The Devil is a Liar

I was heading home from church when the blizzard started. Every Sunday, I’d drive an hour and a half from Jersey to Connecticut to be in church, then make the long drive back so I could be at work Monday morning. I rarely missed a Sunday. If I did, it had to be for a good reason.

I was about 20 minutes from Morristown, NJ, heading south on 287, when my 2007 VW Jetta started to slide. Brake lights flared in front of me. My heart pounded as I slammed on the brakes, but the car kept sliding, refusing to stop. Panic surged. This was it—this could be the end.

Kanye West's Monster was blasting through the speakers, a dark anthem that suddenly felt like a twisted soundtrack to my last moments. I didn’t even like it that much, but listening in that moment made me feel guilty, as though I’d invited disaster into my life. My biggest fear had always been dying and going to hell—either because I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, or under the influence of some secular force.

I remembered Ty, the guy who played keyboard for a group I sang with in high school. He died in a car accident, apparently coming home from a strip club in New York. The church was full of stories like his—people dying in sin, supposedly going straight to hell.

Not me. Not yet. Not this.

I gripped the steering wheel, desperately turning it, praying to avoid a fatal collision. The car swerved sharply, the tires losing their grip. Somehow, I steered away from the cars ahead, but I couldn’t control where I was heading. The Jetta jerked to the side, skidding up an embankment, and crashed into a small tree.

Hours later, when I finally made it home, my mom called. After lecturing me about the insurance and what to do next, she said, “The devil is a liar.” She rebuked the plan and attack of the enemy, but for some reason, her words didn’t land like they used to.

The truth was, I’d turned off the traction control myself earlier in the trip because I thought the squiggly lines symbol was for snow. Turns out it was the opposite, and I’d been driving too fast for the road conditions.

For the first time, I didn’t want to give the devil credit.

I messed up.

And I didn’t want the devil anywhere near me.

I used to hear Christians say, “The devil’s best trick is convincing you he doesn’t exist,” but what if his best trick is convincing you he does?