If you read this blog regularly, you know I grew up in a home marked by anger–so I know by experience that ungodly anger can be deceptive and destructive. In fact, notice what it can do:
- It scars people. It opens wounds, digs into those wounds with painful words or actions, and then builds a hardened scar on top. The recipients of anger often pay a heavier price than the angry person does. . . .
- It destroys families. The pain is often great when embers of anger erupt into an uncontrolled flame. Marriages fall apart. Children flee for safe places. Love becomes fear and hatred.
- It kills friendships. Words of anger can weaken or destroy even the strongest relationships. Few relationships can withstand ongoing anger.
- It weakens our Christian witness. The world is already watching for reasons to reject Christianity—and one angry, uncontrolled believer is all they need to deny the power of the gospel.
- It hinders our prayers. That’s because much anger is simply sinful. And, sin weakens the power of prayer (Isa 59:1-2).
- It harms future generations. Just ask the adult children of angry parents. They often carry the same tendencies toward anger, no matter how much they desperately want to break the pattern.
- It costs us sleep. When we refuse to let go of our anger, it’s almost always on our minds at some level. We long for sleep, but our hearts won’t let us find that kind of rest.
- It just creates more trouble. Anger promotes anger . . . which promotes more anger . . . which leads to even more eruption. The mess just keeps getting bigger.
- It brings great regret. That regret can be palpable if you believe your anger hurt someone–even though that immediate regret doesn’t always lead to long-term change.
- It sometimes makes us idolatrous. That happens when we choose to hold on to our anger rather than confess it to God and turn from it.
Here’s the good news, though: my dad, who was the source of the anger in our home, became a believer at age 71–and the gospel gave him victory over his anger. God still does that, you know . . . .
