When the Mighty Fall

A Facebook memory surfaced for me recently. A friend had posted something about Saul and David, and I remember the pushback he received at the time. His basic point was simple: David didn’t celebrate when Saul fell. He wept.

He didn’t just mourn his friend Jonathan. He mourned Saul.

Some of the responses honestly disturbed me. People seemed determined to defend their right to rejoice when someone they considered wicked finally got what was coming to them. And remember, those responses came long before the recent wave of very public exposures and falls of prominent Christian leaders and prophets, which may be why it caught my attention again.

We’ve learned a lot about accountability since then. We’ve created space for honest conversations about protecting people who have been harmed/ We are refusing to cover sin, and are refusing to confuse anointing with character. Hard yet respectful conversations need to continue. I believe that deeply.

But I wonder if, along the way, we’ve sometimes picked up something else too. Not just a hunger for truth or justice, but a taste for the downfall.

Samuel Mourned Saul

Before David ever mourned Saul, Samuel did. After Saul’s final rejection as king, 1 Samuel 15:35 tells us plainly: “Samuel mourned for Saul.” Then God says to Samuel, “How long will you mourn for Saul, since I have rejected him as king over Israel? Fill your horn with oil and be on your way; I am sending you to Jesse of Bethlehem.” 1 Samuel 16:1. In other words, God was telling Samuel to take the anointing oil and move forward toward the one He had chosen next.

I’ve heard that verse used almost as a rebuke against grieving someone who has fallen. But look again. God wasn’t telling Samuel that his grief was wrong. Samuel had loved Saul. He had invested in him. He had watched a man God chose and anointed repeatedly make choices that eventually cost him his kingship. There was something worth grieving.

But Samuel was also a prophet to a nation. He couldn’t stay seated in his grief indefinitely while Israel needed him to obey God and look toward its future.

That distinction matters to me. Samuel could mourn Saul while still looking after the people God had called him to serve. Grieving a fallen leader doesn’t mean restoring them to leadership. Compassion doesn’t mean covering sin. Honouring what God once did through someone doesn’t require pretending what they later did wasn’t destructive. And protecting the people entrusted to us doesn’t require us to become hard-hearted toward the person who fell. We can do both.

Then Saul Died

David had every human reason to celebrate. Saul had hunted him, threatened him, driven him from his home, forced him to live as a fugitive, and repeatedly attempted to kill him. And now Saul was dead. The throne was finally within David’s reach.

Surely this was the moment for an “I told you so.” Instead, David wept. He tore his clothes. He mourned. He fasted. Then he wrote a lament.

David didn’t deny Saul’s history. He knew better than almost anyone what Saul had become. But he could still grieve what had been lost. A man who had once been chosen and anointed by God had fallen. “How the mighty have fallen.” Those aren’t words of gloating. They’re words of lament.

David Did It Again

Years later, David would weep over another man who betrayed him: his own son Absalom. Absalom had undermined David, stolen the hearts of the people, seized his throne, and driven him from Jerusalem. When Absalom died, David didn’t celebrate the removal of his enemy. He cried, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!”

Now, Joab and his busybody tendencies are an entirely different article, and believe me, I have thoughts. But buried underneath Joab’s rather brutal delivery was something David needed to hear. There were people who had remained faithful to David. They had risked their lives. They needed their king.

David could grieve his son, but he also needed to get up and sit at the gate. In that culture, the city gate wasn’t just an entryway. It was where leaders were visible, where judgments were made, where business was conducted, and where people looked for reassurance. For David to sit there was to show the people, especially those who had risked their lives for him, that their king was present, steady, and still willing to lead.

And there’s the tension again.

Samuel: Mourn Saul but fill your horn with oil.

David: Mourn Absalom but sit at the gate.

Grief doesn’t cancel responsibility. Responsibility doesn’t cancel grief.

What About Us?

We’re living in a time when hidden things are being exposed, and some of that exposure is necessary. When leaders abuse power, manipulate people, commit sexual sin, misuse money, deceive those they lead, or refuse accountability, bringing truth into the light is not dishonour.

And when consequences are required, we shouldn’t interfere simply because someone was once greatly used by God. Samuel didn’t put Saul back on the throne, but neither did his grief prevent him from anointing David. That’s the part I don’t want us to lose.

Because somewhere between covering everything and celebrating everything that gets uncovered, there has to be a Christlike way of responding.

Proverbs 24:17 says, “Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles.” If Scripture tells me not to rejoice when my enemy falls, surely that should give me pause before gloating over the spectacular collapse of a brother or sister in Christ.

We can call sin what it is. We listen to and believe those who have been harmed. We establish boundaries. We remove someone from leadership when necessary. We resist the temptation to prematurely restore someone to a position of trust until they walk through the process with humility, vulnerability, and submission to wise counsel. In some circumstances, returning to that position may never be appropriate. We should expect restitution where it is needed. And we must protect the flock and keep the flock informed so they can make their own decisions.

But we must fill our horns with oil and move forward. Leaders might need to get up and sit at the gate.

But we can still weep.

Because when someone who carried the call of God destroys their ministry, wounds people, and throws away something precious, there really is something to mourn. How the mighty have fallen. Not, “Good. They deserved it.” But perhaps, Lord, have mercy. Heal the people who were hurt. Protect Your Church. Restore what can be restored. And keep my own heart humble, because I’m not standing here as the righteous spectator at somebody else’s execution.