Steak And Arsenic: A Review of Neil Anderson’s "Victory Over the Darkness"

 

by Steven J. Cole


Reading Neil Anderson’s Victory Over the Darkness [Regal Books, 1990, 245 pp.] is like eating steak laced with arsenic. The steak tastes great and makes up the major portion, but the arsenic, imbedded throughout, will kill you.

First, the steak: Anderson strongly sets forth the believer’s position in Christ and the beneficial effects of believing this truth. He underscores the many Scriptures affirming that believers are saints, new creatures, forgiven, righteous, etc. Certainly these are crucial truths for every Christian to believe and act upon.

Anderson rightly affirms that right thinking produces right emotions: “... feelings are a product of the thought life.... Anger, anxiety and depression are usually the result of a faulty belief system. The greatest determinants of mental and emotional health are a true knowledge of God, and acceptance of His ways and the assurance of His forgiveness” (p. 236). Amen!

Sadly, though, the book is laced with arsenic. An undiscerning reader will swallow the poison with the steak. The outcome will be worse than not eating the steak at all!

The main error is that Anderson repeatedly asserts that believers are not to view themselves as sinners, not even as sinners saved by grace, but as saints who occasionally sin. If unsuspecting Christians buy into this aberrant view, they will end up minimizing what Scripture presents as the major enemy against which we must daily fight: the ongoing power of the flesh. Here’s how he puts it:

Many Christians refer to themselves as sinners saved by grace. But are you really a sinner? Is that your scriptural identity? Not at all. God doesn’t call you a sinner; He calls you a saint--a holy one. If you think of yourself as a sinner, guess what you will do: you’ll live like a sinner; you’ll sin. Why not identify yourself for who you really are: a saint who occasionally sins (pp. 44-45).

Satan will try to convince you that you are an unworthy, unacceptable, sin-sick person who will never amount to anything in God’s eyes (p. 56).

(Note the truth and error mingled in that single sentence: We are unworthy, unacceptable, and sin-sick. But by God’s grace we will amount to something in His eyes.)

If you believe that you are part light and part darkness, part saint and part sinner, you will live in a very mediocre manner with little to distinguish you from the non-Christian (p. 71). (See also pp. 69, 83; and his book, The Bondage Breaker [Harvest House], pp. 44, 81, 156).

There are numerous problems with these overstatements (which amount to a serious denial of biblical truth). First, they depend upon picking and choosing certain Scriptures, but ignoring others. For example, on pages 45-47 Anderson has a long list of verses giving the positives of who I am in Christ. Great! But why did he leave out other verses, often in the same context, that aren’t so pretty (Matt. 6:30; 7:5, 11; 5:4; Luke 17:10)? Anderson conveniently skips such “negative” verses.

Concerning Paul’s late-in-life claim to be the chief of sinners (1 Tim. 1:15), Anderson explains it as referring to his nature before conversion. But a study of the text in its context shows that Paul was talking about his ever-deepening awareness of his own sinfulness as he grew in grace. As Donald Guthrie comments, “Paul never got away from the fact that Christian salvation was intended for sinners, and the more he increased his grasp of the magnitude of God’s grace, the more he deepened the consciousness of his own naturally sinful state, ...” (The Pastoral Epistles, Tyndale New Testament Commentaries [Eerdmans], p. 65).

A second problem with not viewing ourselves as sinners is that it destroys the basis for growing in humility before God. The most godly men in the Bible all were deeply aware of their own utter depravity in the presence of God (see Gen. 18:27; Job 42:6; Isa. 6:5; Dan. 9:4-19; Luke 5:8).

It is significant that in none of these cases did the Lord say, “That’s not true! You need to see yourself as a saint, not a sinner!” Once the man realized the truth of his sinfulness, the Lord graciously gave words of encouragement to restore (Job 42:7-8; Isa. 6:7; Dan. 9:23; Luke 5:10). But it can be argued that God’s specific intent in every case was to bring these sinner-saints to this lower (and more accurate) estimate of themselves in God’s holy presence.

Third, Anderson’s view undercuts the need for self-distrust. The more I realize my own sinfulness, the less I’m inclined to trust myself and the more I’m inclined to cling desperately to the Lord, lest I fall into sin (1 Cor. 10:12). When I am weak, then I am strong (2 Cor. 12:9-10).

Fourth, Anderson minimizes the need for ongoing self- examination (2 Cor. 13:5). But this is the requirement for every Christian, especially before partaking of the Lord’s Supper (1 Cor. 11:28).

Fifth, Anderson’s view will lead to an anemic view of God’s grace, which is the chief motivation for holy living. If I do not grow to see my own sinfulness in a deeper way, I will not grow in appreciation for the “mighty gulf that God did span at Calvary.” Those who love God much know that they’ve been forgiven much (Luke 7:47). Jesus’ point was not that some are forgiven more than others, but rather that those who realize how much they’re forgiven are those who love God much. If I’m not growing to see more of the depths of my sinfulness, I will not love God more.

Sixth, Anderson minimizes the major hindrance to holy living. If I am “a saint who occasionally sins,” then “No big problem!” That is precisely what Satan would have me believe! God wants me to see the gravity of my sin problem so that I will take responsibility to put to death the deeds of the flesh. The more I grow, the more I discover that my problem is much bigger than I ever realized! (This error is magnified if you add Anderson’s book, The Bondage Breaker, which places much of the blame for Christians’ problems on evil spirits, not on the flesh.)

Seventh, if I am not to see myself as a sinner, then how can I deny myself (Mark 8:34)? Clearly, self-denial is to be a daily, ongoing exercise (Luke 9:23). Do I deny a slight tendency I have toward an occasional sin or do I deny my continual propensity toward selfishness, pride, and the deeds of the flesh?

Eighth, Anderson’s error runs counter to the experience and teaching of the most godly men in church history. Augustine, Calvin, Luther, John Owen (the great Puritan theologian), Jonathan Edwards, Charles Simeon, J. C. Ryle, Charles Spurgeon, Martyn Lloyd-Jones and many others all taught the ongoing depravity of the human heart, even after conversion. How then can Anderson claim that if you see yourself as a sinner “you will live in a very mediocre manner with little to distinguish you from the non-Christian” (p. 71)! Those men were hardly mediocre Christians!

Ninth, Anderson’s false teaching denies the facts of every revival in church history. As Lloyd-Jones points out (Revival [Crossway], p. 231),

And there has never yet been a revival of religion, but that the moment that God’s people have this experience, though they may have been Christians for years and years, they feel utterly unworthy, they see themselves as sinners as they have never done before. Some of them have even doubted whether they have ever been Christians. They are wrong, of course, but the sight of the holiness of God, the realisation of it, has made them see nothing but their own sinfulness and their own unworthiness. It is invariable.

Indeed, Dr. Lloyd-Jones makes this point repeatedly (see pp. 41, 70-71, 80-83, 101, 156-157), thus showing how far Anderson is off.

Tenth, not seeing myself as a sinner would lead to my shrugging off the many repeated Scriptural warnings against the power and dangers of sin. Why worry about it if I’m just a saint who occasionally sins? Why should pastors preach against sin if Anderson is right? Just preach positional truth. Why preach the need for an ongoing life of repentance? Occasional repentance for occasional sins will do!

Thus Anderson’s unbiblical assertion that believers are not to view themselves as sinners is the major dose of arsenic in the steak. But other minor traces can be found in his penchant for overstatement. Some examples:

Feelings “are neither good nor bad; they’re amoral, just part of your humanity” (p. 182). If so, why does the Bible label certain feelings as sin (lust, selfish anger, bitterness, jealousy, etc.)? Anderson encourages a counselee to vent sinful anger and uses one of David’s imprecatory (and Christological) psalms as justification for “being honest with our feelings” (pp. 186-187)!

Concerning sharing with a grieving friend, he overstates what would be sound counsel if it were in balance, namely that we’re to respond to emotions with emotions, not with words (p. 189). He cites Jesus’ weeping with Mary and Martha as biblical warrant. But he conveniently omits Jesus’ pointed words (not just emotions) to Martha from the very context he cites as “proof” (see John 11:23-26).

Anderson argues (p. 215) that it is always wrong to defend oneself, since if we’re wrong, we should accept the criticism; if we’re right, God will defend us. Please snip 2 Corinthians, Galatians, 1 Thessalonians 2, and many other portions from your Bible (excuse my sarcasm). Paul defends himself rather vigorously in those places, sometimes with sarcasm, even!

We’re told that it’s always wrong to judge character; we’re only supposed to judge actions (p. 221-222). But don’t repeated deeds reflect inner character? In the same context that we’re told not to judge we are told to discern and avoid false prophets who inwardly are ravenous wolves (Matt. 7:15). Paul often judged the motives and character of his critics, based on his observation of their deeds (2 Cor. 11:13-15; Gal. 1:8-10; Titus 1:10-16).

Anderson draws a false dichotomy between being and doing (pp. 237-239). The subtle implication of his teaching here is that we can’t (and perhaps even shouldn’t) obey God (“doing”) until we’re squared away with who we are in Christ (“being”). He states (p. 237),

One of the great failures of Christian ministry is to expect people to behave as Christians ... before they have matured as Christians .... In so doing we are asking people to behave in a manner that is inconsistent with their perception of their identity and their level of maturity, and that’s an impossible task.

No! Obedience is always right, whether I understand “who I am in Christ” or not. We grow to understand our identity in Him as we trust and obey (see 2 Pet. 1:5-11).

Overall, the book, in common with many modern “Christian” books, has an underlying selfistic bent: “You will be motivated in life by what you believe will bring you success, significance, fulfillment, satisfaction, happiness, fun, security and peace” (Table of Contents description of Chapter 7, which elaborates on this bent). That’s a far cry from the self-denying faith of the martyrs! I have trouble imagining Latimer and Ridley thinking about success, significance, fulfillment, satisfaction, happiness, and fun as the flames were lit around them!

In short, Anderson’s book contains a lot of good ol’ American selfism wrapped in a lot of truth to fool the unsuspecting—steak laced with arsenic! Dear brethren, do not be deceived!

Fully Known and Truly Loved

John Piper

Jesus knows us fully and completely. He knows us better than we know ourselves. And He loves us - truly, fully and completely.  Have you surrendered your life to Him? Have you put your trust in Him? Will you spend eternity with Him?

Dear Church, Here’s Why People Are Really Leaving You

A hard, honest look at why people are really walking away from church.

Being on the other side of the Exodus sucks, don’t it?

I see the panic on your face, Church.

I know the internal terror as you see the statistics and hear the stories and scan the exit polls.

I see you desperately scrambling to do damage control for the fence-sitters, and manufacture passion from the shrinking faithful, and I want to help you.

You may think you know why people are leaving you, but I’m not sure you do.

You think it’s because “the culture” is so lost, so perverse, so beyond help that they are all walking away.

You believe that they’ve turned a deaf ear to the voice of God; chasing money, and sex, and material things.

You think that the gays and the Muslims and the Atheists and the pop stars have so screwed up the morality of the world that everyone is abandoning faith in droves.

But those aren’t the reasons people are leaving you.

They aren’t the problem, Church.

You are the problem.

Let me elaborate in five ways …

1. Your Sunday productions have worn thin.

The stage, and the lights, and the bands, and the video screens, have all just become white noise to those really seeking to encounter God. They’re ear and eye candy for an hour, but they have so little relevance in people’s daily lives that more and more of them are taking a pass.

Yeah, the songs are cool and the show is great, but ultimately Sunday morning isn’t really making a difference on Tuesday afternoon or Thursday evening, when people are wrestling with the awkward, messy, painful stuff in the trenches of life; the places where rock shows don’t help.

We can be entertained anywhere. Until you can give us something more than a Christian-themed performance piece—something that allows us space and breath and conversation and relationship—many of us are going to sleep in and stay away.

2. You speak in a foreign tongue.

Church, you talk and talk and talk, but you do so using a dead language. You’re holding onto dusty words that have no resonance in people’s ears, not realizing that just saying those words louder isn’t the answer. All the religious buzzwords that used to work 20 years ago no longer do.

This spiritualized insider-language may give you some comfort in an outside world that is changing, but that stuff’s just lazy religious shorthand, and it keeps regular people at a distance. They need you to speak in a language that they can understand. There’s a message there worth sharing, but it’s hard to hear above your verbal pyrotechnics.

People don’t need to be dazzled with big, churchy words and about eschatological frameworks and theological systems. Talk to them plainly about love, and joy, and forgiveness, and death, and peace, and God, and they’ll be all ears. Keep up the church-speak, and you’ll be talking to an empty room soon.

3. Your vision can’t see past your building.

The coffee bar, the cushy couches, the high-tech lights, the funky Children’s wing and the uber-cool Teen Center are all top-notch … and costly. In fact, most of your time, money and energy seems to be about luring people to where you are instead of reaching people where they already are.

Rather than simply stepping out into the neighborhoods around you and partnering with the amazing things already happening, and the beautiful stuff God is already doing, you seem content to franchise out your particular brand of Jesus-stuff, and wait for the sinful world to beat down your door.

Your greatest mission field is just a few miles, (or a few feet) off your campus and you don’t even realize it. You wanna reach the people you’re missing?

Leave the building.

4. You choose lousy battles.

We know you like to fight, Church. That’s obvious.

When you want to, you can go to war with the best of them. The problem is, your battles are too darn small. Fast food protests, hobby store outrage and duck-calling Reality TV show campaigns may manufacture some urgency and Twitter activity on the inside for the already-convinced, but they’re paper tigers to people out here with bloody boots on the ground.

Every day we see a world suffocated by poverty, and racism, and violence, and bigotry, and hunger; and in the face of that stuff, you get awfully, frighteningly quiet. We wish you were as courageous in those fights, because then we’d feel like coming alongside you; then we’d feel like going to war with you.

Church, we need you to stop being warmongers with the trivial and pacifists in the face of the terrible.

5. Your love doesn’t look like love.

Love seems to be a pretty big deal to you, but we’re not getting that when the rubber meets the road. In fact, more and more, your brand of love seems incredibly selective and decidedly narrow; filtering out all the spiritual riff-raff, which sadly includes far too many of us.

It feels like a big bait-and-switch sucker-deal; advertising a “Come as You Are” party, but letting us know once we’re in the door that we can’t really come as we are. We see a Jesus in the Bible who hung out with lowlifes and prostitutes and outcasts, and loved them right there, but that doesn’t seem to be your cup of tea.

Church, can you love us if we don’t check all the doctrinal boxes and don’t have our theology all figured out? It doesn’t seem so.

Can you love us if we cuss and drink and get tattoos, and God forbid, vote Democrat? We’re doubtful.

Can you love us if we’re not sure how we define love, and marriage, and Heaven, and Hell? It sure doesn’t feel that way.

From what we know about Jesus, we think he looks like love. The unfortunate thing is, you don’t look much like him.

That’s part of the reason people are leaving you, Church.

These words may get you really, really angry, and you may want to jump in a knee-jerk move to defend yourself or attack these positions line-by-line, but we hope that you won’t.

We hope that you’ll just sit in stillness with these words for a while, because whether you believe they’re right or wrong, they’re real to us, and that’s the whole point.

We’re the ones walking away.

We want to matter to you.

We want you to hear us before you debate us.

Show us that your love and your God are real.

Church, give us a reason to stay.

It’s not you, it’s me.

That’s what you seem to be saying, Church.

I tried to share my heart with you; the heart of me and thousands and thousands of people like me who are walking away, to let you know of the damage you’re doing and the painful legacy you’re leaving, and apparently, you’re not the problem.

(Which, of course, is still a problem).

I’ve relayed my frustration with your insider, religious rhetoric, and you responded by cut-and-pasting random Scripture soundbytes about the “Bride of Christ” and the “blood of the Lamb,” insisting that the real issue is simply my “biblical ignorance,” and suggesting that I just need to repent and get a good Concordance (whatever that is).

I let you know how judged and ridiculed I feel when I’m with you, how much like a hopeless, failing outsider I feel on the periphery of your often inward, judgmental communities, and you proceeded to tell me how “lost” I am, how hopelessly “in love with my sin” I must be to leave you, reminding me that I never really belonged with you anyway.

In the face of every complaint and every grievance, you’ve made it clear that the real issue is that I’m either sinful, heretical, immoral, foolish, unenlightened, selfish, consumerist or ignorant.

Heck, many days I’m not even sure I disagree with you.

Maybe you’re right, Church.

Maybe I am the problem.

Maybe it is me, but me is all I’m capable of being right now, and that’s where I was really hoping you would meet me.

It’s here, in my flawed, screwed-up, wounded, shell-shocked, doubting, disillusioned me-ness that I’ve been waiting for you to step in with this whole supposedly relentless, audacious “love of Jesus” thing I hear so much about, and make it real.

Church, I know how much you despise the word Tolerance, but right now, I really need you to tolerate me; to tolerate those of us who, for all sorts of reasons you may feel aren’t justified, are struggling to stay.

We’re so weary of feeling like nothing more than a religious agenda; an argument to win, a point to make, a cause to defend, a soul to save.

We want to be more than a notch on your Salvation belt; another number to pad your Twitter posts and end-of-year stat sheets.

We need to be more than altar call props, who are applauded and high-fived down the aisle, and then forgotten once the song ends.

We’ve been praying for you to stop evangelizing us, and preaching at us, and fighting us, and judging us, and sin-diagnosing us, long enough to simply hear us …

… even if we are the problem.

Even if we are the woman in adultery, or the doubting follower, or the rebellious prodigal, or the demon-riddled young man, we can’t be anything else right now in this moment; and in this moment, we need a Church big enough, and tough enough, and loving enough; not just for us as we might one day be then, but for us as we are, now.

We still believe that God is big enough, and tough enough, and loving enough, even if you won’t be, and that’s why even if we do walk away, it doesn’t mean we’re walking away from faith; it’s just that faith right now seems more reachable elsewhere.

I know you’ll argue that you’re doing all these things and saying all these things because you love and care for us, but from the shoes we’re standing in, you need to know that it feels less like love and care, and more like space and silence:

If someone is frustrated, telling them that they’re wrong to be frustrated is, well, pretty freakin’ frustrating.

It only breeds distance.

If someone shares that their heart is hurting, they don’t want to hear that they’re not right to be hurt.

It’s a conversation-stopper.

If someone tells you they are starving for compassion, and relationship, and authenticity, the last thing they need is to be corrected for that hunger.

It’s a kick in the rear on the way out the door.

So yes, Church, even if you’re right, even if we’re totally wrong—even if we’re all petty, and self-centered, and hypocritical, and critical, and (I’ll say it), “sinful”—we’re still the ones searching for a place where we can be known and belong; a place where it feels like God lives, and you’re the ones who can show it to us.

Even if the problem is me, it’s me who you’re supposed to be reaching, Church.

So, for the love of God; reach already.

By John Pavlovitz

John Pavlovitz is a pastor/blogger from Wake Forest, North Carolina. An 18-year veteran of local church ministry, he currently writes a blog called Stuff That Needs To Be Said, and in January is launching an online Christian community called The Table.