This week, a young mother was killed in Minneapolis. A life was taken. A family was shattered. A community was wounded. I want to say plainly what many of us are feeling: I am angry. I am heartbroken. And I am struggling to find words that neither numb the truth nor inflame it beyond recognition.
Silence feels dishonest. But rage, left unchecked, can also betray the very values it claims to defend. What happened in Minnesota is yet another example of how unbridled cruelty is destroying our moral compass.
We are living in a moment when power is being exercised loudly, quickly, and without restraint. News headlines remind us—daily—that decisions made far from us can ripple outward with enormous human cost. And while the details may be complex and contested, one truth is not: how power is used matters.
When the only limit on power is personal morality, the absence of moral restraint becomes a national crisis. This is because power that answers only to itself has already abandoned accountability. Power without limits forgets its soul. On the other hand, restraint is not retreat.
As people who confess allegiance to a crucified Messiah, we cannot pretend that any action taken in the name of security, order, or national interest is therefore justified. The phrase “one nation under God” is not a claim of divine endorsement. It is a confession of accountability. It means that even national power is subject to moral limits.
And we need to be honest about what this moment does to us emotionally.
It is right to feel outraged by the deliberate harm caused to individuals and families through the distribution of drugs for profit. There is something deeply evil about using creativity, intelligence, and influence to enrich oneself by poisoning communities and destroying lives. We do not need to soften that judgment, nor do we need to apologize for wanting such harm to end.
It is human—deeply human—to look at that kind of cruelty and feel that only force can answer it. Anger rises quickly when suffering feels intentional. The desire to end it decisively, even violently, is not a sign of moral failure; it is a sign that we are not indifferent to evil.
But here is where limits matter.
Because I am not only outraged by those who profit from destruction abroad, I am equally outraged when our own nation uses its immense, divinely entrusted resources—its power, its wealth, its influence—not primarily to protect the vulnerable, but to pressure other countries in ways that enrich us while destabilizing them. When power serves itself, even under the banner of justice, something sacred has already been lost. Power without limits forgets its soul.
The church does not exist to manage empires or to baptize force. But it does exist to say—clearly and without apology—that violence, coercion, and domination are not neutral tools. Even when injustice is real. Even when wrongdoing is undeniable. Even when our anger feels justified. Jesus never suggests that righteousness gives us permission to abandon restraint.
This is not about denying evil or excusing harm. It is about refusing the lie that we can oppose injustice by becoming unjust ourselves. History teaches us—again and again—that when nations convince themselves that their cause exempts them from moral limits, the damage does not stay contained. Chaos multiplies. Humanity erodes. And the very values we claim to defend are the first casualties. Power without limits forgets its soul.
So we name this concern plainly: policies that rely on intimidation, coercion, or violence—regardless of intention—stand in tension with the way of Jesus. Not because Jesus is naïve about evil, but because He is abundantly clear about who we are called to be. Power that forgets its limits forgets its soul.
This is where our faith speaks—not with strategies or slogans, but with moral clarity. The world does not need the church to shout louder. It needs the church to remember who it is.
Scripture does not avoid the reality of human rage. In fact, it preserves it—sometimes in ways that unsettle us. Psalm 137 is one of those texts. It begins with grief: “By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion.”
This Psalm was written by and for people who have been conquered, displaced, and humiliated. People who, understandably, refuse to sing songs of joy on demand. Their sorrow is deep. Their anger was justified. And then the psalm ends with words so violent we wish they were not there at all: “Happy are those who pay you back for what you have done to us—who take your babies and smash them against a rock!”
Shocked? I feel this way every time I read this Psalm. Both, because it feels so raw and violent. And because it reminds me that I’ve said some pretty mean things about people who I believe need to be punished.
Psalm 137 does not tell us what to do. It tells us the truth about what we feel when evil has stripped us of dignity, safety, and hope.
It gives voice to rage that rises when suffering feels intentional—when cruelty profits, when injustice persists, when power seems immune to accountability. And Scripture does not censor that rage. It records it. Not because it is holy, but because it is honest.
But the Bible does not leave us with rage as the final word.
Mark’s Gospel gives us another image—this time not poetry, but flesh and blood. Jesus encounters a man living among the tombs, isolated from the community, consumed by forces he cannot control. He is described as violent, self-destructive, and terrifying to others. Chains cannot hold him. He is dangerous, not because he is evil, but because something destructive has taken hold of him.
This is what Psalm 137 looks like when it has a body.
What is striking is not the man’s condition, but Jesus’ response. Jesus does not meet violence with violence. He does not overpower or destroy the man. Jesus begins with a question: “What is your name?” It is an act of restraint. An act of refusal.
Jesus refuses to reduce the man to his behavior. He insists on naming what has occupied him, because what is unnamed cannot be healed—and what is met only with force will return again in another form. Restraint is not retreat.
The forces leave. The man is restored. And when the community sees him clothed and in his right mind, they are afraid. Not of what he was—but of the disruption of a system that had learned to live with his suffering at a distance.
This matters for us. Psalm 137 tells the truth about rage. The demoniac shows us what happens when rage is allowed to take up residence. And Jesus shows us a third way—not denial, not indulgence, but naming in the presence of God. Anger is not the enemy. But unexamined anger becomes one.
And that brings us to Jesus’ surprising response to his own followers—right at the height of their activity, urgency, and success: “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.”
Mark tells us that the apostles return to Jesus and report “all they had done and taught.” It sounds tidy. Efficient. Almost triumphant. But if we slow down, there is no reason to believe this return was emotionally simple. When the disciples come back, they are not simply reporting success. They are carrying everything they have seen and done.
They have been welcomed—and rejected. They have encountered suffering they could not undo. They have tasted authority and power. They have seen lives changed—and others untouched.
Jesus sent them out into real villages, among real people, with real suffering. They would have encountered bodies that did not heal, homes that did not welcome them, authorities that resisted them, and pain they could not undo. Some would have listened. Some would not. Some would have been grateful. Others are angry or afraid.
They would have seen what we still see today: suffering that feels unnecessary; injustice that feels entrenched; lives altered in ways they could not fix.
The apostles returned and told Jesus all they had done and taught. Jesus said to them, “Let us go off by ourselves to some place where we will be alone, and you can rest a while.”
Mark 6 30-32
And alongside that, they would have tasted power—the strange, unsettling experience of being agents of healing and authority themselves. That combination alone is dangerous. Power mixed with pain rarely leaves us unchanged.
It is not hard to imagine what they carried back with them. They return to Jesus fully human—and emotionally loaded. And Jesus sees it.
Some may have been exhilarated—“Look what happened when we spoke in your name.” A few felt overwhelmed—“There was so much need, and we barely touched it.” But some may have been angry—at resistance, at cruelty, at systems that protected themselves. And others may have been quietly disturbed by how much they enjoyed being listened to.
In other words, they came back human. And Jesus sees it.
Before they can organize, before they can strategize, before they can decide what comes next, Jesus does something that feels almost irresponsible in a world full of need: “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.”
Mark even adds the detail: “For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.” The urgency was real. The crowds were real. The suffering was real.
And still—Jesus interrupts. Why?
Because Jesus understands something we resist: unprocessed experience distorts judgment. Pain that is not named becomes rage. Power that is not examined becomes entitlement. Urgency that is not interrupted becomes justification. Restraint is not retreat.
Jesus does not restrain the disciples by lecturing them about violence. He restrains them by insisting they stop and rest. This is not just physical recovery. It is emotional processing. It is spiritual recalibration. It is space to ask: What did this do to me? What am I carrying that I don’t yet understand? What am I tempted to do next—and why?
This is how Jesus teaches restraint—not by denying the world’s pain, but by refusing to let pain set the agenda.
If we are honest, we know this emotional landscape well.
Jesus still sends us out—into workplaces, families, communities, systems, and conflicts where harm is real, and stakes are high. We encounter suffering that outrages us. We encounter injustice that tempts us to believe force is the only language left. We encounter our own capacity for anger—and sometimes our enjoyment of power.
And then we come back carrying all of it.
What Jesus offers is not escape from responsibility, but protection from becoming unrecognizable to ourselves. “Come away.” Pause before your anger hardens. Rest before your certainty becomes cruelty. Withdraw long enough to remember that you are not the savior. Restraint is not retreat.
This is especially critical in moments like ours—when national power is exercised without restraint, when fear justifies excess, when urgency crowds out reflection. Jesus’ command becomes more, not less, necessary.
Because the chaos of the world does not give us permission to abandon the way of Jesus.
Restraint begins not with policy, but with people who are willing to stop long enough to notice what the world is doing to their hearts. And that is why Jesus leads them away—not to disengage from the world, but so they can return without losing their souls.
Jesus understands what we resist: experiences that are not processed will begin to govern us. Pain that is not named becomes rage. Power that is not examined becomes entitlement. Urgency that is not interrupted becomes justification.
Jesus teaches restraint not by suppressing emotion, but by creating space for reflection. Rest becomes a moral discipline. A way of refusing to let anger, fear, or power make decisions for us.
In our companion book reading, Pastor Nadia comes to recognize anger as her own “demon”—not something imaginary or exaggerated, but a force that, left unnamed, begins to shape her reactions, her judgments, and her sense of righteousness. Her anger is understandable. It is rooted in real harm. But it is also dangerous.
Once named, it loses its power to rule her. That is what Jesus is doing with his disciples. That is what he still does with us. He does not shame our anger. He does not deny the reality of evil. He refuses to let our most intense emotions set the terms of our faithfulness.
Especially in moments like ours—when injustice is real, when violence feels tempting, when national power is exercised without restraint—Jesus’ invitation becomes urgent: Stop. Step away. Reflect. Remember who you are—and who you are not.
Many of us saw this on display in the days following the killing of a young mother by and ICE agent in Minnesota. While the administration rushed to judgment not supported by evidence, the governor spoke not with threats or defiance, but with restraint—calling for calm, accountability, and space for truth to emerge.
In a moment primed for escalation, restraint became an act of leadership.
Remember, restraint is not withdrawal from responsibility. It is protection from becoming what we oppose. This is where our faith meets our moment. We are not the saviors of the world. We are witnesses to a different way of being in it. And restraint is not retreat.
Limits are not weaknesses. Restraint is not retreat. Limits are how love survives.
To follow Jesus in this moment is not to disengage from the world’s pain, nor to baptize our instincts for domination. It is to refuse the lie that urgency absolves us of restraint. It is to insist that even our resistance must reflect the God we claim to serve.
Jesus calls his disciples away not because the work is finished, but because how they return matters. And the same is true for us.
Here are suggestions for practicing restraint. First, let’s practice truthful prayer. Not polished prayers, but honest ones. Prayers that name anger, grief, and fear without turning them into justification for harm. Prayer that slows us down enough to remember who we are.
Second, let’s resist dehumanization wherever it appears. In our words, and in our online lives. In how quickly we assign blame or dismiss suffering. Let’s refuse the easy narratives that make some lives expendable.
Third, we can take actions within our real sphere of influence. For example, we can speak to our representatives. We can support organizations that protect life and dignity. We can show up locally, relationally, tangibly—without pretending we control outcomes we do not.
Finally, remember that God does not ask us to save the world. God asks us to be faithful within it. To rest when rest is needed. To speak when silence would betray love. And to trust that restraint, practiced in hope, is not retreat—but witness.
Hope does not rush past its limits. It waits, breathes, and returns faithful, knowing that restraint is not retreat.
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Pastor Tommy
Nadia Bolz-Weber. Accidental Saints: Finding God in All the Wrong People. NY: Convergent Books, 2015. (ISBN 978-1-60142-755-7 ).