Most Christians don’t consider the devil and God equal opposites, but many do consider the devil a force to be reckoned with. This tension, in my opinion, creates a lowered understanding of the power of God and an overly heightened understanding of how the enemy works.
The most common metaphor in Scripture for God and the enemy is light and darkness. Light and dark aren’t equal opposites. The second a light comes on, darkness flees. Darkness is nothing but the absence of light. The ultimate solution to any form of darkness is turning on a light. Whether we’re turning on the light or sitting in the darkness has a lot to do with these structures—these belief systems we’ve been talking about. I also don’t want to create the image that no force is out there trying to convince us to keep the lights off.
I want to take this opportunity to talk about three principalities. In my experience a principality is a demonic force that’s trying to build influence over a given area. They represent a certain set
of principles or values, usually twisted versions of godly principles. As we build structures—belief systems that align with these demonic ideas—it gives the principality power over a region.
Again, while I don’t like giving these things more credit than they deserve, I do think it’s important to recognize how these spiritual forces try to influence us.
Certainty
I’ve spent a lot of time over the years looking in the spirit at what happens when people are scrolling through social media. But one memory sticks with me more than any other.
One day, when I was sitting in an airport, I observed this very thing. I noticed a middle-aged man sitting in the next row of chairs. Over his shoulder I could see he was watching a popular video podcast. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was about, but in the spirit I saw this violent rush of stone erupt from his phone, rapidly adding to a statue-like structure perched on his shoulders.
This statue had an exaggeratedly masculine figure: huge muscles and broad shoulders, flexing in an almost cartoonish stance. Over just ten minutes of watching, I saw this statue swell, growing so large that it towered over the man himself. As with many spiritual structures I see, I didn’t interpret it as inherently good or bad. But it struck me how disproportionate it was. It looked awkward and heavy. If the statue were a physical thing, it would have crushed him.
The man didn’t look anything like the statue. He was a little overweight, had a messy beard, and wore an unmotivated expression. I had the clear sense that this image was pressing on him, suggesting that he would be more valuable if he looked and acted in line with its image of masculinity—not just physically but internally as well.
A little later I saw someone whom I assumed to be his wife come sit down next to him. I was too far away to hear their conversation, but I could see from her posture that she was frustrated. He, in turn, looked defensive and harassed. As he turned to respond, I saw the statue turn too—its expression shifting to aggression, doubling in size, and leaning forward in an intimidating pose. The weight of it bent his shoulders. Its feet buckled under its own mass as it pressed down on him.
While I don’t know whether his defensiveness was justified or whether she had a good reason to be upset with him, I could see that the structure, which had been built up, wasn’t helping to produce more peace in their connection.
A few seats away, a young woman with brightly colored hair was also on her phone. Because of the angle, I couldn’t see what she was viewing, but I could see what came out of the screen: Bright, multicolored streams of material spilled out into a spiraling spiritual structure.
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This structure was harder to describe. It looked like an abstract art piece: part tree, part sculptured metal, part fabric, and part feathers. It was in some ways beautiful but in other ways chaotic. Branches clashed in color and texture, and the whole thing didn’t seem to reflect any of the natural, organic harmony that may be implied when I describe it as a tree.
Honestly, I couldn’t make much sense of it, so I turned back to my notebook to work on the sermon I was planning to give at my destination. As I pulled out my Bible and set it on the little airport table, I noticed her eyes flick down. The moment she registered what it was, I saw the spiritual structure around her react.
Every branch and element twisted toward me like angry spears or stingers. Her eyes darted from the Bible to me and back, and she gave a small but unmistakable look of disgust.
Immediately, I felt a flush of offense. I found myself thinking, “You don’t know me. You don’t know the kind of person I am, how I treat others, how I live out my faith. You’re judging me just for having this book on the table.” Normally, I don’t see much in the spirit that involves me directly. But in that moment, I experienced an unusual exception.
As I sat there feeling defensive, I saw a structure flowing out of my own notebook and Bible, just as I had
seen from their phones. Around me, my own collection of spiritual symbols formed: a cross, a stained-glass window showing someone ministering to others, and a painting of a person studying Scripture. None of these seemed bad at first. But the more I looked, the more I realized they weren’t images of godliness—they were images of my idea of godliness.
Above this sea of spiritual construction was a massive pair of hands. They were sickly blue: a color I’ve come to associate with demonic principalities.
The fingers were entangled in hundreds of strings—each one tied to one of the spiritual structures below.
The hands moved with practiced skill, pulling, twitching, and adjusting the strings. They moved with dark intelligence—a sinister artistry. A few strings even stretched down from its fingers, wrapping around the “godly” structures that surrounded me.
Beyond the hands, I could make out a huge head. Its features were obscured by a dark blue cloth that was draped over its face like a hood.
I asked the Lord, “What is this?”
Immediately, I heard the Holy Spirit say, “This is Certainty. Sometimes called Truth. Sometimes called Justice.”
I realized I was looking at a principality whose entire strategy was to manipulate people into building these rigid, personal structures of truth, justice, and certainty. It didn’t care what the “truth” was. It only cared that people were certain of it.
It didn’t matter whether the building blocks were good or bad—just that they were arranged in a way that locked people in, kept them sure they were right, and prevented them from listening, humbling themselves, and learning.
Profit
Some years ago, I was invited to speak at a conference. I had already been traveling and speaking at conferences for several years, but this was by far the biggest one I had ever been invited to.
Before I share the rest of this story, I want to be clear: I love the people who hosted that conference. They’re a wonderful ministry, and I saw tons of great fruit come out of that event and through many of the speakers there. For the sake of what we’re exploring, I’m focusing on something negative I saw, but I don’t want to throw out the good while addressing the bad.
I stepped onto the stage, gave a brief introduction, and then opened my mouth to do a short promo for my new book at the time. But as soon as I started, I saw something in the back of the room: a dark, birdlike figure. Its broad wings covered the back wall of the room. It was a principality I had seen many times before. The Holy Spirit had called this principality Profit, and it was staring right at me.
I stumbled over my words—not just because of what I saw but because of what I felt. The second Profit entered the room, I felt this internal pressure rise in me: the desire to have more opportunities to speak at conferences, to have people read my books, and to earn more money for my family so we could have more margin, more comfort.
I felt a pull to conform to the pattern I had watched in the other speakers so I would be more palatable for these kinds of events.
Whether these feelings were right or wrong, I felt genuinely repulsed by them. In that moment I stopped mid-sentence, dropped the book promo, and went straight into the message I had prepared.
Profit hovered there for the rest of my talk. As I got to the end of the message, I realized one of the points I planned to make would challenge the views of the people who hosted the conference. It wasn’t a defiant point. It wasn’t critical of anyone in particular. But it wasn’t perfectly aligned with what had been said before.
The moment I realized this, I saw the principality flare up. Dark blue fire erupted between its feathers as it stared directly at me. I felt that pull even stronger—the urgency to do this “right,” to make sure I was invited back, to be more agreeable so I would have future opportunities, and to provide well for my family.
Honestly, none of those desires felt inherently wrong to me. They didn’t seem rooted in pride or greed. But the way they were manipulated felt deeply wrong.
That night I spoke with the Holy Spirit about what I had seen, and He called it Profit. He also called it Power and Success. It’s a principality that tries to create structures where we’re motivated by financial gain, power, or whatever the current model of “success” happens to be.
If we want to come in the opposite spirit of this structure, we need to embrace the kingdom principle of generosity. We live in a world where money is necessary but gain for its own sake isn’t a truly profitable end. We’re meant to be givers, helpers, and servants who use our resources to bless others.
When it comes to the ungodly Profit, one powerful antidote is learning to act with compassion. Profit doesn’t care about people. It doesn’t care about the effects of our gain. If we have eyes of compassion—if we care about how others are affected by the ends we’re trying to justify—we’re more likely to make godly decisions.
I believe this principality is called Profit precisely because it fits so well with the ethos of our age. Ultimately, it’s about power; it’s about conquering; and it’s about personal gain. But if we have attitudes of generosity, compassion, unity, and service to others, we’re less likely to be influenced by this principality.
Pride
The final principality I want to address is the one I’ve probably seen most often. The most recent time I saw it was during a conversation with a friend of mine: a young man who’s passionate, zealous, and hungry for good ideas. He spends a lot of time on social media and follows many different voices.
One day he was telling me about a particular figure—a pretty well-known person—but I’m intentionally not naming them because doing so would unhelpfully color how we hear the story. He was talking about how brilliant this person was: how influential and how full of great ideas they were.
Because this young man had asked me to speak into his life, I mentioned a few negative things I had heard about this figure. Immediately, he got defensive. “That’s not true. That’s just the critics. That’s just people who are jealous.”
I tried again, mentioning something less obviously wrong but still questionable. I got the same response: a hard no—dismissal. He couldn’t even entertain the possibility that this person was anything but great.
After the third time, as he got even more defensive, I saw a principality step out from behind him.
It looked like a handsome, middle-aged man draped in long, golden robes. His skin was golden from head to toe. Despite knowing what it was, and having seen what it did many times before, I couldn’t help but think, “Wow. That thing is beautiful.”
Many years ago, the first time I had seen it, the Lord said, “This one’s name is Pride.”
In this moment Pride was holding a small statue of the figure my friend was talking about. The statue looked just as perfect as Pride did: idealized, flawless, and shimmering with every good thing that had ever been said about that person.
As I watched, a thought struck me. I asked the Lord, “What do You have to say about this person?”
Suddenly, I saw flashes of this figure’s whole life. I saw the good, I saw the bad, and I saw many things in between. I saw their childhood and their early adulthood.
I saw what shaped them into who they’d become. I saw fame and fortune descend on them—partly because of their actions and character but also because of chance, the work of others, and being in the right place at the right time.
I saw the good they had done. I saw the harm they had caused. As this vision unfolded, I saw an image of them standing behind Pride. It wasn’t shiny with exaggerated perfection. It was just them: a person. Like a well-taken portrait, it was honest, detailed, and true.
I described this vision to my friend. I wasn’t trying to provoke him anymore. I just shared a balanced picture of who this person was: the good and the bad together.
As I spoke, I watched the statue Pride was holding soften in his hand. It melted slightly. Pride’s handsome
face looked politely disappointed, but it kept its charming smile. He slipped the statue back into his robe, gave a well-mannered bow, and walked away.
This spirit doesn’t just make us proud of ourselves. Just as often it makes us elevate others; it tries to get us to build monuments in our minds, turning people into heroes, perfect icons, and unassailable role models.
When Pride has a hold, we can’t see the bad in someone we admire. Or we reduce people we don’t like to pure villains. It polarizes us. It replaces truth with caricature. Instead of seeing someone as a whole person made in the image of God—but not living that image perfectly—it insists on simplification: idol or demon, hero or villain, all good or all bad.
This principality is obsessed with image. It pushes us to see pastors, leaders, entertainers, politicians, even friends or family, through a perfect and unrealistic lens. Or it does the reverse—reducing them to the worst things they’ve done, dismissing any good. It can even shape how we see ourselves, overinflating our worth or tearing us down into self-loathing.
The antidote to this spirit is humility: a recognition that our value doesn’t come from our own greatness but from God’s. It’s about service, not elevation. Jesus said the greatest in the kingdom is the servant of all. It also means practicing an integrated perspective of us and others, recognizing that everyone has both goodness and brokenness. When we fail to see that, we set ourselves up for disappointment and disillusionment.
These principalities aren’t removed only through prayer. They lose ground when we change the structure they’ve been ruling from—first in our own hearts, then in our communities, and finally in our culture.
Blake Healy is a bestselling author, speaker, and gifted seer who has spent decades sharing his experiences and insights about the spiritual realm. Known for his ability to make the unseen world tangible and accessible, Blake combines his visionary gifts with practical wisdom and biblical teaching. A former leader at Bethel Atlanta, Blake now focuses on writing, itinerant speaking, and equipping others to encounter God in transformative ways. He lives in Atlanta with his wife and children. His new book, Through the Veil, is available on Amazon.com.
