The Problem with Seeing Everything as War

You miss the beautiful and sublime.

I didn’t set out to make a grove of trees a spiritual signpost on Sunday. I was just trying to reach church with two kids buzzing in the back seat and a to-do list jabbing at my skull. But half a mile out, the treeline flashed orange and yellow—each branch announcing autumn’s slow dying—except for one stubborn green tree standing alone, seemingly untouched by change. It was as if the tree resisted the season, holding out against the inevitable.

Fall does this to me. Always has. That faint copper smell in the air, the quiet surrender built into every leaf. The beauty is sharper when you realize it’s a signal of nature winding down. As I drove past that riot of color, I realized something I’ve circled for months: My entire way of seeing has bent toward spiritual warfare—watching for threats like a soldier scans a battlefield, studying what’s hidden under the visible world.

Some folks act as if the world is neutral—ideas, systems, people, philosophies drifting like leaves in a stream. I don’t have that luxury anymore.

Maybe you don’t either.

I see every place, every person, every ideology as standing with Christ or against Him, like troops on opposite sides. That’s the Church Militant lens I carry, even if nobody calls it that.

But here’s the problem: If you stare at darkness too long, it feels like it stares back, consuming your attention. You start missing the simple good things because you’re always watching the treeline, expecting an ambush. Every shadow begins to look menacing, as if danger hides everywhere.

That green tree pulled me up short—a living pause in my thoughts. It was a reminder that even in a world I see as enemy territory, something refuses to give in. Beauty shows up without asking whether it’s allowed, breaking through where I least expect it.

It made me think of moments that surprise you, reminding you the world isn’t just a battlefield—it’s a place God refuses to abandon.

Like a couple in their seventies still reaching for each other’s hands by instinct, not nostalgia. Like a baby’s laugh—pure, unscripted—breaking the hardness in a room. Like two people who can’t stand each other, lowering weapons long enough to say “We don’t have to die on this hill.”

These aren’t Hallmark moments. They’re like covert missions of grace—breaking through where you least expect them.

You’ll miss them if you’re always scanning for the next attack.

That’s the tension I live in now: a world at war, but beauty still pushes through, like a green shoot in a battlefield. Every small act of mercy feels like reclaiming ground from an enemy who thought he had won it. Every bit of goodness is like planting a flag where darkness once ruled.

So yes, stay alert. Sin crouches. Lies hunt. Darkness never sleeps.

But don’t let vigilance turn you into someone who can only see the threat and never the victory. Let victory be the lens that keeps your eyes open to every sign of redemption.

Look for the good. Not because you’re naïve—but because you’re awake.

That lone green tree wasn’t just a random holdout. It was a living signpost: God leaves hints of His presence everywhere. Even on the side of the road on an ordinary Sunday, He’s leaving evidence—a quiet testimony—that He’s still at work.