— I wouldn't even try to prove I exist

I wouldn't waste my time trying to get you to worship me. No. I'd just convince you not to worship God at all.

I'd tell you truth is relative—your truth, my truth—until nobody knows which way is up.

I'd whisper, 'As long as you're happy, it's right.'

I'd keep you busy. Too busy for prayer. Too busy for church. Too busy to ask eternal questions.

I'd fill your hands with a phone so you'd never have time to fold them in prayer.

I'd break families. Get fathers absent, marriages bitter, and kids confused. If I can fracture the home, I can fracture the future.

I'd divide the church with petty arguments, comparison, offense, and celebrity culture. If I can get Christians fighting each other, they'll never fight me.

I'd desensitize you. I'd glamorize sin in movies, normalize it in music, laugh at it in comedy, and celebrate it in culture until what once shocked you now entertains you.

I'd attack your identity. I'd make you question who you are, where you belong, and whether you matter. I'd whisper shame so loudly that you couldn't hear God's voice of love.

And through it all, I wouldn't even try to prove I exist. My greatest trick would be convincing you I'm not real, because if you don't believe I'm real, you'll never resist.