Here’s much to do with love but more with hate; my only love sprung from my only hate (William Shakespeare)
In the shadowed recesses of contemporary history, where the air is thick with portent, and the spectre of tyranny looms, we witness a wretched figure rising from the grave of disillusionment – a man who has ensnared the hearts and minds of many, a harbinger of chaos draped in the guise of fervour. His words, potent as a sorcerer’s incantation, weave an alluring arras, behind which he drags the souls of the susceptible into a cult-like alcove of lies and misinformation known as MAGA …
*
Here, in this dimly lit sanctuary of misguided devotion, the faithful gather, their eyes gleaming with a fervent obsession, while shadows of doubt and reason are cast aside like relics of a forgotten faith. The raucous echoes of his promises fill the air, resonating like a malevolent hymn, binding them in a rambling discourse that stifles dissent and quashes the light of truth. ‘You’re living in poverty, your schools are no good, you have no jobs, 58 per cent of your youth is unemployed. What the hell do you have to lose?’
Like moths drawn to a flickering flame, these followers find solace in the intoxicating embrace of his rhetoric, surrendering their critical faculties to the siren song of a distorted vision. They are captivated by the illusion of strength, mistaking bluster for valour, while the world outside their insular enclave descends further into disarray. ‘And did you notice that baby was crying through half of the speech, and I didn’t get angry? Not once. Did you notice that? That baby was driving me crazy. I didn’t get angry once because I didn’t want to insult the parents for not taking the kid out of the room!’
And yet, within this tempest of loyalty lies a disquieting reality – a myriad of voices silenced, drowned beneath the din of fanaticism. For every devoted believer, there exist countless others who perceive the charade, who discern the spectre behind the curtain, exposing the emperor’s nakedness and the shadows lurking in the recesses of this macabre theatre. In this grim spectacle, the boundary between devotion and delusion blurs, leaving in its wake a haunting question: how far will the dance of chaos take them before the curtain falls? How much longer will women have to hear that Trump will protect them and they will no longer have to hear about abortion? ‘You will no longer be abandoned, lonely or scared. You will no longer be in danger. … You will no longer have anxiety from all of the problems our country has today…. You will be protected, and I will be your protector.’
We cannot let the foolishly enchanted confuse illusion for substance. For Trump, that twisted master of philippics, did not weave his spell through the art of hypnotism; rather, he preyed upon the predisposed, those who lingered on the precipice of despair, ready to embrace the malignant visions of this narcissist. To the discerning ear, his proclamations were but the ramblings of an unhinged mind, a beclowned idiot who wears his coiffed hair like a coxcomb hat, cloaked in the guise of conviction. Indeed, many who dared to listen, unenchanted by his vile allure, turned away with scorn, perceiving in him nothing more than a bloviating fool, a hollow echo of grandiosity. But too many fell into his cultic thrall. ‘At this very moment, large well-organised caravans of migrants are marching towards our southern border. Some people call it an invasion. […] These are tough people in many cases: a lot of young men, strong men and a lot of men that maybe we don’t want in our country. […] This isn’t an innocent group of people. It’s a large number of people that are tough. They have injured, they have attacked.’
Hatred, like a dark and forbidden elixir, seeps through the veins of this nation, coursing with a ravenous hunger that sneers from the shadows. It intoxicates the soul, like a jolt of electricity crackling from a Tesla coil or from the ominous hum of a Jacob’s Ladder, arcing with sinister intent in the murky depths of a mad scientist’s lair. This malevolent force electrifies the central nervous system, fusing the emotional sinews into something grotesque, something monstrous, as though a dark alchemy were at work within the very marrow of its host. It preys upon the same neural pathways that fuel our darkest cravings – dopamine surging, not in joy, but in the aftermath of fury and division, binding its devotees to their anger like moths irresistibly drawn to the consuming flame. Like Scarface hunched over a glistening mound of white powder, Trump is addicted to hate, drawing it in with the same voracious hunger that consumes all reason. It courses through his veins like a narcotic, heightening his senses, fuelling his fervour and distorting his worldview into a haze of paranoia and vengeance. Each hit is a rallying cry, each injection of vitriol is another step deeper into the abyss of division, and, like any addict, he craves more – never sated, always needing the next fix of outrage to keep the dark high alive. ‘We also have an illegal immigration crisis, and it’s taking place right now, as we sit here in this beautiful arena. It’s a massive invasion at our southern border that has spread misery, crime, poverty, disease and destruction to communities all across our land.’
His stage, like a dealer’s den, is littered with the echoes of venomous words and fevered crowds who cheer as he incites, their cheers feeding his addiction. The atmosphere thickens with loathing, the lines between right and wrong, truth and lie, blurred in the frenzy of it all. And as he exhales, his followers inhale – hooked on the fury he peddles, trapped in the same cycle of intoxication, oblivious to the wreckage left in its wake. ‘Not only is Comrade Kamala allowing illegal aliens to stampede across our border, but then it was announced about a year ago that they’re actually flying them in. Nobody knew that they were secretly flying in hundreds of thousands of people, some of the worst murderers and terrorists you’ve ever seen.’
But there is no redemption in this descent, only the fraying of the mind and the soul. For like Scarface, Trump has built his empire not on substance or vision, but on an insatiable thirst for power and control, driven by fear and contempt. In the end, there is no grand victory waiting, only the inevitable collapse, the implosion that comes when the addiction runs its course and the world around it crumbles under the weight of its own delusions. ‘They’re coming in from China – 31, 32,000 over the last few months – and they’re all military age and they mostly are men. And it sounds like to me, are they trying to build a little army in our country? Is that what they’re trying to do?’
But unlike the lonely descent into the oblivion of substance abuse, this hatred weaves a sinister web. It connects. It binds its captives together in a venomous communion, where each poisonous thought is passed from one trembling mouth to the next like a cursed chalice passed under the cover of night. Every vile word, every malicious slur, becomes a toxic hit shared amongst the damned, a dark ritual that stokes the fires of their shared malice, dampened only by the flop sweat loosed upon his maddening crowd, as Trump raves against those who would dare criticise the Supreme Court for overturning Roe vs. Wade, threatening them with jail time. In this grotesque gathering, hatred is not merely an affliction of the individual – it is the very air they breathe, a fog that clings to them like the damp chill of a forgotten crypt. It spreads, crawling like ivy through their hearts and minds, entwining them in its grip until they are bound, not by love or loyalty, but by the sickly sweetness of shared loathing. And with each breath, each whisper of venom, they sink deeper into the abyss, tethered to one another by their lust for the darkness. It binds people together in a venomous communion, passed from one mouth to the next until the frenzy of the crowd reaches a crescendo, ‘Send them back, send them back’! Never mind that they are legally in the country. Nobody is gobsmacked by this chant. It’s Trump. Met with a shoulder shrug. Sane-washed by the far-right media who secretly delight in the purge. ‘They’re eating the dogs, the people that came in, they’re eating the cats. They’re eating the pets of the people that live there, and this is what’s happening in our country, and it’s a shame.’
In this perverse ritual, hatred transforms into a shared sacrament, a ceremony of loathing where every participant drinks from the same poisoned chalice, none left untouched. Deep in the crevices of the mind, it rewires the brain’s pathways, building walls so thick that the light of reason can no longer pierce. Those who drink deeply from its bitter cup are blinded, their vision narrowed until they see only what feeds the inferno within. ‘They’re rough people, in many cases from jails, prisons, from mental institutions, insane asylums. You know, insane asylums, that’s ‘Silence of the Lambs’ stuff. … Hannibal Lecter? Anybody know Hannibal Lecter?’
Logic dissolves like mist, facts become the faintest whispers, drowned out by the roar of collective fury. At the height of this addiction, reason itself becomes a ghost, a distant echo fading into silence. For those whose brains have been remade in the image of their rage, it’s not just that they refuse to see – they simply cannot. They are prisoners within their own minds, trapped in a labyrinth of their own making, and the darkness consumes them. ‘The Democrats say, “Please don’t call them animals. They’re humans.” I said, “No, they’re not humans, they’re not humans. They’re animals.”’
Each vile word, each callous slur, is a toxic hit – each listener a fellow addict, craving more. In this twisted communion, hatred becomes a shared ritual, a ceremony of loathing that leaves none untouched. In the deepest furrows of the mind, hatred rewires its pathways, building walls so thick that no light of reason can penetrate. Those who drink deeply from its cup become blind, their vision narrowing to see only what feeds the fire within. Logic crumbles, facts become whispers drowned by the roar of the mob, and, soon, the addiction reaches its peak. I love this guy. He says, ‘You’re not gonna be a dictator, are you?’ I say, ‘No, no, no – other than day one.’ We’re closing the border. And we’re drilling, drilling, drilling. After that, I’m not a dictator, OK?
And, in this cycle, the target of hatred becomes almost incidental. The essence of hatred, like fire, feeds on anything in its path. Evolution has primed the brain to focus on danger to elevate negative stimuli as a means of survival. But now, that primal instinct is twisted, turning neighbour against neighbour, political opponents into enemies of the soul. In these darkened corners of the mind, the leap from words to violence is not only possible – it is inevitable. Hatred, once unleashed, courses through history like a river of blood, toppling empires, razing nations, leaving behind nothing but smouldering ruins. ‘We pledge to you that we will root out the communists, Marxists, fascists and the radical left thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country.’
Embracing others and comforting the afflicted is palpable and deeply rooted in a vision of America that is slipping away. What once stood as a beacon of refuge, a nation built by and for immigrants, is now being contorted into something darker – where those who once were the lifeblood of the country are now demonised as invaders. Trump’s rhetoric, amplified by his followers, has shifted the ground beneath America’s feet. ‘I am closing the border on day one’! ‘The migrants are poisoning the blood of this country’! The tectonic plates of courtesy, welcomeness and morality have begun to crack and quake, reshaping what it means to belong in this country. The shift is profound, threatening to rewrite the very meaning of America. ‘In 2016, I declared: I am your voice. Today, I add: I am your warrior. I am your justice. And for those who have been wronged and betrayed: I am your retribution.’
Trump has tapped into ancient fears, stoking them into a blazing inferno of resentment. His language is not accidental – calling migrants ‘vermin’ or ‘poison’ is dehumanising, stripping individuals of their dignity and making them easier to vilify, easier to hate. It’s a dangerous game, this wielding of words, for it normalises cruelty, and, worse, it sane-washes madness. The echoes of history warn us where such rhetoric leads. From scapegoating comes exclusion; from exclusion, violence. And those in power – Trump, his allies, his enablers – know this all too well. They manipulate it with precision, playing on insecurities and stirring the pot of division to secure their grip on the political machinery. ‘If I happen to be president and I see somebody who’s doing well and beating me very badly, I say go down and indict them, mostly they would be out of business. They’d be out. They’d be out of the election.’
This is not the America of tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free. This is an America where walls are built – both physical and metaphorical – around those who are seen as ‘other.’ And yet, the followers drink it in, this intoxicating mix of anger and fear, blind to the consequences. Trump orchestrates it like a maestro of division, each crisis an opportunity to deepen the fractures in the national soul. ‘He is a Soros-backed animal who just doesn’t care about right or wrong.’
This, perhaps, is the greatest fear of all – that America is no longer a refuge but a battleground where fear, hatred and division reign. The welcoming hands that once embraced the world’s tired and poor are now clenched fists, and the nation itself teeters on the edge, its identity hanging in the balance. Can it find its way back to the ideals of unity, hope and compassion? Or will the forces of division continue to tear it apart, brick by brick, until nothing remains of the dream that was once America? Judgments that label immigrants as evil, as intrinsic to a person’s character, can be exceedingly dangerous, often becoming self-fulfilling prophecies. When we decide that someone is inherently evil, we not only deny their capacity for change but also risk reinforcing their worst behaviours. This kind of moral judgment is especially harmful when it overlooks the complexity of human nature – the fact that individuals, even in their darkest moments, can be capable of good, given the right conditions. ‘That’s why it was one of the great presidencies, they say. Even the opponents sometimes say he did very well … but we’ve been waging an all-out war on American democracy.’
This is where the ambiguity in our understanding of evil becomes crucial. Philosophers, when grappling with the nature of evil, often highlight this dual potential within people. Even those who commit terrible acts are not defined solely by their capacity for harm; they remain capable of goodness. To focus exclusively on the darker side of human nature, without acknowledging this potential for good, risks leading us to moral fatalism. It closes off paths to redemption or improvement, both on a personal and societal level. ‘The beauty of me is that I’m very rich.’
Ultimately, understanding evil must go hand in hand with an understanding of the human potential for goodness. Otherwise, we fall into the trap of oversimplification, reducing complex beings to mere embodiments of corruption and malice, which can perpetuate the very behaviours we seek to prevent. This balance is essential in navigating judgments of human nature and in striving toward a more just and humane society. ‘I’m intelligent. Some people would say I’m very, very, very intelligent.’
Hatred is an addiction not just to emotion but to thought itself. It creates a loop in the mind, a self-reinforcing echo chamber where anger is the only voice heard. Trapped in their own heads, consumed by the constant hum of negativity, those addicted to hatred become fetid vectors, spreading their venom to those around them. ‘Sorry, losers and haters, but my IQ is one of the highest – and you all know it! Please don’t feel so stupid or insecure. It’s not your fault.’
In the land of MAGA, only when we start to hate do others seem to love us. ‘I think Viagra is wonderful if you need it, if you have medical issues, if you’ve had surgery. I’ve just never needed it. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind if there were an anti-Viagra, something with the opposite effect. I’m not bragging. I’m just lucky. I don’t need it. I’ve always said, ‘If you need Viagra, you’re probably with the wrong girl.’’
Perhaps, in the crucible of war, there is a time for hatred – a sharp-edged weapon wielded in the face of an enemy that must be vanquished to save the lives of countrymen and family. In those dire moments, hatred may serve as fuel for the fire, igniting a resolve to survive, to protect, to overcome. But it is a flame that must be controlled, a tool for a time, not the forge in which the soul of a nation is cast. ‘My fingers are long and beautiful, as, it has been well documented, are various other parts of my body.’
To allow hatred to define the character of an entire people is to bind that nation to darkness. Hatred, when left unchecked, does not distinguish between the righteous battle and the reckless pursuit of power. It consumes everything, leaving no room for compassion, for justice, for the humanity that must remain at the heart of any nation’s identity. ‘I think the only difference between me and other candidates is that I’m more honest, and my women are more beautiful.’
A country built on hatred becomes a hollow vessel, its foundations cracking under the weight of bitterness and fear. It is one thing to fight an enemy, but it is another to let that enmity seep into the fabric of everyday life, shaping the way we see one another, turning neighbour against neighbour and leaving the land scarred by suspicion and division. Such hatred corrodes from within, rotting the very ideals it once sought to defend. ‘You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media write as long as you’ve got a young, and beautiful, piece of ass.’
There is strength in righteous anger, but a nation’s true power lies in its ability to rise above hatred, to forge unity from its diversity and to temper the necessary ferocity of war with the enduring values of peace, fairness and human dignity. Hate burns bright, but it burns quickly, and, as individuals descend into their personal hells, so too does the nation teeter on the brink of collapse. And yet, perhaps, there is a glimmer of hope. For in the ashes of such hatred, when the poison has run its course, there may be an awakening. A slow, painful climb back to sanity, to reason, to the better angels of our nature. The only question that remains is whether we will rise from the wreckage – or whether the flames of hatred will consume us all. The pungent fear – that it may already be too late – is the very hope that Trump and those like him nurture in the shadows. He thrives on the idea that the dye of hate has been cast, staining the fabric of this nation so deeply that it cannot be washed away. In his vision, hatred is not a passing storm but a permanent fixture, worn like a sinister amulet, not with shame but with pride. ‘Number one, I have great respect for women. I was the one that really broke the glass ceiling on behalf of women, more than anybody in the construction industry. My relationship, I think, is going to end up being very good with women.’
He counts on the power of that amulet, gleaming darkly around the necks of his followers, who have come to see their anger as a badge of honour. Hatred, for them, is no longer a shameful emotion lurking in the corners of the heart – it is celebrated, a rallying cry. To them, it feels righteous, justified and empowering. And that is the insidious promise Trump offers: a place where hatred is no longer something to hide but to display openly, as if it were a virtue. ‘I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn’t lose any voters, OK? It’s, like, incredible.’
In this twisted promise lies the danger – the trembling fear that the hatred he has unleashed is not something fleeting but something that will define this era, shape the future and calcify the divisions that once could have been bridged. It is the nightmare of a nation whose heart has hardened, whose eyes have grown blind to the very ideals upon which it was built. ‘So, we have hundreds of thousands of people flowing in from Haiti. Haiti has a tremendous AIDS problem. … Many of those people will probably have AIDS, and they’re coming into our country. And we don’t do anything about it, we let everybody come in. … It’s like a death wish for our country.’
And so, the question lingers: Is the dye so deeply embedded that no amount of hope, of justice, of compassion can undo it? Or is there still time – just enough to wrench the amulets from their necks and dampen the vitriol from their full-throated screams? Is there time for renewal, for regeneration, for unity? In the dim light of our collective consciousness, where we contemplate our past grievances and present uncertainties, we find ourselves at a crossroads, a haunting precipice where the echoes of history intertwine with the yearning for a harmonious future. Can we, as a fractured nation, rise from the ashes of discord to craft a mosaic rich with the colours of our diverse narratives? ’The mug shot: we’ve all seen the mug shot. And you know who embraced it more than anybody else? The Black population. It’s incredible. You see Black people walking around with my mug shot on the shirts.’
As we traverse this gothic landscape of societal tumult, one cannot help but observe the spectral remnants of division that cling to us, drowning out the whispers of hope that linger in the air. ‘Why don’t they go back and help fix the totally broken and crime-infested places from which they came.’
*
Imagine, if you will, a gathering of souls beneath the great archways of our national cathedral dedicated to religion, education and charity, everyone a unique note in the grand symphony of existence. Here, in this ethereal realm, our differences dissolve like morning mist, revealing both our equivocations and our shared aspirations. Can we not, then, cultivate a spirit of ‘Americanness’ that transcends the shadows of our past, uniting us in a path of a forward-looking unity? Can we rise above the toxic charisma of a man who has gone mad? It is the question of our age, like a bird caught in a storm, wings heavy with doubt, fighting to stay aloft. His presence, his force, pulls like gravity, warping the air around him. Yet, somewhere beyond his shadow, there must be spaces of refuge – cracks in the crumbling edifice of what was once a great democracy, where light still flickers.
But, after another Trump presidency, will those sanctuaries remain? Or will they be choked out like flowers strangled by weeds? His rallies, all fist-pumps and frenzied chants, are no roadmap to safety. There is no signature ‘dad dance’, no swaggering motion, no stepping in place – that can guide us back to where we need to be. His movement is not the bee’s waggle that points to life-sustaining nectar; it is the erratic spiral of a creature lost, leading only to collapse. If we are to rise, it will not be by following the noise of a feral crowd. It will be by listening to the quiet, the steady heartbeat of a nation still clinging to its ideals, faint but persistent. In that pulse lies our answer if we have the will to hear it above the din.
The refuge Trump offers is but a shipwreck on a stormy sea, promising safety by surrendering to the abyss. The tempest, having spent its furious breath, yields to a stillness more profound yet more dreadful. Adrift upon the fathomless sea, where time itself is devoured, the ravenous maw of the boundless ocean leaves naught but the spectral resonance of the Jolly Roger fluttering like a ghost’s shroud. Ancient are the fore-and-afts, the gaffs and booms, the proud lateen sails and weathered keels now swallowed by oblivion. The guns are silenced, the grapeshot scattered like forgotten stars, and all that remains are echoes – a fading requiem for a world undone. Trump will take us to a place where there is no need to fear the chaos of democracy or the capricious tides of law, for beneath the waves, both lie drowned. The turbulent winds of justice that once howled through the sails, and the rule of law, once the steady anchor of the Republic, will sink into the depths. In this quiet, in this deep, dark calm, the people will find no worry – for there is nothing left to lose when the ship has already gone down. The storm may pass, but the ocean swallows all.
Trump has wormed his way into the American psyche in ways that parallel one of the most enigmatic figures of American culture: Satan, the rebel seraph, cast from the empyrean realms for daring to rival the Almighty Himself. Upon his brow is written the tale of pride, that ancient vice, and within his heart burns an unquenchable thirst for dominion. Thus has he been rendered across the centuries, a mirror unto the darker urges that reside within the human soul. So, too, according to the learned musings of Professor Dan P. McAdams, does Donald Trump emerge as a kindred spirit – an echo, nay, a reflection – of this fallen being.
McAdams draws forth parallels between Trump and that ancient adversary, both of whom seem to stand as towering embodiments of malignant narcissism. In their gaze, one discerns a fierce ambition to bend the world to their will, to sit enthroned over all creation, brooding with a resentment that gnaws eternally at the soul. Trump, much like the devil of old, entices his followers with promises of greatness, wealth, and power, much as Satan, in his wilderness temptation, sought to barter the treasures of the world for dominion over Christ. The art of seduction, both political and spiritual, lies at the heart of their being – an invitation to abandon moral restraint and embrace the allure of unchecked dominion.
Yet here, within this potent symphony of ambition, a deeper truth emerges. For both Satan and Trump, beneath the veneer of charisma lies an emptiness: a vacuum where once dwelled the virtues of wisdom, love, and compassion. They are figures cut off from the wellsprings of humanity, wandering in the twilight between the divine and the mortal. Satan, frozen in his timeless rebellion, is more myth than man, a creature of black-and-white certitudes, untouchable and invulnerable, yet woefully incomplete. Likewise, Trump, in his self-proclaimed infallibility, casts himself as a ‘stable genius,’ impervious to doubt or correction, locked within a solipsistic fortress of his own making.
It is here, in this chasm of incompleteness, that McAdams argues the figures diverge most sharply from the human condition. They are liminal beings, dancing on the razor’s edge of history, in a state of betwixt and between, embodying immense power yet lacking the emotional and intellectual complexities that define true greatness. Their personas are frozen in time: monolithic, untouchable and, in their own eyes, invincible. Trump, like Satan, fashions himself as a creature of destiny, a demi-god of sorts whose flaws only serve to heighten the mythos that surrounds him. He stands outside the moral universe that governs lesser men, an entity of pure action, untethered to the bonds of reflection, empathy, or shared humanity. Yet he is both more and less than a person. In the words of McAdams:
While Trump insists that he is a force for good rather than evil, he truly perceives himself to be qualitatively different from the rest of humankind. He has often compared himself to a superhero. He has famously described himself as a ‘stable genius’ who has never made a mistake. He is not lying when he makes these outrageous claims, for Trump truly believes them to be true, just as he believes he won the 2020 election.
At the same time, Trump is incapable of describing an inner psychological life or of identifying traces of reflection, emotional nuance, doubt or fallibility. Even though he talks about himself all the time, Trump has never been able to explain his inner world or to narrate stories about how he has come to be the person he is, as frustrated interviewers and biographers have repeatedly noted.
John Courtney Murray once observed that such figures as Satan possess a tragic grandeur, his very flaws becoming the foundation of his mythic allure. Satan, resplendent in his fallen majesty, offers the world a vision of rebellion against cosmic order, while Trump, in his defiance of political norms, has, according to many psychologists, come to symbolise a kind of transgressive heroism for his followers. McAdams notes that, each in their way, Satan and Trump offer a dangerous enchantment: the promise of power without consequence, of glory without the weight of moral responsibility. It is an invitation to step beyond the boundaries of conventional decency and join them in the creation of a world shaped solely by their will.
In the cosmic drama that unfolds, these figures – Trump and Satan – become not merely men but symbols, larger-than-life protagonists in the eternal struggle between order and chaos, virtue and vice. Both are driven by the same delusion: that the self, in all its grandeur, can stand above the bonds of community, compassion and shared destiny. They are trapped within the confines of their own mythology, figures of immense power but tragic incompleteness, forever caught in the grip of their own hubris.
Thus, according to McAdams, does Trump, in the eyes of his supporters, transcend the mortal coil, becoming more than a man, yet less than a man: an icon of delusion whose destiny is written in the stars, flawed and magnificent, defiant and doomed, ever reaching toward the throne of heaven, yet forever cast down by the weight of his own ambition. Like Satan, his fall is not a moment of singular tragedy but a timeless, ongoing saga, a tale as old as time itself, forever replaying in the minds of those who would worship power above all else.
The evangelical support for Donald Trump can be understood through a lens that blends theology with political pragmatism. McAdams writes that figures from the Bible, such as King Cyrus, David, or even Saul-to-Paul, illustrate the evangelical belief that God often uses flawed individuals for divine purposes, working through unexpected vessels to fulfil His will. For many evangelicals, Trump represents one of these flawed vessels: someone rough around the edges yet chosen by God to protect and restore Christian values against the perceived threat of secular liberalism.
Trump’s appeal, especially to white working-class evangelicals, is heightened by his ability to express and validate their feelings of disenfranchisement. According to McAdams, Trump provides not only a sense of identity and belonging but also embodies the figure of a warrior, fighting on behalf of a community that feels under siege by modernity, media, and intellectual elites. This image of Trump as a warrior, divinely chosen, taps into a deep emotional and spiritual reservoir where the battle between good and evil is ever-present.
In such a context, Trump’s brashness, authoritarian tendencies, and even sexual indiscretions are overlooked or even embraced as they align with the perceived need for a ruthless defender. Trump rallies, too, offer a unique blend of entertainment, camaraderie, and shared outrage. The atmosphere is often characterised by a light-hearted joy – what anthropologists like William Mazzarella have described as ‘jouissance’ – where expressions of anger coexist with humour and self-parody. This guilty pleasure, McAdams notes, mingles fun with aggression and reinforces the in-group’s identity and their leader’s role as their protector.
The adoration that evangelicals bestow on Trump is the most perplexing and the most revolting. Jesus was not shaped by power or privilege but by humility, wearing the garment of human frailty. His life did not revolve around the mighty, nor was it built on the backs of the poor—he stood with them, beside them, in the dust of common roads.
His path was not gilded with the wealth or influence that so many now crave. He did not preach of power to be grasped or riches to be hoarded. Instead, he told of a kingdom found in serving, in giving, in the emptying of oneself for others. True wealth, he said, lies in sharing what you have with those in need—in feeding the hungry, in welcoming the outcast. His whisper was clear: if you care for the poor, the stranger, the prisoner, you are not just helping them—you are helping God Himself, hidden in their suffering.
But today, some who call themselves followers of Christ rally behind the call for walls and wealth while turning their backs on the very people Jesus commanded them to love. They chant for power, for exclusion, for victory at any cost, forgetting that Jesus walked among the lowest, the forgotten, the despised. They lift up leaders who mock the poor and the disfigured and build empires on division, all while claiming to stand for the values of the one who washed the feet of His disciples.
Would Jesus have walked past the immigrant, sneered at the homeless, or ignored the hungry child? Would he have mocked Haitians and childless women? You cannot serve both Christ and a leader who builds walls while Christ himself broke them down. Jesus did not die for the powerful, the proud, or the wealthy – he died for the broken, the oppressed, for those who have nothing. His kingdom is not built on the backs of the poor but on the lifting of them.
Ryan Cooper writes:
Trump’s followers routinely compare him to biblical figures with apparently no awareness of biblical admonitions against pride, idol worship, or anointing yourself or others as chosen by God, even as he flogs a literal golden sneaker to fund his massive legal expenses. ‘They’ve crucified him worse than Jesus,’ one Trumper told the Times. (Personally, I’d rather be Trump than nailed to a cross, but I guess views differ.) ‘He’s definitely been chosen by God,’ said another.
Who knows, they might be right! According to 2 Thessalonians, Jesus cannot return for the End Times until the ‘man of lawlessness is revealed,’ who ‘will oppose and will exalt himself over everything that is called God or is worshipped.’ This lawless man will ‘use all sorts of displays of power through signs and wonders that serve the lie.’ But, ultimately, the man and his followers will be destroyed: ‘all will be condemned who have not believed the truth but have delighted in wickedness.’
Whom many liberals and leftists loathe – an authoritarian populist whose populism can be stretched to fit the crimes of fascism – the American far-right simply adores. If the United States were to stage public executions of liberals and far-left critics of Trump, it would unfold like a grotesque spectacle, perfectly suited to the glittering, hyperbolic expanse of the Sphere in Las Vegas. The crowd, a hungry throng, many of them evangelicals, would clamour for tickets, eager to offer a week’s wages for the privilege of front-row seats – if they hadn’t already squandered their earnings on shares of Truth Social, golden sneakers adorned with Trump’s emblem or gaudy silver coins stamped with his face. Perhaps they would clutch their prized Trump Edition Bibles, which, in some cruel mockery, now bear a handwritten chorus of ‘God Bless the USA’ by Lee Greenwood, as if the sacred and profane could meld so seamlessly. This is what the United States has devolved into: a carnival where hate is camouflaged as casual entertainment, where the sharp edge of cruelty is dulled by the garish glow of spectacle, and where the people cheer, not knowing that the darkness they revel in will one day come for them …
