Are We Really at War? Rethinking Gospel Metaphors, Sin, and Spiritual Growth

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how often scripture—and the way we talk about the gospel—uses the language of war.

We are told we are in a battle.
That we are fighting Satan and his followers.
That we must be vigilant, armored, steadfast, and prepared.

General Conference talks reference this often. Authors have written powerfully about it. It’s clearly a metaphor that resonates deeply in our tradition. And for a while, I took it mostly at face value: yes, we are at war. Elder Holland said, “We are at war” and “[t]his is a life-and-death contest we are in” with “eternal significance and everlasting consequence.”

But the more I sit with it, the more a question has been quietly insisting on being asked:

Are we truly at war?

Or, more precisely, what kind of war are we talking about—and what does that way of seeing the world do to us?

I don’t think it’s wrong to say that the war metaphor fits, at least to an extent. There is something real we are pushing against. There is opposition. There is a force—external and internal—that constantly tries to keep us from becoming who we are capable of becoming. In that sense, saying we are “at war with Satan” captures something important.

But I’ve also started to notice that when the war metaphor becomes the primary way we understand discipleship, it can quietly reshape how we see everything else.

Wars require enemies.
Enemies require sides.
Sides eventually require an “us” and a “them.”

And that’s where the danger begins.

Two essays I’ve read recently helped crystallize this for me. Both were published in Public Square Magazine—one called “The Fortified Church and Prophetic Foundations,” and the other, “Fortresses Aren’t Forever.” I won’t summarize them fully here, but their shared insight is this: metaphors shape behavior. A fortified church can be a refuge, a place of safety and renewal. But if we only think in terms of fortresses and battles, we can slowly begin to see the entire world outside the walls as hostile territory.

When that happens, difference starts to feel like threat.
Questions start to feel like betrayal.
People who think, speak, dress, or believe differently start to look suspicious—if not dangerous.

History shows us where “us vs. them” thinking eventually leads. Even when it starts with good intentions, it almost always ends in pain, exclusion, and unnecessary suffering. When our minds are always primed for war, we tend to start creating enemies, even when none were meant to exist.

And I don’t believe that is the world God is trying to build.

This is where Eugene England’s essay “Why the Church Is as True as the Gospel” has been especially helpful to me. One of his core ideas is that all expressions of the gospel are interpreted—shaped by culture, language, time, and human limitation. That doesn’t mean the gospel itself is flawed; it means our descriptions of it are always partial.

Some metaphors are incredibly powerful—but no metaphor can carry the whole truth.

So I’ve started asking myself not “Is the war metaphor true?” but rather “What truth does it reveal, and what truth might it hide?”

Here’s where I’ve landed—at least for now.

I don’t think we are at war with other people.
And I don’t think we are even at war with the world.

I think the deepest struggle is within.

There is a real tension inside each of us—between our divine nature and our mortality, between who we are right now and who we are capable of becoming. That tension can feel relentless. It can feel exhausting. And yes, sometimes it can feel like a battle. But it’s not a battle against others. It’s a lifelong process of learning how to align ourselves with the good.

This framing has changed how I think about sin.

The Hebrew word most often translated as “sin” is chet, which literally means “to miss the mark.” I love that definition. It doesn’t imply rebellion so much as misalignment. When we sin, we aren’t necessarily declaring war on God—we’re simply aiming imperfectly.

And here’s the part I find deeply hopeful: when you miss the mark, you actually gain information. You learn where your aim was off. Over time, missed shots teach you how to adjust.

Repeated sin, unfortunately, can lead to frustration. It can convince people they are broken, unworthy, or fundamentally failing. But through this lens, sin isn’t proof that you are bad—it’s evidence that you are still learning. Still practicing. Still in the process of becoming.

That feels less like a battlefield and more like a training ground.

In that sense, I do think fortresses matter. We all need places to retreat, regroup, heal, and remember who we are. The Church can be that kind of place. Scripture can be that kind of place. Family can be that kind of place. But fortresses are meant to restore us—not isolate us forever.

If we stay in a permanent war mindset, we risk mistaking fellow travelers for enemies. We risk confusing disagreement with danger. We risk forgetting that Christ consistently moved toward people, not away from them—even when they were different, broken, or wrong.

Jesus lived in a world defined by occupation, violence, and rebellion. If anyone had reason to adopt a war-first worldview, it was Him. And yet, His metaphors were often about seeds, growth, learning, healing, and return. His harshest words weren’t reserved for sinners—but for those who believed their certainty placed them above others.

So if I were to reframe things now, I might say this:

We are not so much at war as we are in a lifelong struggle to choose alignment over impulse, love over fear, humility and faith over certainty, and growth over stagnation.

That struggle is real. It matters. And it deserves our full attention.

But it does not require us to see the world as an enemy.

As you go about your missions—meeting people with radically different lives, beliefs, and worldviews—I hope you remember this:

Aim well.
Adjust often.
Never confuse missing the mark with being unworthy of the journey.
And allow others the same freedom—to miss, to learn, to adjust, and to keep walking forward.