He was the last of a dying breed—a pastor who not only knew what he believed, but believed what he knew. John Fullerton MacArthur Jr., born in 1939, didn’t just walk into history; he stormed in like a theological tempest. While most pastors today tiptoe through the tulips of cultural relevance, MacArthur thundered across the pulpit with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball wrapped in Scripture.

He began preaching at Grace Community Church in Sun Valley, California, in 1969, and for more than five decades he fed his flock not with syrupy platitudes, but with expository preaching sharp enough to split bone from marrow.

He wrote—a lot. Aside from preaching, writing must have been his favorite thing to do. From his multi-volume New Testament Commentary Series to his gold-standard MacArthur Study Bible, his pen bled ink saturated in sola Scriptura. That Study Bible alone became a spiritual compass for millions, a theological anchor dropped deep in the stormy seas of modern evangelicalism. His commentaries—each of them like precision airstrikes on heresy—offered verse-by-verse clarity in an era of vagueness, where most pastors couldn’t exegete their way out of a children’s devotional.

He founded The Master’s Seminary to train a generation of warriors, not showmen. And his radio ministry, Grace to You, filled the airwaves with sermons that weren’t so much sermons as they were surgical demolitions of weak doctrine and soft-spoken apostasy.

But even the strongest vessels creak under pressure. In the final years of his life, MacArthur’s body began to show signs of wear. Pneumonia put him in the hospital. His preaching slowed, his gait slowed, but his convictions never did. MacArthur stood behind the pulpit with a weakened frame but a steel spine. And then, on July 14, 2025, the Lord took him home.

Quietly. No fanfare. No parade.

Just a faithful soldier crossing over to glory, leaving behind a world noisier, shallower, and infinitely more confused than when he first took the pulpit.

And yet, what he left wasn’t a vacuum—it was a gaping hole in the side of a crumbling evangelical ship. Because John MacArthur wasn’t just a preacher, he was a polemicist in the truest, most biblical sense. A guardian at the gate. A watchman who actually stayed awake. He didn’t simply rebuke false teachers—he incinerated them.

When Joel Osteen would smile his way through another man-centered, God-optional message, MacArthur would unload a biblical cannon. When T.D. Jakes tap-danced around Trinitarian heresy, MacArthur didn’t flinch—he called it what it was. False doctrine, cloaked in designer suits and stage lighting.

He didn’t hold back against even Billy Graham, who did far more to compromise the gospel than to spread it.

And while it took him a minute to gain his composure during the COVID scandal, initially shutting the doors to “obey the government,” eventually he came to his senses on that, too. He wasn’t the first pastor to defy the godless orders against corporate worship, but when he finally did, the world noticed.

While celebrity pastors livestreamed sermons from their living rooms like pajama-clad YouTubers, MacArthur opened his doors and dared the state of California to say something about it. They did. He ignored them. They threatened him. He sued them. They backed down. His words rang with clarity in a fog of confusion: “Christ, not Caesar, is head of the Church.”

Even when asked what he would do if they locked him up for disobeying government mandates, he remarked that he’d be starting a prison ministry.

John MacArthur eviscerated the Strange Fire movement—the modern charismatic chaos masquerading as Holy Spirit revival. He compared it to the Hindu Kundalini cult, and he wasn’t joking. While others offered olive branches to Bethel’s circus of angel feathers and glory clouds, MacArthur brought gasoline and a match.

He called this movement what it was: demonic deception packaged for YouTube views and emotional manipulation. Bethel, Hillsong, IHOP—they weren’t modern revivals. They were spiritual Ponzi schemes preying on the biblically illiterate.

MacArthur took a strong stance against the modern sexual revolution, too—not just in the culture, but in the pews. He called out homosexuality and transgenderism as the God-mocking perversions they are. Not out of hate, but out of obedience. He didn’t whisper about Romans 1, he shouted it. He wasn’t unclear about Deuteronomy 22:5, he exposited it. And he paid the price for it. But he wasn’t counting votes or donors—he was counting the cost.

And then, of course, there was that moment—the one that echoed around the globe. During a panel discussion at a Shepherd’s Conference, the panel was asked to give a one-word reaction to the name “Beth Moore.” Without missing a beat, MacArthur leaned into the mic and said:

“Go home!”

The audience erupted. Not because it was clever, but because it was true. And because finally—finally—someone had the spine to say what others were too busy platforming to admit…that women aren’t called to preach. Not by God. Not by Scripture. Not by anything except their own feelings and the applause of feminized churches too scared to open their Bibles. He didn’t backpedal. He didn’t clarify. He didn’t apologize. Because truth doesn’t need footnotes.

It wasn’t always pretty. When you wield a sword that sharp, blood spills. And the hyenas came in droves. Julie Roys—professional slanderer and full-time gossip columnist—made a career out of trying to stick MacArthur with every accusation short of crucifying him herself. She accused him of abusing the vulnerable, hiding scandals, hoarding money, and selling snake oil. Never mind the facts—Roys trafficked in innuendo and tearful anecdotes weaponized for clicks.

Then there was Dwight McKissic, who once retweeted that MacArthur, had he lived in the 1800s, would’ve owned a “massive plantation.” The man who spent his life preaching the gospel to all nations was reduced to a caricature by a man who apparently believes that the melanin in your skin is a more accurate gauge of orthodoxy than the truth on your tongue.

JD Greear, too—Mr. “Whisper about sexual sin”—maligned MacArthur’s courage during COVID. While MacArthur was facing down lawsuits and fines to keep his church open, Greear was broadcasting Zoom sermons from his couch and calling it “loving your neighbor” while inviting Beth Moore over to his own house just to stick it to MacArthur.

But for every critic, there were thousands more who drew strength from his clarity. Men who stood taller in their pulpits because MacArthur refused to bend his knee. Families who read their Bibles because MacArthur taught them how. Churches who reopened their doors because MacArthur reminded them who owns the keys.

And now, he’s gone. But not lost. He is “home.” Because on that Monday in July, John MacArthur finally heard the words he spent a lifetime preaching toward:

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Not because he was sinless. Not because he was flawless. But because he was faithful. Faithful to the text. Faithful to the truth. Faithful to his Lord.

But don’t be confused—this legacy isn’t about John. It never was. It’s about the God who raised him up, the God who used a stubborn Californian with a Bible and a backbone to shout down the lies of an effeminate age.

It’s about the Christ who bled for His Church, and the Spirit who equipped one man to shepherd it with courage. John MacArthur is gone. But the glory belongs to God.

Soli Deo Gloria!