We live in the age of rage. Social media runs on it,

politicians traffic in it, media profits from it. Outrage has

become our most reliable societal fuel and economic

engine. Candidates raiase money by raising the

temperature. Algorithms feed the fear and fury that keep

us endlessly clicking. Companies promise protection from

perceived threats. You must fight fire with fire.

We’re swimming in so much fury that it’s easy to forget

that wrath is still a deadly sin, even as its corrosive power

seeps into every corner of life—from the streets of our city

to soccer field sidelines, from our homes to the halls of

highest power.

The pages of scripture remind us that wrath is more than

a feeling of anger. It moves beyond righteous indignation,

hardening into a desire to harm or dominate others.

Wrath turns anger into a weapon. It justifies revenge, fuels

violence, breeds hatred.

But, where does wrath begin? It takes many forms, but at

its heart the pattern of wrath is familiar and repeated. This

week, I heard human rights lawyer Philippe Sands put it

simply when asked about the indifference that enables

mass atrocities. His answer came in five words: “It is

always about dehumanization. They’re not like us…And

therefore, we are free to treat them this way.” It is always

about dehumanization.

Wrath shouts that “those people” are not human, at least

not human in the same way that we are human. They are

not like us. The ones whose politics we despise, whose faith

is not our own. The ones who crossed a border or live in a

homeless camp. The ones whose very beliefs unsettle us.

Wrath insists that they are not our neighbors; they are not

worthy of love. It’s always about dehumanization.

I’ve seen how easily the voice of wrath drowns out

compassion. In conversations about the challenges of

housing in our city, I’ve heard plenty of anger but not nearly

enough of our neighbors’ stories. Late on Friday afternoon,

I received a text from a friend with a link to a short piece

from Mirror Indy about the Streets to Home Indy project, the

initiative our church helped to launch earlier this summer.

I clicked the link, and the piece described how this new

initiative is finding homes for people living in the homeless

encampment in Fountain Square scheduled to be closed

last Friday afternoon. What took my breath away were

the words of Heather Drummond, age 45, a woman who

had just learned she was getting housing. She said, “It’s a

miracle. I’ve been fighting for this for a long time. I’m glad

they’re finally seeing us for the real people we are.” It’s

always about dehumanization.

As Richard Powers wrote in The Overstory, “The best

arguments in the world will not change a person’s mind.

The only thing that can do that is a good story.” We’ve

witnessed how wrath hardens hearts while stories soften

them. How wrath feeds on distortion while story restores

humanity. How wrath turns every encounter, every

conversation, every debate, into a battle. The goal is not

just to win, but to punish our opponents, to humiliate our

enemies, to own the other side.

If we will allow it, scripture can show us a better way. In

the fourth chapter of Ephesians, we hear Paul’s pastoral,

practical wisdom, his advice to the church in Ephesus:

speak the truth, work honestly, forgive one another as God

in Christ has forgiven you. But first, Paul says, you must put

away what corrodes: falsehood, bitterness, malice, wrath.

You might know that the practice of baptism in the early

Church began with a series of renunciations, where the one

being baptized rejected “the forces of evil” and their power

in the world, turned aside from the path that they had once

followed to embrace a new life in Christ. Before baptism,

renunciation. Before we can take hold of what is good, we

must let go, put away, that which weighs us down.

And the conclusion of this section is anger. The word shows

up in six ways in one verse. Clearly those early Christians

had their own anger problem, and so do we. Ours might

be the angriest era in living memory. And perhaps you’ve

heard the phrase, “If you are not angry, you are not paying

attention.” That’s true. Scripture does not forbid anger. In

fact, Paul writes, “Be angry, but do not sin.”

The Old Testament prophets burned with anger against

injustice. Jesus overturned the tables of oppression in the

temple. And righteous anger still speaks up, “This must stop.

We will not look away.” But even righteous anger hardens

into hatred if we let it sour. Anger must be harnessed for

healing, not destruction.

Anger says, “This is wrong and must be made right.” Wrath

says, “You are evil and must be destroyed.” Anger marches

for justice while wrath demands revenge. Anger seeks repair

while wrath aims only for ruin.

Wrath does not just live in the headlines; it shows up in

daily life. Not long ago I was rushing to the grocery store

on the way home from work. It was hot, I was late, and my

gas gauge was below empty. So of course, the parking

lot was filled. After one sweep through the lot, I spotted a

single empty space, and it was near the door. So, relieved, I

quickly pulled in and hopped out of the car. And that’s when

I saw—no, first I heard—the other driver. You know the one,

who had clearly arrived first, whose turn signal was still

blinking, waiting for my spot. She was furious. Irate. Honking

her horn, shouting out the window, and gesturing in my

direction (not a wave).

I kept moving toward the door of the store. Then, I looked

over my shoulder, and I saw her coming toward me. For a

moment I froze. I considered my speed and thought about

running. I’m not sure why, but something made me turn back

instead and approach the woman. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was in

a hurry. I didn’t see you. I should have been paying attention.”

I spoke my peace and then braced for a blast, but instead,

the woman looked down at the ground. “It’s not you,” she

said. “I’m just exhausted. I blew up, and I’m sorry.” Only then

did she lift her eyes from the ground, and I saw tears flowing

from them. There might have been some in my eyes as well.

For just a moment, we saw each other. These two flawed

and frayed human beings doing the best we could. Not

enemies, but neighbors. We walked into the store together

and even shared a laugh about the whole thing. By the

shopping carts (I let her go first), she stopped me and said,

“I just want to thank you for speaking to me. It really helped.”

Now I’m sure I’m overstating it. A parking lot apology isn’t

much in a world filled with wrong. But it was enough to shift

the story.

“Don’t let the sun go down on your anger,” Paul writes. In

other words, release it before it hardens into bitterness.

Renounce it before it defines you. Refuse to let your rage

have the last word.

In his 1957 sermon Loving Your Enemies, Martin Luther

King Jr. warned that “returning violence for violence

multiplies violence... Darkness cannot drive out darkness;

only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only

love can do that.” And the truth of his words, grounded in

scripture, still holds. Because the moral injury of wrath is

not restricted to its intended target.

As Anne Lamott makes the point with her usual bite, “Not

forgiving,” she writes, “is like drinking rat poison and then

waiting for the rat to die.”

Or as the late U.S. Senator Alan Simpson said, “Hatred

always corrodes the container it’s carried in.” Wrath is a

spiritual toxin; it distorts the image of God in us and in

our neighbor.

I don’t want to pretend that renouncing wrath is ever

easy. I know that deep wounds can make release feel like

surrender, or that letting go of anger can feel like letting

go of justice. That’s why it takes practice, intention, and a

community that will hold us to this better way.

But friends, the stakes are high. Rage is the great accelerant

of our age. It spreads fast, burns hot, and leaves only ashes.

Christ calls us to be people of light, not kindling for the fire.

I don’t pretend to know what kind of anger you carried with

you this morning. I don’t know whose face comes to mind

when you hear the word enemy. I would guess that you have

them. So do I.

But here’s the truth: we cannot run on rage and walk in the

way of Christ at the same time. Not for long. One will always

push the other out. So, choose the harder path—lay down

the hostility, even if it feels justified. Choose to be known not

for how fiercely you fight, but how stubbornly you love.

This week, try the spiritual practice of renunciation. Refuse

to take the bait in that online thread. Answer an insult with

gentleness. Seek out that person you’ve been avoiding and

speak a word of grace. Show the world over and over again

that there is another way forward.

Letting go of wrath is not about becoming calm people; it is

about becoming free people—free to live as those for whom

Christ gave his life. It’s about becoming courageous people

who hold righteous anger against injustice without letting it

harden into hatred—people who channel our anger toward

repair, not revenge, guided by the Spirit of the one who

prayed for his persecutors, who forgave his executioners.

Friends, the world has enough fuel for its fires. We may live

in the age of rage, but we belong to the way of Christ. Amen.