“After the death of Saul, David returned from striking down the Amalekites and stayed in Ziklag two days. On the third day a man arrived from Saul’s camp with his clothes torn and dust on his head. When he came to David, he fell to the ground to pay him honor. ‘Where have you come from?’ David asked him. He answered, ‘I have escaped from the Israelite camp.’ ‘What happened?’ David asked. ‘Tell me.’ ‘The men fled from the battle,’ he replied. ‘Many of them fell and died. And Saul and his son Jonathan are dead.’ Then David said to the young man who brought him the report, ‘How do you know that Saul and his son Jonathan are dead?’ ‘I happened to be on Mount Gilboa,’ the young man said, ‘and there was Saul, leaning on his spear, with the chariots and their drivers in hot pursuit.  When he turned around and saw me, he called out to me, and I said, “What can I do?” He asked me, “Who are you?” “An Amalekite,” I answered. Then he said to me, “Stand here by me and kill me! I’m in the throes of death, but I’m still alive.” So I stood beside him and killed him, because I knew that after he had fallen he could not survive. And I took the crown that was on his head and the band on his arm and have brought them here to my lord.’ Then David and all the men with him took hold of their clothes and tore them. They mourned and wept and fasted till evening for Saul and his son Jonathan, and for the army of the Lord and for the nation of Israel, because they had fallen by the sword.”—2 Samuel 1:1–12 (NIV)

Grief doesn’t always follow clean cuts or straight lines. Sometimes it’s a tangled mess of sorrow, confusion, relief, and even guilt. We want to feel one thing, but we feel 12 others, too. We mourn while also breathing a sigh of something like justice or closure. It’s complex, and it can be hard to untangle, especially as followers of Jesus who believe in both justice and mercy.

When David heard about the deaths of Saul and Jonathan, he tore his clothes and wept. And I promise you this, he wasn’t just weeping and mourning for Jonathan—his best friend, covenant brother, and a man whose love had been a lifeline—but also for Saul, the very man who had tried to kill him over and over again. David had every earthly reason to feel vindicated. He was finally free. The man who had positioned himself as David’s enemy was gone. The throne was open to him now. Years of running and hiding were over. Yet what we see in David isn’t triumph or revenge. It’s raw, unfiltered grief.

I was reminded of this moment in David’s life on November 26, 2016, the day after Fidel Castro died. I’m a first-generation Cuban American. My parents came to the U.S. fleeing a tyrannical, destructive regime that crushed dissent, imprisoned the outspoken, and punished freedom. My sister was born in 1959, the year Castro seized power. My brother was born in 1963. I’m the only one of my parents’ three children born on American soil. Anyone who knew my dad knows his boldness—he never would’ve survived under Castro’s thumb. In fact, he knew for a fact they were coming for him. Like many Cuban families, ours has known trauma, loss, and deep generational wounds because of Castro’s regime’s oppression. So, when news broke he had died, I expected celebration to flood my soul in the same way it did so many of my close family members, friends, and the whole of Cuban-American population in South Florida.

But to my surprise, that feeling of celebration never came. Yes, there was a flicker of vindication, of justice. But mostly what I felt was a strange, uncomfortable sadness. I felt conflicted. Because even though Fidel Castro committed unimaginable evil, even though he inflicted horror on my people and others around the world, I couldn’t celebrate the likely eternal condemnation of a soul. I remembered 2 Peter 3:9 (NLT), which says, “The Lord isn’t really being slow about his promise . . . He does not want anyone to be destroyed, but wants everyone to repent.”

That verse was heavy on my heart. I couldn’t find joy in the reality that someone, even someone as wicked as Castro, had died separated from the God who created him and who literally sent His one and only Son to die a gruesome death on his behalf—yes, Jesus died for Fidel Castro’s sins, too. And that internal war—the tension between justice and mercy—is something I imagine David felt, too.

David knew Saul had fallen from God. He knew the king had spiraled into disobedience, jealousy, insecurity, and rebellion. But Saul was still God’s anointed—something we know David respected (1 Samuel 26:9). And even though their relationship was broken, David still saw Saul’s life as sacred. His death was tragic not only for what it meant politically, but for what it meant spiritually: a life that seemingly ended far from the presence of God—I say seemingly because I’m not God and I can’t say what Saul felt and said to God in his final moments.

And then there was Jonathan, the friend who stuck by him, protected him, and even defended him to his own father. A man who, in many ways more so than just about any other Old Testament figure, points us to Jesus with his loyalty, humility, and sacrificial love. David was heartbroken. His best friend was gone. The one person who had always believed in him, always fought for him, was dead. That grief was layered and overwhelming.

This passage shows us how to hold sorrow with nuance. We grieve the loss of loved ones who die in Christ, like David grieved Jonathan, knowing we’ll see them again. But we must also grieve for those who die far from Him . . . not because we excuse their evil, but because we know Jesus died for them, and it breaks His heart when people reject that gift. It should break ours, too. 

Apart from Christ, none of us are worthy. Whether you’re more like Jonathan or Saul, like my dad or Fidel Castro, our inborn sinful nature levels the playing field. My sin, though not as notorious, still deserves death. But while sin levels the playing field, the gospel changes the game! Because of Jesus, my debt is paid and my eternity is secure. 

So I grieve. I grieve the evil men do. I grieve the pain they cause. I grieve the lives they ruin. But I also grieve the reality that hell is real and that people choose to go there. And if we truly believe that, then even the fall of our enemies should cause us to both weep and be moved to action. What action? The action of telling everyone we know about the good news of Jesus, proclaiming boldly, as if we have nothing to lose and they have EVERYTHING to gain, that a relationship with Jesus changes everything both here and now and for all eternity.

Pause: Reflect on someone whose fall or passing made you feel conflicted. What does your response reveal about your heart? Are you holding space for both truth and grace?

Practice: Ask God to grow your compassion. Write down the name of someone you struggle to forgive or grieve. Pray for them and let the gospel remind you of God’s heart for all people. 

Pray: Father, give me a heart that grieves with wisdom and mercy. Break me free from bitterness or vengeance. Let me love even my enemies—not excusing their sin, but recognizing their need for grace, just like mine. Thank You that, in Christ, I am forgiven. Help me to live—and grieve—in light of that. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.