And the terrifying part? David didn’t change. He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t mock Saul; he didn’t flaunt his fame. He kept serving, kept honoring, kept fighting Saul’s battles. But it didn’t matter, because once a narcissist sees you as a threat, even your goodness becomes offensive. Your humility exposes their pride; your obedience calls out their rebellion; your loyalty reminds them of everything they lack. Instead of turning inward and repenting, they turn on you.
That’s how narcissistic rage works. It’s not always logical; it doesn’t need a reason. It just needs a crack in the illusion. One moment you’re their favorite; the next, you’re the enemy. Saul picked up a spear twice and threw it at the very one who calmed his storms. And David, bless his heart, kept coming back.
That’s the trap, isn’t it? We think if we just love harder, serve better, shrink smaller, they’ll stop. But rage doesn’t respond to kindness; it feeds on it. The more gracious you are, the more the narcissist sees their own darkness reflected in your light. And here’s what hurts: David loved Saul, not just respected him—he loved him. That man was the father he never had. So imagine how confusing it must have been: one day beloved, the next hunted—not because of betrayal, but because of success, because of blessing.
Friend, let me say this clearly: you can’t earn peace with a heart at war with itself. You could be doing your absolute best, walking in righteousness, honoring every promise, and still the narcissist will twist it, resent it, and punish you for it. And you’ll wonder, “What did I do?” The truth is, sometimes it’s not about what you did; it’s about who you are. Just your presence, your quiet confidence, your peace, your grace can awaken shame in the narcissist. Instead of facing that shame, they project it. They make you the villain in their inner war.
David could have become bitter; he could have fought fire with fire. But he didn’t. He ran—not in fear, but in wisdom. And even in exile, he never lost his worship. He never let Saul’s rage define his future. Let this be your reminder: someone else’s brokenness doesn’t get to write your story. Maybe you’re not in a palace, or maybe it’s not a king chasing you. Maybe it’s a parent, a spouse, a friend, or a boss. But the pattern’s the same: one moment you’re their world; the next, you’re the target. You try to explain, you try to fix it, you try to understand. But listen: you don’t have to stay in a war you didn’t start just to prove you’re worthy of peace. Sometimes the most holy thing you can do is walk away with your anointing intact.
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