Any ideas why our culture, and ones that have gone before, have portrayed angels as babies, cherubs, or little children? Is that the best we can do when thinking about purity and innocence, or is there something more? Would we like to ignore the Scriptural picture of the terror-striking angels of Isaiah’s writing or the flaming sword of the cherubim that guarded in every direction? Just curious.
I lifted this from my little brother (well, little in relation to years – he looms over me in height…).
“…history is an endless tide and so it is undamnable”
Never thought about it that way. Leave it to a 13-year-old.
There were Seraphim in the Sunset yesternight. The God of the heavens had painted in a glorious array of orange majesty the expanse above me. I was on my way to a friend’s house, or at least was supposed to be, when I could go no further. When I stopped, time stopped with me as I observed the handiwork of the Creator. The clouds had an absolutely amazing floating nature to them, slightly wispy and yet the thick and strong they took their time with the wind as it urged them along. They flew with leisure, so that I could not see if they were commanding the winds or if the winds were commanding them. Both seemed in perfect unity, or maybe the wind seemed a bit impatient at times. And then that orange. No manish sub-creator could ever capture the palette before me. Many would snap their shutter and many would take up brush – but none would succeed to mix the proper hues. Indeed, this masterpiece before me was born from an infinite mind.
I am convinced that these colors could capture blinded eyes with sight – like mine or maybe yours or maybe the person that pulled off the road behind me. In some way in that frozen moment I felt the part of Isaiah at the Throne. In front of me a vision of the heavens that lie beneath the Eternal’s throne and I could feel the wind from the Seraphim’s wings as they flew in those clouds. My knees buckled as I felt my cheeks wettening. The Eternal, Almighty, Artist-God that thought this sky into being has chosen, called, saved, and loved a vile speck of dust. With the mighty Wind He breathed on this dust and made me His.
Thankfulness rushed through me as time began again as the drivers rushing past gave a curious glance. I was late to my friend’s but on the road to Hamilton I had seen the Eternal.