The Dark Triad and the Death of Repentance

It begins in the pulpit—or perhaps, if we are honest, it begins in ourselves. I have seen it in churches, in leaders I once admired, and at times in the mirror: the inability to say, “I was wrong.”

We preach grace and speak of repentance, yet we rationalize and reposition. We ask for prayer but not forgiveness. We call for revival but rarely confess. We proclaim grace, but weep not. And we are not alone.

Psychologists speak of a “Dark Triad”—Machiavellianism, narcissism, and psychopathy—not merely as a taxonomy of antisocial traits, but as a framework with moral implications. These traits resist remorse, responsibility, and grace. Their defining feature is not mere immorality but a structural incapacity for contrition. One need not be a criminal to fit the profile. Some smile, charm, lead—and devastate—without ever acknowledging fault. Their conscience does not fail; it is suppressed.

This raises a theological question of grave importance: What occurs when the human will, already bent by sin, ossifies into a structure fundamentally closed to repentance? Reformed theology rightly teaches that repentance is not a human achievement but a divine gift. Yet even divine grace, though irresistible in the elect, often meets fierce resistance until it breaks through. What if certain personalities, apart from divine intervention, lack the psychic architecture to conceive of themselves as sinners?

Martin Luther described sin as incurvatus in se—a turning inward of the self. In this light, the unrepentant are not simply stubborn; they are enthroned. They do not so much reject grace as find it unintelligible. John Calvin observed that repentance is born of faith—that is, it begins not in self-awareness but in the death of self-sovereignty.

The Westminster Confession defines repentance unto life as a saving grace whereby a sinner, out of a true sense of sin and an apprehension of God’s mercy in Christ, turns from sin unto God with grief and hatred. But what becomes of repentance when grief is absent—when there are no tears? When sin is rebranded as strength, and guilt is reframed as pathology? In such cases, theology confronts the hard edge of moral detachment. As Jean Twenge and W. K. Campbell observe, we live in an age where narcissism is not only tolerated but celebrated—where guilt is pathologized and repentance appears regressive.

Psychologist Joshua D. Miller has observed that grandiose narcissists exhibit strong resistance to moral self-revision. Robert Hare notes that those with psychopathic traits tend to receive confrontation not as care, but as challenge—and respond not with reflection, but with manipulation. Paulhus and Williams, who first coined the term “Dark Triad,” emphasize the interpersonal callousness and manipulative orientation inherent in these traits. These are not momentary lapses in judgment but durable dispositions, which may correspond to what Paul calls a “seared conscience” (1 Tim. 4:2): not dead, but cauterized. While the Dark Triad is an imperfect lens, it helps name dispositions that theology has long warned against.

This presents not only a pastoral challenge but an ecclesial crisis. What becomes of a church whose leaders are structurally incapable of repentance? When charisma deflects correction, and authority insulates from accountability, the congregation ceases to be a flock and becomes a firewall. The gospel, in such contexts, is not proclaimed but performed—without tears, without sorrow, without death. And performance is what unrepentant hearts often master.

Such figures are not rare. They are present not only in pews but on stages. They offer no confession, respond to confrontation with rhetorical maneuvering, and pursue therapy as strategy rather than healing. Their apologies serve not as admissions but as instruments of control. They do not seek restoration but leverage.

We need not imagine far-fetched scenarios. In the wake of recent evangelical scandals—from celebrity pastors to fallen movements—the pattern is hauntingly consistent. A leader builds a vast ministry, preaches grace weekly, and teaches repentance as spiritual maturity. Yet when confronted with credible reports of bullying, manipulation, or moral failure, he responds with evasion. His resignation cites stress, not sin. He soon reappears elsewhere, rebranded and unrepentant. The sheep are scattered; heaven hears no confession.

Still, grace does not depend on the penitent heart. It creates it. Grace does not await sorrow; it generates it. But this grace must come from beyond. No technique, no therapeutic method, can produce repentance where the self remains enthroned. The way forward is not adjustment but crucifixion—the radical undoing of the self. Only in the death of pride can resurrection begin.

This is why theology must attend to psychology—not to baptize it, but to examine it critically. The Dark Triad is not merely diagnostic; it is apocalyptic. It reveals what becomes of human nature when left to itself. And from such, Jesus says, the kingdom hides.

Yet the gospel reaches even further. The One who knew no sin became sin—even for those who deny sin (2 Cor. 5:21). Christ descends not only into graves of guilt but into tombs sealed by self-worship. Not with flattery, but with fire. Not with affirmation, but with mercy severe enough to break stone.

Repentance is impossible for man. But not for God. He who breathed life into dust can breathe sorrow—even tears—into stone. He who wept at Lazarus’s tomb can awaken tears in eyes long dry. “I will give you a new heart,” says the Lord, “and put a new spirit within you” (Ezek. 36:26). Even the Dark Triad is not beyond the reach of pierced hands.

And so the Church must recover the ordinary rhythms that make repentance plausible again: weekly confession, transparent elder accountability, and slow pathways back into leadership for the fallen. These are not techniques of grace but rooms cleared for grace to enter.

If we desire renewal, it will not begin with new strategies but with tears. For the Spirit moves where breath is gone, rattles the gates we sealed, and speaks into hearts we deemed unreachable. He does not knock. He enters. He does not negotiate. He resurrects.

A church without repentance is near death. But where death meets the crucified Christ, resurrection waits.