God's Promises: He is Merciful, Kind, and Slow to Anger

Photo by: Jeong Eun Lee

One of the things that I'm learning about myself in this season is how much I value consideration. I grew up in a family where considering others was greatly emphasized, and from an early age, I can remember imagining myself in the other person's position. We were taught to seek out anyone who looked like they could use a friend and to defend anyone who was being bullied. We also didn't ask others for much because we were taught to consider what the other's person's needs might be. If I borrow $5 or a stick of gum from someone, that's $5 or a stick of gum the other person might need more than me later. This value permeates so much of my being and means of operation that living in a country where the cultural rules are turned upside down for me has been harsh to this sensibility toward consideration. What I deem considerate according to my culture is often the total opposite in the Honduran culture. 

For instance, in my familial culture, we were taught not to interrupt people. In a family with three introverts, we knew that interrupting often caused others to lose their train of thought or that it can send the message that we're not really respectful of the other person or willing to listen. In Honduras, you can be considered rude if you enter into a social situation and don't interrupt everyone to say hello. It's a custom that I struggle to force myself to complete and honestly dislike because I do lose my train of thought with whomever I am already speaking, or sometimes, it's a delicate moment that requires some privacy. Consideration for me looks like refraining from interrupting. Consideration for everyone around me looks like interrupting in order to greet everyone. There are about a thousand more examples that I could give about these kinds of differences if I sat long enough to think of them, and the ongoing disconnect between how I want to be considered according to my cultural rules versus how others consider me according to their cultural rules can deteriorate into a source of anger. Additionally, I may think I've been doing a good job of considering others when my version of consideration in a scenario might actually be offensive. When I look at situations that cause me anger, I am realizing that almost all of them can be traced in some way to consideration. Consideration also plays into how I process anger. I tend to be very analytical and try to see what is causing my anger from every possible angle. 

This past week, I spent a lot of time angry and ruminating because of various circumstances outside of my control. Part of the analysis is healthy because it's my attempt to determine what role I'm playing and separate what is my responsibility from what is circumstantial. But the other part of this incessant rumination--the kind that takes away hours of sleep and makes me snap at the tiniest things--is grasping at straws to gain control or to at least feel I'm telling myself the right story. The story that we tell ourselves, how we explain the actions of others or interpret our environment, is so important in processing emotions. This is where consideration can be a positive super power if I choose to give the benefit of the doubt. Oddly enough, even if I dislike the behavior of a person, if I can convince myself that they had good intentions, it takes the edge off of my anger and is the first step toward compassion. Rather than thinking, "This person is so disrespectful," I can think, "This person didn't mean to disrespect my time. They have trouble keeping track of time and managing it well." Rather than thinking, "This person hates me," I can think, "This person didn't realize they were being hurtful." Rather than thinking, "This person is selfish and inconsiderate," I can think, "This person has a lot on their plate right now." The stories I tell myself, however, are not always correct, and it's always better to go to the source and listen to the person who caused the sense of harm to see their point of view (rather than relying on my imagination of their point of view). Thus, I have a rule for myself that anything that's going to continue to bother me, that I will likely fall into the trap of ruminating about, I have to make myself address with the person directly. If I can't seem to let it go mentally and emotionally, then I probably should give room for dialogue about it directly. A lot of times, it helps at least in shedding light on the way I should be interpreting the story of the motives behind the action. 

Over the last couple of weeks, I haven't been the only one struggling with anger. Sometimes, we can think we're doing totally fine, but some unexpected, lingering emotion emerges in a dream. Our subconscious can try to get our attention by saying, "Hey, I know you think that everything is fine, but there's some stuff here that still needs unpacked." Sometimes our lingering, unprocessed hurt can come out in passive aggression--little comments we tell ourselves are jokes, subtle ways of avoiding direct conflict like breaking up with someone on a Post-It note. Lingering hurt and anger might catch us off-guard in the form of a surprising, intrusive thought--the person cheerfully asks us how our day is going, and our brains respond with a mental sneer of "Oh, I'm sure you really give a crap about how I'm doing." 

Oftentimes, as Christians, I think we've been taught that the need for forgiveness is so dire and important that it must be immediate. We may have a cycle of hurt that spanned years, but we expect ourselves to let it all go in a matter of minutes. Immediate forgiveness can happen, but often, forgiveness is a process of release. When we try to force ourselves into forgiveness without letting ourselves feel the depth and name the specifics of the emotions at hand, we end up stuffing down harmful resentment that will eventually surface one way or another. True forgiveness is meaningful because we choose to acknowledge the reality of the hurt and the emotions awakened but still decide we want to release that person from their debt to us. Forgiveness that is conducted like checking a religious quota box is little more than self-deception. We may say that everything is fine and paste a smile on our faces, but our arms are crossed, our fists are clenched, and we're gritting our teeth.

Over the years, I have found that the process of forgiveness for me is really just an ongoing series of surrenders. I decide that my desire is to forgive. I let my will steer the ship. But, inevitably, there will be intrusive thoughts or jumping to believe the worst or telltale dreams or snarky comments along the way. Each time, I have the invitation to keep myself on track in my decision to forgive through surrender. "Lord, some anger just came up. Help me to understand why I'm angry and the root of that hurt. Lend me Your eyes for this person. Grant me Your mercy and grace to cover those wounds." Anger is the emotion most often connected to hurt. It's our way of knowing that a boundary has been crossed. It's important to know what our boundaries are, and for that reason, it's important not to demonize the emotion of anger. It was made by God for a purpose. But, when we recognize anger, we also have the choice to lean into our vulnerabilities and explore them with God's help or to armor up with defenses and weaponize with blame. We can tell ourselves some truly bizarre stories about the motivations of others when we have hurts we're denying exist. Sometimes, when we get one of those red flags that we're not as okay as we're telling ourselves we are, we just need to sit with the Lord, take a deep breath, and say, "So, I'm noticing that I'm angry. Why am I angry?" It can even be helpful for me to take an inventory and make a list of everything that's making me angry. Usually, upon reading it back to myself, I recognize that there is one major source of hurt that is pummeling me, but it's coming out in reaction to the tiniest, most insignificant of things. 

The funny thing about all of this is that I picked this week's verse and promise of God weeks before. I had no idea that I would be reeling this week and would need to preach to myself in writing, yet His timing is so perfectly poised with non-judgmental nudging and kind reality checks. In the book of Jonah, chapter 4, Jonah is angry because God chose to have mercy on the city of Nineveh. I have to laugh when I read this chapter because Jonah comes off like such a toddler and haven't I felt like a toddler at times this week? We'd both fit well into those series of photos where parents publish the irrational reasons their toddler has thrown themselves on the floor to scream and kick their feet. For Jonah, it's first because God chose to be kind in not killing thousands of people. No big deal. Then, he is so angry he wants to die (his words, not mine) because a worm ate his favorite plant, and it's hot, and his head is burning. What I love about God in this passage is that He meets Jonah where he is. He tries to root out Jonah's issues by asking pointed questions, and when He finally addresses Jonah's sense of entitlement directly, I read His tone as one of a parent towards a toddler. We don't really know how Jonah's story turns out, but I take solace in this promise about God's character:

You are a God who is kind and shows mercy. You don’t become angry quickly, and you have great love. I knew you would choose not to cause harm. -- Jonah 4:2b (NCV)

The beauty of forgiveness is that we have a God that we can borrow mercy from. We have a God who is interested in showing us kindness in the middle of our anger and can grant us kindness for those who have wronged us. I am grateful that even the times that I wish I weren't angry, and I get angry at myself for being angry, that God is slow to anger. He sees our anger through the lens of the very purpose He tied to it. He wants us to tune into our anger to learn how to guard our hearts and to learn how to be more like Him. He wants to make us vessels of His great love that choose to let Him do surgery on our hurts rather than letting them fester. He can take our feeble desire to forgive and transform it into a heart made whole when we surrender and keep surrendering the anger and damage that emerge.