I promise, this isn't at all how I picture the serpent. He's even less impressive in my head.

"Buy now, pay later! Satisfaction guaranteed! Immediate results!"

If you've ever seen an advertisement in your life (and if you haven't, where do you live, I'm moving there), you'll recognize these kinds of promises. The thing is, I'm not talking here about the latest slimming cream or the revolutionary blender sold at 3 AM on some forgotten channel. No. I'm talking about temptation.

You see, the devil is an advertiser. And a good one, too. Perhaps the best in history. He just has one small professional flaw: his product doesn't exist. But we're going to buy it from him anyway...

Nothingness, beautifully packaged

Saint Thomas, in his Summa Theologica, reminds us of a truth that our contemporaries find hard to swallow: evil has no existence of its own¹. Evil is a privatio boni, a privation of good. In other words, evil isn't a thing, it's a hole. An absence. A lack.

Let's stop here for a moment, because this is important.

When you sin, you don't get something. You lose something. Sin doesn't give you anything; it takes away. It's like buying a beautifully decorated box only to discover it's empty. No, worse: it's like paying to be robbed.

And that's the diabolical genius of the whole affair. The tempter isn't selling you a defective product. He's selling you nothing. Ontological nothingness presented as a desirable good. Anger promises you justice and leaves you with bitterness. Lust promises you union and abandons you in solitude. Pride promises you greatness and locks you in your smallness.

See the pattern?

The tricks of the trade

Every good advertisement works on a few simple principles, and our friend the Evil One has mastered them perfectly:

First, artificial urgency. "It's now or never!" Temptation always presents itself as a unique opportunity, a window that's about to close. As if God, in His infinite goodness, had only planned one possibility for happiness, and it was precisely this one, the one that smells of sulfur. The tempter knows that if you take time to think, you'll see the scam. So he rushes you².

Second, the half-truth. The serpent, in Genesis, doesn't lie completely. "You will be like gods, knowing good and evil." Technically true. But he omits to specify that this knowledge will be that of experiencing evil, not mastering it. Good advertising tells the truth... while omitting what matters. Yes, this burger is 500 calories. Per bite.

Third, the illusion of control. "Just once." "I've got this." "I can stop whenever I want." The potential sinner is always convinced he's smarter than the product being sold to him. Spoiler: he's not. Nobody is. That's actually why we need grace.

The phantom product

Let's return to our metaphysics, if you don't mind (and even if you do, it's my blog).

Sin promises an apparent good. This is crucial. Nobody sins for evil as such. We sin because we believe we're getting something good³. The miser isn't seeking misery; he's seeking security. The glutton isn't seeking nausea; he's seeking pleasure. The slothful person isn't seeking failure; he's seeking rest.

The problem is that these goods are either illusory, or obtained by the wrong means, or disproportionate to what we sacrifice to get them. It's like buying a Rolex from some guy in a dark alley: even if by some miracle it's real, something's wrong with the transaction.

And once the act is done? The promised good evaporates. What remains is the taste of ashes. Acedia after lust. Emptiness after revenge. Shame after pride. The advertiser has cashed the check and closed up shop.

Some counter-marketing techniques

Alright. Enough diagnosis. What do we actually do when temptation shows up with its enticing brochures?

1. Marian invocation: calling competent customer service

The Virgin Mary has one particularity that we don't have: she never took the bait. Not once. Thanks to the Immaculate Conception, she never experienced that confusion that makes us mistake nothingness for a good.

When temptation arrives, invoke her. A simple "Mary, help me" is enough. No need for a complete rosary (though it never hurts). The idea isn't magical; it's that turning your mind toward her already turns it away from the diabolical brochure. And let's be honest: if anyone can help you see through a scam, it's the one who never fell for one⁴.

2. Speaking to a friend: breaking the isolation booth of sin

The tempter loves isolation. He works better in the dark, when nobody's watching. That's why tempting thoughts always seem unspeakable, shameful, impossible to share.

Talk about it. To a trusted friend, to a priest, to your spouse if appropriate. Not to be judged, but to let the light in. Most temptations lose 80% of their power as soon as you verbalize them. It's like those childhood fears that vanish when you turn on the light: there was nothing under the bed.

The Adversary hates this. His business model relies on secrecy. Break the secret, you break his power.

3. Immediate examination: reading the fine print

When temptation arrives, take three seconds (yes, three, not thirty, we don't always have time) to ask yourself: "What exactly am I being promised? And what will it really cost me?"

It's the spiritual equivalent of reading the terms and conditions. Nobody likes doing it, but that's where the problematic clauses are hidden. "Satisfaction guaranteed"... but no refunds. "No commitment"... except for fifteen years of guilt.

Saint Ignatius called this the discernment of spirits. I call it Thomistic common sense: distinguishing apparent good from real good. Temptation always presents a truncated balance sheet. It's up to you to complete the cost column.

The real product

I was going to end there, but that would be dishonest of me. Because there's one last thing the good diabolical advertiser hopes you'll forget:

A real good exists.

Not an apparent good, not an illusory good, not a good that dissipates after use. A good that truly fulfills, that lasts, that grows when shared. This good has a name, and He became incarnate two thousand years ago.

Temptation works because we really are thirsty. The lie is making us believe that any puddle can quench that thirst. The truth is that a spring exists, and it never runs dry.

And when we fall anyway?

Because we're going to fall. You're going to fall. I'm going to fall. We're going to fall, fall again, fall yet again, and probably fall once more after that. If you're waiting to be perfect before considering yourself on the right path, you're not Catholic, you're Pelagian⁵.

Here's the good news that the infernal advertiser will never tell you: it doesn't matter.

Well, actually, it does. Sinning isn't trivial, let's not do cheap theology. But what counts isn't how many times you bite the dust. It's how many times you get back up. And that number can be infinite. Literally. Ask Peter, who denied Christ three times and ended up crucified upside down for his Lord. Ask Augustine, who spent years in debauchery before becoming a Doctor of the Church. Ask that long litany of magnificent sinners we call "the saints."

There's a phrase I particularly love, whose exact origin I don't know (which annoys me, but never mind): "A saint has a past, a sinner has a future."

Read that again.

The devil would have you believe that your past falls define your identity. That you are your sins. That it's hopeless, so you might as well keep buying his adulterated products, since anyway... This is his last sales pitch, the most vicious: despair. "You've already bought so much from me, why go elsewhere?"

Except no.

Your past doesn't define you. Your next decision does. And the one after that. And the one after that. Holiness isn't a state of acquired perfection; it's a direction maintained despite the zigzags. It's getting up one more time than you fell.

So the next time you fall (and you will fall, and so will I, and we'll meet at the confessional like two idiots), don't stay on the ground contemplating your worthlessness. Get up. Go to confession. Start again. Christ didn't say to Peter "you will never deny me"; He said "when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers"⁶.

When you have turned back. Not if.

The real product doesn't advertise. He waits to be sought. And when we find Him, lose Him, and find Him again, He doesn't say "I told you so." He says "I was waiting for you."

It's less catchy as a slogan. But it's true.

Notes