Lord Of The Flies Series

There are moments when life hums instead of shouts.

You can’t see the problem, but you can feel it—the buzz in your ear, the sting on your skin, the constant irritation that keeps you awake at night.

That’s what chaos sounds like when it’s close.

It doesn’t roar like a lion; it drones like a mosquito at two a.m.

Egypt was living in that hum.

They’d heard God’s call through Moses—Let My people go—and they swatted it away like a nuisance.

They’d watched the Nile turn red and the frogs hop through their beds, and still they said, “We can handle this.”

But you can’t negotiate with God.

You can harden your heart, but you c

So the next plague came quietly.

No trumpet blast, no thundercloud, no warning.

Aaron simply struck the dust, and the dust came alive.

Scripture says, “All the dust of the earth became gnats.”

The Hebrew word is kinnim—tiny biting things.

Scholars argue whether they were gnats, fleas, or sand flies.

I’ll tell you what they were—lice.

The dust of Egypt turned into lice.

The same dust Pharaoh’s priests used for purification now crawled up their sleeves.

Men who prided themselves on cleanliness were scratching like alley dogs.

Every collar, every robe, every fold of skin alive with crawling defilement.

You didn’t need a translation for that plague—you just needed fingernails.

And for the first time, the magicians stopped pretending.

They looked at Pharaoh and said, “This is the finger of God.”

Not the hand—just the finger.

One flick from heaven, and the empire started itching.

That’s the Lord of the Flies in action:

when corruption festers long enough, God lets it crawl.

When pride piles up, He stirs the dust until it moves.

Sin has a smell, and heaven won’t perfume it forever.

Picture it: the most polished palace on earth reduced to scratching.

Perfume merchants running out of oil.

Priests shaving twice a day just to feel clean.

Children crying. Servants shaking out their bedding.

The whole nation covered in the very dust they once worshiped.

And when the itching finally slowed, the buzzing began.

The next plague wasn’t small—it was swarms.

The Hebrew word arov means “a mixture.”

Not one species, but everything that could bite, sting, or buzz.

It wasn’t a few houseflies on a picnic; it was a living cloud.

Biting flies, dog flies, stable flies—anything that feeds on rot.

The kind that land on your eyelids and don’t care if you’re Pharaoh or a farmer.

You can almost hear the royal court slapping the air, servants waving fans over the throne, guards trying to breathe through veils.

But there’s no swatting off a judgment from God.

Then God said something new:

“I will set apart the land of Goshen, where My people dwell, so that no swarms shall be there; that you may know that I am the Lord in the midst of the earth.”

This was a first.

Up until now, Israel suffered alongside Egypt—the blood, the frogs, the stink.

But now God draws a line.

Judgment falls—but not everywhere.

Chaos is real—but not universal.

God says, “My people will know My covering.”

When corruption crawls, God draws a boundary.

When darkness spreads, He carves out light.

He doesn’t remove His people from the battlefield; He marks them in it.

Psalm 91 says, “A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it shall not come near you.”

That isn’t comfort language; that’s covenant language.

It’s not about being lucky—it’s about being His.

A Modern Goshen

I remember the blackout that swept Southern California a few summers back.

Whole cities went dark. Traffic lights out, grocery stores closed, freezers thawing.

Yet one little neighborhood, tucked behind a ridge, never lost power.

People came from miles away just to charge phones, fill water bottles, and breathe in a little cool air from somebody else’s working fan.

That’s Goshen.

A patch of light in a land gone dark.

Not because its wiring was better—but because its connection was.

God never promised His people they’d skip the storm; He promised they’d shine through it.

The covering of God doesn’t mean you won’t feel the wind; it means the wind won’t own you.

The lice may crawl, the flies may swarm, but the blood still marks your door.

If you belong to Him, you’re not forgotten in the plague—you’re distinguished in it.

Egypt’s Gods

Let’s talk about the competition.

Egypt didn’t have a shortage of gods; it had a shortage of sense.

They worshiped the Nile—Hapi—as the giver of life.

They bowed to Heqet, the frog goddess of fertility.

They burned incense to Khepri, the scarab beetle—the “great god of the rising sun.”

Khepri was the celebrity god of Egypt.

The priests painted him everywhere—a beetle pushing a golden disk across the sky.