Jesus Christ is relentless. He does not give up. And with him comes the certainty of redemption.
When people fall under the grip of sin, the devil's first and most vicious tactic is to strip them of sight. Not physical sight—this blindness runs deeper. It is a spiritual blindness, a dullness of the heart, where the light of truth is dimmed until it is almost snuffed out entirely. Imagine this person, shackled, slowly turned away from all that is good, pulled further into an abysmal pit. The devil works meticulously, like a craftsman of deception. He does not simply bind someone to their sin—that would be too simple. He darkens them, layer upon layer, until that one is barely conscious of their chains. The devil is a patient artist, and his masterpiece is spiritual oblivion.
Think about it. The first move is not the act of sin itself—it is the banishing of any thought that could lead them back to life. Every glimmer of repentance, every good impulse, every counsel that says "turn around, wake up" is swept away like leaves before a storm. Once capable of some clarity, darker, deadlier things crowd out the sinner's mind. It is a cluttered room now, filled with decaying thoughts and temptations lying in wait, each one ready to take hold of the slightest weakness. The devil does not just remove what is good—he replaces it with what is foul. In place of the thought, "I can seek modesty and chastity," he plants a seed of lust. Where once there was a yearning for virtue, now grows a creeping desire for indulgence, for escape, for something cheap and immediate. The devil knows well how to distract a person with shadow puppets of temptation, until that one mistakes them for real things.
But it does not stop there. He offers opportunity at every turn—presenting, at just the right moments, the very sin that each person is most vulnerable to. And here is the cruel irony: the more people sin, the more blind they become, and the more blind they become, the easier it is for the devil to tempt them again. It is a death loop, a downward spiral where each sin reinforces the next. The person falls, and with each fall, their eyes grow dimmer, their heart harder. It is like being caught in a vortex, spinning faster and faster, pulled further away from the surface, until the poor soul is so deep they no longer even remember what the light felt like when it shown upon their face. Their sin becomes second nature—"this is who I am now," they tell themselves. It feels almost natural. And this is exactly where the devil wants them.
The devil knows well how to distract a person with shadow puppets of temptation, until that one mistakes them for real things.
There is a dullness, a kind of spiritual lethargy that sets in, making people comfortable in their own decay. They become so used to the darkness that the light would feel like an intrusion, a disruption. They have become, in a way, intoxicated by their own fall. This is not to say they do not feel pain—they feel it deeply. But it is a pain that leads nowhere. It is a pain that circles back on itself, a self-inflicted wound that festers but never heals. The devil ensures that every fleeting moment of discomfort, of unease, is met with a distraction—something to keep them occupied, something to numb the ache, if only for a little while.
As this person tumbles further into their sin, something terrifying happens: their sin becomes their identity. They begin to believe that this is all there is, that this is who they were meant to be. The chains become invisible, but they are there, tightening with each passing day. The impulse to sin becomes automatic and reflexive. They no longer even resist. In fact, the idea of resisting seems absurd. Why fight it? This is life now—this endless cycle of indulgence followed by guilt and guilt followed by indulgence. It is a cycle that feeds on itself, growing stronger with each turn. And with each turn, they sink deeper, further from the reach of God's grace.
This is how the devil keeps someone bound—not with physical ropes or shackles, but with the gradual, almost imperceptible erosion of their soul. The person does not even realize what is happening until it is too late. They are like frogs in boiling water, the temperature rising degree by degree until they are cooked alive. They live, they sin, they die—never once realizing the full extent of their captivity. The devil does not need to drag someone kicking and screaming into hell; he simply needs to keep them distracted, blind, and numb.
And yet, here is the thing: this death spiral, this descent into the abyss, is not unstoppable. It is not permanent. But a person's only hope lies in something outside of themselves, someone greater than the devil's grip. If left to their own devices, they will surely perish. But when—when—divine grace intervenes, when God's mercy reaches down and opens a person's eyes, then, and only then, can they be saved. It will not be easy. The light of God's grace will be blinding at first, painful even, as it was for St. Paul on the road to Damascus. They will have to be confronted by the full weight of their sin, and the devil will fight tooth and nail to keep them in the dark. But Jesus Christ is relentless. He does not give up. And with him comes the certainty of redemption.
This is what the devil fears most—that everyone will one day see that Jesus Christ is the truth, that they will be awakened from their stupor and realize that they were never meant to live in the dark because Jesus is life. This is what the devil fights against with every fiber of his being. Because he knows that once someone is gripped by grace, once they have eaten and drunk the grace and mercy of God, there is no going back. They are now with Jesus, who says of himself, "I AM the Path." They will be free, and the devil will have lost them forever.
