Context: Inspired by C.S. Lewis’s classic – The Screwtape Letters, this fictional series features letters from a senior demon to his young protégé, exposing hell’s subtle strategies against believers. These are not meant to amuse, but to awaken.

This isn’t just satire – it’s a mirror. A sharp one. Because sometimes the enemy’s strategies sound uncomfortably familiar.

My dear Wormwood,

Whatever you do, do not let your patient think about eternity.

Eternity is one of the Enemy’s most brilliant designs. It is the horizon He stitched into every human soul – a longing they can’t quite name. If they begin to truly consider it, we lose leverage. A soul tethered to forever cannot be easily lured by fleeting pleasures.

Distract them with the now.

Tempt them to obsess over aging, achievement, and applause. Let them treat this brief life as if it is all there is and never ask what comes after. Replace the weight of forever with the rush of the moment.

The Enemy, of course, keeps whispering phrases like “eternal life,” “everlasting joy,” “a crown that will never fade.” He reminds them that their days are like grass, that they are strangers here, that their true citizenship is elsewhere.

You must counteract this.

Make them uncomfortable with death. Let them avoid funerals, shy away from grief, and fear aging. When they do confront death, feed them vague ideas about “rest” or “a better place,” but never let them consider judgment or glory or the sheer scale of forever.

And above all never, never let them consider the cross in light of eternity.

For if they realize that the blood of the Enemy wasn’t just a rescue from sin’s penalty, but a bridge into unending communion… we’ve lost. If they begin to see this short life as preparation, as pilgrimage, as prelude, you may as well return to me in disgrace.

Hell is counting on short-sighted saints.

So fill their schedules. Feed their senses. Blur their vision.

Because if they ever truly fix their eyes on eternity, they’ll start living like nothing else matters.

And then, dear nephew… we’ll be the ones trembling.

Regretfully yours,

Screwtape