John MacArthur
John MacArthur has died. Passed away. Just like that.
I never met MacArthur, but he had a curious effect on me, nonetheless. I’m guessing many will nod their heads to that notion. I came across MacArthur in the good ol’ days, back when America was great, via the lowly, clunky cassette tape.
My then-wife and I were involved with a church, Life Center Assembly of God, and many of our friends leaned heavily toward the charismatic side of the aisle. This was old hat to me as I became a Christian through charismatic friends, but my wife was sure the Bible and any funny stuff associated with it came to an abrupt end with Revelation 22. No more of G speaking, no more special insight, and no more gifts.
We talked to my wise grandpa about it, deeply Christian for decades, sure that he had crossed the issue. Maybe he felt inadequate to broach the topic, but he had just the thing for us: cassette tapes from MacArthur about this exact thing. And like any young Christian couple or like anyone who felt unequipped for Bible study, or like any young man learning that his wife is always right, we listened intently and sidled up to MacArthur. We still wondered about friends, though. It’s one thing to glom onto a grand overarching theme, but it’s another thing altogether to say your good friends are wrong and making things up. We skirted the issue and moved for work, and became stalwarts of mostly Baptist churches. She was generally elated, and I kept sneaking off to Mass or to meeting with friends who veered heavily toward the gifts.
Over time, she eased into a more entrenched position. Always open to the Father, she was happiest where G was fenced in and well known and well understood. I hid in a position I’ve always kept: almost anything is fair play where G is concerned.
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To MacArthur.
As a young Christian, I was bowled over by his obvious acumen and depth. I still am and reach for his books often when looking for a Greek tense or at how an odd sentence fits together in the original. But I have grown wary of his conclusions.
I never fully bought into his cessationist view and now reject it out of hand. I don’t imagine he was bothered. Rejecting this broad view doesn’t mean that I endorse or believe anything except that humankind are mere bugs compared to the living and transcendent G. That we can voice His Name without turning to ash confounds me.
I wince when he talks publicly about women. I am still working through these issues, but see his view that women can’t speak to anyone but other women as anachronistic and silly. And offensive to the women of the Bible. He dabbled with this over the years and most recently set the world afire by nonchalantly canceling the Southern Baptist extraordinaire Beth Moore.
I’ve been bothered, too, by how his church handles abuse. And how confessions in counseling are very likely to come out on Sunday morning to the congregation. From the pulpit. For the entire church. There is a historical place for this. Some of the first church leaders called out those who flagrantly used the church for their own benefit, and, well, so be it. Somehow, I think they had a better line on humility, orthodoxy, and building up a brother or sister.
Lastly — and this is the basis for the Grumpy Old Men movies — MacArthur, at least publicly, has become more of a grumpy old man himself who forgives little and is always right. To be fair, I listened to a recent sermon of his, and he brought this up jovially. The congregation laughed with him when he said he would be glad to change any view as long as someone proved him to wrong. [Laugh track] This attitude rankles me as I increasingly find deep satisfaction in becoming more forgiving and curious as I age. I was in a bike racing accident years ago that left me with a traumatic brain injury, a host of broken bones, and a three-month stay in the hospital. Let me tell ya: that puts a spin on your perspective.
I wish I could have met MacArthur and thanked him for his vast work and for being so indomitable regarding a faith under increasing attack. We would have laughed about things, and probably moaned, too. It’s what old people do best. I think of him now like I do about Wayne Dyer, another man I disagreed with often. I might have disagreed with much of what they said, but never once have I heard them speak or read a thing they wrote when I didn’t come away having learned something new and seen a new perspective. For that, I’m thankful.
