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And yet submitting to injustice and incompetence seems to be the way of the gospel much of the time. Not always, because there are clear instances when righteous anger can and must be practiced. But often we're called to do the very thing we find hardest to do.

If I were Jesus — and the world can be thankful I am not — I can hardly imagine the rage I would have felt at Golgotha. I get ticked off when I'm overcharged by a handyman or my dog fails to listen to my command to sit. Jesus' trial and crucifixion was a perfect storm of injustice, incompetence, and cowardice. If anyone at any time had the right to righteous anger, this was the one and this was the time. I don't know which is the greater miracle: the Resurrection, or Jesus' steadfast refusal to order an angelic army to destroy his unjust accusers and corrupt executioners.

This is not a call for passivity. Everyone from unjust employers to incompetent government officials needs to be held accountable for their bungling. Speaking up in the face of incompetence can and should be done directly and with conviction.

But there is an unhealthy anger churning within a lot of us right now. It may be grounded in righteous anger — for there is a lot of blame to share in this sad economy — but it is not leading to anything righteous. Instead, it's an acid eating away at the soul, a quiet rage that is morphing for some into depression and for others into the sweet promise of addiction — to food, to porn, to alcohol.

Like most Americans, I've taken a few serious financial hits in the last few months. As a supervisor, I've had to participate in some hits on others. I'm hardly suggesting that I'm on the other side of anger, living in perfect submission and peace to the providence of God. I look to Jesus in Golgotha and honestly wonder how he could just take it. Take it and say nothing about the incompetence. Take it and do nothing about the raw injustice. Just let it go. That's the big miracle to me. Some days, resurrection from the dead seems like child's play compared to that.

But months into the recession, I find myself weary from bitterness. It's like I'm on a wilderness trek carrying a heavy backpack; at the end of another long day, I look inside for something to feed my exhausted soul, and I find that I've been lugging around chunks of broken concrete.

So I keep praying, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," hoping against hope that a new miracle will take place — that someday soon I'll mean it.

Mark Galli is senior managing editor of Christianity Today. This column is cross-posted on his blog,where he interacts with readers.

Copyright © 2009 Christianity Today. Click for reprint information.

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February (Web-only) 2009, Vol. 53