Getting Righteous Anger Right

Sometimes stomping the serpent's head means breaking a few toes

Representing Christ properly occasionally leaves you no choice but to stop a trash-talker in his tracks, to stomp the serpent’s head even if it means breaking someone’s toes in the process. But most Christians aren’t confident in their ability to obey St. Paul’s instructions to “put off falsehood and speak truthfully to [your] neighbor,” while being careful that “in your anger, [you] do not sin” or “give the devil a foothold” (Ephesians 4:25-27).

Gets harder as it goes, doesn’t it? Don’t lie; no problem. Tell the truth to my neighbor; well, sometimes I’d sooner let things pass. But be angry without sinning? Hah! Try doing my taxes sometime.

Anger needn’t become the launching pad for ongoing resentment, not if you understand that “righteous anger” is always founded on a righteous standard: the Bible. But, like spanking a child or punishing a criminal, displaying righteous anger also comes with a couple of rules.

  • It is never to be exercised on non-scriptural grounds.
  • It is never to be withheld on non-scriptural grounds.

So, when is it appropriate to blow your stack for Jesus?

My wife and I once found ourselves facing that quandary during a tour of Apartheid-era South Africa, where I was addressing primarily white congregations, challenging them to not merely express sorrow for past racism, but to actively, sincerely embrace their black brothers while time remained.

One evening at dinner with the family providing our lodging, we found ourselves joined by the husband’s brother who was in town for the night. We enjoyed a feast of fresh mussels and pasta before retiring to the sitting room for conversation. As usual the topic of apartheid came up. South Africa wasn’t America. Things were different there. Still, there was no excuse for discrimination anywhere. It was the kind of conversation where you hope your views are about the same, but you assume nothing.

The brother was quiet at first, but after a third or fourth glass of wine, he enjoined the discussion. “Our blacks are different from your blacks,” he began with too much confidence. My pulse quickened. Talking about people as though they were possessions made my torso flinch. My wife felt it, and squeezed my hand and winked, as if to say, “Don’t worry; we’re going home in an hour.”

More alcohol kicked in.

“I don’t allow my garden boy to shake a white woman’s hand. If he shakes her hand today, he thinks he can sleep with her tonight.” Our host, a dedicated Christian man who wanted to win his brother, tried to intervene. It didn’t work.

“I’ll tell you what should have happened. Hitler should’ve started down in the Cape and worked his way north….”

Suddenly I was off the couch and in the air. “No more!” I shouted. “Enough! I flew five thousand miles on donated funds in order to come here and preach the name of Jesus, not reminisce about Hitler.”

“Ach, forgive me if I offended—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” I roared. “You don’t offend me; you sicken me! It’s twenty-eight million black people to whom you should apologize.” I headed for the door. My collar was on fire.

The man walked to the door, adopted a look of regret and extended his hand, as if to make peace. But feigned peace wouldn’t do, not tonight, so I kept my own hand lowered, stared him in the face, and lowered my tone as well.

“I’ll not shake your hand. I’ll shake hands with your ‘boy,’ but I won’t shake yours.”

We turned and thanked our mortified hosts for dinner, bade them goodbye, and walked out into the cool African breeze. And somewhere deep in my pounding heart, I heard a small voice say, “Good job, son.”