Before the Sun Goes Down

So then, putting away falsehood, let all of us speak the truth to our neighbours, for we are members of one another. Be angry but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not make room for the devil.

— Ephesians 4:25–27 (NRSV)

I first heard this passage while attending the Family of Origin program at the Camillus Centre in Elliot Lake. A visiting pastor had come to speak about resentment. I don’t remember much about his talk, but I remember these lines. Something about this verse connected immediately, and has stayed with me until this day.

For years, I misunderstood the meaning as a warning against anger itself. Don’t be angry. Calm down. Resolve it quickly. But the text doesn’t say that. It assumes the feeling as a given—be angry. What it cautions against is what happens when that feeling is buried or carried forward without honesty. The problem isn’t the emotion. The problem is falsehood—especially self-deception. Unresolved hurt survives on small acts of dishonesty: minimising what happened, telling myself it “shouldn’t matter,” staying silent to keep the peace. These feelings don’t disappear when ignored. They go underground.

In The Dance of Anger, Harriet Lerner describes anger as a signal—information about violated boundaries, unspoken needs, or places where we’ve abandoned ourselves. When acknowledged and expressed clearly, it moves. When suppressed, it doesn’t fade; it transforms into chronic resentment, that low-grade bitterness that poisons from within. Lerner is clear: this isn’t excessive emotion—it’s unexpressed emotion. What has no safe place to go learns to wait.

The book Alcoholics Anonymous states that “Resentment is the number one offender.” It destroys more of us than anything else, and from it stems “all forms of spiritual disease.” The Fourth Step inventory exists so we can see these patterns clearly, examine our part, and become willing to let them go. Without honest examination, bitterness keeps us spiritually sick.

Resentment is quieter than rage, but heavier. It carries memory, rehearses old scenes, shows up as irritability or distance or tension held in the body. Over time, it becomes less about the original injury and more about a stance toward life. This is what I hear in “do not make room.” Unattended anger creates space for resentment to settle and harden.

I no longer hear this passage as a command to rush forgiveness before nightfall. I hear it as an invitation to honesty—to notice what I feel while it is still information rather than identity, to speak truth before the sun goes down on another day of quiet accumulation. Not every hurt can be resolved immediately, but it can be acknowledged and held with integrity rather than buried under false peace. What we listen to has movement. What we deny becomes weight.