For twenty years Jakob had held his tongue. Every shift of wages, every cold look, every whisper from the sons — he had swallowed them all. Now, after the fruitless search, something gave way. The anger of Jakob took fire, and he contended with Laban (Genesis 31:36).
Targum Pseudo-Jonathan uses the language of combustion. Twenty years of kindling, and finally the match. What is my sin, and what my transgression, that thou hast so eagerly come after me?
Notice the precision of the question. Jakob did not shout. He did not insult. He asked Laban to name the charge. He demanded a specific accusation, a specific wrong. The righteous man's anger — even when it finally flames up — still speaks the language of courts and ledgers.
The Maggid teaches: even rage, when it belongs to a tzaddik, arrives as a question rather than a weapon. Jakob's fire burned hot, but it burned in sentences. He wanted the truth on the record, not Laban's blood on the ground.