When Misplacement Masquerades as Spiritual Warfare

Learning to Distinguish Spiritual Warfare from Self-Made Exhaustion

By Josh Singleton | Founder and Lead Cultivator, The Neighborhood Garden Project

When you first look at this garden, your eye almost plays a trick on you. Two beds, same crop, same weather, same gardener. On the left, a tomato plant droops over waterlogged soil, yellowing and spent. On the right, the tomatoes stand tall in rich, steady earth, carrying the weight of real fruit. Both beds live in the same world of heat, pests, and thorns, yet one is slowly collapsing while the other is stretching into its design. This is the picture many of us carry in our own lives. We feel tired and call it warfare, when often the garden is quietly telling us a different truth. The problem is not always the fight. Most of the time, it is the bed we keep planting ourselves in.

We talk a lot about spiritual warfare. We do not talk much about misplacement. There is real opposition. Scripture is clear about that. There are times when you are standing in your God given realm, doing exactly what you were formed to do, and darkness pushes back. That is warfare. But that is not what most of us are living in day to day.

Most of the time, what we feel is not warfare. It is the built-in exhaustion of doing things our own way. It is the ache that comes from living outside the realm God actually formed us for. Scripture is honest about life after the fall. There is sweat on the brow. There is pain in childbirth. Work is toilsome. Thorns and thistles come up where there should have been ease. The ground itself resists us. That is the backdrop of life in a broken world. There is a kind of tired that comes simply from being human in a creation that is groaning.

Misplacement piles another layer on top of that. It is not just the honest strain of walking through a world marked by thorns and thistles. It is the added heaviness of carrying assignments God never gave, standing in fields He did not plant us in, and trying to force fruit in soil that does not match our design. Trials in the right field can still carry a strange, steady joy, because grace meets us there. Misplacement drains that joy. It turns work into a grinding cycle that never settles. We call it attack. God often uses it to expose that something deeper is out of place.

Without this understanding, we say yes to opportunities that do not fit our design, then call the fallout spiritual attack. We carry loads God never asked us to pick up. We stay in roles long after the Spirit has released us, then wonder why our soul feels thin. Exhaustion is built into that rhythm. It is not the enemy. It is the overflow of walking outside the realm God actually formed for us. We try to live like sea creatures in the sky or birds in the deep. We say yes to roles that look spiritual and important but do not match the way God built us. We sign up for every need because we were taught that saying no is selfish. We take on assignments that belong to someone else, then slowly realize that our joy is quietly dying. Our body feels it first. Tight chest. Shallow breathing. Nagging fatigue that sleep cannot touch. Our mind starts spinning. Our prayers feel scattered. It feels safer to say, “The enemy must really be attacking me right now,” than to admit, “I have agreed to live outside the realm God actually formed for me.”

The garden makes this plain. If I plant tomatoes in the boggiest corner of the property, I cannot blame the devil when they drown. If I tuck shade loving plants into the hottest full sun bed, I cannot call it warfare when they crisp up by June. The plant is not the problem. The environment is wrong. The placement is off. The soil is honest. The sun is honest. Water is honest. They do not negotiate with misplacement, they reveal it. Yet in our lives, we often spiritualize what is mostly a placement issue. We join committees we were never supposed to sit on. We accept promotions that pull us further away from the work that makes us come alive. We keep saying yes in church and community because “someone has to do it,” even when the Spirit inside us is whispering, “This is not your field.” Then when our joy dries up, we say, “I must be under attack.”

There can be attack. But if we never stop to ask, “Did God actually assign this to me,” we will fight battles we were never meant to fight, in realms we were never meant to occupy. We will wear ourselves out defending positions He never told us to hold. Misplacement wears the same costume as warfare on the outside. Tired, stretched, heavy. But the root is different. Spiritual warfare comes when you are standing where God told you to stand and darkness pushes back. Misplacement comes when you are standing where people or pressure told you to stand and your own design begins to groan under the weight. One needs armor and perseverance. The other needs repentance and realignment.

Think of two people who both end the day tired. The first is standing in their God given assignment. They are cultivating what He asked them to cultivate. They are saying yes and no in step with Him. As they walk in aligned faithfulness, resistance shows up. Circumstances tighten. People misread their motives. Doors close that should have been open. There is a pushback that does not match the level of their own striving. This is where spiritual warfare often lives. Aligned obedience. Real fruit. Real opposition. And beneath the strain there is a deeper current of joy, because even in the pressure they know, “I am where He asked me to stand.” Their body may be tired, but their spirit is fed.

The second person is also tired, but their story is different. They are overextended because they cannot stop saying yes. They are carrying roles that feed their need to feel important, not roles God clearly assigned. They are driven by pressure and fear, not presence. Every opportunity feels urgent. Every need feels like their responsibility. They are exhausted because they are living in a story where they are the main provider, the main savior, the main glue. Their body is tired and their soul is tired. That exhaustion is not warfare. It is the natural outcome of doing things our way. No demon has to attack a life that is already running itself into the ground. The rhythm itself is the drain.

Many of us live so long in that second story that we assume all tiredness is proof of faithfulness. If we are worn out, we must be doing something right. If our nervous system is shot, it must mean we are really “in the fight.” But in the Kingdom, trials and warfare can carry a strange, steady joy, because we know we are standing where God asked us to stand. Misplacement does not carry that. It is not joyful endurance. It is slow, joyless exhaustion. The garden tells the truth. A tomato grown in the right place still needs care. It still battles pests and heat. It still faces its own version of thorns and thistles. But it stands stronger because it was placed in alignment with its design. The same tomato thrown into the bog never had a chance. The struggle there is not noble. It is misplaced.

The story of Lazarus helps name another layer. When Jesus arrives, Mary and Martha both say, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” Their faith is mixed. They believe He could have prevented this, but they are not sure they can trust His timing. Their grief spills out as a kind of accusation. “You were late. If You had moved faster, this would not have happened.” We do the same thing with our misplacement. We push ourselves into cycles God never designed for us, then we collapse. Our body breaks down. Our mind spins. Relationships fray. Instead of asking about the story we have been living in, we look at God and say, “If You had stepped in earlier, it would not be like this. If You had opened that other door. If You had made this easier.” We take the pain that flows from doing things our way and pin it on His timing.

Jesus does not walk away from Mary and Martha in that fog. He steps into it. He sees their grief. He hears the blame in their words. He feels the ache of what death has done to their trust. And He weeps. Then He invites them into something deeper. “Where have you laid him.” “Take away the stone.” “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God.” He does not shame them for their mixture. He uses that moment to reveal who He really is. They blame Him for being late. He calls a dead man out of the grave. In the same way, God meets our misaligned tears. He does not despise us when we cry out from self made exhaustion and call it warfare. He hears the deeper cry, “I want to trust You. I do not know how. I am tired of doing this my way.” Then He starts inviting us out of the tomb we helped build.

This is why it matters how we see blessing. If blessing is a feeling, we will always ask God to make misplacement feel better. We will want Him to give us a second wind so we can keep running in circles. We will pray for more strength to hold up burdens He never gave us. If blessing is function, everything shifts. Blessing is not God rushing in to prop up every misalignment we choose. Blessing is God empowering us to live fully within His design, in the realm He has already prepared. Blessing looks like Him gently but firmly pulling us out of places that do not fit, even when those places are applauded. It looks like Him shutting doors that would have led to status but stolen our soul. It looks like Him removing certain roles, certain titles, certain false responsibilities, and inviting us back to the field, the classroom, the kitchen table, the garden, the neighborhood, the work that actually lines up with how He wired us. When we start to see blessing as function, we stop asking, “Does this make me look faithful,” and start asking, “Does this fit what God actually formed in me.” One question protects appearance. The other protects alignment. That single shift would set many exhausted people free.

If you are worn out and calling it warfare, you can begin with some honest questions. Is this a battle I know God clearly assigned to me, or did I volunteer myself into it. Did I step into this role from a clear sense of obedience, or from fear, guilt, or the need to be needed. When I picture laying this down, do I feel relief and peace, or conviction and grief. Am I more alive or less alive in this realm. If the Spirit keeps highlighting misplacement, it is not condemnation. It is invitation. God is not interested in giving you just enough strength to survive a story He never wrote. He is interested in bringing you into the realm He actually formed you for, so that blessing can become functional in you.

In the end, the garden keeps all of this grounded. Some plants struggle because the conditions are harsh, yet you can tell they are in the right place. Their leaves may be stressed, but their roots go deeper. They still set fruit. There is a quiet strength in them. That is what real warfare looks like in the garden, the pushback that comes even when everything is planted in alignment. Other plants look just as tired but for a different reason. They are drowning where it stays wet or baking in a bed they were never made for. You can water more, stake them up, talk about how “tough” they are, but the truth is simple. They are misplaced. The moment you move them into the right bed, the same plant that looked weak begins to recover. Color returns. Growth picks up. Fruit follows. The thorns and thistles do not disappear, but now the plant is rooted where it can receive what it needs.

Our lives are no different. Not every battle is warfare. Sometimes it is just the garden telling the truth. Sometimes it is your own design groaning for alignment. The good news is that Jesus still meets us there, just like He did at Lazarus’ tomb. He is not afraid of our mixture. He simply refuses to leave us stuck in cycles that are slowly burying us. He formed you. He knows your soil and your season. He knows your realm. He can lead you out of misplacement and into a life that may still face opposition, but no longer carries the built in exhaustion of doing everything your way. There may still be sweat on the brow and work that stretches you, but there will be grace in it and real joy beneath it, not the numbness of constant overextension. That is often where real warfare actually begins, aligned, rooted, awake, finally standing where you were formed to stand.