Overcoming Anger with a Peace That Is Incomprehensible
It seems to me that we are living in a time when anger, like a restless tide, swells ever higher, crashing noisily against the fragile banks of our shared humanity. One need only glance at the ceaseless quarrels that populate our digital thoroughfares or listen in on the frayed conversations of the day to detect its presence. Anger has become the air we breathe—a kind of spiritual smog cloaking the soul in heaviness.
Professor Josh Cohen, whose observations in The Guardian are as incisive as they are unflinching, names this moment our “age of rage.” He writes of the voices that rise like a “chorus of sighs, growls, and screams” from the digital commons—from the anxious mutterings of neighbourhood forums to the sharp-edged wit of the national discourse. What emerges is a landscape shaped by suspicion and fatigue, a world where we are quicker to vilify than to understand.
And yet, we must not suppose that this anger is wholly without reason. No, it is often the child of hurt, born of injustice, frustration, and the wound of being unseen or unheard. As any honest soul will admit, anger is a deeply human response to a world that, more often than not, does not live up to its promises.
But herein lies the danger: for anger, though human, is also unruly. Left untended, it hardens into resentment, distorts our vision, and shackles us in what one might rightly call an emotional gaol. It is a fire that, if left to smoulder unchecked, consumes not only what we oppose but also what we love.
And yet—paradox of paradoxes—there is a peace. A peace that cannot be neatly explained or simply acquired. It does not come from victories in argument or the triumph of one ideology over another. It is, rather, a quiet defiance of the storm—a stillness born not of apathy, but of something deeper.
This peace, which surpasses understanding, is not an escape from reality but a radical reorientation of the soul. It is not a dulling of the senses, but a sharpening of the heart. It allows us to remain centered, to respond with grace rather than grievance, and to choose compassion when conflict calls our name.
To cultivate such a peace is no light undertaking. It asks of us patience, humility, and a willingness to loosen our grip on the need to be right. It asks that we listen not only to others but to the deeper murmurs within our own spirits. For in that place—quiet, unadorned, and true—lives the only force strong enough to turn aside the tide of fury.
This is not the peace of retreat, but the peace of presence. It is the peace that stands in the ruins and says, “There is still something worth building.” It is the peace that invites us not to deny our pain, but to be transformed by it—to let it deepen our empathy rather than sharpen our rage.
In this hour of our collective unrest, I wonder: might we, each in our own corner of the world, become stewards of this peace? Might we hold fast to stillness in a world addicted to noise? Might we offer calm when others offer fire?
If we can, then perhaps—just perhaps—the age of rage will not have the final word.
Very inspiring.
Thank you.