As part of the Dallas Theological Seminary Spiritual Formation program, they ask each person to write a CS Lewis style Screwtape Letter. This is based on what original sin(s) would knock you out of ministry. It causes a deep introspection of areas you struggle with and puts a light on them. Here is my Screwtape Letter. Enjoy!
My Dear Wormwood,
Ah, my young apprentice, you are learning well! The one you trouble yourself with is indeed a challenge. Randy has walked long enough in the Enemy’s light to recognize the old traps, but we have ways—more elegant, subtle, insidious—to ensnare him still.
First, there is Lust. It was a raging fire in his youth—easily stoked, quickly fanned into scandalous flame. But now, he fancies himself beyond it. Fools, these humans! They think if temptation ceases to shout, it has ceased to speak. No, Wormwood, we shall whisper. Let his heart drift toward admiration—just an innocent glance, a lingering thought, a fascination with beauty that is “appreciation” rather than desire. Let him entertain it, ever so slightly, until the mind becomes the theater of unplayed sins. No great fall will come today—just a weakening, a gradual erosion, a loosening of his grip on the Enemy’s commands.
Next, Gluttony—ah, a masterpiece of our craft. Mind you, not the excess of youth, not the drunken revelry of his past, but a gentler, more civilized indulgence. Let him find his comfort at the table. A hard day? A second helping. A long week? A reward of sweets. A season of stress? A numbing indulgence whispers, You deserve this. Let food be his balm, his peace, his retreat. And in time, let it take its toll—his energy, discipline, and very body. What use is a man in ministry when he has no strength to stand?
And then, my favorite of all—Sloth. Not the laziness of idleness, no! That would be too obvious. Let him be busy. Yes, busier! Swamped in work, drowning in ministry, buried in noble obligations. Let him go days, weeks, without tending to his own soul. No time for stillness. No time for rest. No time for the quiet voice of the Enemy. Let him run, and run, and run—until his strength is sapped, his spirit dry, and the words he preaches taste like dust in his mouth. Let him think it virtue, his exhaustion. And when the cracks begin to show, when his body falters and his heart grows weary, let him feel the shame of it. Let him wonder, Why am I so weak? Why can’t I sustain this? And when he finally collapses—physically, spiritually—let him believe it was his own failure, rather than the design we so cleverly wove around him.
Do you see, dear Wormwood? We do not need great sins to undo him. No public scandal, no shocking fall. Just a slow, steady drift—a man who once stood firm, now too weary to fight. A man who once burned bright, now smoldering to ash.
Hold the line, Wormwood. If he wakes, if he sees, if he repents—ah, but no. Let him sleep. Let him eat. Let him work himself to death. The war is best won in whispers.
Your affectionate uncle,
Screwtape
