There Is No Place for the Holy Here

There Is No Place for the Holy Here

And the angels descended upon the earth.
Their visages were beautiful, and their holiness lay not in blue eyes nor in halos shining with a noble bronze hue brighter than the April sun.
It dwelled within the purity of their judgment, in the primal innocence of those radiant creations of Creation itself.

Their faces glistened with brilliance; their athletic, slender bodies were wrapped in garments of milk and silk.
And they were not alone, but surrounded by others of the same divine kind — messengers of beauty.
Their silver wings sliced through the air with grace; malachite blades, wielded with divine might to strike down hundreds of unclean souls, now rested neatly in purple sheaths.
When their feet touched the earth, she pressed herself against them, loving them with every blade of grass, with every inch of soil.

That day, everything radiated the purest, brightest energy.
The sun reflected upon their faces, and their bodies were filled with love…

But today the angels had been sent by their Creator not for their usual purpose.
A war was about to begin.
The dearest creations of the Father had disappointed Him, and with a heavy heart He blessed thousands of His winged messengers for the path ahead.
All of them were ready to lift their malachite swords above the heads of those who had disappointed their Father.
Only the confusion in the heart of one angel kept the Creator from starting the process of creation anew with a single gesture.

That angel, misunderstood by his brothers, loved mankind more than any other.
As he wandered through the blossoming gardens of paradise, where irises and wild roses grew, he would lower his head and gaze tenderly upon the turmoil unfolding on the planet below — and he found it wondrous.

The angels were perfect beings, untouched by sin or vice, but they all resembled bright, marble statues — and in part, they were will-less soldiers of Heaven.
What fascinated the heavenly guardian most was that God had granted humans the gift of free will.
These fragile, feeble creatures could govern their own destinies, make their own choices.
It was this that made the angel, in love with mankind, see something sublime in them.
Yet he did not yet realize that when humans make a choice, they always lean toward destruction — and their nature is painfully clear.

Finding himself upon the earth, the magnificent being lifted his eyes with the infinite desire to prove to his brethren, and even to the Father Himself, that their judgment of humankind was wrong — that he could guide them and show them the roads that lead toward light.

The angel took for himself a human name.
He gave himself to mankind without reserve, helping them, smiling even in moments when their actions hurt him and robbed him of sleep.
“They are but lost children in need of help. Many parents do not understand their own offspring — but I shall understand,” said the angel.

He exchanged his silken garments for jeans and a dirty sweater, striving to resemble the unclean men of earth.
He fed them with strength, he gave them to drink from the primal energy of love, and they fed him with potatoes and cola.
He spoke to them with compliments and sincere words of gratitude, even for the pain they caused him — while they abandoned him and laughed.

“You don’t smoke? You’re so boring. Drink with us. Why are you acting like a child? How old are you — and you’ve never lain with anyone?”
And their laughter defiled the angel, destroying his nature; pain throbbed beneath his chest of pure bronze, beneath the silk that once gleamed white.
Only divine energy healed him, keeping him from dissolving entirely.

Every day, the angel spoke with the Father and his brothers about how kind and radiant humans were, how warmly they had received him, how bright it felt to be among them.
The Creator looked upon His son wiping away tears — and pitied His child.

The messenger of God had no selfish motives.
He had once walked the same garden where Adam and Eve dwelled, and he had felt from them a love so strong, a power so pure, that not even the wisest archangels could match it.
But now, in what remained of that brood that called itself the crown of God’s creation, there was not a single drop of respect — neither for themselves, nor for others, nor for their divine ancestry.

Each day spent upon the earth weakened the young one’s holiness.
He began to feel pain, and hunger; he began to sleep — and to dream nightmares.
He grew less strict with himself, easily accepting the gifts of men.
His brothers and sisters, whom he could barely recognize now, turned away and hid their tears.

The angel wandered through empty streets.
He now understood the jokes of men, their values.
He used divine gifts to gain what he desired.
He drank, he laughed, he learned many sins.
The touches of people upon his star-born skin left burning stains — deep, dark marks, like bubbling tar of crimson and black.
He stood in the midst of a smoky room with filthy floors, drenched in scarlet light thick with lust, in the arms of willing young men and women.
Smeared with the essence of mankind and matte lipstick, he gazed into the distance.
His wings ignited with a bright blue flame, leaving behind a scent like hot caramel.
And he no longer saw among men his brothers; when he called to the heavens, he no longer heard the voice of the Creator.

Terrified, the angel, with burnt and filthy wings, feared the fate that awaited him, and he fell to his knees before the Creator, begging to see them again.
Four radiant figures appeared before the young one, and he recognized in their faces his brothers.
They gazed upon him, their marble-pure faces streaked with crystal tears — and with revulsion for their brother’s deeds.

The Lord had once granted him a pure, primordial body and mind — now defiled by the lustful hands of men.
The angel beheld above him a sword slipping from a purple sheath — a blade of pure malachite — and he was ready to accept death.
But his brothers turned away, leaving him untouched.

They left him the greatest punishment of all —
to live out his life among those he had once been sent to fight.