Why reflect on these three men — MacArthur, Ozzy, and Hulk Hogan — in the same breath?
There’s something unsettling about watching your heroes die.
Recently, the news came like three waves: John MacArthur passed away, followed by Ozzy Osbourne and Hulk Hogan. A preacher, a rocker, and a wrestler—men who could not have been more different, yet all were tangled up in my formative years.
Their names, voices, and images shaped the culture around me. Each embodied conviction, charisma, and influence in their own way. They were larger-than-life figures for a kid growing up in the 1980s and '90s—and now they’re gone.
When the icons of your youth start falling, the illusion of permanence cracks.
I will turn 50 this year. At this stage of life, death becomes less theoretical and more intimate. When you’re young, death is a distant rumor. Now it’s becoming a closer reality. And when the icons of your youth start falling, the illusion of permanence cracks. You’re forced to admit: our time is short.
This isn’t just nostalgia. It’s theology. From a Christian perspective, the passing of these men is a reminder that all flesh is grass, that all our heroes die, and that only one Man has conquered death for us.
John MacArthur: The Voice I Wasn’t Supposed to Hear
I wasn’t supposed to listen to John MacArthur. He was a Calvinist and a cessationist — two strikes in my circles growing up. But I did anyway. In the ’90s, his voice cut through Christian radio and cassette tapes like a theological scalpel: precise, firm, unflinching. He was my first real theological influence.
MacArthur introduced me to verse-by-verse preaching, to a high view of Scripture, and to the seriousness of doctrinal clarity. He taught me reverence for God’s Word. I devoured his sermons and books. But over time, I began to feel the limitations of his theological system. The Reformed Baptist framework he represented was rigid, often cold, and increasingly at odds with the richness of the Scriptures. There was law, but not much gospel. There was order, but not much mystery.
Eventually, I discovered Luther and the Lutheran confessions. I found a theology that made room for paradox and for a God who is just and the justifier, hidden and revealed, utterly holy yet scandalously gracious. MacArthur had taught me to care about truth, but Luther showed me Christ: not merely as a doctrine to defend, but as the living Savior who comes for sinners with mercy, not merit.
I’m grateful for MacArthur. He was the gateway to something deeper.
Where MacArthur often turned me inward to look for fruit and progress as evidence of my salvation. Luther pointed me past myself to Christ and his promises, the promise of forgiveness of sins—a word of hope that is not contingent on me or my performance. I discovered a savior who dies for the world, who justifies the ungodly, who meets sinners not in their strength but in their need.
Still, I’m grateful for MacArthur. He was the gateway to something deeper. A sincere and bold preacher, he pushed me toward better questions and, ultimately, a better theology.
Ozzy: The Soundtrack of Forbidden Curiosity
Then there was Ozzy Osbourne.In youth group, he was the devil’s house band. Remember Hells Bells? The posters, the bat, the eyeliner: Ozzy was everything we were told to stay away from. But we listened anyway.
There was a rawness in his voice, an ache beneath the noise. It wasn’t just rebellion, it was resonance. His music expressed the chaos, confusion, and darkness that teenagers often feel but don’t know how to articulate. He was dangerous, but also strangely human.
I’m not a metalhead today. (And honestly, I never really was one.) My musical tastes have mellowed. Now, I listen to other outlaws, like Waylon and Merle, but Ozzy’s presence in my life was important, not because he was wholesome, but because he pointed to the brokenness that demands something more than moralism.
Where despair shows up, the gospel is an even sweeter word.
His songs hinted at despair. And where despair shows up, the gospel is an even sweeter word. In some strange way, Ozzy’s darkness made me long for light: for something real, redemptive, and lasting. His honesty about human frailty was a sharp contrast to the plastic spirituality that I often observed in the church. It made me ask deeper questions. And it led me, eventually, to Christ crucified.
Hulk: The Last Hero of Childhood
And finally, Hulk Hogan: the red-and-yellow headband-laden, mustachioed icon of the WWF (before it became WWE). For every kid in the 1980s, Hulk Hogan was a superhero in spandex. WrestleMania III in 1987: Hogan vs. Andre the Giant. If you were there, you remember.
Hulk told us to say our prayers and eat our vitamins. He flexed, he posed, he slammed giants. We suspected it was scripted, but it didn’t matter. He was our guy. He stood for good in a world that didn’t feel all that good. He was every kid’s imaginary big brother: tough, loud, invincible.
But then the years passed. Wrestling got weirder. We grew up. We saw the cracks–the scripted storylines, the backstage drama, the scandal. And eventually, we stopped watching.
Still, when Hogan died, it hit differently. Not because I was still a fan, but because it marked the death of a part of my childhood. When Hulk dies, it’s like innocence dies with him. If even our strongest heroes fall, what hope do the rest of us have?
That’s the thing: they all fall. Wrestlers. Rockers. Preachers. You. Me.
The Theology of Mortality
So why reflect on these three men — MacArthur, Ozzy, and Hulk Hogan — in the same breath?
Because their deaths preach to us, they remind us that we are not permanent. That all human glory fades. That the real enemy isn’t irrelevance, or aging, or cultural change, the real enemy is death.
And yet, for the Christian, death is not the end of the story. Baptism promises that death is in the past. We confess that Christ has entered death for us and shattered it. That he descended into the grave to blow it open from the inside. He rose, not as a metaphor or spiritual encouragement, but bodily with scars and breath and victory.
So yes, MacArthur, the man who preached doctrine with fire and force, died. I’m convinced that when the end came, he knew not just the theology of grace, but the experience of it.
Yes, Ozzy, the man who sang of madness and mortality, died. I don’t know if he ever came to know Christ. But I know Christ came for sinners like him. And grace is often quiet. Sometimes unseen. Who’s to say what prayers were prayed in the night?
And yes, Hulk, the cartoon hero of a generation, died. I read that he was baptized recently and trusted Christ as his Savior. Even Hulk was not too strong for the grave, but there is One stronger still.
Your Time Is Short
The deaths of our heroes are a call to sober-mindedness, repentance, and hope.
Luther said we should live as if Christ died yesterday, rose today, and is coming again tomorrow. That’s not just poetic. It’s practical. It reminds us that theology isn’t about theoretical arguments or ethereal ideas. It’s earthy, raw, and when done rightly, it meets us in the mess, right where we are, not where we are supposed to be.
So what do we do when our heroes die?
We grieve. We give thanks. We remember. And then we lift our eyes to the cross, where the only true Hero conquered death and the grave—where Jesus bled for sinners, for the pastor, the rocker, the wrestler, and the rest of us.
And in him, we find the hope that does not die.
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