The Rise and Fall of Mark Driscoll's Critics

Mark Driscoll’s saga is a lightning rod, a tale of fiery ascent, catastrophic collapse, and a brazen reemergence that has left jaws on the floor and critics frothing. Once the brash poster boy of the megachurch boom, Driscoll’s fall from Mars Hill was a spectacle of biblical proportions—accusations flying like locusts, allies scattering like roaches in the light. Now, in 2025, he’s clawing his way back, not just as a pulpit pounder but as a conservative influencer with a political edge, basking in the glow of a rehabbed image. His haters are apoplectic, unhinged at the mere mention of his name without a scarlet letter of condemnation. Yet, the runway ahead for Driscoll gleams with possibility. This isn’t a cheer for his comeback—it’s a cold, hard look at why the man isn’t “done for” and why his critics are tripping over their own sanctimonious feet.

THE DOWNFALL OF MARS HILL: A HOUSE OF CARDS IN A STORM

Picture Seattle in the early 2000s: Mark Driscoll, a leather-lunged preacher with a knack for edgy sermons, builds Mars Hill Church into a juggernaut. Thousands pack the pews, drawn by his in-your-face style, unapologetic theology, and a vision of muscular Christianity that made limp-wristed evangelicals squirm. By 2014, the empire was cracking. The charges came fast and furious: spiritual abuse, bullying, pride, plagiarism, and a leadership style that smelled more of a dictator than a disciple. Former pastors—21 of them—filed formal complaints, painting Driscoll as a tyrant who berated staff, demanded loyalty, and crushed dissent. Elders recounted tales of verbal lashing, with Driscoll allegedly ruling by fear, a shepherd more wolf than protector.

Then came the plagiarism scandal. Radio host Janet Mefferd accused him of lifting chunks of text for books like Real Marriage without credit, a claim that stuck like mud. The stink grew when Driscoll was tied to a shady scheme to game the New York Times bestseller list, funneling church funds through a marketing firm to boost his books. Acts 29, the church-planting network he co-founded, ousted him, with president Matt Chandler citing concerns over character. By late 2014, investigations loomed—Mars Hill’s board probed his conduct, and the pressure boiled over. Driscoll resigned, ducking formal discipline, and the church imploded, dissolving by year’s end. Congregants were shell-shocked, staff scattered, and Driscoll became a pariah, radioactive in evangelical circles. His sins—pride, harshness, ethical lapses—were plastered across headlines, blogs, and a scathing podcast, The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill, by Christianity Today’s Mike Cosper. The consensus? Driscoll was finished, a cautionary tale of hubris and unchecked power.

The chaos was undeniable. Friends turned foes, elders raced to denounce him, and the mob bayed for blood. Accusations flew—some sharp, some sloppy—ranging from manipulative control to crude comments about sex and gender. He’d painted himself into a corner, a pastor who’d preached “blamelessness” now buried under a landslide of blame. Yet, a decade later, the tombstone carved for his career lies cracked, and Driscoll’s stepping out, bolder than ever.

REEMERGENCE: FROM PULPIT TO POLITICAL CONSERVATIVE FIREBRAND

Fast forward to 2025, and Mark Driscoll’s not just back—he’s thriving, a phoenix rising in Arizona from the ashes of Mars Hill with a new playbook. No longer confined to the pulpit, he’s a force in conservative circles, blending biblical bravado with political red meat. At Scottsdale’s The Trinity Church, he’s pastored quietly for years, building a flock that shrugs off his past. But his reach now stretches beyond Sunday sermons. Driscoll’s a darling of the right, his voice amplified by a social media presence that’s raw, unfiltered, and magnetically polarizing.

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Take April 2024: Driscoll storms the Stronger Men’s Conference, hosted by James River Church. When a sword-swallowing act veers into what he calls a “homoerotic” stunt, he grabs the mic, rebukes it as a “striptease,” and gets booted from the stage. The crowd roars, clips go viral, and conservatives hail him as a truth-teller, a man unafraid to call a spade a spade. Social media lights up, with users praising him as “a man among boys,” crediting him with making Bible-preaching “cool again.” The move’s genius—PR-driven or not—cements his cred as a warrior against cultural rot.

His political turn is stark. Driscoll’s sermons now jab at progressive sacred cows—transgenderism, woke ideology, government overreach—aligning him with the MAGA crowd. In February 2025, whispers of a White House visit surface. While no official record confirms it, social media buzzes with claims calling him “one of the most influential evangelical preachers” of the day, speculating he’s briefed influencers on policy or prayed with conservative lawmakers. Axios reports the Trump administration courting pro-MAGA figures, and Driscoll’s name floats in the mix, a nod to his sway. He’s back in the news, too—Forbes notes conservative influencers boosting Christian films like The King of Kings, with Driscoll’s endorsements echoing across X, tying him to an anti-“woke” cultural push.

His podcast, The Mark Driscoll Podcast, churns out content, blending doctrine with defiance, racking up listens from a base hungry for his blunt takes. He’s not just a pastor; he’s a conservative influencer, a voice for those fed up with milquetoast evangelicalism. The reemergence is real—Driscoll’s face, once a symbol of disgrace, now flashes across screens, partially rehabbed, and his critics are losing their minds.

The last few days have seen the meltdown peak. Megan Basham dares reference Driscoll in a post without a disclaimer, and the sanctimonious swarm descends. Squishy evangelicals seethe, decrying anyone who’d platform a “disqualified” pastor (a few conservatives have chimed in too, with a predictable formula; the closer one is John MacArthur’s camp, the louder they complain). The outrage is palpable—how dare anyone not genuflect to the narrative of his permanent banishment? Yet, as the dust settles, Driscoll’s star rises, and the reasons why cut deeper than his haters’ shrieks. I’m not here to crown him a saint or plead his case—just to lay bare why the man’s path forward looks paved with gold, while his detractors flail in the mud.

EXPLAINING WHY HIS RETURN WAS ALWAYS IMMINENT

Theological wiggle room opens the gate. Detractors howl that Driscoll’s disqualified for life, but the Bible doesn’t bolt the door shut, or at least shut as tightly as they think. Scriptures like 1 Timothy 3 and Titus 1 demand elders be “blameless,” above reproach, but nowhere does it scream “once disqualified, always disqualified.” Even if you believe in the concept of permanent disqualification (as I mostly do), you have to admit the case is not as clear as one would like.

FIRST: PERMANENT DISQUALIFICATION AS A CONCEPT IS PROBLEMATIC Pietists presume permanent disqualification almost instinctually, as though it’s just a given, yet they stutter when pressed for chapter and verse. If you listen to Justin Peters or Phil Johnson in regard to Steve Lawson, just to give one example, they’ll answer the question, “Is he permanently disqualified” as though it’s somehow just a doctrinal given that such a thing exists. But does it? At a Protestia Insider Roundtable recently, my colleague David Morrill torched the idea, arguing it’s logistical practicality that make permanent disqualification a tempting position, not scripture (in other words, it would make life easier and less sticky, and good arguments can be made from logic or utility, but not from the Bible).

For those hyper-concerned with their reputation or the reputation of the church left behind (and make no mistake about it, the men I previously mentioned love their reputation like they love Jesus), obviously it makes perfect sense if it’s a genuine fear reputations would suffer. But I lean toward their position, favoring a longer leash on disqualification and I’m certainly open to the case it can be extrapolated from Scripture despite not being explicit. Morrill makes good points on the subject, however, in that no text explicitly locks a man out for good and neither does any biblical principle demand it. “Blameless” might mean unblemished by scandal to some, but others see it as a present state, not a lifetime audit because if it was, few if any would qualify. Critics scream the word “blameless!” as though that’s an argument in itself, yet their case appears difficult to make from Scripture alone, if not impossible.

SECOND: REPENTANCE AND CONFESSION ACTUAL HAPPENED…KIND OF Then there’s repentance—or the lack of it. Critics snarl that Driscoll’s unrepentant, unworthy of a comeback. But that claim - that he never repented for anything, is largely inaccurate. In a 2015 interview, later reflected in a 2017 blog post on his site, Driscoll confessed to pride, admitting, “I was filled with it at Mars Hill, and it led to my downfall.” He owned the sin, a crack in the armor his accusers demanded. True, he’s not donned sackcloth, weeping for every charge—bullying, control, crude rants—but fair minds nod: not every accusation stuck. Some were overblown, others unproven. He’s apologized for pride, a key accusation, yet critics demand he grovel for all of it, whatever the accusation happened to be. That’s not justice; it’s a witch hunt, and savvy folks see through the fog. I’m especially sympathetic to the notion that just because one accusation of sin might be true, it doesn’t necessitate that every single accusation lobbed thereafter is necessarily gospel truth, no matter how much some might like to think that guilt on one matter requires guilt on every other. In other words, just because someone cheated on their taxes, it doesn’t mean they’re an axe murderer.

THIRD: AN HONEST POST-MORTEM IS TOUGH ON THE OTHER SIDE Honest spectators must admit that his 2014 unraveling was a dogpile of epic proportions. Driscoll became a piñata, bashed by friends and foes alike. Elders, pastors, members—everyone had a stick, accusing him of everything from tyranny to bad theology. The rush to denounce him reeked of self-preservation, a mob mentality where proximity to Driscoll was a liability. Wise heads now squint at the chaos, wondering: were some just covering their own hides? Given that Acts29 associates knew him better than anybody, but only denounced him once it became apparent they had to, gives reason to speculate about their sincerity. The fallout was less a trial than a lynching, and time’s lens casts doubt on the frenzy. People smell the panic in those old denunciations, and it’s fueling a second look.

FOURTH: HIS CRITICS ARE EVEN LESS POPULAR THAN HE IS. Time’s a brutal judge, and Driscoll’s critics haven’t aged well. Janet Mefferd, once a bulldog on liberalism, has morphed into a bitter husk, picking fights with Megan Basham, cozying up to leftists she once skewered. Her X feed drips venom, a textbook malcontent alienating all comers. She has become insufferable, and her inaffability is legendary, unable to get along with anyone for long, before soon making them an enemy.

Mike Cosper, architect of The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill, is worse—a simpering progressive, an evangelical operative for the Democrat Party, cloaking anti-Christian bias and progressive talking points in pious tones. His podcast, slick and gripping, was a one-sided hatchet job, and folks noticed. If Cosper despises Driscoll, the gut reaction flips: maybe Driscoll’s not the villain. Meanwhile, a whole world of evangelicals (the legitimate, real kind) despise Mike Cosper and for good reason. These clowns—bitter and biased—make Driscoll shine by contrast. He’s toiled a decade at The Trinity Church, faithful to his convictions, while Cosper pledges allegiance to whoever the Democrat party is running for president, while Mefferd is waging a Contra Mundum holy war, nasty to anybody who has an opinion she hasn’t given them an permission to have. Throw in the Julie Roys of the world, or maybe a Phil Vischer or David French, and Driscoll is hated by the right people, and their insufferable decline greases his ascent. And while the MacArthur gang casts plenty of shade at Driscoll, going back to the Strange Fire days and beyond, their own influence is waning every waking hour.

FIFTH: SINS COMPARED TO THE SCANDALS LATELY Then, the sins themselves—Driscoll’s, that is—look tame in 2025’s cesspool. Let me give a clear disclaimer that comparing sins is generally a bad idea, unless we’re comparing our sins to Christ’s righteousness. If we’re playing a game of “whose sins are worse?” we’re playing a really lame game. That said…is his plagiarism beyond the pale? It was shady, sure, but not egregious next to Ed Litton, SBC president, who swiped sermons wholesale and skated free, propped by JD Greear who laid cover for him. Both blamed “research assistants”—a tired dodge—yet Cosper gave Litton a pass, but brings up Driscoll’s at every juncture.

Hypocrisy stinks, and Southern Baptists choke on it, clutching Driscoll’s old sin while shrugging at their own. Docent Research Group, a sermon plagiarism group from which Greear and Litton both received their sermons, had Jared Wilson (a Gospel Coalition and Christianity Today colleague of Cosper’s) but Cosper hasn’t spoken an ill word of him writing sermons for other people (Wilson is on the record describing his work for Docent Group as “exegesis”). For that crowd to complain about plagiarism after Litton, is hypocrisy at its finest; not even Driscoll sold his sermons for others to deliver.

Compare that to Michael Brown, restored after affairs and creepy pats on young girls’ backsides, or Steve Lawson, bedding a woman a third his age. Driscoll’s crime—being rude to staff—feels quaint. Even Matt Chandler, who bounced Driscoll from Acts 29, clung to power after his own “improper relationship,” a graver breach by any measure. Double standards glare, and people aren’t blind.

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