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Anger is everywhere right now.

It lives in our headlines, our social media feeds, and our family group texts. It shows up in traffic, at the grocery store, and at school board meetings. It’s become so normal that we hardly notice how sharp our words have become or how quickly we assume the worst about one another.

Outrage has become the currency of our culture. The louder you are, the more attention you get. The angrier you sound, the more “serious” you seem. And if you aren’t mad about something, people assume you’re either ignorant or complicit.

The church has not been immune to this.

In fact, in some corners of American Christianity, anger has been baptized and rebranded as faithfulness. Being furious is framed as “standing for truth.” Lashing out is justified as “defending God.” Cruel words are excused because they’re aimed at the “right” people.

But that raises a question we don’t ask often enough:

What if our anger says more about our fear than our faith?

That question was the heart of last Sunday’s sermon, rooted in Ephesians 4 and framed by the simple wisdom of Fred Rogers, who once asked, “What do you do with the mad that you feel?”

Not how do you stop feeling it.

Not how do you hide it.

But what do you do with it once it arrives.

Anger Isn’t the Enemy, Unexamined Anger Is

One of the more honest things the Bible does is refuse to pretend that anger isn’t real. Scripture doesn’t shame us for feeling it. In fact, it often assumes we will.

In Ephesians, the apostle Paul writes to a deeply divided church and says:“Be angry, but do not sin.” Just like Mr. Rogers he doesn’t tell them to suppress or hide their anger. He acknowledges it and then immediately puts boundaries around it.

Anger, according to Paul, is not automatically sinful. But it is dangerous. Left unattended, it metastasizes. It moves in, rearranges our lives, and becomes a part of our decision making process.

Paul warns the church not to let anger linger, because unresolved anger creates a foothold, space where something destructive can take root. In other words, anger doesn’t remain neutral. It either gets transformed, or it takes over.

That’s where modern culture and the church often diverge.

Culture Says: Feed It. Faith Says: Examine It.

American culture encourages us to nurture our anger. Algorithms reward it. Media outlets monetize it. Political systems depend on it. Fear and outrage keep us clicking, sharing, and voting against one another.

Anger makes us feel powerful. It gives shape to our anxiety. It convinces us that we’re in control even when we’re not.

But Scripture consistently pushes us to look deeper. It asks what’s underneath the anger.

Because anger is rarely the first emotion. It’s usually a response, something we grab onto when we’re afraid, hurt, or overwhelmed.

We see this clearly in Exodus, when the Israelites get mad at Moses in the wilderness. They are furious. Loud. Accusatory. Ready to turn on one another. But their anger is driven by the fear that God has abandoned them, that their children won’t survive, that everything they trusted has failed.

That pattern hasn’t changed much.

Today’s anger is often fueled by fear that we’re losing something; status, security, relevance, control. Fear that the world is changing faster than we can keep up. Fear that our voices don’t matter anymore. Fear that if we loosen our grip, everything will fall apart.

Anger feels safer than fear. Stronger. More decisive.

But it also hardens us.

When Anger Becomes an Identity

One of the most sobering realities of our moment is how quickly anger has become a badge of honor, even among Christians.

We’ve confused being outraged with being faithful. We’ve mistaken volume for conviction. And in doing so, we’ve normalized behavior that looks nothing like Jesus.

James puts it bluntly: “Human anger does not produce God’s righteousness.” That doesn’t mean anger is always wrong, but it does mean that anger, by itself, cannot accomplish what we claim to want.

We see the fallout everywhere.

Neighbors who once shared meals now avoid eye contact because of yard signs. Families fracture over Facebook posts. Churches quietly split, not over theology, but over tone, suspicion, and the refusal to listen.

And somehow, we’ve told ourselves this is just the cost of “telling the truth.”

But Jesus said the world would recognize His followers by their love, not by their ability to dominate arguments or humiliate opponents.

Love doesn’t mean agreement. It doesn’t mean passivity. And it certainly doesn’t mean silence in the face of injustice.

But love does refuse to dehumanize.

The Work Anger Is Meant to Do

The Christian tradition has long talked about holy anger, the kind that rises up when something is deeply wrong. Anger at injustice. Anger at exploitation. Anger at systems that harm the vulnerable.

That kind of anger doesn’t look like rage-bait or character assassination. It doesn’t seek applause. And it doesn’t linger for years, poisoning relationships.

Holy anger moves us toward repair, not destruction.

Paul closes his instructions in Ephesians with a vision that feels almost countercultural today: kindness, tenderness, forgiveness. Not because people deserve it but because that’s how God has treated us.

Forgiveness is where this gets uncomfortable.

Forgiveness doesn’t deny harm. It doesn’t excuse cruelty. But it refuses to let bitterness become our identity. It’s a decision to give the room back, to stop letting old wounds dictate present behavior.

And that may be the most radical thing Christians can model right now.

A Different Way Forward

Being a neighbor in a culture of outrage isn’t about being “nice.” It’s about being brave.

It takes courage to pause before reacting. To ask, What am I actually afraid of right now? To speak honestly without tearing someone down. To refuse the cheap satisfaction of outrage in favor of the slow work of love.

Fred Rogers once said, “Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that’s mentionable can be more manageable.” Anger included.

We don’t have to deny our anger. But we do have to decide what we’re going to do with it.

Because the way we handle our anger may be one of the clearest witnesses we offer in a fearful, fractured world.

And right now, the world is watching.

Closing Prayer

God of truth and mercy,
You see the anger we carry—the anger we admit and the anger we hide.
You know how quickly fear turns into frustration, and how easily frustration becomes harm.

Forgive us for the ways we have used our words to wound instead of heal.
Forgive us for the moments when being right mattered more than being loving,
and for the times we mistook outrage for faithfulness.

Teach us to pause when anger rises.
Help us listen for what is underneath it; our fears, our hurts, our longing to be seen and heard.
Soften our hearts where they have grown hard, and give us the courage to choose kindness in a culture that rewards cruelty.

Make us people who tell the truth without tearing others down.
People who refuse to give fear the final word.
People who look enough like Jesus that love becomes louder than our anger.

We place our “mad” in Your hands, trusting You to shape it into something that leads to healing and hope.
In Christ’s name we pray.
Amen.

Reflection Question

When you feel anger rising, what fear or hurt might be underneath it, and how would your response change if you addressed that first?