Public Charlatans and Private Faith: A Reflection on the Death of Jimmy Swaggart

By Craig Goodwin-Ortiz de León

The news of Jimmy Swaggart’s death stirred strong reactions. For some, it was the end of a long-fallen giant. For others, it reopened old wounds. A friend of mine shared that figures like Swaggart shaped his teenage view of religion as something deeply hypocritical. He named other prominent conservative leaders of the time—preachers and televangelists who, in his words, modeled “public religiosity” that was laced with scandal, abuse, and exclusion.

Reading his reflection saddened me. Not because he was wrong—but because he wasn’t.

Many Gen Xers and others who came of age in the 1980s and 1990s encountered a brand of Christianity that was performative, judgmental, and often corrupt. Some of the most visible religious figures of that era peddled fear and prosperity, wielding faith like a weapon or a fundraising strategy. That version of Christianity left many wounded. Some never returned.

But that wasn’t the only story. And it wasn’t mine.

Even as a gay teen—someone those preachers would have condemned—I was formed by a different kind of faith. I never watched those broadcasts. I didn’t see religion as something televised, politicized, or monetized. My encounter with God came through quiet spaces: the stillness of church on a weekday afternoon, the kindness of a lay minister who offered me a seat without judgment, the faith of people who prayed without needing a stage.

There’s a difference between religion that demands attention and faith that nurtures the soul. One seeks power. The other seeks peace.

I was fortunate to be shaped by the latter.

So while I understand my friend’s rejection of the faith those leaders represented, I grieve that he never saw the faith that saved me. A faith that welcomes instead of condemns. A faith that listens. A faith that believes love is real and grace is possible.

The death of Jimmy Swaggart is a reminder of the damage public religion can do when it trades integrity for influence. But it’s also a chance to bear witness to something better—something quieter and deeper. That kind of faith still exists. It just rarely makes the news.