From Genesis to Revelation: The One Story – The Golden Thread that Explains Everything – Part 15

Sunday, 19 October 2025

By Andre Eksteen

Before David appeared on the scene, Israel had long been trapped in a war they did not understand. A war that did not begin with swords and spears, but with voices in heaven. It is the war that began at Babel, when God divided the nations and placed each people under a heavenly prince. These princes — fallen heavenly beings who were once appointed to lead — began to seek their own honour and started deceiving the very people they were meant to protect.

We have seen them before in Scripture — not only at Babel, but also in Egypt.

When Moses threw down his staff and it turned into a serpent, Pharaoh’s magicians did the same.

Many people read this today and think it was ancient superstition or clever tricks — but it was not.

What happened there was not man against man; it was God against the evil powers in the air.

Those magicians were not working with ropes and smoke — they were working with spirits. They served the prince of Egypt, the spiritual authority behind Pharaoh’s throne. They could imitate God’s works because the power they served was ancient, cunning, and real.

But look at what happens when Moses’ staff swallowed their serpents — it was not merely a miracle; it was a declaration of authority.

God showed that His power cannot be compared to the power of the princes.

The war of blood and judgement in Egypt was not only to set Israel free — it was to humiliate the prince, the evil power in the air, who ruled over Egypt.

That same war continued long after Israel crossed the Red Sea.

Everywhere they went, the nations around them still lived under the influence of their heavenly rulers.

Every god they worshipped — Baal, Ashtoreth, Molech, Dagon — was part of the same network of fallen beings who were trying to disrupt God’s plan.

And when the Philistines rose up against Israel, it was simply the next chapter of the same struggle.

The Philistines were not just an enemy people.

They came from the line of Ham — from blood that had long ago become corrupt, filled with traces of Satan’s seed.

They lived in the coastal cities of Canaan, near the sea where Dagon, the half-man, half-fish god, was worshipped.

They were large in body and strong in flesh, but corrupt in spirit — and they listened to the voices of their princes.

For them, war was not only combat; it was worship.

Every battle against Israel was a ritual to honour their gods.

When they eventually captured the Ark of the Covenant, they thought they had won (1 Samuel 4–6).

They took the Ark of the LORD and placed it in Dagon’s temple, as if they could subject the God of Israel to their own prince of the deep.

But God will not be mocked.

That night, Dagon’s image fell before the Ark — its head and hands broken off — and his priests fled in terror.

The next day they tried to set him upright again, and it happened once more.

They saw it, but they refused to believe.

And then God sent the plague.

The people of Ashdod were struck with tumours, and the land was overrun with mice.

The five earthly princes of the Philistines — the rulers of Ashdod, Gaza, Ashkelon, Gath, and Ekron — gathered together and said, “Send the Ark back, or we will all die.”

But what they did not realise was that it was not their decision.

Above them, in the unseen realm, the five heavenly princes who ruled over those five cities began to tremble.

Even the fallen beings the Philistines worshipped knew that the God of Israel had placed His foot on their necks.

The Philistines realised they could not send the Ark back empty-handed — they had to acknowledge that they were wrong.

So they made five golden tumours and five golden mice — one for each city, one for each earthly prince — but without understanding it, they portrayed something far deeper:

Five cities under five human rulers, and above them five heavenly authorities, all brought under God’s judgement.

They made the golden images as a guilt offering — a last desperate attempt to make peace with the God who had destroyed their gods.

The mice represented the plague that swept through the land, and the tumours the wounds with which God struck them.

Unknowingly, they portrayed their own judgement in gold — a golden reminder that no prince, human or heavenly, can stand when God Himself stretches out His hand.

Those five golden mice were not accidental — they were an admission, even from the mouths of Israel’s enemies.

Five cities, five rulers, five spirits — and all bowed before the God of Israel.

Even the Philistines understood: they were not fighting against men, but against the God who reigns above all the princes of the earth.

This is the world into which David was born — a world where every battle echoed an unseen war.

A world where giants still lay in the blood of the land, where fallen beings still spoke through men, and where faith was not merely a choice, but a declaration of war.

And so we come to David — the shepherd, the poet, the warrior, the king after God’s own heart.

Not a great man in the eyes of people, but the man God saw when the world saw only a boy.

In the previous part we saw how Israel chose a king for themselves — Saul — a man tall in stature, but with a heart full of fear.

He looked good, looked strong, looked impressive — everything people wanted.

But that was precisely the problem: he was everything people wanted, not what God wanted.

Then the LORD said to Samuel: “I have seen for Myself a king among the sons of Jesse.”

Notice this — not “for Israel”, but “for Myself”.

Because God’s choices are never about popularity; they are about eternal fulfilment.

Samuel goes to Bethlehem, and everyone trembles when they see him.

He does not come with a sword, but with oil.

One by one Jesse brings his sons — tall, strong men who all look like kings.

But God says to Samuel:

“Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the LORD does not see as man sees — man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7)

That is the key to David’s calling: his heart.

Not his deeds, not his stature, not his status — his heart.

A young boy, covered in dust and smelling of sheep, but with eyes lifted towards heaven.

Samuel asks, “Are these all your sons?”

And Jesse answers, “There remains yet the youngest, and behold, he is keeping the sheep.” (1 Samuel 16:11)

In other words — the one they forgot is the one God chose.

And when David came in, God said, “Arise, anoint him; for this is he.” (1 Samuel 16:12)

Samuel took the oil and poured it over his head, and Scripture says:

“From that day onward the Spirit of the LORD came upon David in power.” (1 Samuel 16:13)

There lies the difference.

Saul was appointed by men; David was anointed by God.

Saul wore a crown; David carried the Spirit.

That is why he could do what Saul could not.

Saul knew God through the prophets; David knew Him through His presence.

And then came the day of testing — the day everyone remembers.

Israel stood in fear before a giant: Goliath, the Philistine of Gath.

Not merely a large man, but a descendant of the ancient giant lines that still lived in Canaan.

For forty days he stood and mocked the army of God.

Not one man in Israel acted — not Saul, not his warriors.

Then David arrived — not with a sword, but with faith.

A shepherd who had only come to bring food walked straight into history with these words:

“Who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God?” (1 Samuel 17:26)

This is how a man who knows God speaks.

Not, “How big is he?” but, “Who does he think he is?”

David did not look at his enemy’s size, but at his identity — uncircumcised, outside the covenant, without God’s protection.

And he said to Saul:

“The LORD who delivered me from the paw of the lion and from the paw of the bear will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine.” (1 Samuel 17:37)

He took five smooth stones — not because he was uncertain, but because Goliath had brothers.

A young man, no weapon, only a sling.

And when that stone struck, the giant who had terrorised Israel for generations fell.

Not by strength, but by faith.

Not by steel, but by the Spirit.

The giant fell, the earth shook, and the people rejoiced.

For the first time since Saul’s anointing, Israel rejoiced again — not in authority, but in faith.

And David stood there — not as a hero, but as proof that God still reigned.

But as always, where faith rises, jealousy rises with it.

Saul saw how the people honoured David, and the light in his own heart grew dark.

Scripture says the Spirit of the LORD departed from him, and an evil spirit began to torment him (1 Samuel 16:14).

What you see here is not merely a personal conflict — it is the old war again:

the flesh against the Spirit, the king of men against the King of God.

Saul became jealous, bitter, angry.

He tried to kill David — not once, but repeatedly.

Because the flesh always hates the Spirit.

The world will always persecute the man upon whom God’s hand rests.

David fled from Saul’s court to the caves of Adullam —

the place of hiding, but also the place of preparation.

There his first men gathered to him — the distressed, the indebted, the broken.

Not soldiers — the redeemed.

And from that band of outcasts, God built an army.

It is always the same: God never starts with the perfect; He starts with the rejected.

In the caves, David was formed — not by honour, but by pain.

Not by praise, but by suffering.

For you cannot rule for God unless you have first learned to bow under Him.

When Saul died on Mount Gilboa, Scripture says:

“Saul died because of his unfaithfulness to the LORD… and because he did not seek the LORD.” (1 Chronicles 10:13–14)

So ended the era of the human king.

And with David, God’s kingdom began to take shape again —

a kingship of faith, not politics;

of praise, not pride;

of covenant, not power.

When David was finally anointed king over Israel, the people did not only receive a leader — they heard the voice of God again:

“I have seen My king, and I have chosen him Myself.”

And here the Golden Thread becomes clear once more —

for through David, God began to cleanse the land of corruption.

Not by water as in Noah’s days,

not by confusion as at Babel,

but by war — a spiritual cleansing through blood and sword.

But this was not yet the end of the story.

For there were still giants in the land —

remnants of the old seed that still sought to disrupt the covenant.

And in the next part we will see how the war of generations comes to an end —

how David and his men destroy the last of the Nephilim lines,

and how the Golden Thread, through war and suffering, is prepared for the coming of the King of kings.