John MacArthur has died. And as with any public figure whose platform wielded immense influence, his death is stirring up a wide spectrum of reactions—from grief and admiration to quiet relief, even joy.

Some will praise his legacy. Others will grieve not his passing, but what he left in his wake.

Let me be clear: I will never celebrate the death of another human being. Death is not justice. It’s not reconciliation. It’s not healing. It simply closes the door on the possibility of accountability in this life. That said, I can absolutely understand why many feel a sense of release at the news of MacArthur’s passing.

Because while he lived, John MacArthur did enormous harm.

He wasn’t simply a conservative preacher with hard theological stances. He used his pulpit to cover for abusers, to discredit victims, and to perpetuate systems of control disguised as faith. His name has appeared again and again in reports detailing cover-ups of abuse—particularly involving women and children who came to his church for safety and were instead retraumatized by his leadership.

He preached submission for women and silence for victims. He rejected psychology, therapy, and trauma-informed care. He painted compassion as compromise and framed obedience as the only pathway to God. He weaponized Scripture to demand loyalty and suppress dissent, all while building an empire around a God who looked suspiciously like himself.

MacArthur’s teachings weren’t just “controversial” or “strict.” They were destructive.

And thousands—if not millions—are still carrying the weight of that destruction.

So while I won’t celebrate his death, I also won’t whitewash his legacy. Too often, when a powerful man dies, people rush to honor his “ministry” while ignoring the trail of pain he left behind. But healing requires honesty. And honesty means telling the whole truth—even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it breaks from the narrative of reverence so many expect at death.

It’s easy to honor the dead. It’s much harder to stand with the living—especially the wounded, silenced, and discarded.

If you are one of those people—someone who was harmed under John MacArthur’s leadership, someone whose trauma was minimized or spiritualized away—I want you to know this: Your pain matters. Your story matters. And your healing is more sacred than any legacy of power.

I hope those still defending him will one day reckon with the impact of what they’re upholding. But even if they don’t, let this moment be a turning point for truth-telling. Let it be a reminder that no platform, no fame, no theological credentials can shield someone from the truth of their actions. Death does not undo harm. But it does mark an end—and perhaps, for some, the beginning of release.

The work of healing and accountability is ours to carry forward now.

“You don’t get to be an abuser and remain accountability free. Not in life, and not in legacy.”