This Land is My Land

There is a field in Scripture that most people would have abandoned.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t strategic high ground. It wasn’t a throne room or a treasury. It was a lentil field. A pea patch. The kind of ground that looks insignificant when compared to the size of the enemy approaching it.

In 2 Samuel 23:11–12, we’re told that the Philistines assembled in formation, and the troops of Israel fled. That detail matters. The troops fled. The people who were supposed to defend the land decided it wasn’t worth the fight. Maybe they calculated the risk. Maybe they compared the value of the field to the strength of the enemy. Maybe they told themselves, “It’s just lentils. We can grow more.”

But one man did something different. His name was Shammah. The text says he “took his stand in the middle of the field, defended it, and struck down the Philistines. So the Lord brought about a great victory.”

The Lord brought about a great victory.

Not Shammah’s brilliance. Not Shammah’s strength. Not Shammah’s strategy. Shammah’s posture.

That phrase is not decorative; it is doctrinal. It reveals something about how God works. God fights where faith stands. God partners with posture. Shammah didn’t manufacture victory; he positioned himself for it.

This is where Psalm 125 speaks with striking clarity. “Those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion. It cannot be shaken; it remains forever. The mountains surround Jerusalem, and the Lord surrounds his people both now and forever” (Psalm 125:1–2). There is stability promised to those who trust. There is surrounding grace. There is covenant protection.
Then verse 3 makes a declaration that carries territorial weight: “The scepter of the wicked will not remain over the land allotted to the righteous.” Notice the language. Not “might not.” Not “hopefully won’t.” It will not remain. It can show up, but it cannot settle. It can threaten, but it cannot own.

But here is the tension: it cannot remain unless the righteous retreat.

Land in Scripture is rarely just dirt. Land is inheritance. Land is covenant made visible. Land is where promise touches real life. It is where God says, “This is yours to build on, to raise your family on, to worship on, to steward, and to pass down.” Land is legacy territory.

And that is precisely why it attracts a fight.

The enemy does not waste troops on empty ground. He sends pressure where God planted purpose. If you trace the fiercest battles of your life, you will likely find they circle the very places God assigned you. Your marriage. Your children. Your calling. Your mind. Your peace. Your purity. Your joy. That is not coincidence. That is confirmation.

The promise doesn’t remove the fight; it defines what the fight is for.

We often misunderstand spiritual warfare. We imagine it as dramatic or mystical, but much of it is painfully ordinary. It looks like discouragement whispering, “Quit.” It looks like offense trying to isolate you from community. It looks like fatigue slowly silencing your prayer life. It looks like compromise suggesting that maybe you don’t need to stand so firmly after all. It looks like fear convincing you to step back from something God clearly gave you.

Paul writes in Galatians 6:9, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” Notice the conditional phrase: if we do not give up. There is harvest attached to endurance. The enemy wants you to interpret delay as denial. Heaven calls it development.

Hebrews 12:15 warns us to make sure “no root of bitterness springs up, causing trouble and defiling many.” Offense is never private. It grows roots. It spreads underground before it surfaces above ground. Hell does not always need you in open rebellion; it just needs you separated. Isolation weakens what covenant was meant to strengthen.

And then there is fear. “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but one of power, love, and sound judgment” (2 Timothy 1:7). Fear feels natural. It can sound reasonable. But Scripture says it is not sourced in God. If it did not come from Him, it does not have to be obeyed.

Most spiritual warfare is simply the fight to remain what God told you to be.

This is why Shammah matters so deeply. Before he ever swung a sword, he stationed himself. He chose alignment with assignment. He did not stand because the odds were good. He stood because the land was promised. He did not stand because he was guaranteed comfort. He stood because he was under covenant.

There is a subtle but dangerous distinction we have to recognize: ownership versus occupancy. The enemy cannot own what God has promised you. But he can occupy it if you vacate it. Occupancy lasts until someone decides to stand in the middle of the field and say, “Not here. Not this ground. Not this promise.”

If he can dislodge you, he can manage you. If he can push you off the land, he can plant his scepter there and act like it is settled business. But Psalm 125 is unflinching: wickedness will not remain over the land allotted to the righteous.

That means the enemy’s presence is temporary, even when it feels loud. His pressure is real, but it is not permanent.

There is also something profound about Shammah’s name. It means “God is present.” Not “God might show up.” Not “God is considering it.” God is present. When Shammah stood in the middle of that field, he was not standing alone. His posture invited partnership. His alignment activated assistance. And the Lord brought about a great victory.

That is the pattern. Our responsibility and God’s power meet in the same place.

We often ask, “Will God do it?” Covenant people eventually mature into a different question: “Show me how, and show me when.” We move from living in “if” to living in “as He said.” Because covenant does not fluctuate with circumstances.

So the invitation becomes personal. Name your land. Not the land you wish you had. Not someone else’s assignment. Your land. The place God spoke over. The place where pressure seems disproportionate. The place you’ve been tempted to retreat from because it feels small, exhausting, or insignificant.

Maybe it is your marriage. Maybe it is your children. Maybe it is your mind and the battle for peace. Maybe it is your calling that you quietly buried because you grew tired of fighting. Maybe it is joy you once carried freely but now defend cautiously.

The lentil field did not look impressive. But it was Israel’s. And because it was theirs, it was worth defending.

You do not have to manufacture victory. You do not have to predict the outcome. You do not have to remove the enemy. You have to stand.

Because God fights where faith stands.

The scepter may show up, but it will not remain. The enemy may be loud, but he is not permitted to settle. The promise does not guarantee absence of pressure; it guarantees ultimate authority.

And somewhere in the middle of your field, with your feet planted in covenant ground, you may find yourself declaring something that sounds simple but carries eternal weight:
This land is my land. God promised it. And I am standing on it.

And when faith stands long enough, the Lord brings about a great victory.