Angel of the Resurrection window, installed in 1898. Artist John La Farge, known for working with superimposed panes of layered glass in opalescent hues. Those peacock feathers in the wings are a glorious sight when the sun rises outside.

The book Angels: God’s Secret Agents by Billy Graham turned up at our Little Free Library. The title did not inspire immediate confidence. And for a staunch Baptist author, isn’t angel talk a bit on the fluffy side? But no, the book was a solid summary of angels throughout Scripture, with citations nicely annotated and organized. What’s more, Dr. Graham patiently defused the various homespun notions such as “Your child died because God needed another angel,” since people do not turn into angels even after they crochet us a doily or bake us a pie, not to mention that no one should ever say that to anyone ever anyway.

As the book points out, angels are not here to be endearing or cute. In the Bible, a “cherub” is not really a plump white boylet, but something intimidating and enigmatic. Angels as a rule dismiss any personal overtures toward themselves. They deliver messages in the fewest words, they get their job done, like changing your flat tire on Thanksgiving, and then vanish without dawdling around to be befriended or thanked. (True, two exceptions come to mind. One unnamed angel spends all night wrestling with Jacob (Genesis 32:26), who says “I will not let you go until you bless me.” In the Book of Tobit there is Azarias, or Angel Raphael in disguise. He stays on for over two weeks as an incognito fellow traveler, fisherman’s friend, matchmaker, marital counselor, diplomat, pursuer of demons into Egypt, collector of inherited silver, healer, and all-round helpmeet and comfort to Tobias and his family and dog. Incidentally, the Billy Graham book mentions other named angels, but not Raphael. Perhaps it’s because Tobit is included in the Bible for only some denominations, but not in others.) So to sum up, angels flash in, say their piece, and are gone before anybody figures out what-all just happened or who that was.

You never know when reminders of angels might come along. One time a whole crowd of fans flowed toward a stadium for a major-league ball game. A mother had her teenage boys and one quiet little fella all jostling at an intersection waiting for the WALK sign. Then, the little guy clutched his collar and cried out “My St. Michael medal! I left it home! Can we go get it? St. Michael protects me from EVIL.” (He pronounced both syllables at full value, é + víl, like the announcer for some thrilling show on old-time radio.) The teenagers hollered with laughter, clutching their collars and wailing in mock lamentation. (We have to be late for the game because Baby Whiny lost his medal, and because ball games are é + víl!) The WALK sign flashed on, the crowds shoved off the curb. But the little one stood weeping, bereft of his medal and now stung by the jeering of the bigger kids. We all missed the WALK sign.

I caught the mother’s eye, giving her a sympathetic nod, then turned to the youngster and said “Medals are important. They remind us that St. Michael is out there to watch and guide us. But YOU thought past that and remembered and had faith in him anyway! And that is all it takes. Go open an atlas of Ireland some time. Not just any map, but a good large atlas at the library. It shows you Irish names like Skellig Michael, Kilmichael, Kirk Michael, on and on. When people there thought about St. Michael and found his comfort and help, or experienced a real miracle, then they marked the place by giving it a Michael name.” Even the older teens got all quiet, listening. “But don’t believe me,” I told them. “The atlas has centuries of proof!” The young’un dried his eyes and raised his head high. Mom flashed me a smile; the light flashed a WALK.

If we-all were acquaintances, I could have entertained him with a factoid that small Catholic children can find it interesting: that there is one saint whose name is a question and a battle cry (Mi-ka-el, Hebrew = “Who Is Like God?” Answer: God alone), a saint who is not even a human being! It’s nice to think that his canonization did not bog down in the Vatican red tape gauntlet with its scrutiny of his personal life, medical documentation of miracles, and the legalistic assaults of the Advocatus Diaboli. He just flew right in, no questions asked.

According to Russian Wikipedia, Michael’s Orthodox title of Arkhistratig means leader of the heavenly hosts of angels. In Orthodox icons he is shown as a beardless youth with wings. The wings represent motion at the speed of thought, to act and perform the will of God. The gold background behind him is a symbol of heavenly radiance. The gem diadem symbolizes all-seeing wisdom. In his left hand, the slender lance symbolizes his role wielding spiritual combat over the forces of malice — fighting not flesh and blood, but the powers of spiritual darkness.

Citation: 13th Century, Monastery of St. Catherine, Mount Sinai.

Catholic depictions take the military angle, showing Michael full length with an athletic body in a Roman short tunic and armor. He’s braced on his right foot, pinning down the head of some massive serpent with his left foot, with right arm about to deliver a death sword blow. Often in his left hand he is holding the scales of the Last Judgment, measuring sins and virtues in an individual’s life and advocating for his soul; this is why there are cemetery chapels dedicated to him.

But those conventional portraits have changed quite a bit since Billy Graham wrote his book. The author might be surprised by results of my internet check just today, and its alterniverse of images generated by artificial intelligence. A modern twist is Michael with bare chest and washboard abs, and hair like young David Lee Roth. This result is definitely one of the most tasteful, though the sword looks about twice as long as a genuinely functional weapon.

Does each of us have our own guardian angel? Not everybody wants one, but I do. His silent wordless inner prompting conveys either one of two possible messages:

1. Go go go! Move! Act! Do it now!

2. Halt! You do not understand the bigger picture. Calm down. Let it go.

Does this prompting care at all what I feel or I prefer? No. Is it always right? Yes.

Have I ever seen an angel? Once. I was young and house-sitting alone in a bitter cold late winter in a small town where I knew absolutely no one, and for three days was too cold and despairing to get out of bed. The third night, I was swept under by an attack of sheer panic. Then, a luminous presence flashed into consciousness for a tenth of a second, and I recognized that this very presence had been interceding for my soul since before time began, a realization which brings me to tears to this day. With a single gesture the presence commanded me to get up on my knees and pray for myself with all my might, and to get out of that house and town and go find people, and do it right now. What came to mind next was the memory of a poster from a bookstore, a flyer for a Gender-Role Free Folk Dance club meeting for a potluck in the city. I rocketed out of bed, washed up and dressed warm, packed a bag, and ran out the door.

I walked out to the road through the wetlands in the wind and waving reeds, caught the town bus, then a commuter train, then another train, then another bus, then more walking, and within two hours I was at Gender-Role Free Folk Dance. The folks there gave me a warm welcome and a plate for their potluck. After a brief business meeting we sat huddled all cozy on the floor with guitars. Everyone had a song to share. I started singing “For the Birds” by Bruce Cockburn: Hummm Hummm Hummm, oh every day / flashes like a spray of blue jays. Oh, a golden crown upon each one / Like an eagle seen against the sun. Every single person at that potluck knew the words. They sang it over and over as a round, in harmonies, sounding just beautiful.

After a walk and two trains and missing the last town bus, I walked back to the house praying through the waving reeds along the water with jets flying right overhead toward the airport runway, all turbulence and scream and flashing lights and wings, and went back to bed for a blessed sleep.

When the folk dancers hugged me and thanked me for coming, they said “It’s great that you found us tonight. Who sent you??”