Spiritual warfare

The Illusion of Safety

~ Observant Servant ~ 1 Comment

There are moments when we feel safe simply because everything around us looks calm.

Nothing pressing. Nothing obvious. Nothing threatening.

Yet, Scripture reminds us that not all danger announces itself.

Sometimes it is hidden… quiet… waiting.

That’s what makes presumption so dangerous. It doesn’t feel like rebellion. It feels like ease. Like familiarity. Like confidence that slowly drifts into carelessness.

There have been seasons in my life where everything felt calm. Nothing pressing. Nothing obvious. Nothing threatening. And in that calm, I drifted. Not into obvious sin, but into quiet neglect. Prayer became shorter. Discernment became duller. I stopped asking the Lord before stepping into conversations, decisions, and situations. I assumed I was safe.

But safety without vigilance is not safety at all.

The battlefield does not disappear simply because I’ve grown familiar with it. The enemy does not retreat simply because I carry the name “Christian.” If anything, Scripture calls me deeper into awareness, not away from it. This life was never meant to be lived casually. It was meant to be lived watchfully… prayerfully… dependent.

I was reminded of this through a line that stayed with me:

“The error of ‘assumption’ or ‘presumption’ on a field of battle is catastrophic! Walking casually down a city street where it is ‘presumed’ there are no more enemy insurgents is often a regrettable choice. Similarly, it would be an exceptionally regrettable choice to ‘presume’ that simply because we bear the name ‘Christian’ we can stroll in oblivion through enemy-held territory unscathed.” — Jamie Walden, Omega Dynamics

That truth settles deep.

Spiritually, we are not walking through neutral ground. We are walking through enemy territory that requires awareness… dependence… and discernment. The danger is not always in what I can see. Sometimes it is in what I assume is no longer there.

David understood this tension. He had walked closely with God, seen His faithfulness, known His presence. And yet, he still prayed:

“Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me! Then I shall be blameless and innocent of great transgression.” — Psalm 19:13

That prayer humbles me.

It reminds me that even a heart that loves God can drift if it is not continually yielded. That I am not above blind spots. That I am not immune to subtle compromise. Presumption says, “I’m fine.” Humility says, “Lord, keep me.”

There is a difference between confidence in God and carelessness in His presence. True confidence draws me closer. It keeps me listening. It keeps me dependent. Presumption distances me. It assumes I already know, already see, already understand.

But I don’t.

I don’t want to walk through enemy territory with my guard down, assuming I won’t be touched. I don’t want to rely on yesterday’s obedience to carry me through today’s battles. I don’t want to confuse familiarity with faithfulness.

What I want is to remain aware. That is the posture I want to carry.

I want to walk with a quiet sensitivity to the Holy Spirit, to pause when He nudges, to pray before I proceed and to stay teachable, even in places I think I’ve already mastered.

The safest place is not where I feel strongest. It is where I remain most dependent.

Maybe that is the invitation hidden in all of this… not to live in fear of the battlefield, but to live in constant awareness of the One who walks with me through it. To trade presumption for surrender. To trade assumption for attentiveness. To trade casual steps for intentional ones.
The illusion of safety is often where vigilance fades.

I don’t want to walk casually through places where I should be prayerful. I don’t want to rely on yesterday’s strength for today’s battle.

I want to stay close. Listening. Aware. Led.

Lord, keep me from the quiet drift into presumption. Where I have grown casual, awaken me again. Teach me to walk watchfully, to remain dependent, and to stay close to Your voice. Guard my heart from what I cannot see, and lead me in truth. Let me not mistake familiarity for safety. Keep me near, keep me aware, and keep me faithful. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Illusion of Safety

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Are There Fruit Flies in Your Spiritual Fruit?

~ Observant Servant

There was a bowl of fruit sitting on the counter the other morning. Nothing special about it at first glance. Just apples, a peach, a few berries. But when I walked past it later in the day, I noticed the small, familiar swirl of fruit flies hovering above it.

Not many. Just enough to tell me something had begun to turn.

Fruit flies are strange little creatures. They do not show up when fruit is healthy and whole. They are drawn to what has started to decay, even if the change is barely visible from the outside.

That small moment stayed with me longer than I expected. It made me stop and quietly ask the Lord a question I don’t ask often enough.

Are there fruit flies in my spiritual fruit?

Jesus said, “Ye shall know them by their fruits.” — Matthew 7:16

Not by our words. Not by our intentions. Not by how busy we are doing good things. By our fruit.

And Paul describes that fruit so clearly in Galatians:
“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.” — Galatians 5:22–23

When the Spirit of God is cultivating a life, those qualities begin to grow quietly and steadily. Love that is patient. Peace that is not shaken by every storm. Gentleness toward people who do not always deserve it. Self-control when emotions would rather take over.

But if I am honest, there have been seasons when the fruit in my own life looked good from a distance while something small inside had already started to turn.

Sometimes tainted spiritual fruit does not look dramatic.

It can look like serving faithfully while quietly carrying resentment toward someone.

It can look like speaking truth, but without tenderness.

It can look like continuing in ministry while patience with people begins to thin.

Sometimes it shows up when we care more about being right than we do about someone being restored. Sometimes it appears when joy slowly drains out of our obedience and what remains is duty.

And sometimes the fruit flies gather around something even more subtle. A small place of pride. A hidden offense we never released. A weariness that hardened into cynicism.

These things do not always appear overnight. They arrive quietly, like those tiny flies circling unnoticed until the heart pauses long enough to see them.

But the Lord is a gentle gardener. He does not reveal these things to condemn us. He reveals them because He loves healthy fruit.

Jesus said, “I am the vine, ye are the branches: he that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing.” — John 15:5

The answer is not striving harder to manufacture better fruit. It is returning to the Vine. Staying close enough to Jesus that His life flows through ours again.

When we do, the Spirit begins quietly restoring what has begun to spoil. Love softens the places that hardened. Peace returns where anxiety tried to settle. Patience grows again where frustration had taken root.

David prayed something I find myself praying more often lately:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” — Psalm 139:23–24

It is a humble prayer. A brave one too.

Because it asks the Lord to show us what we might rather ignore. But the beautiful thing about walking with God is that He never exposes decay without offering restoration. He is always ready to prune, cleanse, and renew.

And sometimes the most honest step forward is simply pausing long enough to ask:

Lord, is there anything in my fruit that needs Your touch again?

Lord,

Search my heart and examine the fruit of my life. If there are places where love has grown cold, where pride has quietly taken root, or where bitterness has begun to spoil what You planted, please show me gently. I do not want to carry fruit that misrepresents Your Spirit.

Cleanse what needs cleansing. Prune what needs pruning. Restore the tenderness of heart that reflects You.

Help me remain close to the Vine so that the fruit of my life carries Your love, Your peace, and Your humility. Let my life nourish others rather than repel them.

Thank You for being a patient gardener who never gives up on the branches that belong to You.

In Jesus’ name, amen.

spiritual fruit flies

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The Children’s Bread

~ Observant Servant

There is a moment in the Gospels that has always stayed with me. A desperate mother comes to Jesus on behalf of her daughter who is severely tormented. In the middle of their conversation, Jesus says something that at first seems unusual:

“It is not meet to take the children’s bread, and to cast it to dogs.” — Matthew 15:26

But within that statement is a powerful truth.

Deliverance is the children’s bread.

Bread in Scripture represents provision. It is something necessary for daily life. It is something expected at the table. When Jesus used this language, He was revealing that freedom from the power of darkness was never meant to be rare or reserved for a select few. It was meant to be part of what belongs to the family of God.

Children do not beg at their father’s table.

They don’t stand outside the house hoping for scraps. They sit down because they belong there. The table is theirs because they are part of the family.

Yet many believers approach God like outsiders. They feel as though they must plead long enough, cry hard enough, or prove themselves worthy before God will move on their behalf. That they must strive to obtain mercy. But the gospel paints a very different picture.

“Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.” — Hebrews 4:16

Boldly.

Not with arrogance, but with the confidence of children who know their Father welcomes them.

The foundation of our relationship with God is grace, not performance.

“For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.” — Ephesians 2:8

A gift is not something you earn. It is not something you beg for. It is something freely given.

When Jesus walked the earth, people came to Him bound and oppressed, and He set them free. Demons fled. Minds were restored. Lives were transformed. He did not require people to prove their worthiness first. He responded to faith and to those who simply came.

That same grace is still available today.

“Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness, and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear Son.” — Colossians 1:13

Deliverance is not merely something we hope for one day. Through Christ, the authority of darkness has already been broken.

This does not mean believers never face spiritual battles. Scripture makes it clear that we do. But we fight from a place of belonging, not rejection. We approach God as sons and daughters, not as strangers hoping for mercy.

The children of God do not have to beg for bread.

The bread has already been placed on the table.

Jesus Himself said, “I am the bread of life.” — John 6:35

Through Him, the Father has provided everything we need for life, freedom, and restoration.

So when you come to the Lord seeking freedom, come with humility, but also with confidence in His grace. Come like a child who knows the Father’s house is open.

Sit down at the table.

The bread was always meant for you.

Father,

Thank You that through Jesus we are welcomed into Your family. Thank You that we do not have to beg for what You have already provided through Your grace. Help us to come before You with humble hearts and confident faith, knowing that we belong to You.

Lord, for anyone who feels bound, oppressed, or weary in their spirit, I ask that Your freedom would flow into their life. Remind them that through Christ they have been delivered from the power of darkness and brought into Your kingdom. Let faith rise in their hearts to receive the freedom that You freely give.

Teach us to live as Your children, resting in Your grace, trusting Your goodness, and walking in the freedom that Jesus purchased for us.

In Jesus’ name, amen.

Standing Firm While God Fights

~ Observant Servant

There are moments in life when it feels like time itself is working against us. The day feels too short for the battle we’re in, and the weight of what God has asked us to do feels heavier than the hours we have to do it. I find myself returning often to Joshua 10:12–14, because it speaks directly to those seasons when obedience feels urgent and the clock feels unforgiving.

Joshua wasn’t asking God for comfort or an escape. He wasn’t asking for the battle to disappear. He was asking for time—time to finish what God had already told him to do. And Scripture tells us something astonishing:

“There has been no day like it before or after it, when the Lord listened to the voice of a man; for the Lord was fighting for Israel.” (Joshua 10:14)

A Bold Prayer in the Middle of the Battle

In Joshua 10:12, Joshua speaks boldly in front of all Israel:
“Sun, stand still at Gibeon, and moon, in the Valley of Aijalon.”

This wasn’t a quiet, private prayer whispered in fear. It was a public declaration of faith. Joshua trusted that if God had commanded the battle, God would also provide what was needed to complete it. And heaven responded.

Verse 13 tells us that the sun stopped in the middle of the sky until Israel had victory over their enemies. The miracle wasn’t about Joshua’s greatness. It was about a God who fights for His people.

When God Is Fighting for You

What moves me most about this passage is not the miracle itself, but the reason behind it. Scripture doesn’t say the sun stood still because Joshua was extraordinary. It says the sun stood still because “the Lord was fighting for Israel” (Joshua 10:14).

That truth still matters today.

When God calls us into a battle—whether it’s for healing, freedom, obedience, perseverance, or spiritual growth—we are not racing against the clock alone. If God is for us, even time bends to His purposes. There are seasons when He sustains us longer than we thought possible, gives strength beyond what we expected, and carries us through moments we didn’t think we could endure.

Trusting God With the Time We Have

This passage reminds me that sometimes the most powerful prayer isn’t asking God to remove the struggle. It’s standing firm and saying, “Lord, I trust You to do what only You can do.”

The same God who held the sun in place in Joshua 10:12–14 is still fighting for His people today. He still hears faith-filled prayers. He still intervenes in impossible situations. And He is still faithful to complete what He has begun.

If you’re in a season where the battle feels bigger than the day, take heart. God is not limited by time—and neither is His ability to finish the work He started in you.

Battle of the sun and moon

Casualties in a Spiritual War

~ Observant Servant

There are days when the spiritual battle feels distant, almost theoretical. And then there are days when the casualties become painfully real. Not bodies on a battlefield, but hearts that grow weary, faith that fractures under pressure, and people who once stood strong now lying wounded along the road.

Scripture never pretends that spiritual war is clean or casualty-free. In fact, it speaks plainly about it.
Paul reminds us, “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places” (Ephesians 6:12, KJV). Wrestling is close combat. It is exhausting. And in any close fight, someone gets hurt.

One of the most sobering casualties in Scripture is Saul. He was chosen by God, anointed, empowered by the Spirit. Yet through disobedience, fear of people, and jealousy, he slowly lost ground to the enemy. The Spirit of the Lord departed from him (1 Samuel 16:14). Saul did not fall all at once. He was worn down over time. Pride became a foothold. Insecurity became an open door. The casualty was not just Saul’s kingship, but his peace, his clarity, and ultimately his life.

Then there is Judas Iscariot. He walked with Jesus. He heard truth firsthand. He saw miracles with his own eyes. Yet Scripture says, “Then Satan entered Judas” (Luke 22:3). Judas became a casualty not because he lacked proximity to holiness, but because he allowed unchecked sin and disappointment to take root. The enemy did not need distance. He only needed permission.

Even strong believers can become wounded. Peter, bold and sincere, swore loyalty to Jesus, yet denied Him three times. Jesus warned him ahead of time: “Simon, Simon, behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat” (Luke 22:31). Sifting does not destroy the grain, but it is violent and disorienting. Peter wept bitterly afterward. His denial was a casualty moment, but not a permanent defeat. The difference was repentance and restoration.

Spiritual casualties are not always dramatic betrayals. Sometimes they look like burnout. Elijah, after calling fire down from heaven, collapsed under despair and asked God to take his life (1 Kings 19:4). The prophet who outran chariots was suddenly too tired to go on. Warfare had taken its toll. God did not rebuke him. He fed him, let him rest, and gently reminded him that he was not alone.

That matters to me.

Because spiritual warfare is not just about demons manifesting or battles being won loudly. It is also about quiet losses. Marriages strained. Believers sidelined by offense. Faith weakened by seemingly unanswered prayers. People who love God but are bleeding internally.

Jesus acknowledged this cost when He said, “The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy” (John 10:10). The enemy aims for casualties. But Jesus does not leave the wounded on the field. He continues, “I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.”

What comforts me is this: casualties are not the same as defeat. Scripture is filled with the wounded who were restored. David fell, yet was called a man after God’s own heart. Peter denied, yet became a pillar of the church. Even those overtaken in a fault are to be restored gently (Galatians 6:1).

Spiritual war is real, and so is the cost. But so is the grace of God.

Today, I choose to stay alert without becoming afraid. I choose humility over pride, repentance over denial, and vigilance over complacency. I pray not just to win battles, but to tend the wounded, including my own heart.

Because in this war, survival is not about strength alone. It is about staying close to the Commander, listening for His voice, and trusting that even when casualties occur, redemption is still part of His strategy.

In a war like this, no one is meant to fight alone. Scripture urges us, “Wherefore comfort yourselves together, and edify one another” (1 Thessalonians 5:11, KJV).

Encouragement is not optional in spiritual warfare; it is a lifeline! When one soldier is wounded, another must help carry the weight. We remind each other of truth when lies feel louder, of hope when fatigue sets in, and of God’s faithfulness when vision grows dim.

Hebrews tells us to “consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works… exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching” (Hebrews 10:24–25, KJV). Sometimes encouragement is a word, sometimes a prayer, sometimes simply staying present. But every act of encouragement pushes back the darkness and keeps another believer from becoming an unseen casualty. In this war, strengthening one another is not weakness. It is strategy.

spiritual weariness

Guarding Peace in a Spiritual World

~ Observant Servant

I want to approach this carefully and thoughtfully.

Over the years, I’ve had conversations with people who were genuinely frightened by things they couldn’t explain. Noises in the house. Objects out of place. A heavy atmosphere. Sometimes what unsettled them most wasn’t the external disturbance, but the internal spiral that followed — fear, confusion, even questioning their own sanity.

While Scripture doesn’t use the word “poltergeist,” it does acknowledge spiritual warfare. Ephesians 6:12 reminds us that “we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers.” That verse tells me something important: there is a spiritual dimension to our lives. But it also tells me that fear is not the center of the story — Christ’s authority is.

I’ve learned that when something feels oppressive or disturbing, the first and most important response is not panic. It is anchoring.

Fear has a way of multiplying. Once it enters, it starts interpreting everything through its lens. A normal sound becomes sinister. A small coincidence feels supernatural. The enemy doesn’t always need dramatic manifestations; sometimes confusion and anxiety are enough to destabilize someone.

Scripture repeatedly calls us back to sobriety and steadiness. “God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7). That phrase sound mind matters deeply. Anything that robs us of clarity and peace should drive us closer to Christ, not deeper into speculation.

If someone has been involved in occult practices in the past — whether knowingly or casually — repentance is always wise. Acts 19 describes believers burning items connected to sorcery after coming to faith. Not out of superstition, but out of allegiance. When we belong to Christ, we close doors that once stood open.

But I’ve also come to see that not every disturbance is spiritual in origin. Homes make noises. Stress amplifies perception. Trauma heightens sensitivity. Sometimes what feels spiritual is emotional exhaustion, unresolved grief, or anxiety looking for an explanation.

That’s why grounding matters.

James 4:7 gives a simple but powerful instruction: “Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” Notice the order. Submission first. Resistance second. The focus is not on chasing darkness, but on staying aligned with God.

If fear is present in a home or heart, the invitation is not to obsess over what might be there. It is to fill the space with light. Prayer. Worship. Scripture read aloud. Conversations rooted in truth. Peace invited intentionally.

Forgiveness also matters. Ephesians 4:27 warns us not to “give place to the devil.” Bitterness, unresolved conflict, and unrepented sin can create vulnerability in ways we don’t always recognize. Clearing those spaces is less about fighting entities and more about restoring spiritual health.

I’ve found that a life anchored in Christ is not easily shaken. When we walk in repentance, humility, and obedience, we do not need to live on edge. Colossians 2:15 reminds us that Jesus has already disarmed principalities and powers. The victory is not fragile. It is finished.

If you ever feel unsettled, begin with peace. Invite the Lord into the space. Speak His name without fear. Seek wise counsel if needed — and don’t hesitate to address practical explanations alongside spiritual ones. God works through wisdom as much as through prayer.

The goal is not to become fascinated with darkness. The goal is to remain rooted in light.

Where Christ reigns, fear does not get the final word.

#SpiritualWarfare #ChristianDeliverance #PoltergeistSpirits #DemonicManifestations #BiblicalProtection

Grace Growers: How God Uses Difficult People to Shape Our Character

~ Observant Servant

There are certain people in my life who have shaped me more than they probably realize.

Not because they were easy. Not because everything flowed smoothly. But because something in me was exposed in their presence. Impatience. Defensiveness. Pride. The parts of my heart that still needed refinement.

I’ve come to think of them as quiet instruments in God’s hands.

Ephesians 6:12 reminds me, “For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers…” That verse has rescued me more than once. Because when I forget it, I turn people into enemies. When I remember it, I pause.

The battle is not the person.

That shift changes everything.

Instead of reacting in frustration, I’m invited to respond with discernment. Instead of feeding offense, I’m asked to choose grace. It doesn’t make the interaction easy, but it steadies me. It reminds me that God may be doing more in me than through the situation itself.

Jesus said in John 15 that we must remain in the Vine. Growth does not happen because I will it to happen. It happens because I stay connected. And sometimes the evidence that I am growing is not how I feel during a hard conversation, but how I respond afterward.

There have been moments when I wanted to justify my reaction. To defend myself quickly. To withdraw completely. But I’m learning that spiritual maturity often looks like restraint. It looks like asking, “Lord, what are You forming in me right now?”

Hard situations reveal what is still unhealed. Difficult people reveal where I still need patience. Unexpected criticism reveals how secure I truly am.

And if I’m honest, grace rarely grows in comfort.

Galatians 5 speaks of the fruit of the Spirit — love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. I’ve noticed those qualities don’t develop in isolation. They grow when tested. Patience requires something to endure. Gentleness requires something sharp to soften against. Self-control requires something that provokes.

I used to think spiritual growth would feel like constant peace. Instead, it often feels like friction that exposes what still needs surrender.

That doesn’t mean we accept mistreatment or abandon wisdom. Love and boundaries can coexist. Guarding your heart is not the same as hardening it. Sometimes maturity means speaking clearly. Sometimes it means stepping back. Sometimes it means saying no without guilt.

But even boundaries can be set with a steady heart instead of a wounded one.

I’ve had to ask myself difficult questions: Am I growing, or am I just enduring? Am I becoming more like Christ, or just more guarded? When something triggers me, is it because I’m being attacked — or because something in me still needs refinement?

These are not comfortable reflections. But they are necessary.

The truth is, the people who stretch me are often the ones God uses to deepen me. They are not interruptions to my growth. They are part of it.

And perhaps the most humbling realization of all is this: while I am being stretched by someone else, I am probably stretching someone too.

God is not only working on them.

He is working on me.

Every sharp edge is an invitation. Every moment of tension is an opportunity to respond differently than I once would have. Every irritation can become formation if I let it.

I am learning to pray more quickly before reacting. To breathe before speaking. To ask for the Spirit’s help instead of relying on my own restraint.

Growth is quieter than I expected.

It often looks like choosing gentleness when sarcasm would be easier. Choosing peace when proving a point would feel satisfying. Choosing love when withdrawal would feel safer.

And little by little, the rough edges soften.

Not because the world has changed — but because something in me has.

Father,

Thank You for caring more about my character than my comfort.

When I encounter people or situations that stretch me, help me remember that You are present in the process. Guard my heart from quick reactions and defensive words. Slow me down when I want to respond in the flesh. Teach me to pause long enough to ask, “Lord, what are You forming in me right now?”

If pride rises, humble me gently. If impatience surfaces, root it out. If old wounds are exposed, heal them instead of letting them harden me.

Help me to see beyond personalities and remember that my battle is not against flesh and blood. Give me discernment without suspicion. Give me boundaries without bitterness. Give me courage without harshness.

Grow in me what cannot grow in ease, patience, gentleness, self-control, steady love. Let the fruit of Your Spirit be more visible than my frustration.

And if I am someone else’s grace grower, refine me there too. Make me aware of how my words and tone affect others. Shape me into someone who strengthens rather than wounds.

Above all, keep me close to the Vine. Let my growth come from abiding in You, not from striving in my own strength.

Form Christ in me.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

#GraceGrowers #SpiritualGrowth #ChristianLiving #FruitOfTheSpirit #SpiritualMaturity #HealthyBoundaries #RespondWithLove #OvercomeEvilWithGood #ChristianEncouragement #FaithOverFeelings #ChristianCommunity #BibleStudy #KingdomLiving #FaithJourney #GodsGrace

Baptism Do-over

~ Observant Servant

When I was a teenager, I was baptized more than once.

If I’m honest, I don’t remember much about it other than standing in line with a group of other kids, walking up one side of the baptismal, being dunked, and climbing out the other side while everyone watched. It was something our youth group was doing. It felt expected. Almost routine. I remember the t-shirt afterward more than I remember the meaning.

Years passed.

By December 2020, my relationship with Jesus was no longer casual or borrowed from a group. I loved Him. I understood what baptism represented — death to the old life, resurrection into the new. This time it wasn’t about fitting in. It was about surrender.

And yet, in the days leading up to it, something strange happened.

Instead of excitement, I felt dread.

I couldn’t sleep. Panic attacks surfaced. Anxiety wrapped around me like something alive. On December 13, 2020, I stood on the steps of the baptismal shaking. I remember gripping the railing so tightly my hands hurt. Waves of dizziness hit me. I nearly passed out more than once.

When my name was called, I walked into the water trembling.

I fully expected that when I came up from the water, the fear would be gone. Wasn’t that how it worked? Public declaration. Obedience. Fresh start.

But when I rose from the water, the fear was still there.

I left that service confused and ashamed. I couldn’t understand why something that looked joyful for everyone else felt like torment for me. I replayed it in my mind for months. Then years. I would watch other baptisms — tears, laughter, celebration — and feel a quiet ache inside.

What was wrong with me?

Was I broken? Had I failed somehow? Why did others seem to encounter peace while I encountered panic?

Over time, the memory became something I avoided. I stopped wanting to be present for baptisms. It stirred too many questions.

Then, years later, I found myself at another baptism service. I had no intention of participating. I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. No extra clothes. No preparation. I planned to quietly observe and leave.

As I watched someone else step into the water, I felt both joy for them and that familiar longing rise up in me again.

And then I remembered Acts 8 — the Ethiopian eunuch asking Philip, “What hinders me from being baptized?” There was water. There was opportunity. He seized it.

When the invitation was given, I initially declined. The old fear stirred. So did shame. I was part of the ministry team. I should have had it together. What would people think? The thoughts were rapid, accusatory, sharp.

But something deeper in me knew this was a moment.

When I stepped into the water, the fear tried to rise again. It felt familiar — like a script attempting to replay itself. My body tensed. I could feel the resistance inside me. But this time, there was discernment where there had once only been confusion.

Prayer began.

And what had been hidden surfaced.

I won’t dramatize it. I will simply say this: it was a battle. And then it broke.

I felt it leave. Not emotionally. Not imaginatively. Tangibly.

When I went under the water that day — June 22, 2024 — I came up into something I had longed for years earlier. Peace. Lightness. Joy that stayed.

The difference was not my sincerity. I had loved Jesus deeply in 2020. The difference was understanding. There had been fear rooted deeper than I realized, and it had never been addressed. It manifested when I obeyed publicly. And because no one recognized it for what it was, it remained.

Hosea 4:6 says, “My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge.”

That verse feels personal to me now.

I was saved. I loved God. But I did not understand spiritual oppression or deliverance. I thought anxiety was just something I had to manage. I didn’t know it could be confronted and expelled.

Looking back, I don’t feel anger toward the past. I feel gratitude for growth. God did not abandon me in that first baptism. He allowed the process to unfold in its time. He exposed what needed to be addressed when I was ready to face it.

And what I carry now is not embarrassment — it is testimony.

Freedom sometimes comes in layers. Obedience does not always erase struggle instantly. But when the Lord brings light to what has been hidden, it changes everything.

If you have obeyed and still feel bound, do not assume you are defective. If you have declared your faith and still wrestle internally, do not conclude that God is disappointed.

Sometimes the first step is obedience.
Sometimes the next step is deliverance.
And sometimes the breakthrough comes years after the surrender.

But it does come.

Father,

Thank You for Your patience with my process. Thank You for not leaving me in confusion. Where there is fear hiding beneath obedience, expose it gently. Where there is oppression disguised as personality, bring clarity. Give Your people knowledge, discernment, and courage to pursue full freedom.

And for those who feel ashamed that their journey has not looked like someone else’s, remind them that You are writing their story uniquely and carefully.

Let every act of obedience lead not to condemnation, but to deeper liberty.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

baptism

Symptoms of Demonic Operation in a Person

~ Observant Servant ~ 1 Comment

There is a conversation within Christianity that I once avoided because I did not know how to articulate what I had lived through. It revolves around a simple but uncomfortable question: can a born-again believer still be oppressed by demons?

I used to have strong opinions about that question. Now I move more slowly.

What I can say with humility is this: the Bible never plainly says that a Christian cannot experience demonic oppression. What it does show us, repeatedly, is that human beings can be inhabited, afflicted, tormented, and set free.

And I know what freedom feels like because I have received it.

Deliverance changed my life. It shifted the way I understand suffering — in myself and in others. It gave me compassion where I once had frustration. It allowed me to forgive people whose behavior once confused me, and it allowed me to forgive myself for struggles I could not explain.

When I read Mark 5 now, I no longer see just an extreme story about a man in tombs. I see a portrait of torment.

The man in the region of the Gerasenes was not merely troubled. He was isolated. He lived among the dead. He could not function in normal community. Chains could not restrain him. Night and day he cried out and cut himself.

It is easy to distance ourselves from that account. But when I slow down, I see patterns that are not as foreign as we might prefer.

There is the inability to live normally — the withdrawal, the strange pull toward isolation even while longing for connection. There is extreme behavior — anger that feels bigger than the moment, reactions that seem disproportionate, a volatility that harms both the individual and those nearby.

There are shifts in personality. The man said, “My name is Legion; for we are many.” That line used to intimidate me. Now it reminds me that fragmentation is not always psychological alone. Sometimes there are layers at work that counseling by itself cannot untangle.

There is restlessness. “Night and day he was crying out.” I remember seasons when sleep felt unreachable, when my body was exhausted but my mind would not rest. Psalm 127:2 says the Lord gives sleep to His beloved. When sleep becomes elusive without medical explanation, it is worth praying beyond the physical.

And then there is anguish.

Not ordinary grief. Not situational sadness. But a torment that lingers even when circumstances improve. A heaviness that does not respond to encouragement, logic, or willpower.

Mark 5 also shows self-harm. Mark 9 describes a spirit that threw a boy into fire and water to destroy him. These passages are sobering. They remind me that the enemy’s goal has always been destruction — not inconvenience, not mild discomfort, but destruction.

I write this carefully because I know how easily these conversations can become extreme or imbalanced. Not every struggle is demonic. There are real medical and psychological conditions that require compassionate, professional care. But neither should we ignore the spiritual dimension simply because it is uncomfortable.

My own experience with deliverance did not make me dramatic. It made me steadier. It did not make me suspicious of everyone. It made me more discerning. It did not make me arrogant. It made me grateful.

When the Lord exposed what was oppressing me and removed it, I felt something lift that I had assumed was simply “my personality” or “my weakness.” That experience reshaped how I see others. Instead of asking, “What is wrong with you?” I find myself asking, “What might be afflicting you?”

That shift alone has been a gift.

If someone reading this recognizes patterns in their own life — persistent torment, intrusive thoughts, uncontrollable rage, spiritual heaviness that does not yield — I would encourage prayerful discernment. Seek wise, grounded, biblically anchored help. Do not chase sensationalism. Do not isolate. Bring it into the light.

Jesus did not recoil from the man in the tombs. He crossed a sea to reach him.

And when the demons left, the man was found “clothed and in his right mind.”

That phrase moves me every time.

Clothed.
In his right mind.
At peace.

Freedom is not chaos. It is clarity. It is stability. It is rest.

If you are walking through something that feels darker than ordinary struggle, there is hope. There is no torment beyond Christ’s authority. There is no oppression He cannot confront. There is no chain He cannot break.

And sometimes the first step toward freedom is simply admitting that the battle may be more spiritual than you once believed.

demonic operation

God’s Gift of Hate

~ Observant Servant

There was a season in my walk with Christ when my world quietly shifted. When I first became a believer, my circle of secular friends slowly faded and was replaced with Christian community. That part didn’t surprise me. It felt like a natural consequence of choosing a new direction.

What I didn’t expect was that when I began speaking openly about deliverance, my circle would shrink again. Conversations became strained. Some of the same believers who once felt close seemed uncomfortable around me. There was a noticeable distance, an unspoken hesitation. I hadn’t anticipated that obedience would cost me fellowship in certain spaces.

But I can say this now with clarity: it has been worth it.

Following Jesus has always come with a cost. He never hid that. And stepping onto the front lines of spiritual warfare exposes things that comfortable Christianity often prefers not to address. When your eyes are opened to the battle, you can’t unsee it.

Looking back at old journals from when I was newly born again, I can see that the Holy Spirit was gently trying to show me that I still needed freedom in certain areas. At the time, I didn’t understand what I was being shown. Later, when I did become involved in a church, I was warned away from a particular minister whose teachings had been helping me. I trusted the counsel I was given and stepped back. Only now do I realize that the enemy had quietly used well-meaning believers to delay my deliverance.

That realization stirred something in me.

Not bitterness toward people — but a deep, fierce hatred toward what the enemy does to people. I began to see more clearly the destruction, the compromise, the confusion he sows. I saw how he delays healing, twists truth, isolates believers, and even hides behind religious language to keep people bound.

And I realized something else: if we do not hate sin, we will tolerate it.

Scripture says, “You who love the Lord, hate evil” (Psalm 97:10). That used to sound harsh to me. Now it sounds protective. If I love what God loves, I must also hate what harms what He loves. Proverbs 6:16–19 tells us plainly that there are things the Lord hates — pride, lying, violence, wicked schemes, discord among brothers. Godly love does not coexist with passive acceptance of evil.

This kind of hatred is not rage toward people. It is not personal vendetta. It is not self-righteousness. It is a settled, holy refusal to make peace with what destroys souls.

I have learned that hatred of sin strengthens resolve. It sharpens discernment. It fuels repentance. It keeps you from excusing the very thing that once enslaved you. When you truly hate your bondage, you stop negotiating with it.

For years, I misunderstood my struggles. I thought I simply needed to try harder, pray longer, perform better. But real freedom began when I stopped minimizing sin and started seeing it the way God sees it — not as a harmless flaw, but as a thief.

There is a righteous anger that rises when you understand what the enemy has stolen from you and from others. That anger, when surrendered to God, becomes a weapon. Not against flesh and blood, but against deception.

We are heirs of the King. Not timid observers. Not passive bystanders. But sons and daughters called to stand.

If we do not hate sin, we will eventually accommodate it. If we do not hate deception, we will slowly be shaped by it. If we do not hate the enemy’s schemes, we will underestimate them.

This is not about becoming harsh. It is about becoming clear.

And clarity is a gift.

A Prayer for the Godly Gift of Hate

Father,

Search my heart and purify my motives. If there is bitterness in me, remove it. If there is pride in me, humble it. But if there is passivity toward sin, awaken me.

Teach me to love what You love and to hate what You hate. Give me a holy hatred for the things that destroy souls, corrupt truth, and delay freedom. Help me never to direct that hatred toward people, but toward the sin and deception that binds them.

Strengthen me to refuse compromise. Sharpen my discernment so I do not excuse what You call evil. Let my anger be righteous and surrendered, not reckless or fleshly.

Make me bold but gentle. Fierce but humble. Unyielding toward sin, yet overflowing with mercy toward people.

I belong to You. Train my heart for battle. Guard me from deception. And let my hatred of evil always flow from a deeper love for You.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.