“The Lord will fight for you; you have only to be still.” (Ex 14:14)
The Israelites were standing at the edge of the Red Sea, trapped between the water and an advancing army. Panic felt reasonable. Outrage felt justified. Complaints felt inevitable.
Instead, Moses gives them this: Be still.
He did not command them to be apathetic. He did not spiritualize denial. Moses invited them to relinquish the need to fight every battle with their own clenched fists.
I’ve been thinking about that verse in light of the steady drumbeat of offense in our world. Outrage is now a currency. It buys clicks. It buys belonging. It buys the illusion of moral clarity. We are catechized daily into reflexive indignation.
You cannot search for a recipe for brown butter chocolate chip cookies without being told what you should be angry about today.
And often, the offenses are real. There is injustice. There is foolishness. There is corruption and cruelty. But the question Lent asks is not, “Is there something to be upset about?” The question is, “What is happening to my soul when I live in a constant state of offense?”
Suddenly, Christians all want to be table-flippers in the name of holy anger. But is that our call?
The problem is not that anger never exists.
The problem is that we assume our anger is righteous.
Jesus’ table-flipping does not give us license to live offended. It shows us that zeal for God’s holiness may require confrontation — but even that confrontation is purposeful, measured and rare.
Most of what we call “righteous anger” today is personal irritation baptized in moral language. Stop and truly consider for a moment: Is the outrage we baptize as “righteous” so often a subtle addiction to feeling morally superior?
What if, for Lent, we gave up being offended?
I’m not suggesting we ignore evil or abandon convictions or disengage from the world. I’m suggesting we prayerfully consider how to give up the reflex to demand, to stew, to rehearse grievances, to narrate ourselves as perpetual victims of other people’s foolishness.
What if we practiced service before demands?
Imagine entering a tense conversation asking, “How can I serve here?” instead of “How can I win?” Imagine responding to a slight with curiosity instead of retaliation. Imagine declining to forward the article that inflames and instead sending a quiet note of encouragement.
What if we replaced bitterness with a deliberate willingness to forgive?
Forgiveness is not pretending something didn’t hurt. It is choosing not to weaponize the hurt. It is refusing to carry it like a badge of identity. It is trusting that, “The Lord will fight for you.” That justice does not depend on your constant internal argument.
Exodus 14:14 is not passive. It is profoundly active trust.
It is saying: I do not need to correct every person.
I do not need to comment on every controversy.
I do not need to carry every outrage.
The Lord will fight for you; you have only to be still.
Stillness is not weakness. It is restraint. It is strength under control. It is confidence that God is not wringing his hands over the news cycle.
And what if we focused on gratitude over grievances?
This may be the most radical practice of all. Every time you feel the familiar rise of irritation — at a politician, at a relative, at a headline — pause and name three concrete gifts in your actual life. The warm mug in your hands. The grandchild at soccer. The friend who texted. The fact that you can open a Bible in peace.
Gratitude shrinks the ego’s insistence that everything must bend to our personal preferences.
Perhaps this Lent is less about chocolate or coffee and more about surrendering the addictive pleasure of indignation. Perhaps it is about fasting from the rush of being right.
In a culture that rewards outrage, a quiet, unoffendable Christian may be the most countercultural witness of all.
Not silent in the face of evil.
Not naïve about injustice.
But anchored. Steady. Free.
Standing at the edge of whatever Red Sea confronts us and choosing stillness over shouting.
“The Lord will fight for you.”
I’d like to suggest that that is enough.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
