When the phone rings at midnight and all you hear is running water instead of a voice—that’s chaos.
A friend told me once, “I woke up to the sound of my house drowning.” A pipe had burst under the sink. Water was gushing across the kitchen floor, soaking into the cabinets, pouring toward the hallway carpet. He was running around half-awake with towels, a bucket, a mop—and no plan. Later he laughed, “I wasn’t fixing anything; I was just panicking efficiently.”
Have you ever been there?
Not with a pipe maybe, but with life?
One day everything’s calm, the next it feels like the water’s rising faster than you can grab towels. Maybe it’s finances. Maybe it’s your health. Maybe it’s family. Chaos doesn’t ask permission. It floods in, uninvited, at the worst possible time.
Israel knew that feeling. They’d been slaves in Egypt so long that chaos felt normal. Their work, their food, even their children’s lives were at Pharaoh’s mercy. Egypt was powerful, organized, impressive—but spiritually toxic. They lived in a system that worshiped everything but the true God. The Nile River was their pride, their economy, their security. They called it divine.
Then God sent an old shepherd with a stick. “Let my people go,” Moses said. Pharaoh laughed. “Who is the Lord, that I should obey his voice? I do not know the Lord” (Exodus 5:2 ESV). That single question launched one of the greatest showdowns in history. The answer came, not through debate but through power—ten plagues that exposed every false god in Egypt.
We’re looking at the first three today.
They’re not random punishments.
Each one is God saying, “I’m still the Creator. Chaos doesn’t win. I do.”
Let’s walk with Moses for a moment.
The River That Bled
Pharaoh’s out for his morning ritual. He strolls down to the Nile, his crown catching the sunrise. He believes the river is sacred—a gift from the gods, maybe even a god itself. Egypt’s poets sang about it. Farmers worshiped it. The Nile flooded like clockwork and brought life to the land. Egypt’s slogan could’ve been: In Nile we trust.
Then God sent Moses to meet him there. Exodus 7:19: “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Say to Aaron, “Take your staff and stretch out your hand over the waters of Egypt … that they may become blood.”’”
The staff strikes the water, and the river that had sustained a civilization suddenly reeks of death. Fish float to the surface. Wells turn foul. The people dig beside the banks, desperate for clean water. The magicians of Egypt copy the sign by their tricks—but think about that: they didn’t fix anything; they just made more blood. That’s humanity’s best imitation of God—we can pollute, but we can’t purify.
What Egypt worshiped turned against them. The god of the Nile couldn’t save his own river. And here’s the point for us: anything we elevate above God will eventually bleed us dry. When our source of life becomes our idol, the Lord may let it spoil to show us the truth.
Ever have that happen? A job that once energized you starts draining you? A friendship that once felt life-giving turns sour? Sometimes the water turns red so that we’ll stop pretending it’s the fountain of life.
A Nation of Frogs
Then came the second plague. Exodus 8: “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Say to Aaron, “Stretch out your hand with your staff … and make frogs come up on the land of Egypt.”’”
And they did. Frogs everywhere. On the ground, on the beds, in the ovens, in the mixing bowls. When people reached for bread, frogs jumped out. Pharaoh’s magicians duplicated the trick—which is hilarious when you think about it. Egypt already had more frogs than it could handle, and their solution was to make more.
It’s a good picture of how sin works. We create our own misery and then double it trying to fix it ourselves.
They were everywhere—in the beds, in the ovens, even in the dough. Egypt didn’t need Crazy Frog on YouTube; they had the real thing croaking live. You could say it was the accidental start of French cuisine—cuisses de grenouille—that’s French for frog legs, or as it looks to the rest of us, cus the granola! And let’s not even start on the tadpoles—or the eggs. They were everywhere. Egypt woke up inside a giant grenouille omelet!
Pharaoh finally had enough. He called Moses and said, “Plead with the Lord to take away the frogs … and I will let the people go.” Moses asked a strange question: “When shall I plead for you?” And Pharaoh said one of the saddest words in Scripture—“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Not now. Not today. Tomorrow.
Why do we do that?
We say, “Lord, I’ll quit tomorrow. I’ll forgive tomorrow. I’ll trust You tomorrow.” Pharaoh would rather spend one more night with the frogs than surrender today. And we laugh at him, but we’ve done it too.
The frogs died the next day, and the land stank. Pharaoh changed his mind again. But that smell—that lingering reminder—was mercy. Sometimes God lets the stink stay long enough for us to remember what disobedience smells like.
The Dust That Bit Back
Then the Lord told Moses, “Say to Aaron, ‘Stretch out your staff and strike the dust of the earth, so that it may become gnats in all the land of Egypt’” (Exodus 8:16).
Aaron obeyed, and instantly the air turned alive. The dust itself became insects—tiny, biting, crawling. They covered man and beast alike. Imagine priests trying to carry on their sacred rituals while gnats crawled in their hair and up their sleeves. Egypt prided itself on cleanliness and purity; its priests shaved daily. Now the very dust under their feet mocked them.
The magicians tried their spells again, but this time nothing happened. They turned to Pharaoh and said, “This is the finger of God” (8:19). Not the hand, not the arm—the finger. One flick of divine power, and the empire trembled.
Pharaoh still hardened his heart. But for the first time, his own advisors admitted there was a power beyond theirs.
What Do These Plagues Mean for Us?
Each of these first three plagues unmasked an idol.
The Nile represented security.
The frogs represented pleasure and fertility.
The dust represented purity and control.
God exposed every one of them. When He confronts an idol, He’s not being cruel; He’s being kind—because idols never stop taking. They promise life, but they drink it out of us. And when God lets one of them bleed or croak or swarm, He’s not just punishing; He’s revealing.
So, what might He be revealing to us?
For some, the “river” has always been money. You worked hard, saved wisely—good things!—but the market shifted, the savings drained, the numbers bled red. And you discovered that your security was more fragile than you thought. That’s the water turning to blood.
For others, the frogs hop closer to home. You prayed for relationship, companionship, maybe marriage, maybe children—and then one day the gift felt like a curse. The joy turned to noise, the peace to chaos. God wasn’t mocking you; He was calling you to depend on Him again, not on the perfection of people.
And for many, it’s the gnats—the little things. Not one big disaster, just a thousand irritations: deadlines, texts, newsfeeds, that one coworker’s tone. You swat all day, but they keep coming. And somewhere under the buzzing, you hear the Spirit whisper, “You can’t fix dust. Let Me handle it.”
God often begins His deliverance not by removing chaos but by re-establishing who He is in the middle of it. Before Israel left Egypt, before the Red Sea parted, before manna ever fell, God first showed them: The Lord is God over the Nile, over the frogs, over the dust, over everything that touches you.
If He is Lord over that, He is Lord over this—your week, your work, your house, your health.
Let that sink in for a moment.
You could say it was the accidental start of French cuisine — cuisses de grenouille — that’s French for frog legs, or as it looks to the rest of us, cus the granola! And let’s not even start on the tadpoles—or the eggs. They were everywhere. Egypt woke up inside a giant grenouille omelet.
But there was nothing gourmet about this. This wasn’t a recipe; it was a reckoning. God was turning Egypt’s pride inside out, one false god at a time. Every plague was a courtroom scene. God was saying, “You think you run the river? Watch Me. You think your goddess of fertility multiplies life? Watch Me multiply frogs until you can’t stand them.”
Pharaoh was learning a hard truth that many of us still resist: the Lord doesn’t share His throne. He loves us too much to let our idols keep lying to us.
The frogs die, the stench rises, and Pharaoh gasps for relief. He promises obedience, but the moment the croaking stops, so does his conviction. You know that pattern, don’t you? When crisis hits, we pray fast and promise everything — “Lord, if You just get me through this, I’ll serve You!” And then the calm comes, and so does the forgetting.
Pharaoh’s word, “Tomorrow,” is still the devil’s favorite word. Tomorrow I’ll quit. Tomorrow I’ll pray. Tomorrow I’ll forgive. Tomorrow I’ll start. God’s deliverance waits on the other side of today.
Sometimes, chaos isn’t about what’s happening around you; it’s about what’s waiting for you to obey. You can’t have peace while holding Pharaoh’s schedule.
Now, picture the scene again. The Nile stinks, frogs are piled up in heaps, and the air is thick with gnats. God’s people haven’t been set free yet, but something important has happened — they’re seeing that the gods of Egypt can’t save anybody. Before God leads them out, He teaches them what not to follow.
And that’s where some of us are right now. We’re in between the plagues and the promise. We’ve seen what doesn’t work, and we’re learning to trust what does.
Let’s fast-forward to today. Our plagues have different shapes, but the lessons are the same.
We still have rivers that bleed — polluted environments, poisoned conversations, toxic social media streams. We still have frogs that croak — noise, entertainment, distractions, the endless chorus of “Look at me.” And we still have dust that bites back — a thousand tiny irritations, unclean thoughts, anxious habits, spiritual gnats that won’t quit buzzing.
And God still says, “I am the Lord.”
He doesn’t say, “Try harder.” He says, “Trust Me.”
He doesn’t say, “Manage the chaos.” He says, “Invite Me into it.”
Because here’s the good news — the story of Exodus isn’t just about plagues; it’s about a Person. The same God who sent Moses sent His Son. The same voice that said, “Let My people go,” is the voice that said from the cross, “It is finished.”
When Jesus came, He faced His own Egypt. He stood before the spiritual Pharaoh — Satan himself — and said, “Let them go.” The enemy sneered, the world mocked, and yet Jesus, armed with nothing more than a wooden cross and divine authority, shattered the chains that held humanity captive.
God didn’t send a José on a stick. He sent a carpenter from Nazareth with calloused hands and compassion in His eyes. Pharaoh had chariots; Jesus had nails. Pharaoh had armies; Jesus had angels who didn’t need to draw swords. And with His death and resurrection, He proved once and for all that chaos has an expiration date.
The book of Colossians says, “He disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, by triumphing over them in him” (Col. 2:15 ESV).
So when you say, “Lord, fight my battles,” you’re not asking for something new — you’re claiming something already won.
Now, let’s make this personal. How do you let the Lord fight your battles?
I call this the Battle Plan for Chaos.
Step 1 — Call on His Name.
Don’t wait till you’re knee-deep in frogs to start praying. Start early. Start small. Call His name before the first ripple hits the shore. The Psalmist said, “In the morning you hear my voice” (Ps. 5:3). The morning prayer is your sandbag before the flood.
Step 2 — Speak His Word.
When Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, He didn’t reason with the devil; He quoted Scripture. The Word isn’t just comfort — it’s combat.
You can’t fight spiritual chaos with emotional slogans.
Memorize a verse that meets your battle head-on.
When anxiety strikes: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” (Ps. 27:1)
When guilt creeps in: “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Rom. 8:1)
When fatigue hits: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Cor. 12:9)
Step 3 — Stay in His Peace.
Philippians 4:6–7 says, “Do not be anxious about anything… but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.” The peace of God isn’t the absence of noise; it’s the presence of Christ guarding your mind. Chaos can roar around you, but peace stands sentry inside you.
Step 4 — Worship Through It.
Not after it’s over — through it. Paul and Silas sang in the jail at midnight and God shook the doors open. Worship disarms worry. Praise drives out panic. You don’t need a full band; you need a willing heart. Sometimes the best warfare is a whispered “Thank You, Lord.”
Step 5 — Obey Quickly.
Don’t say, “Tomorrow.”
Pharaoh lost more in one night of delay than he could count. If the Spirit prompts you — to forgive, to give, to change, to trust — do it today. Obedience opens the door for God’s intervention.
Here’s what I’ve learned, and maybe you have too: chaos always promises control, but the Lord always promises peace. The question is, which promise are we believing?
When you choose to trust God, it doesn’t mean the Nile clears up overnight. Sometimes the frogs still croak for a while. But peace is not about the volume of noise; it’s about who holds the microphone.
So tonight, if your world feels flooded — if your spirit feels like a kitchen with the faucet broken and the towels aren’t enough — stop trying to mop what only God can fix. Go to the valve. Turn the control back to Him.
He’s still the Lord over rivers and frogs and dust.
He’s still the Lord over panic and pressure and pain.
And He still fights for His people.
“The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent” (Exod. 14:14). That’s not passivity; that’s confidence. It means you can stand still because you know who’s moving on your behalf.
So bring Him your chaos tonight — the poison, the noise, the irritation — and let Him turn it into peace.
And maybe, just maybe, when you stop fighting the chaos and start trusting the Creator, you’ll find yourself smiling through the storm saying, “You know, it’s getting quiet in here.”
Because when God fights your battles, even frogs can’t stay loud forever.
