When God Gets Angry

by Lori Wilson

A reflection on holy anger and what we may have gotten wrong about Jesus

I had a spiritual director for a long time who knew me well, maybe better than I knew myself. She was the kind of person who asked questions that felt simple but weren't. One of the things she noticed about me, early on, was that I never got angry. Ever. No matter what was happening in my life–and some hard things were happening–I would get sad. I would get disappointed. I would cry. But I never, ever got angry.

She finally invited me to do something that seemed, at the time, like a bit of a strange homework assignment. She asked me to read one of the Gospels and just notice Jesus's emotions. That's all. Just pay attention to how he feels.

I pushed back a little. I said, "Jesus doesn't get angry."

She smiled and said, "Maybe. But why don't you read it and just notice."

I trusted her, so I did it. I wasn't sure what it would do for me. I started with the Gospel of John and got to this passage, and I had what I can only call a rude awakening.

When it was almost time for the Jewish Passover, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple courts he found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves, and others sitting at tables exchanging money. So he made a whip out of cords, and drove all from the temple courts, both sheep and cattle; he scattered the coins of the money-changers and overturned their tables. To those who sold doves he said, "Get these out of here! Stop turning my Father's house into a market!" — John 2:13–16

I read it and stopped. Wait a minute. Jesus wasn't just disappointed. He wasn't just sad. He was angry. He was really angry. He made a whip. He overturned tables. He drove people out of a sacred space.

But here's the thing I couldn't stop thinking about: he didn't hurt anyone. Not one person. He acted decisively, even dramatically, but his anger was directed at a situation, at a system, at what was happening in that sacred space. Not at the people themselves. He cleared the temple. He didn't harm the people in it.

That distinction changed something in me. What I found myself calling, in that moment, holy anger,  justified, purposeful anger, rooted in love for what was right, is anger that moves us toward change without turning us against each other. Jesus showed me that it's possible to be furious at a situation and still not make another person your target.

And sitting with all of that, I heard something I hadn't expected to hear. I realized that if Jesus could be that angry, if anger could be that righteous, that clarifying, that holy,  then maybe I could get angry too. Maybe I was allowed to feel it. And maybe that feeling could lead me somewhere good. It could lead me to change.

It did.

I wonder how many of us are carrying an image of Jesus that has been quietly edited over the years. A version that has had the difficult parts smoothed over, the uncomfortable moments softened. A Jesus who is always calm. Always gentle. Never complicated. And while there is tremendous truth in the gentleness of Jesus,  the way he welcomed children, healed the sick, spoke tenderly to the woman at the well, it may not be the whole picture.

Because the Jesus of the Gospels also wept in public. He spoke sharply to religious leaders. He asked hard questions. He grieved. He got angry. And maybe the version of Jesus we've inherited has been made a little more comfortable than the one who actually walked through Jerusalem.

What might it cost us to carry a version of Jesus that isn't quite whole? If we believe Jesus never felt the things we feel, it can quietly teach us that we shouldn't feel them either. That our own anger is always a problem, always something to fix or suppress or apologize for. That our strong emotions mean something is wrong with us rather than something is right.

But what if some of our anger is holy? What if it is telling us something true about a situation that needs to change, about a pattern in ourselves we've been avoiding, about an injustice in the world that deserves a response?

Our anger is not a license to wound another person. We are never called to that, and Jesus didn't model that. But we are, I think, invited to let our anger be honest, to feel it, name it, bring it to God, and ask what it's trying to show us. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is let our anger point us toward something that needs to change, and then have the courage to act.

I'm not suggesting we stop being gentle or kind. I am suggesting we might want to take another look at the one we're trying to follow and make sure we're seeing all of him.

For reflection

• What is your initial reaction when you read the story of Jesus in the temple? What does that reaction reveal about how you've understood Him?

• Have you ever believed something about Jesus that Scripture itself gently 

• corrected? What shifted in you when it did?

• Is there an emotion,  anger, grief, or frustration, that you've treated as spiritually off-limits? What might God be inviting you to examine there?

• If you allowed yourself to feel holy anger, anger directed at a situation, a structure, or a pattern rather than at a person, what might it be asking you to change?

A closing prayer

God, 

I confess that sometimes the image I carry of you is smaller than the one revealed in Scripture. I have made you more comfortable than you are, and in doing so, I have sometimes made myself smaller, too.

Today, I ask you to show me where I may have gotten it wrong. Not to unsettle me, but to free me.

Help me to see the full Jesus, the one who wept, who healed, who welcomed, and yes, who overturned tables when love required it, and who, even in that moment, did not harm a single person.

Help me to trust that the full range of what I feel can be brought to you honestly.

Even the anger I am not sure what to do with. Show me what is holy in it. Show me where it wants to lead me. And keep me from turning it against anyone you love.

Amen.