IN ACTS 17, we read how the apostle Paul came to the city of Athens. He had been in Thessalonica, where he had had some evangelistic success, even among the Jews. But this made other Jews in the city angry, leading to a riot that forced Paul and his companions from the city. He moved on to Berea and had success there as well — but the troublemakers from Thessalonica followed him and stirred up the people again. Paul’s friends thus hustled him off to Athens, with the expectation that Silas and Timothy would eventually join him there too.

In Athens, Paul wasted no time spreading the gospel in both the synagogue and the marketplace. He debated with philosophers of different stripes, who dragged him to a meeting of the Areopagus, a place where intellectuals regularly gathered to discuss the latest philosophical trends. In a brilliant rhetorical move, Paul stood up in their meeting and created an opening for the gospel with these words:

People of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious. For as I walked around and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: TO AN UNKNOWN GOD. So you are ignorant of the very thing you worship—and this is what I am going to proclaim to you. (Acts 17:22-23, NIV)

It was a successful gambit. Some people, of course, scoffed at Paul’s sermonette about Jesus and the resurrection. But several others believed.

We shouldn’t imagine, however, that Paul simply marched confidently into Athens and coolly executed his pre-planned evangelistic strategy. When he first arrived in the city, as the New International Version translates it, “he was greatly distressed to see that the city was full of idols” (Acts 17:16). This wasn’t just a bit of sad, pitying head-shaking. The word Luke uses suggests that Paul was sharply provoked, as if someone had driven a knife into his spirit. It’s a rare word, used only twice in the New Testament. One use is here, to describe Paul’s distress.

The other is in First Corinthians 13, to describe what love or the loving person doesn’t do.

AS WE’VE SEEN, Paul begins his description of love with what love does — and in so doing, he reminds us of who God is and how God treats us. God is “patient and kind” with us in ways that we don’t deserve. That word “patient” suggests that God is slow to anger even when we deserve his wrath. We, however, are often quick to get angry with each other. Obviously, that’s contrary to the kind of righteousness that a God of gracious patience wants from his people, as the apostle James taught (James 1:19-20).

Not surprisingly then, Paul teaches that love is not “easily angered” (1 Cor 13:5). It’s the same word Luke used to describe Paul’s arrival in Athens. There, the piercing distress Paul felt was for a good reason; it was a righteous man’s reaction to rampant idolatry. Compared to Paul’s reaction, we might do well to wonder why we’re so blasé about the idolatry that permeates the world today.

But the context in First Corinthians suggests a different nuance. The Common English Bible translates Paul as saying that love isn’t “irritable,” which to me sounds like someone who regularly gets into a snit, forever grumbling and complaining. Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase suggests something more extreme: love “doesn’t fly off the handle,” which pictures someone demonstratively losing their temper.

What Paul means, I think, is not just about the intensity of the reaction; it’s about how much and what kind of a provocation it takes to generate it. Whether the reaction comes out through tightly gritted teeth or a ranting, raving shout-fest, Paul is describing someone who is quick to anger, quick to take offense at any personal slight. This isn’t a holy anger at idolatry. It’s the knee-jerk anger of the envious, the proud, the self-seeking. Their anger is easily provoked because their temper isn’t tempered by love.

MOST OF US, I imagine, have had moments in which our anger got the better of us. There have been many times when my wife has said something to me that wasn’t meant to be offensive, but I quickly took offense anyway. And as I learned in family of origin, when you’re mad, you don’t get loud — you get quiet. You don’t get hot, you go cold. You brood. You satisfy yourself with the thought that you haven’t said any unkind words, but you hardly say any words at all. When asked a question, you give the shortest answer possible. You make the other person suffer your silence, wondering what you’re thinking.

At the risk of stating the obvious, that’s not loving behavior. That’s not to say that shouting would be better (even if the other person would prefer that to the silent treatment). But the question is how you handle what feels like a provocation in the first place.

When someone does something to offend us, we can easily and automatically indulge in a bit of character assassination in our minds; they did what they did, or said what they said, because they’re mean, or spiteful, or selfish, or…well, fill in the blank with your favorite insulting adjective. And of course, it’s possible that we’re right.

It’s equally possible, however, that we’re doing the other person a great injustice. Their behavior may make perfect sense to them given the way they see the world. If we could see things as they did, we might understand, and that understanding would help reshape our emotional response.

But we won’t get there if we simply and self-righteously indulge our own quick temper. I say “indulge” because, if we’re being honest and have a modicum of self-awareness, we might recognize the conflicting voices that argue within us. One says, “How dare they say that to you? You have every right to hurt them back.” But the other says, “You know, you could be wrong. Why don’t you slow down and find out? Try listening for a change. And remember, you’re not blameless yourself.” Are we listening to the first voice and ignoring the second?

Because the second voice could be the nudge of the Holy Spirit. It could be the prompting of a loving Father who is slow to anger and wants us to grow up to be more like him.