When Mercy Stings
How Ants Guard the Invisible and Invite Us Back Into Alignment
By Josh Singleton | Founder and Lead Cultivator, The Neighborhood Garden Project
Most people hate ants.
They appear uninvited, multiply with astounding efficiency, and march with unapologetic precision straight through what we’ve carefully constructed for ease and control. Their movements interrupt the illusion of stability. They don't avoid our comfort zones—they expose them. Their presence signals a rhythm deeper than our preferences, a design more ancient than our boundaries. We spend more time fighting their existence than learning from their order. And that exposure is exactly why they are unwelcome. We do everything we can to keep them out—poison, traps, sprays, boiling water. They’re labeled pests, threats, problems to be solved. But what if the ant isn’t the problem? What if it’s a mirror?
I didn’t always see it. I used to resent ants too—until I started surrendering to God’s deeper order. And the more I came into alignment with the way Heaven operates, the more I realized something shocking: ants are absolutely aligned with the Kingdom. And I only learned to appreciate them through my willingness to align with them.
Ants don’t operate for themselves. They work as one body, not bound by individual agendas or distracted by self-preservation. Every movement is collective. Every role is integrated. They don't carry ambition—they carry out function. There's no competition, only contribution. No single ant seeks credit, and no one ant carries control. They don’t seek titles or recognition. They submit to design. They follow assignment. And because of that, they expose everything in us that wants power without surrender. That’s why they’re hated.
And what exactly are they protecting? They're guarding what has been built in unseen faithfulness—protecting not only their home, but the blueprint of collective life. If an ant stops fulfilling its role, the entire colony suffers. The brood is left exposed, the queen vulnerable, the tunnels collapse, and the rhythm breaks down. Their defense is not optional—it’s generational. They protect alignment itself. The queen, the rhythm, the young, the work. Scientifically, an ant colony operates as a superorganism, where each member exists not as an independent unit but as a vital extension of the whole. The queen represents the generational lifeline. The larvae and pupae represent the future. The tunnels regulate temperature, humidity, and airflow to keep the colony alive. Some ants tend to fungi, while others break down decaying matter, aerate the soil, and disperse seeds critical to the reproduction of native plants.
If ants were to cease existing, the ecosystem would unravel. Soil would compact, losing the tunnels that carry oxygen and water. Decomposing matter would linger. Many plants would fail to germinate without their seeds being carried by ants. Natural pest control would decline, as ants prey on pests and care for the balance of microscopic life. Ants are unsung architects of the underground—an ecological backbone that sustains far more than we see. In the garden, they even harvest aphids, considered pests by most, but whose populations often outpace the predator insects meant to control them. The ants help restore balance. They don’t just protect their own—they preserve creation’s continuity through tireless, unseen service. They are defenders of design, carrying out a role so interwoven with God’s order that when it’s disrupted, everything feels it.
And this mirrors what The Neighborhood Garden Project is doing. We’re not just cultivating vegetables—we’re cultivating generations, sacred rhythms, and the trust required to build something invisible before it ever becomes visible. Like the ants, we guard what’s been entrusted to us underground—relational equity, spiritual formation, and soul stability. The ant stings not to harm, but to preserve what makes the colony thrive. It’s not just territory—it’s trust. It’s not just a mound—it’s generations. And when we try to trample through unaware, the sting is a line drawn in the soil: You’re not walking in alignment.
Proverbs 6:6 says, “Go to the ant, O sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise.” That verse used to feel quaint—until I saw the deeper reality. Ants reveal what we’ve unlearned: that power is found in unity, that influence is rooted in obscurity, and that significance has nothing to do with spotlight. But in a world addicted to independence, self-promotion, and control, ants are offensive. They move with quiet conviction. They build what can’t be seen. They live in submission to a greater whole. And we fear what we don’t understand.
So we call it a nuisance. We poison it. We label it uninvited. We swat it away like a threat to our comfort—when in reality, it’s a call to return.
What finally broke me open wasn’t their work ethic—it was their sting. I realized the sting wasn’t the offense. It was the invitation. The sting was mercy. It wasn’t aggression—it was protection. Not punishment—but correction. Ants sting to preserve the colony, to protect the rhythm, to defend the assignment. And when we feel the sting—when something in us gets disrupted, humbled, or confronted—it’s not just an irritation. It’s a mirror.
You don’t always know ants are present—until they sting. That’s the nature of hidden order: it doesn’t demand your attention, it just quietly moves. But when you disrupt that order, even unknowingly, the sting reminds you it was always there. Gardening is often approached as an escape, a therapy, a way to zone out. But the Kingdom doesn’t allow for absent-minded stewardship. The ant won’t let you drift. It calls you back to awareness. To presence. To posture. And sometimes, it takes the sting to wake us up from the trance of self-soothing routines. That jolt of pain isn’t always about the ant—it’s about the fact that we’ve moved without discernment.
The sting asks hard questions: What ground are you standing on that wasn’t yours to claim? What rhythm have you adopted that God never gave you? What part of your life is resisting the divine order you were created for?
I’ve countlessly been stung by ants, and every time, it’s been an invitation—not just to retreat, but to observe. To watch how they move. To study what they value. To lean into God’s design instead of resisting it. Each sting has been a summons to come back into alignment, to stop drifting, and to once again consider the ways of the ant with reverence rather than annoyance.
I don't know how many times I've kicked an ant pile or drowned it with water, thinking I’d disrupted it for good—only to return hours later and find it rebuilt, the soil leveled, the rhythm restored. No announcement. No resistance. Just quiet reconstruction. That’s the nature of alignment. It doesn’t protest. It rebuilds. It doesn't need visibility to validate its purpose. It knows the assignment and returns to it—again and again. Ants don’t panic when disrupted. They reform. They redirect. They rebuild—not in reaction, but in rhythm. And I’ve come to believe that’s what Kingdom people do too. They don’t chase visibility. They carry it underground. They don’t need applause. They just keep showing up, rebuilding what no one else sees until the fruit demands attention. That’s how Heaven moves.
To never be consciously stung by an ant is to be mentally present in the garden. But to be stung is an invitation to come back in. It is a holy disruption—an embodied reminder that you’ve left the rhythm. The sting is the signal that you’ve drifted from the quiet pulse of assignment. And the mercy is that God would let even the smallest creature bring you back into alignment.
Hebrews 12:6 says, “The Lord disciplines the one He loves.” But if we’ve trained ourselves to silence discomfort, we miss the correction that realigns us. Ignoring the sting leads to numbness. But listening to it leads to obedience. And once you’re aligned, everything changes. You begin to see the ant not as an enemy, but as a teacher. A witness. A tiny prophet revealing a massive truth: the Kingdom is not loud. It’s not attention-seeking. It’s not obsessed with visibility. It moves, underground and unnoticed, in perfect unity with the King. And it will always be hated by those who don’t want to surrender.
What’s worse is how far we go to avoid that sting. Entire store aisles are dedicated to eliminating ants. Billions of dollars globally, and hundreds of millions annually in the U.S. alone, are spent trying to kill them off—not because they’re dangerous, but because they’re inconvenient. We invest real money, real time, and real energy into getting rid of what challenges our illusion of control. I’ve stood in those aisles. I’ve picked up the sprays and poisons. I’ve labeled the sting as an interruption to my comfort rather than an invitation into correction.
But the more I walk with God, the more I see how we build entire systems to insulate ourselves from conviction. We’d rather eliminate the ant than examine our own misalignment. We’d rather numb the sting than be formed by it.
And then, at some point, the realization comes—you’re not just learning from the ant. You are the ant. That’s when it all lands.
I’ve been avoided. Not for being abrasive, but for being aligned. I’ve felt people keep their distance—not because I’ve said something wrong, but because my presence revealed something they hadn’t surrendered. I’ve experienced the sting of rejection, not because I was out of step with God, but because I was too in step for others. And like the ant, I’ve been misunderstood, minimized, or silenced. Not because I was doing harm, but because I was moving with Heaven’s rhythm.
2 Corinthians 2:16 says, “To the one, we are an aroma of death; to the other, an aroma of life.” I used to read that verse as poetic. Now I know it’s reality. Living in alignment with God brings comfort to the hungry, and discomfort to the misaligned. Some will draw near. Others will swat. Some will observe quietly but never enter the rhythm. And some will declare your alignment as judgment, when it was only an invitation. And that’s not proof you’re wrong. It may be the clearest sign you’re exactly where He’s called you to be.
So I no longer apologize for the sting I carry. I no longer try to soften my alignment to make others feel comfortable in their chaos. The ant doesn’t stop being an ant just because people spray poison. In fact, spraying doesn’t lead to extinction—it often breeds resistance. The more people try to eliminate what exposes misalignment, the more resilient it becomes. The ant adapts, regroups, and keeps moving with the colony. It keeps working in hidden places. It keeps building what others never understood. And so will I.
Because here’s the deepest truth of all: ants do not sting through misalignment—they sting through obedience. It is not avoidance but alignment that draws the sting. The same is true of those walking faithfully with God. When you are fully aligned, your very presence exposes disorder. You don’t sting out of aggression, but because your life is an invitation. An invitation to return to the rhythm. An invitation to reorder what’s been out of place. And sometimes, invitation feels like irritation to those not ready to receive it.
Next time the ants show up—in your house, your yard, your garden—before you reach for the poison, pause. Ask the Spirit, “What are You revealing through their presence? Where am I out of rhythm with what You’ve designed?”
Because the ant isn’t just a pest. It’s a prophet.
And the sting?
That’s just mercy in disguise.
