The Anger of a Loving Father

I was sitting, reading in my room one day, when I heard my daughters playing in the room next door.  At first, the play was collaborative and friendly.  Then it became over-excited.  Then I heard a thud, followed by silence.

A moment later, I heard my youngest daughter crying.  Parents become quite skilled at recognising different cries.  Some are the cry that is just looking for attention.  Some are the cry of the fear.  Some, like on this occasion, are a cry of blended pain and distress.

Then the Lord told him, “I have certainly seen the oppression of my people in Egypt. I have heard their cries of distress because of their harsh slave drivers. Yes, I am aware of their suffering.
Exodus 3:7 NLT

What happened next triggered a deep emotional response in me.  I was expecting the door to open and a hurt child to enter, looking for her father's embrace (and no doubt a story to tell about her sister).   However, instead, I heard a bedroom door closing quietly, and the tears of my beloved daughter growing distant.  I went to investigate.

My eldest child had accidentally hurt my youngest.  Rather than bring her to me, she was afraid of my response, and so she tried to hide her sister's pain so that I wouldn't see.  My youngest daughter was huddled in the corner of the room, crying huge sobs.  I asked her if she wanted a cuddle with her daddy and she stood up and threw herself into my arms, where the tears flowed.

Her sister looked at her feet, ashamed.

In that moment, I felt a deep anger.  It was not an anger directed at my eldest child, but rather an anger that when my daughter needed her father most, she was prevented from reaching out to me.  I heard her cries.  I was aware of her suffering.  Yet a barrier was put up, preventing her from running into my arms.

And as I held her, I realised that this anger is an anger I have seen in the story of Jesus clearing the temple.  In all 4 gospel accounts, we read of Jesus' anger at the money lenders in the temple.  In Matthew 21, we read that Jesus said "'My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you are making it ‘a den of robbers'."

I remember wrestling with this passage as a younger Christian.  Surely this anger was not godly.  Why did Jesus allow his emotions to overcome him?  Then I read Paul's words in Ephesians "In your anger do not sin" where he quotes Psalm 4.   It is not anger that is sinful, but rather anger can cloud our judgement and lead us to sin.  Why was Jesus angry?   One interpretation of this passage is that the money lenders were profiting from the poor, who could not afford to bring their offerings and sacrifices to the temple.  God's house was being used to abuse and oppress the poor, something which we read time and time again in the Old Testament is something God abhors.   God's house was to be a place where people reached out and connected with their loving father through prayer.  Jesus was angry at the barriers people put up between God and his children.

Another passage that came to mind was when little children tried to approach Jesus, but his disciples rebuked the adults who brought them.  Jesus chided his disciples, saying his famous words from Luke 18:  "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these."

This is where denominations which practice infant baptism, such as the Presbyterian Church of Scotland, build their theology of baptism.  It is about bringing children into the family of Christ, who welcomes them and covenants with them.  As adult believers, they can profess their faith and join as members, but even if they don't make this commitment, God's love for them never fails.

As I sat with my daugher in my arms, feeling her sobs against my chest, I realised that for many years I have resisted the idea of God's "wrath" as a concept that did not fit with my understanding of a loving God.   Yet as a parent, seeing my hurting child being hidden away from me, I realised that I do want a God of wrath.  Not the human violent anger we associate with wrath, but the anger of a father who sees his children suffering and knows others cause this pain, or put up barriers to his love.

I was not angry at my eldest daughter, but I was angry.  I called her over to us.  I told her that I loved both her and her sister.  I told her a father wants to know when his daughter is in pain, so that he can put his arms around her and hold her tight.  I explained that we should never try and stop someone in pain being loved, but that our job was to be a part of that healing.  I invited my eldest daughter into the embrace.

What barriers do we put up in our world today?  Do we allow people to believe they are not good enough for God's embrace?  Are they too sinful?  Are they too homosexual?  Too socialist?  Too unimportant?  Too unsuccessful?  Too insignificant?  Too different from our theology?  Too atheist?

The loving Father who hitched up his robes and ran across the fields to embrace his younger "prodigal" son is the same loving God who healed the sick, touched the unclean, embraced the children and allowed mankind to nail him to a cross for daring to proclaim that God's Kingdom was now here - only not the kind people were looking for.  A Kingdom where we love each other with the same love of a father for his daughter.