Trump Didn’t Ruin The Church—He Revealed It

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I’ll admit it. It took me a while.

But I’ve finally come around. Donald J. Trump is God’s chosen one—for such a time as this.

Not because he’s righteous. Not because he’s repentant. Not because he knows the first damn thing about Jesus. But because sometimes the only way to expose rot is to rip up the floorboards. And Trump—bless his bloated, gold-leafed ego—is the blacklight America needed to see just how foul things have gotten. Especially in the church.

He didn’t bring corruption to Christianity. He just stopped pretending it wasn’t already there.

The Evangelical Wet Dream

Trump’s America is what white Evangelicals have always wanted: strongmen over shepherds, culture war over compassion, domination over decency. He didn’t hijack their faith. He manifested it.

They called him Cyrus. They anointed him King. They prayed over him, cried for him, wrapped him in flags, and sang worship songs with his name wedged in between Jesus and “USA.”

Because he offered them exactly what they wanted: power without accountability, politics without conviction, and a golden idol that looks suspiciously like them. Fearful. Angry. Entitled. And ready to crucify anyone who says otherwise.

The Gospel of Grift

Trump didn’t just reflect the church’s public face—he mirrored its machinery.

The NDAs. The hush money. The abuse swept under the pews. The predators replatformed because they “repented” just long enough to sell books or boost polls. Every time the church covered up scandal in the name of “protecting the witness,” they paved the road for Trump’s gospel of grift.

The sheep didn’t scatter—they clapped. Because in this twisted system, justice is weakness. Mercy is for liberals. And truth is whatever the pulpit or platform says it is that week.

He’s not the Antichrist. He’s the mascot. And the church cheered while he pissed on the altar, because at least he kept the libs out.

A Cleansing by Revelation

Jesus flipped tables in the temple to expose greed masquerading as worship. Trump flipped the whole damn church and exposed something worse: a hollowed-out shell that speaks Christ’s name but doesn’t know his ways.

And in doing so, he gave us a gift. An apocalyptic vision—not in fire and brimstone, but under the sick glow of a blacklight, where every hidden stain finally shows. Trump was the divine mold test. He pulled back the drywall, and what we saw crawling beneath was generations of rot. It didn’t start with him—but it sure as hell couldn’t hide after him.

Like all proper revelations, it wasn’t gentle. But it was true.

Loaves and Fishes, Blood and Meat

Where Jesus multiplied loaves and fishes, Trump offers up something else entirely.

Blood. Anger. Victims.

He doesn’t feed the hungry—he throws them in the grinder. Chews them up. Spits them out as political red meat. And the crowd eats it up. Every time.

It starts with immigrants. Then journalists. Then the homeless. Then queer people. Then women. Then apostates. Then moderates. Then the ones who don’t clap hard enough.

Eventually, it doesn’t matter who it is. The grinder doesn’t stop. And when it runs low, it turns on its own.

Because in this faith, the body of Christ isn’t broken for you—it’s just ground up and served to keep the outrage machine alive.

Made in Each Other’s Image

Trump is their god, and they are his people. Made in each other’s image. Driven by grievance. Addicted to cruelty. Paranoid. Petty. Obsessed with winning and terrified of being forgotten.

They preach Christ, but crucify him daily in their politics, pulpits, and platforms. They hunger not for righteousness, but for revenge. And Trump gave them permission to stop pretending otherwise.

He didn’t ruin the church.

He revealed it.

And in the revealing, he handed us a choice: keep playing dress-up with wolves in sheep’s clothing—or finally start flipping some tables ourselves on the way out the door.