What Would Jesus Overturn in Your Life?

How Holy Monday Confronts Our Hidden Distractions

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There is a kind of frustration that runs deeper than ordinary annoyance—a grief disguised as anger. It stirs when something beautiful is desecrated or when something sacred is treated as trivial. It rises when integrity is sacrificed for gain, or when the vulnerable are exploited rather than protected. Most of us have encountered this kind of ache. Holy Monday takes us directly into it.

On this day, Jesus entered the temple—the place designated for God’s people to draw near in reverence and prayer—and what He found grieved Him. The outer courts, once reserved for Gentiles and seekers, had been overtaken by commerce. What should have been a sanctuary had become a marketplace. And instead of retreating in quiet resignation, Jesus engaged with holy defiance.

Jesus got angry in church, and He let it be known.

His cleansing of the temple was not an impulsive reaction but a deeply intentional act, rooted in love for the Father, for the people, and for the sacredness of worship.

This moment is more than an event from Scripture and history. It is also a mirror. Holy Monday invites us to examine our lives and ask: What might Jesus want to overturn in us? What has crept in over time and crowded out what is pure, good, and essential? Where have we grown comfortable with the very things that once would have troubled our hearts?

HOLY MONDAY TEACHING ON VIDEO
NOTE: Video content is unique. It is not a replica of, but a companion to, this essay.

A Holy Disruption Born of Love

The temple courts were crowded not only with animals and coins but with a kind of spiritual amnesia. Pilgrims who had journeyed from afar in hope and reverence were being met with inflated prices and hard-hearted indifference. The leaders who were meant to shepherd worship had become gatekeepers of profit. The very space designed to welcome the outsider had become an exclusive barrier.

Jesus’ response was loud and confrontational, while also being measured and purposeful. He never lost control, not even for a moment. He overturned the tables of the money changers and drove out those selling sacrificial animals. He quoted the prophet Isaiah, reminding them of God's vision: “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations.” And then He named what they had allowed the temple to become: “a den of robbers” (Mark 11:17).

His actions, though disruptive, were not erratic. They were at their core an expression of love—of God’s deep refusal to leave corruption undisturbed. Pastor and author Fleming Rutledge writes, “The wrath of God is not the counterpart to His love; it is the expression of His love.” Divine anger, rightly understood, is never arbitrary. It is the natural and necessary response of a holy and loving God to all that twists, degrades, or distorts what He has made good.

The cleansing of the temple was not an act of condemnation but of restoration. Jesus was reclaiming space meant for communion. His anger was not directed at worshipers but at the systems and behaviors that had diminished worship and preyed upon the sincerest among them.

The Hidden Tables in Our Hearts

It is one thing to lament injustice in the world; it is another to invite Christ to confront what is misaligned in us. The apostle Paul reminds believers that our bodies are now temples of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19). That claim is as challenging as it is honoring. If Jesus were to walk through the temple of our lives, what might He see? What space designed for stillness, prayer, and worship has been filled with lesser things? What practices once pursued with devotion have become mechanical or performative?

The corruption of the temple did not appear overnight. It entered gradually—bit by bit, justified by convenience and sustained by neglect. This is how spiritual erosion usually happens. Rarely is it the result of a single decision; more often, it is the accumulation of small compromises that go unnoticed or ignored.

In our inner lives, too, distractions begin subtly. A hurried life crowds out stillness. Ambition masquerades as calling. Digital noise replaces silence. And over time, without even realizing it, we may find that the deepest parts of us—the places meant for communion with God—are occupied by things that do not belong there at all.

To invite Jesus to cleanse the temple of our hearts is not to ask for guilt and shame. It is to ask for healing. The same Lord who overturned tables did so not to destroy and humiliate, but to reclaim and restore. He interrupts only that which obstructs. He removes only that which hinders life and worship.

His cleansing is never punitive; it is always redemptive.

When Reverence Becomes Routine

Another danger revealed in this story is the ease with which reverence can slip into routine. Those overseeing temple worship had allowed what was holy to become transactional. The sacrificial system—meant to point hearts to mercy and grace—had become something of a business. Prayer had been displaced by profit. The temple remained full, but it was no longer faithful. “Mega” is not a measure for godliness.

This risk persists in every generation. Spiritual practices can be preserved in form while losing their substance. We may attend services, speak familiar prayers, and sing well-known hymns while our hearts drift into greed, lovelessness, and indifference. The motions of worship remain, but the presence of God feels remote.

Psalm 145:18 offers a way forward: “The Lord is near to all who call on Him, to all who call on Him in truth.” True worship is not about polish but about presence—not about performance but about transparency. What God desires is not our perfection but our humble engagement. When we come to Him as we are—aware of our distractions, our inconsistencies, our hopes—He meets us in mercy.

Love Mixed With Courage

The cleansing of the temple was a bold and loving act—and love often calls for courage. One striking example from American history is Ida B. Wells, a journalist, teacher, and anti-lynching activist in the late 19th century. At a time when speaking out against racial violence in the South could mean death, Wells exposed the horrors of lynching through her writing and public advocacy. She did so at great personal cost. Her newspaper office was destroyed, her life was repeatedly threatened, and she was driven from her home in Memphis.

Yet she persisted—not for personal gain, but to speak for those who could not speak for themselves. Wells’s words were sharp, not from hate, but from a love for truth and for those whose voices had been silenced. “The way to right wrongs,” she said, “is to turn the light of truth upon them.” Her courage was an expression of love—clear-eyed, sacrificial, and committed to restoring what evil had stolen from men, women, and children who bore the image of God.

Jesus displays the same kind of love in the temple courts. The tables He overturned were more than furniture—they represented a system that had lost its soul. His actions disrupted exploitation and reclaimed a sacred space for its intended purpose. He acted not out of impulsive rage, but righteous grief. He was restoring worship, not condemning it. In His heart, justice and mercy are not rivals—they are partners.

Love That Comforts and Confronts

Love, when it reflects Christ, does not stay silent in the face of wrong. It doesn’t accommodate injustice or look away from harm. Sometimes it comforts. Sometimes it confronts. Always, it aims to heal. Holy Monday reminds us that Jesus doesn’t ignore what is broken. He enters it, names it, and clears space for renewal.

His disruption is never an end in itself. It is always a pathway to restoration. He removes what clutters and corrupts so that we can return to what is good. His goal is not to take, but to give—to replace pretense with truth, performative religion with faith, hope, and love, and division with fellowship.

When the temples of our hearts grow callused and cluttered, Jesus comes not to condemn, but to cleanse. His love is discerning and restorative. He rebuilds what we thought was beyond repair. Holy Monday is not ultimately about divine anger—it is about divine love that must sometimes be served by divine anger.

His is a love that grieves what’s been lost.
A love that reclaims that which is sacred.
A love that makes room again for God.