Talking about "spiritual attack" can sound a bit… much. It’s easier to call it anxiety. To blame it on stress, on that second cup of coffee, on not getting enough sleep. And sometimes, friend? That’s all it is. God gave us common sense and modern medicine for a reason. We’d be fools not to use them.
But you know the residue I’m talking about. The part that doesn’t fit. I’m talking about the uncanny timing of it all. The flat tire on the morning you’re finally headed to that prayer breakfast. The blistering argument with your spouse that erupts from nothing right after you’ve decided to lead your family differently. The sudden, icy plunge of loneliness in a room full of people who love you.
It doesn’t feel random. It feels… tailored.
Peter—the guy who knew a thing or two about having his faith directly sucker-punched—didn’t beat around the bush. He says in 1 Peter 5:8, “Be sober, be vigilant,” he wrote, “because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”
Take note of the words “walketh about, seeking.” That’s not a general announcement. That’s a prowl. A hunt. A lion doesn’t waste energy on the strong and the centered in the middle of the herd. It watches. It waits. It looks for the one who’s a little separated, a little weary, and a little distracted.
This enemy of ours is not all-knowing. But he is ancient. And he’s a master student of human nature. He knows your history. He knows which buttons to push and which old wounds to poke. He knows that for you, it’s the fear of lack. For someone else, it’s the fear of being overlooked. He’s a tactician of despair.
So when it feels personal… it’s because it is.
Hang on, stay with me. I know how that sounds. But think about the last time you felt this particular brand of assault. Now, rewind the tape. What happened right before the static came in?
Had you just said a hard, costly ‘yes’ to God? Maybe you finally tithed for the first time, even though the math didn’t math. Maybe you finally spoke up about your faith at work. Or maybe you simply had a moment of profound peace—a genuine feeling that, hey, maybe God really is good.
We often frame these attacks as something that happens to us. I’m starting to believe they more often happen because of us. Because of the ground we’ve just taken.
There’s this wild story in the Old Testament. The prophet Elisha was basically ruining the king of Syria’s entire military campaign by prophetically revealing all his secret plans. The king was furious. He sent his entire army—horses, chariots, the whole lot—to surround the little podunk town where Elisha was staying.
Elisha’s servant goes out to get the paper in the morning, sees the army, and absolutely loses it. “Ah, my lord! What are we gonna do?” he cries, probably feeling that cold knot in his stomach.
Elisha’s answer is incredible. “Don’t worry about it. There are more on our side than on theirs.” Then he prays the real prayer: “Lord, open his eyes so he can see.” And the Lord did. The servant looked again; the whole mountainside was packed with horses and chariots of fire (2 Kings 6:16-17).
We love that part. The reveal. The heavenly cavalry.
But we skip the setup. Why was the army there? Because Elisha was being so effective in his calling that he was a legitimate national security threat. The attack was a direct response to his potency.
One thing I’ve learned about warfare over the years is that the enemy doesn’t waste his ammunition on empty forts. He fires on the ones that are storing gunpowder. The assault is, in a backwards, twisted way, an acknowledgement. It’s confirmation you’re in the game. That you’re occupying territory he thought was his.
Your newfound peace is a threat. Your generosity is a threat. Your commitment to forgiveness is a threat. The attack is often just the enemy’s frantic counter-offensive to a move God has already made in you.
Knowing why the storm is here is one thing. Living through it is another. So what do you do when the wind is howling and your faith feels about as sturdy as a paper towel?
You do the only thing you can do. You remember your training. And you hold your ground.
Paul’s famous passage on the armor of God in Ephesians is mostly about what we put on—truth, righteousness, and faith. It’s proactive.
But there’s one command that is purely for the moment of attack. It’s simple. “Wherefore take unto you the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all… to stand” (Ephesians 6:13).
Having done all… to stand.
Sometimes, the most powerful, defiant, holy thing you can do is not to advance. Not to gain new ground. Not to have a miraculous breakthrough. It is simply to not move. To plant your feet and refuse to be shifted from what you know is true.
The enemy’s goal isn’t to damn you—Jesus already settled that account. It’s to neutralize you. To get you to sit down. To disengage. To make you skip your quiet time because it feels pointless. To convince you to withhold kindness because it wasn’t reciprocated. To make you isolate yourself from your community because “they just wouldn’t understand.”
If he can get you to just sit down, he wins.
So you stand. You stand by mumbling the name of Jesus in the grocery store line. You stand by opening your Bible to one Psalm, even if you don’t feel a thing. You stand by sending a brutally honest text to a friend: “Hey. This is hard right now.” You stand by putting on a worship song and crying through it.
You do the next tiny, right thing. And in that stubborn, gritty, unsexy act of standing, you win.
Here’s the part that kinda blows my mind. We’re wired to see everything through our own individual lens. My anxiety. My struggle. My victory. And that’s real. The battle is intensely personal.
But what if we’re missing a bigger picture? What if our private skirmish is part of a much larger campaign?
The book of Daniel gives us a crazy glimpse behind the curtain. Daniel had been praying, hard, for 21 days. Nothing. Radio silence. Finally, an angel shows up, looking exhausted. He says, “Look, Daniel. God heard you on day one. I was dispatched immediately. But the prince of the kingdom of Persia withstood me for twenty-one days” (Daniel 10:12-13 KJV, paraphrased).
A prayer was answered on day one. But the delivery of that answer was held up by a conflict in the heavenly realms. Daniel’s persistent prayer wasn’t just about getting his answer; it was about participating in a cosmic victory.
So, your stubborn faith in the middle of the night, your refusal to let go of joy, your choice to bless someone who hurt you, It’s not just for you. It’s a strategic act. You are, in that moment, joining a fight that is bigger than your immediate circumstances. You might be contending for your children’s future. For a breakthrough in your city. For a promise you don’t even know is coming.
Your standing isn’t just resistance. It’s reinforcement for a battle you can’t even see.
So the next time the darkness feels like it’s pressing in, and the accusations sound a little too true, remember. This is not a random occurrence. It is a targeted response. Feel the weight of that. You are dangerous enough to warrant a special assignment.
Then, feel the lightness of that. The same faith that made you a target is the faith that makes you more than a conqueror. You don’t have to win the whole war in that moment. You just have to stand. Plant your feet. Hold up that shield—not a giant barricade, just enough for the next fiery thought.
And know, with a quiet certainty, that while the lion prowls, the Lion of Judah roars. And His roar echoes through the heavens, shaking the very foundations of your fear.
You just have to stand long enough to hear it.
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