Wrestling with Legacies: When Christian Leaders Leave Both Healing and Harm

Can we honor spiritual impact while acknowledging moral failure?

What do we do with Christian leaders who change lives for the better—and also cause deep harm? In light of John MacArthur’s passing and Bishop Mariann Budde’s reflections in How We Learn to Be Brave, I wrestle with the tension between impact and imperfection, grace and accountability.

Recently, I was at the library with my kids and found How We Learn to Be Brave by Bishop Mariann Budde. It’s the second of her books I’ve read, and she’s quickly becoming one of my favorite authors. Her deep faith, wisdom, and compelling storytelling make for a powerful combination. In this book, How We Learn to Be Brave, one quote in particular stood out to me. It connected with something I’ve continually struggled to come to terms with in recent years: What do we do with Christian leaders who positively impact so many people for the faith, yet also fail miserably and profoundly in other ways?

She writes:

A word of warning for those who haven't read the early biblical texts: much of what we find there is offensive to modern sensibilities. In the ancient world, slavery, polygamy, patriarchy, and violence were normative, and like some in our time, many people, including those writing these texts, believed that such atrocities were God-sanctioned.

Fortunately, there is a corrective thread throughout Scripture and an admirable willingness to acknowledge the failures and sins of our spiritual ancestors. In other words, the Bible tells stories of imperfect human beings and their encounters with God through sweeps of history that are as messy as our own time. As each generation reads the ancient texts through a new lens, they reveal fresh insights that provide meaning, challenge, consolation, and guidance. (p. 123)

With the recent news of John MacArthur’s passing, this challenge has arisen anew within me—especially as I see, on my own social media feed, examples of both deep appreciation for the man and his ministry, and deep disgust.

One person I follow posted, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Another wrote, “MacArthur was a racist, misogynistic... that’s [his] legacy.”

Those two quotes, from two different people, represent a sharp divide. One came from a theologically educated churchgoer; the other, from someone who volunteered in local church settings. I’ll let you guess which was which—but that’s not the point.

I can’t say much about MacArthur’s life and legacy—I haven’t followed his career, especially since leaving fundamentalism twenty years ago. But this stark difference in perspectives makes me wonder, once again: What do we do with the legacies of people who impact countless lives for Christ, yet also cause harm—sometimes profoundly—especially when allegations of abuse and coverups are credible?

It’s something I’ve struggled with personally. Years ago, I worked for a church leader who wounded me deeply, yet also helped many others reconnect with church and rediscover their faith. While I’ve largely come to forgive him, I still carry slivers of anger, bitterness, and grief when I reflect on the damage done—to me and my family—under his leadership.

And yet, I acknowledge that for many, this person was the entry point back into faith and community.

I think Bishop Budde’s words offer wisdom and practicality for situations like these: “Fortunately, there is a corrective thread throughout Scripture and an admirable willingness to acknowledge the failures and sins of our spiritual ancestors.” Yet I’m also reminded that the “heroes of the faith” in Hebrews 11—Abraham, Isaac, Jacob—were deeply flawed: guilty of slavery, polygamy, patriarchy, and violence, yet still held up as examples of faith.

Perhaps we need our own “corrective thread”—a way of acknowledging both a leader’s shortcomings and their impact. Unfortunately, in these polarized and anxious times, I’m not sure nuance—or even gentle correction—is possible.

Perhaps we need our own “corrective thread”—a way of acknowledging both a leader’s shortcomings and their impact. Unfortunately, in these polarized and anxious times, I’m not sure nuance—or even gentle correction—is always possible.

But maybe we must try anyway.

I was recently texting with my friend and colleague Dennis Sanders about how to close out this post. He added this:

“I think it would be better to say what you said about the abuse and say this is as much his legacy as all the good he did or something like that.”

I asked if I should remove part of what I had written and simply say his legacy is mixed.

His response:

“No, I would leave the opening paragraph, but then say that his legacy is mixed. People should know that he allowed for some really bad shit. And yet people’s lives were changed for the better through him as well. I think what I’m getting at, to put it bluntly, is that he was a son of a bitch that was still used by God.”

That last line stunned me with its clarity and honesty: “He was a son of a bitch that was still used by God.”

I sort of wonder, if when we say things in this way, we give the ultimate glory to God, not man, as it should be.

As my friend continued:

“Think of it this way: we now think what David did with Bathsheba was rape. And yet God still worked through David and David loved God. Both things are true and both have to be lifted up.”

So maybe that’s where we land: not in resolution, but in recognition. The truth is complex. But perhaps the good news in all this scandal is exactly what we’ve always known to be true about God—that God brings beauty from brokenness, redemption from failure, and good from what was meant for harm. And in that, the glory does not go to flawed leaders, but to the God who works through them in spite of themselves.