This is war

You cannot cast out what you continue to cradle. You cannot silence the enemy whose voice you’ve grown accustomed to.

How can you rebuke a darkness you’ve made room for? How can you pray for deliverance while dining with the very spirits you seek to escape?

You cry out for freedom, yet leave the door ajar at midnight. You anoint your home in oil,

but your playlists, your screens, your conversations—they whisper agreements with the very torment you’re trying to resist.

You kneel in prayer by day,

but entertain destruction by night.

This is not a game of light and shadow.

This is war.

And every compromise is a crack in your armor,

every indulgence a welcome mat to the devourer.

The Spirit grieves while you scroll.

He whispers warnings while you laugh at what hell applauds. And still, you wonder why the attacks persist. Still, you wonder why peace feels like a stranger.

You cannot kill what you keep feeding.

You cannot bind what you keep befriending.

You cannot walk in the Spirit while holding hands with the flesh.

It’s time to choose.

Tear down the altars.

Burn the bridges to your bondage.

Shut every door you once cracked open in curiosity or complacency.

Holiness is not a costume you wear to church.

It’s a fire that consumes.

A sword that divides.

A call to die to the things that are killing you.

So rise.

Let conviction shake you.

Let His presence wake you.

Let the idols fall, and let worship rise from the ashes. Because you were never meant to coexist with the darkness—you were called to drive it out.