There are phrases that show up from time to time, and suddenly you’re hearing them everywhere, until people tire of them, as though the very words are crowd-surfing. Lately I’ve been hearing a lot about our Better Angels. By the time it gets passed over the crowd a few rounds, it seems to be referring to almost anything hopeful. The original words are Abraham Lincoln’s, in a stirring, lyrical speech of uncommon beauty. Have a listen:

“The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely, they will be, by the better angels of our nature.” Allow that to settle in your soul.

Then follow it up with “It’s sort of a smart story, right? Sort of like, you know, it’s like the snake, it’s a smart when you, you figure what you’re leaving in, right? You’re bringing it in the, you know, the snake, right? The snake and the snake.”

Then burst into tears.

Anyway I’ve heard people talking about listening to their better angels, and it sort of implies we’re each attended by a sort of celestial committee weighing in on our behalf, and maybe not all of the advice is sound.

But it does make a person wonder. If there are better angels of our nature, does that mean there’s some crappier ones too? Stands to reason in any group of people, or heavenly host if you will, you’re going to have some standouts, but there might be slacker angels in there too. Odds are, some of them could be total little scamps.

This is a top-down organization. Angels are the worker bees. Somebody has to carry out the orders and we’re not going to like all the results. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not guaranteed to get what you want off of life’s menu. One day’s breakfast blessing turns to a smiting by lunchtime, and it isn’t always going to feel right or fair. Just ask Job.

God is too big to comprehend, but all those angels aren’t just God, diced up. They’re middle management. I always thought the archangels were the top tier, but they’re not. They’re actually quite low-level operatives of the deep sacred state, with only the Plain Regular Angels beneath them. They’re not deciding if you get a Rolls Royce; they’re the ones who snap your picture at the DMV.

Among the Plain Angels are your guardian angels, specifically assigned by God to guard over you, and everyone gets one as soon as they get their body. It’s like a gift bag. But all you have to do is look around, and you realize some of them aren’t pulling their weight. These are actually the lowest caste of angels. The whole angel thing is a pretty interesting bit of theology to explain the completely random nature of fortune; we wonder how God can be both loving and allowing so much nonsense to go on, so we toss angels in there too, so we can spread the blame.

Pope Francis believed guardian angels are real, and he should know. And he referred to them as male. But they’re not. They’re not any sex at all. Don’t even look for a holy cloaca. They don’t have bodies and they don’t need to reproduce. Only when we make a painting of them do they show up as handsome men, with feathers for some reason. Heck, some of your earlier painters even doubled down with entirely naked angels, and mostly, they were decidedly male, if not heroically proportioned in masculine paraphernalia. There are some female ones depicted, and the more recent ones look like they charge for their services.

But in reality it’s more appropriate to give your guardian angel “they/them” pronouns, and if that allows you to imagine you have more than your quota, nobody’s going to make a big stink about it. Look at you! You probably need more.