Spiritual Warfare, Not Physical
Thoughts on militaristic language, imperial violence and demons
I was half-stunned, half-sceptical when I read this by Harvey Kwiyani on the very first page of Decolonizing Mission:
Jesus never said, ‘I need you to be my soldiers.’ As a matter of fact, he never said, ‘I need soldiers.’ Nowhere in the Gospels did he ever say, ‘I need an army.’1
Of course. It was so obvious. Jesus didn’t come to earth to lead a political or military uprising against the Roman Empire even if his followers had wanted him to. He’s the Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9.6) who blessed the peacemakers (Matthew 5.9), and who radically advocated loving your enemies and praying for those who persecute you (Matthew 5.43-44).
But wait. Aren’t we called to be in a battle? Jesus might not have said anything to that extent, but Paul tells Timothy to ‘[s]hare in suffering like a good soldier of Christ Jesus’ (2 Timothy 2.3), and exhorts us to put on the armour of God (Ephesians 6). Revelation is full of battle imagery, and in Jesus’ messages to the seven churches in Asia, he repeatedly emphasises that they should ‘conquer’ in order to fully inherit heavenly rewards. This imperative is in light of Christ’s own example: ‘To the one who conquers I will give a place with me on my throne, just as I myself conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne’ (Revelation 3.21, italics mine).
Such scriptural passages interpreted as literal instructions or divine mandates have led to violence, aggression and atrocities done in the name of Jesus throughout history, and even to this day. Kwiyani observes how because of mission’s colonial legacy, it can appear ‘that Jesus is a commander of a human army, complete with navy ships, stealth bombers and a nuclear artillery’ (p. xiv). Yet Jesus ‘never called upon his followers to form an army’, nor did he ‘send the apostles to recruit or mobilize soldiers for him among the nations’ (p. xiii). So why is there such conflation between militaristic language in the Bible and physical action in the world?
There’s a very personal reason why militaristic language resonates so much with me. It’s because I was (and technically still am on reserve) a soldier, a Lieutenant in the Singapore Armed Forces. I served two years of National Service when I was 18: the first nine weeks in Basic Military Training, the next nine months in Officer Cadet School, then commissioning as a logistics officer. (Nothing forces you to grow up quicker than being called ‘Sir’ at the age of 19 by 50-year-old warrant officers.) As such, military language and action isn’t simply conceptual for me; I understand and feel it viscerally, drilled deep into my psyche and bones.
So when the Lord once told me that he was calling me to be ‘an officer in the army of the Lord’, I grasped its implications immediately. He was imbuing me with greater authority and leadership; it was a clear commissioning in terms I could comprehend. (Thankfully, I didn’t interpret it as permission to carry out my plan of world domination. I’m certainly no Constantine who saw a cross of light above the sun and heard the Lord say in a vision, ‘By this sign, you will conquer’ – and literally did.)
However, at the same time, and perhaps ironically, I have firmly pacifistic tendencies. When we had our first opportunity to shoot our rifles, every single one of my fellow recruits audibly gushed about how ‘cool’ it was. But I remember feeling alone in thinking: Cool? No, not cool at all. Don’t you all realise that what you’re holding literally kills people? Literally erases their existence off the face of this earth?
Some Christians rightly bristle at the language of warfare, no less due to the misinterpretation and misapplication – abuse – of biblical passages to justify violence and atrocities against other humans in Christ’s name. The Crusades is just one example. Or take the British Empire. Renie Chow Choy observes how Anglican and Nonconformist hymnals transported to the colonies invoked ‘imperial’ imagery, which perhaps helped to fuel the self-righteous and misguided mission of the empire to reach the unconverted heathens.2
Language without its proper context can play a significant part in (mis)shaping our understanding. Kwiyani highlights:
This missionary imperialism is reflected in the military language that informs a great deal of our popular missiology – we ‘mobilize’, ‘deploy’ missionaries and, if you are in Africa, go on a ‘crusade’. Whether we think the military connotations are real or figurative, the language we use has creative power. It shapes us as much as we shape it. (p. xiv)3
It’s even more complex when we use biblical examples to describe the Christian life. I think of worship songs that talk about the walls of Jericho tumbling down, or how ‘praise is the water my enemies drown in’ – an obvious allusion to the Egyptian army drowning in the Red Sea in Exodus, but if taken literally, can sound pretty sinister. For the uninitiated, it might appear at face value as if we’re more inclined to follow the strong-arm ‘God of genocide’ that some people read and find in parts of the Old Testament, like Joshua and Judges.
Now, all this doesn’t negate the fact that we are in a battle. It’s clear, both in scripture, as well as through my own personal experience. But what is absolutely crucial to remember – and everything hinges on this – is that our battle is not against flesh and blood (read: people), but against the principalities and powers of darkness (Ephesians 6.12). In other words, we’re not called to physical warfare, but spiritual warfare. We need to make a distinction between the spiritual and the physical. Yet it’s only recently that I’ve properly clocked the need to sever and distinguish between this oft-made false equivalence. I knew it intuitively, so why did it take so long? Why did I need it to be spelt out so explicitly?
I suspect two things: 1) we always try to map spiritual realities onto the physical; and 2) Scripture uses a lot of earthly imagery to reflect heavenly realities (e.g. running, sowing, shepherding, fighting) – all to better understand the spiritual. We’re bodily beings, so we inevitably reach for something material enough to grasp with our finite minds. So, it makes sense that when our concrete experience of warfare is primarily earthly wars and aggression, that becomes our primary reference point for understanding scriptural passages about warfare. And it’s a slippery slope from there.
I posit that it’s wrong to project and impose warfare passages in the Bible onto any form of violence or aggression against humans. Perhaps every biblical passage that uses warfare language and imagery needs to be understood as metaphor, as figurative, as always relating to spiritual warfare. And every time spiritual warfare language is co-opted to justify physical violence done in the name of God, particularly for causes of empire or nationalism, that’s a clear red flag for me. Ultimately, we don’t demonise humans; we demonise demons (it’s in the name).
The spirit world is real. None of this post-Enlightenment BS in the West. Let the Global South tell you of their experiences of the spiritual realm; let what Esther E. Acolatse terms ‘biblical realism’ become your reality. (I’ve written about the middle level before, where the supernatural impinges upon the natural.) My own extensive experiences with the demonic means I can say that the enemy (Satan) is real, and his minions (demons) are real too. They’re not just figments of my imagination. I’ve experienced physically in my body the tug of war between the spiritual forces of evil and the Holy Spirit, and it’s not something I’d wish on anyone. This also means that by God’s grace and power I’ve experienced deliverance myself, of being set free from the power and control of demons. Praise God!
I’ve noticed that there isn’t as much overt spiritual warfare in the West. Go to countries in Asia, Africa or Latin America where the collective church (and society) believes in the spirit world, and Satan tends to be forceful and intimidating, resorting to aggressive fear tactics. Demons manifest more readily, and they’re often cast out in Jesus’ name publicly. But in the West where the majority haven’t traditionally believed in spiritual forces, Satan doesn’t need to reveal his hand; he can stay subtle and hidden. And the lack of belief leads to a lack of experience which leads to a lack of belief – a self-perpetuating cycle.
Acolatse has a damning and convicting word to the western church:
Could it be that in the West the presence of the demonic is muted not because demons have ceased to exist or never were, but for the precise reason that no one fights against nothing? Perhaps, as long as lukewarm faith exists, perhaps the demons need not be troubled nor trouble themselves.4
That’s not to say that Majority World cultures who believe in the spirit world don’t have their own risks and dangers. C. S. Lewis famously said in the preface of The Screwtape Letters: ‘There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them.’ (Or here’s The Usual Suspects: ‘The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.’)
The former (‘disbelief in their existence’) applies to the West, the latter (‘excessive and unhealthy interest’) to the Global South. And I too have had to prudently rein back my initial obsession with fighting and defeating the demonic.5 I confess when I first met the Holy Spirit and was filled with overwhelming holiness and power, I was enthused about becoming a ‘demon hunter’. Bring it on! I thought. That is, until my pastor wisely counselled me to not wish for that. He knew of someone who in their cockiness had asked to face more spiritual evil, which led to unimaginable (and unnecessary) oppression and suffering.
No, we should never pine for evil; we should only ever pine for good. Which means we seek the Holy Spirit only. The thing is, the demonic will follow. The more we are open to the Holy Spirit’s work in our lives, the more we naturally and inevitably open ourselves up to the wider spiritual realm, which includes the demonic. We need not seek them; they will emerge.
It’s worth saying that I’ve come out victorious in showdowns with the demonic every single time without fail. Not because of anything I’ve done. But because Jesus has won. Young Justin was so confident in spiritual warfare for a reason. Jesus will win, will completely and decisively defeat the enemy, the powers and principalities!
And I’ve experienced it. From being delivered from internal and external physical and mental oppression; to speaking the name of Jesus, quoting scripture and singing worship songs in my dreams to escape from demonic attacks; to battling alongside others who undergo similar oppression, teaching them to break off lies and declare the truth that sets them free. We fight because we win. We don’t have to fear – although NGL it is terrifying at times – because Jesus is for us, and against those who come against us. We have the authority of Jesus Christ.
Authority is an interesting word. I’m still learning what it means, particularly in a spiritual sense. Physical sense, I kind of get. Being in the army meant I was under the authority of sergeants or officers who struck the fear of man in us, and I also wielded authority over those under me. Yet I also knew authority didn’t necessarily equal power and aggression. Some of my fellow officers got drunk on power as soon as they had men under them, punishing them with push ups for no reason other than to show off their new-found authority. But the best leaders I’ve been under are those who had authority, but were quietly confident in it. They didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, yet still commanded respect.
And we see this with Jesus who had the greatest authority on earth, yet was meek and lowly, gentle and humble. His most aggressive use of authority was not against humans (flipping the temple tables was an anomaly), but against demons who were trying to steal, kill and destroy those he’d came to save. Again, spiritual, not physical.6 He didn’t come to overthrow the Roman Empire by raising a physical army. He didn’t try to defend himself against the false accusations of the chief priests or Pilate’s interrogation. Instead, he demonstrated a radical, countercultural form of power and authority that got to the root of all evil. Not against human puppets, but the master puppeteer of darkness himself. Jesus came to bind the strong man (Mark 3.27), and then to imbue us with that same authority to cast out demons, to war against the powers and principalities, to witness Satan fall from heaven like lightning (Luke 10.18).
When it comes to spiritual authority, there are two things to consider: one, the source of the authority (subject); and two, who the authority is directed to (object). Firstly, the source of true spiritual authority comes from God, not ourselves. We can channel our own physical authority, but only to a certain extent. It will have limits. Whereas with God-given authority, it’s limitless. Jesus’ authority is ultimate.
Secondly, our authority is obviously not directed towards God who gives it to us in the first place. Nor is it towards other people, that is, against other people, since it shouldn’t be our aim to dominate or subjugate. True, authority can be used for people, so in that sense it can be directed towards others, but only for the purpose of ‘coming underneath people in the body of Christ to build them, serve them, equip them and set them free to do God’s agenda’.7
But I wonder if the primary object of our spiritual authority, the one our authority is directed towards, is the enemy, against the spiritual forces of evil. As Arianna Walker says: ‘you are not demanding of God when you demand your rights, you are demanding of the enemy what is yours because God has promised it to you and you have the authority to possess it!’8 So God-given authority is good. It is for our benefit, to stand firm and resist the devil. Jesus tells us that we can tread on snakes and scorpions and not be harmed, and we can overcome all the power of the enemy, all because he has given us his authority (Luke 10.19). And we can rest assured in it; no need to prove it.
I think of my military rank given to me – Lieutenant, with two black bars on my epaulette – which is not simply my own authority, but one vested in me by a higher power. Our spiritual authority is vested in us by the highest power there is. We have authority because we are supremely confident in who are we are in Christ. We use this authority against everything that opposes the Kingdom: to sickness we declare be healed, to broken relationships we speak reconciliation, to wars we say cease and peace reign. Let’s steward the authority entrusted to us; let’s not waste it.
One final train of thought regarding worldly empires. I was at the ArtScience Museum in Singapore last year, where I saw a striking exhibit by Serwah Attafuah of an Afrofuturist warrior on a tiger wielding a sword, symbolising the fight against oppressive colonial powers (see below).
My first instinct was sadness. Was violence really the only answer? Did it have to be violence to combat violence? As Abner says to Joab in 2 Samuel 2.26: ‘Is the sword to keep devouring for ever? Do you not know that the end will be bitter?’ But I also don’t want to be naïve and idealistic; I don’t want to dismiss or diminish the atrocities and injustices carried out against those who’ve been brutally colonised and enslaved. We know imperial power and violence is evil, but how valid is it to use power and violence to push back against empire?
I recently asked Carlton Turner, a Caribbean contextual theologian, what it might look like to confront colonial powers – to decolonise – without resorting to violence and aggression. He helpfully talked (practically) about a barometer of violence, with the aim being to progressively scale back the level of violence with, say, governmental policies. But he also helpfully talked (spiritually) about the beatific vision found in passages like Isaiah 11.6-9a:
The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain…
– this being the Kingdom coming. And in order to edge closer towards this vision, we need people brave enough to use their prophetic imaginations to come up with both preventative and creative measures. (What those might be is beyond me.)
I wonder if a related and more challenging question is this: is Christianity in the mould/form of Jesus forever destined to be – in the world’s eyes, in terms of earthly power – a ‘weak’ religion? But perhaps we only ask that here in the West because we’ve experienced the normalisation of a welding of religion to power, witnessing the all-too-common bedfellows of strong-man Christianity and world empires, both recent and distant (from Roman Empire to British Empire to American Empire).
Whereas in an East Asian context, Christians are a minority. I was at an Amos Yong seminar last year where someone asked whether the rise of Christian Nationalism in the West was a concern for Asia. Yong pertinently pointed out that because Christianity is a minoritised religion, it is unlikely to ever have the same status, power and influence that it has in the West. In such contexts, Christianity is innately weaker; though perhaps also a more faithful mirroring of its origins in the heyday of the Roman Empire. And if this ‘weakness’ is its true and most authentic form – a stumbling block and foolishness (1 Corinthians 1.23) – then perhaps our view and expression of our faith in the West is horribly skewed and misconstrued.
I feel like I’ve only just scratched the surface. Some days, I feel helpless in the face of all the violence, aggression and wars going on in our world. But I cling on to the hope of the beatific vision, and I fight my spiritual battles in the authority of Jesus, and I denounce any physical warfare against other humans made in the very image of God. All whilst being an actual Lieutenant. Go figure.
Harvey C. Kwiyani, Decolonizing Mission (London: SCM Press, 2025), p. xiii.
Renie Chow Choy, Ancestral Feeling: Postcolonial Thoughts on Western Christian Heritage (London: SCM Press, 2021), p. 103.
The unconscious shaping of our psyches via language reminds me of Ocean Vuong’s profound observation shared in an interview on Late Night with Seth Meyers: ‘In this culture, we celebrate boys through the lexicon of violence: “you’re killing it”, “you’re making a killing”, “smash them”, “blow them up”, “you went into that game guns blazing”. And I think it’s worth it to ask the question, what happens to our men and boys when the only way they can evaluate themselves is through the lexicon of death and destruction? And I think when they see themselves only worthwhile when they are capable of destroying things, it’s inevitable that we arrive at a masculinity that is toxic.’
Esther E. Acolatse, Powers, Principalities, and the Spirit: Biblical Realism in Africa and the West (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 2018), p. 77.
I once took a spiritual gifts questionnaire, and when deliverance came up as one, I wondered if that was accurate. Then my friend exclaimed, ‘Justin, you tell Satan to f-off!’ Oh, yeah, true. My righteous anger at the enemy’s interference in the lives of my beloved sisters and brothers in Christ had indeed led me during worship and prayer sessions to pray against Satan in an aggressive and forceful way.
Word of warning: don’t do this. I don’t do it anymore. Part of my growth and maturity has been to learn that it is dangerous, reckless even, to take on the powers of darkness on my own. Sure, I may have power and authority in Jesus’ name, but I’m wary not to overstep my boundaries. The seven sons of Sceva in Acts 19 is a cautionary tale: they wanted to cast out demons because they were so impressed by Paul, but when they attempted to mimic him, they failed and received a right old beating, with the demons bluntly pointing out their lack of authority (my paraphrase): ‘Jesus I know, Paul I know, but who the hell are you?’
Furthermore, I look at passages like 2 Peter 2.11 (‘whereas angels, though greater in might and power, do not bring against them [false prophets] a slanderous judgement from the Lord.’) and Jude 9 (‘But when the archangel Michael contended with the devil and disputed about the body of Moses, he did not dare to bring a condemnation of slander against him, but said, ‘The Lord rebuke you!’). I would be foolish to think I’m perfectly capable if even angels don’t dare to directly condemn or slander the evil ones. Ultimately, the best thing to do is to appeal to the very God of angel armies, the Lord of hosts.
There is perhaps precedence for comparing spiritual authority to physical authority in the story of the Centurion (Matthew 8.5-13), who demonstrated immense faith by appealing to Jesus’ authority to be able to heal his servant from afar just by means of verbal declaration, comparing it to his own experience of ordering soldiers under him (I can relate to that).
David Johnson and Jeff Van Vonderen, The Subtle Power of Spiritual Abuse (Bloomington: Bethany House Publishers, 1991), p. 64.
Keys to Freedom Discipleship Course (Oxenhope: Mercy UK, 2017), p. 120.
As someone who grew up in a Christian family on a British army base, some of my earliest memories involve the blending of militaristic and gospel imagery: singing songs like, ‘I’m in the Lord’s army,’ and doing ‘Bible sword’ drills.
So it’s been weird for me being involved in - well, ‘missions.’ Where, as you mentioned, there is so much militaristic language used, but not aimed towards our actual demonic enemies, but to describe our overall work. I’ve been in conversations about how we can best describe ‘mobilisation’ to people, because obviously it’s not a word most Christians use and it’s not an image used in scripture. But maybe that’s a sign that we need to reassess our frameworks. (Although maybe it’s OK to talk about mobilising prayer?)
Anywho, thanks for another thought-provoking article!