clamoring for clean clothes, the boss wants to know why you are late again, and the husband wants to know why it's his job to buy the groceries and pick up the dry cleaning. When the ephemeral urge to write is felt, a cherub can carry the Writer through the sticky mud of getting started, and into the evanescence of make believe.
According to official dogma on angels (who knew there was such a thing?), appearances of angels last only so long as the delivery of their messages requires.
So today I am listening carefully for the message. I need to hear the secret, the message that will shake me up, cover me with silvery flakes, and carry me back to make believe.
Or is that Tinkerbell?