God, I'm so hurt! God, I'm angry! Hold me together. Hold me, please."

I'd just turned off my car radio with its nonstop coverage of the recent tragedy in New York City, Washington, D.C., and Pennsylvania; and the prayer wrung itself from the depth of my soul. They used to say, "Grown men don't cry." If that was ever true, no longer. The September 11, 2001, tragedy will go down as the one that burst the clogged, stereotypical male tear duct wide open. Grown men broke down everywhere-from the president of the United States, to the cool-headed anchor of a national television broadcast, to hardened business executives, to the man on the street. And that morning as I drove to work alone in my car two days following the crisis, it was my turn. "What's happening to me?" I asked myself as my chest filled up and hot tears began to flow. "Hold me, Lord," I prayed again, "hold me."

The anger came as I reflected on planeloads of innocent men, women, and children being piloted to their death by evil men; on thousands of others in their offices, going about their regular business, suddenly being murdered by demons; the image of desperate people jumping to their death from floors high above the street; the grim fact that more than 5,000 body bags had been ordered by the city of New York; the thought that thousands more will almost certainly become casualties as the dreadful repercussions of this heinous crime play out across the geopolitical arena, with none of us knowing whether we ourselves might go down. This is the horrible uncertainty into which these fanatical maniacs have plunged us.

A Day to Live in Infamy
You know you're a witness to horrendous tragedy when you can remember exactly where you were and what you were doing when it struck. In my case, I was chairing a committee here at the Adventist Review office when fellow staffer Chitra Barnabas slipped into the room with a note for me. "Roy," it read, "Celia [my wife] just called. Two planes have crashed into the World Trade Center towers." In utter disbelief I headed for a room with a television set, still hoping that it was somehow all a dream and that I'd soon snap out of the terrible nightmare. But it was real. And by the time this editorial arrives, you will have been exposed to a zillion reports on the ghastly crisis. So what else is there to say?

Just one thing: It's not unchristian to be angry.

In the weeks since the tragedy there's been much said about mercy. I believe in mercy-and I say this not simply as a caveat to cover myself. Travel with me and listen to my preaching, and you'll know that I speak truth here. Where would I be without mercy? There's been much talk about forgiveness. I believe in that, too. And I believe in grace. And in compassion.

But I also believe in justice-retributive justice; there are acts so diabolically heinous that they call for action. And for Christians to piously lay a guilt trip on those who seek to call the twisted perpetrators of this monstrous evil to account borders on the immoral, and constitutes an insult to the memory of the many innocent victims who perished. It's a rough and ugly world out there, and it's the height of irresponsibility to offer facile solutions to the complex issues that face us. The New Testament is no wishy-washy, namby-pamby book of grace with no judgment teeth. And some of its toughest pronouncements fall from the lips of Jesus Himself.

But just here, a caution: As individual Christians our anger must be rational and controlled. Those in our communities who could become targets for reprisal-on account of their race, religion, or place of origin-should have nothing to fear from intelligent Christians. Nothing! The message of the gospel is too clear for that. What I wish would happen, however, is that the media might afford such people every opportunity to denounce (with the rest of society) the toxic theology that undergirds the suicidal barbarism that we've all witnessed.

Ultimately, everything's in the hand of God. My hurt and anger I can give to Him with full assurance He's in control. "Above the distractions of the earth He sits enthroned; all things are open to His divine survey; and from His great and calm eternity He orders that which His providence sees best."^* Hallelujah!

^* Ellen G. White, The Ministry of Healing, p. 417.

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Roy Adams is an associate editor of the Adventist Review.