The Accuser: Christianity's Most Persistent Critic

There is perhaps no figure in all of Christian theology who has worked harder or longer hours than the one the scriptures call "the Accuser." He is Christianity's most dedicated critic, its most persistent prosecutor, and rather ironically one of its most unwitting apologists. For in his very existence and tireless activity, he proves the central Christian claim that something has gone terribly wrong with the world, and that we stand in desperate need of a defender.

The Hebrew word satan simply means "accuser" or "adversary," and there is something almost refreshingly honest about this title. Here is a being who has found his calling in pointing out faults, and he pursues this vocation with the kind of single-minded dedication that would be admirable if it were directed toward anything useful. He is like a cosmic prosecuting attorney who never rests, never takes a holiday, and never seems to run out of evidence for the case he is perpetually building against humanity.

But here we encounter the first of many paradoxes surrounding the Accuser: the very act of accusation implies the existence of a law, and the existence of a law implies a lawgiver. One cannot accuse someone of breaking rules in a universe where no rules exist. The Accuser, in his relentless pointing out of human failures, inadvertently testifies to the existence of a moral order and therefore to the existence of the One who established that order.

It is rather like a man who spends his entire life complaining about how poorly the trains run, thereby proving that he believes trains ought to run well. The Accuser's accusations make sense only if there is indeed a standard we ought to meet, a mark we have missed, a design we have failed to fulfill. His very existence as prosecutor requires the existence of a law that can be broken and therefore a judge who established that law.

What sort of mind dedicates itself entirely to fault-finding? Modern psychology would probably have a field day with the Accuser, diagnosing him with everything from narcissistic personality disorder to chronic depression. Here is a being who seems incapable of seeing anything good in creation, who looks at every human achievement and immediately begins cataloguing its flaws, who can observe an act of kindness and immediately suspect an ulterior motive.

Yet there is something almost tragically honest about this perspective. The Accuser sees clearly what many of us prefer to ignore: that human beings are indeed deeply flawed creatures, capable of extraordinary selfishness, prone to hypocrisy, and remarkably skilled at justifying our worst impulses. When he points out that even our best intentions are often mixed with pride, that our charity is sometimes tainted with self-interest, that our love is frequently conditional well, he is not wrong.

This is what makes the Accuser so dangerous and so effective. Like all the best lies, his accusations contain a significant element of truth. He does not typically accuse us of things we have not done; instead, he takes the things we have actually done and uses them to construct a case for our fundamental unworthiness. He is a master of selective evidence, highlighting our failures while systematically ignoring our attempts at goodness.

But here again we find paradox: the Accuser's very effectiveness as a prosecutor demonstrates the reality of human moral consciousness. His accusations sting precisely because we know, deep down, that there is truth in them. A being without moral sensibilities could not be accused of moral failure; one might as well try to prosecute a tree for failing to be charitable. The fact that the Accuser's words have power over us proves that we are indeed moral creatures, designed for goodness even when we fail to achieve it.

For all his legal expertise, the Accuser suffers from a crucial blind spot that renders his entire case ultimately invalid. He sees sin clearly but cannot comprehend grace. He understands justice but is baffled by mercy. He knows how to calculate debt but has no category for forgiveness. It is as if a prosecuting attorney spent his entire career studying criminal law but had never heard of the possibility of a pardon.

This blindness is not merely intellectual but ontological it is built into his very nature. The Accuser cannot understand grace for the same reason that darkness cannot understand light, not because it lacks intelligence but because its very existence depends on the absence of what it seeks to comprehend. To truly understand grace would require a kind of conversion, a fundamental reordering of his entire being, and this he seems either unable or unwilling to undergo.

The result is that the Accuser is always fighting the last war. He operates according to the old covenant of pure justice, in which every sin must be paid for in full and every debt must be settled to the last penny. He cannot grasp the revolutionary concept of a justice that has already been satisfied, a debt that has already been paid, a law that has already been fulfilled on behalf of those who broke it.

It is rather like a debt collector who continues to pursue someone whose debt has already been settled by a third party. The Accuser keeps presenting the same old bills, demanding payment for sins that have already been paid for, threatening consequences that have already been borne by another. His accusations, however accurate they may be as descriptions of our past failures, are irrelevant in light of the completed work of Christ.

The book of Job gives us perhaps our clearest picture of the Accuser at work, and it reveals him as a being who seems to genuinely believe that human beings only serve God for what they can get out of it. "Does Job fear God for no reason?" he asks, implying that all human devotion is merely a sophisticated form of self-interest, that all worship is essentially transactional.

This question reveals the poverty of the Accuser's imagination. Having himself chosen self-interest over service, he cannot conceive that any other rational being would make a different choice. He looks at human love and sees only calculation, examines human sacrifice and finds only hidden benefit, observes human worship and detects only disguised selfishness.

But God allows the Accuser to make his case, and in doing so reveals both the truth about human nature and the greater truth about divine love. Yes, human beings are indeed capable of serving God for selfish reasons but they are also capable of genuine love, authentic worship, and real sacrifice. Job's story demonstrates that while we may begin our relationship with God as a kind of transaction, grace has the power to transform it into something far greater.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about the Accuser is how thoroughly he defeats his own purposes. In his relentless efforts to discredit humanity and dishonor God, he actually ends up highlighting both the desperate need for salvation and the magnificence of the salvation that has been provided.

Every accusation he makes against us only serves to magnify the wonder of God's grace. When he points out that we are sinners, he inadvertently emphasizes how remarkable it is that God chooses to love sinners. When he highlights our unworthiness, he unknowingly underscores the gratuitous nature of divine mercy. When he demonstrates our need for a savior, he becomes an unwitting evangelist for the Savior.

The Accuser is like a prosecuting attorney who is so thorough in demonstrating his client's guilt that he accidentally makes the case for why his client desperately needs the best possible defense attorney. His very effectiveness as a prosecutor proves the necessity of the gospel.

For the Christian, the Accuser's voice need not be silenced it need only be answered. His accusations may be true as far as they go, but they do not go far enough. Yes, we are sinners but we are forgiven sinners. Yes, we fall short but Christ has made up the difference. Yes, we deserve condemnation but there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

The Accuser's fundamental error is his assumption that the courtroom is still in session, that the verdict is still pending, that the case is still being decided. But the Christian lives in the light of a verdict that has already been rendered, a case that has already been closed, a debt that has already been paid.

When the Accuser whispers his accusations in our ears and he will continue to do so until the end of time we need not argue with his facts. We need only point to the cross and say, "It is finished." We need not claim to be innocent; we need only claim to be forgiven. We need not pretend to be perfect; we need only rest in the perfection of Another.

The Accuser, for all his legal training and prosecutorial experience, has never learned the most important principle of jurisprudence: that a case already decided cannot be tried again. Double jeopardy applies even in the cosmic courtroom, and the verdict on our case was handed down two thousand years ago on a hill outside Jerusalem.

In the end, the Accuser remains what he has always been: a prosecutor without a case, an advocate for a law that has already been fulfilled, a voice crying out in a courtroom where the judge has already pronounced the words that change everything: "Not guilty."

-The Seekers Quill