When Anger Feels Holy (But Isn’t): Where Christians Get It Wrong

I think we’ve all experienced a moment when our blood boils and we’re certain God must feel the same. We see a world full of injustice, hypocrisy, and sin—and something flaming in us rises, ready to set things right. We call it righteous anger. But somewhere between passion and pride, that holy fire can turn into human fury.

Anger is really tricky that way. It can reflect the heart of heaven or reveal the pride of man. It can cleanse the temple or burn it to the ground.

This is where so many Christians get it wrong. We mistake our outrage for obedience, and our offense for holiness. We call it “standing for truth,” but sometimes it’s just standing in the way of God’s grace.

Anger isn’t the enemy. It’s a messenger. It tells us that something has been violated—something sacred, something unjust, something painful. But like every strong emotion, anger demands our discernment.

One of the most important things to recognize is that anger rarely shows up to the party first. It’s usually born from something deeper (hurt, fear, or injustice). We lash out because we feel unseen, unheard, or unprotected. Like I wrote in The Fool, the Future King, and the Peacemaker: A Story of Anger Redeemed, feeling anger isn’t automatically a sin. Even God expresses anger throughout Scripture! Anger can become sin when we let it be an engine rather than an indicator. When we take matters into our own hands rather than placing them back in God’s.

“Our anger can either reflect God’s character or distance us from Him.” —Craig Groeschel

Anger, then, isn’t just an emotion to manage—it’s a mirror. It reveals whether our hearts are aligned with God’s purposes or distorted by pride.

When our anger reflects His heart, it becomes redemptive. But when it reflects our own or, even worse, serves our sense of superiority, it’s destructive.

Righteous anger is anger aligned with what angers God—the corruption of what He calls holy, the mistreatment of those He loves, and the twisting of what He designed to be good. It’s the kind of anger that doesn’t burn against people, but for purity, justice, and truth. It doesn’t destroy to make a point; it builds to make a difference. Righteous anger can be a catalyst for justice and unity, not division. It seeks God’s justice, not personal revenge. It doesn’t shout to be heard like keyboard warriors on the internet. It acts to heal what’s broken.

A perfect example of righteous anger can be found in Matthew’s gospel:

Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. “It is written,” He said to them, “‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you are making it ‘a den of robbers.’” —Matthew 21:12-13

The outermost temple courtyard, known as the Court of the Gentiles, was the only space where non-Jews could come and worship the God of Israel. Instead of a place of worship, it was turned into a noisy marketplace of exploitation.

If you’ve ever been to another country, you’ve likely had to visit a money changer—someone who could turn your U.S. dollars into local currency. The temple tax in Jerusalem could only be paid for with a certain type of coin, which people from other nations wouldn’t have had. The money changers were necessary, but they took advantage of the situation by charging outrageous transaction fees (think of trying to buy a bottle of water at a concert or baseball stadium). On top of exploiting visitors, they set up shop right where the Gentiles were supposed to be able to worship. Instead of having sacred time with God, they were forced to pray over the noise of the money changers and animal vendors.

When Jesus entered the temple and saw it overrun with worldly chaos, He didn’t lose His temper—He revealed God’s. Israel was meant to be a light to the nations, but they had turned God’s house into a market for profit. What should have been an invitation became a barrier. Jesus flipped the merchants’ tables and drove out corruption not out of rage, but out of holy grief. His anger was rooted in love for God’s glory and compassion for those being shut out of His presence. He didn’t react out of His own wounded pride. He acted out of divine purpose.

Notice how Jesus flipped tables, not people? Jesus was the Son of God in human form! He could’ve called down fire from heaven and turned everybody into dust! He could’ve given them all warts and gangrene and punished them for their sin. But instead, He flipped their tables— the things that represented the structure of oppression that perversely distorted worship and profited off of God’s people. He confronted the injustice, not the individuals.

There’s something really important here that I need to address. I want you to stop for a minute and think back on everything you remember about Jesus’s ministry. Flip through the gospels for a refresher really quick if you need to. I’ll wait right here.

Back? Okay, how many other times did Jesus flip tables?

ZERO.

I mean, He certainly had reason to at other times, right? But He didn’t. There are definitely situations where it’s appropriate for us to do some table-turning. Some of us, however, are flipping way too many tables. We’re fighting people instead of the sin that enslaves them. We’re so busy shouting about what’s wrong that we forget to point toward what’s right. So ask yourself: Am I flipping systems that dishonor God or just reacting to a personal offense?

Jesus’s anger cleansed the temple so that worship could be restored. That’s the goal of all this righteous anger—to restore what sin has broken, not to ruin what God can redeem.

The problem with unrighteous anger is that it often looks holy at first glance. It quotes Scripture. It waves God’s banner of justice. It feels right.

But under the surface, it’s usually less about God’s glory and more about our own sense of control, fear, or wounded ego. It’s the kind of anger that compromises our witness—the kind that fights for truth, but forgets to love. The kind that wants to be right, more than it wants to be redemptive.

Jonah’s story is the perfect portrait of anger gone wrong. I feel like we often stop reading his story after the whole whale-swallowing incident. I get it—a guy living in the belly of a gigantic fish for 3 days is a crazy plot. But don’t miss the rest!

God initially called Jonah to go to Nineveh, the capital of the Assyrian Empire. Nineveh had a notorious reputation for violence, cruelty, and idolatry (Nahum 3:1-19). The Ninevites had terrorized entire nations, including Israel. Their kings bragged about their violent war tactics and worshipped false gods like Ishtar, a goddess of war and sexual immorality. Nineveh was a place so corrupt that nobody thought redemption was possible.

When God told Jonah to go there, it wasn’t an easy assignment—it was a terrifying one. It meant preaching mercy to his people’s enemies. It meant believing that God’s compassion could reach even the cruelest hearts. Jonah didn’t just run out of fear. He ran out of resentment and prejudice wrapped up in a cloak of patriotism. The prophet couldn’t stomach the idea that God would show kindness to people like them. Sound familiar to anything you’ve seen in today’s world…?

Post-“whale barfing him up on the beach,” Jonah reluctantly took his second chance to obey and preached to the Ninevites. Miraculously, Nineveh repented! In fact, they didn’t simply repent of their sins, they grieved over them.

When Jonah’s warning reached the king of Nineveh, he rose from his throne, took of his royal robes, covered himself with sackcloth and sat down in the dust. —Jonah 3:6

And how did God respond?

When God saw what they did and how they turned from their evil ways, He relented and did not bring on them the destruction He had threatened. —Jonah 3:10

Amazing!! This evil nation saw the mercy of God and stepped out of their old, sinful ways! Except, that’s not what Jonah thought. Instead of rejoicing, he sat outside of the city, furious.

But to Jonah this seemed very wrong, and He became angry. —Jonah 4:1

Jonah wasn’t just angry—the Hebrew word used here carries the sense of burning hot with rage. To him, God’s mercy looked like moral compromise.

“I knew that You are a gracious and compassionate God, slow to anger and abounding in love, a God who relents from sending calamity.” —Jonah 4:2

Jonah thought his anger was righteous because he believed he was standing for God’s justice. But his heart posture completely betrayed him. He didn’t grieve over Nineveh’s sin because it dishonored God. He hated them because they were Israel’s enemies. His anger wasn’t born of holiness, but of bias and nationalism. He wanted judgment, not redemption.

And do you see the irony? Jonah went from a Chapter 2-prayer of thanksgiving for God forgiving him to a Chapter 4-complaint that God forgave those people!

What could have been holy indignation became human bitterness, all because he cared more about his reputation as a prophet than God’s reputation as a Redeemer. Jonah wasn’t angry for God. He was angry at Him.

This is, again, where Christians get it wrong—where righteous anger turns into self-righteous anger. It speaks the same language of conviction, but hides a heart of resentment.

In our world today, we call Jonah’s fury “cancel culture.” It often begins with the desire for justice, but ends with the demand for punishment. We confuse calling out with calling back, forgetting that truth without grace never heals. Righteous anger confronts sin to restore hearts, while cancel culture confronts people to erase them. Like Jonah, we can sometimes sit in the shade of our own offense, angry that God’s grace dared to go where we wouldn’t. And if His mercy was able to reach Nineveh, it can reach the ones we’ve written off and condemned, too.

Jonah’s story warns us that it’s possible to carry the message of grace while resisting the spirit of it. It’s possible to believe in God’s justice yet resent His mercy. We can choose anger that draws people closer to God, or anger that drives them away.

Anger can be holy, but only when it’s surrendered. Left unchecked, it can harden like wax into pride, resentment, or self-righteousness. Placed in God’s hands, it becomes a refining fire that purifies rather than consumes. So before we speak, post, or react, we have to pause long enough for a heart-check:

Is my anger fighting for God’s glory or defending my ego?

Am I angry for others or at others?

Does my anger build bridges or burn them?

Would Jesus grab one end of this table or would He call me to lay it down?

Because in a world fueled by outrage, believers are called to be fueled by love. To burn with compassion, not condemnation. To flip tables when injustice corrupts worship, but never to flip people made in God’s image. Jesus calls us away from the noise and into His heart—a place where mercy and truth can coexist without contradiction. Where anger can become intercession. Where justice and grace can walk together.

Heavenly Father, teach me to see the difference between righteous passion and self-righteous pride. When I see what’s wrong in the world, help me to respond with Your heart and not my hurt. When my anger starts to rise, remind me that holy anger always seeks restoration, not revenge. Make me slow to speak, quick to listen, and eager to love. May my zeal be tempered by mercy, and my convictions wrapped in compassion. Let my anger reflect Your holiness, not hostility. In Jesus’s name, Amen.