When Trump was first elected I said that it was a moment of grace. I didn’t fully understand why. I wouldn’t call him 45; he is a person with a name. Human like all of us.

I understand more now, and so I am trying to express it as I understand it, as a reflection of us – seeking wholeness and grappling with infection and deceit.

This is how I see the world. This is how God has been teaching me to see, as They whispered gently to me, encouraged me to heal; stayed constantly until I asked to see through the lenses of love.

Trump Is the Kind of God That Most Believe In

By Saran Lewis

Golden towers and threats of fire,

boasting from the heavens,

ruling by fear and flattery,

smiting enemies with tweets and plagues.

He exalts who serves,

strikes who strays,

demands loyalty—

not love.

His grace is a gamble,

his wrath a given.

He honours walls,

not gardens.

Gains with war

Not through patiently crafted peace. 

And yet—

millions kneel

not to him,

but to his reflection:

framed in stained glass,

enthroned in pulpits,

cloaked in tradition,

laced with the perfume of piety.

Because this is the god we were taught:

a god of control,

not comfort.

A god of exclusion,

not embrace.

A god whose justice justifies control,

and whose “blessings”

favor the wealthy.

This is the god who

strikes children into silence,

calls submission “salvation,”

and cloaks abuse in “authority.”

This is the god

who watches the slap

and calls it sanctified.

The god who rules

by fear and scarcity

and calls crumbs grace.

This is the god

of the silent, manipulative, exploitative church—

the church that takes and takes,

that “gives” only sparingly,

that praises tithes and gifts,

and ignores trauma.

This is the church wrestling to learn how to consistently be a good neighbour.

This is not Christ reflecting our divine Parent.

This is church

in the image of Constantine,

not the Christ of foot-washing and wild welcome.

This is monarchy draped in robes.

Empire, crowned and cross-adorned.

And Trump?

Trump has simply boldly unmasked

what others kept hidden.

He ripped the veil

off the god we already served.

He shouted what we spoke of behind closed doors.

He played the same game

but refused to hide the rules.

And so increasing numbers worship this god whom we have always worshipped 

mindlessly

Pharisees and priests

Pastors and deacons

Healers, apostles, visionaries

smothered othering in piety,

but the character was the same 

infected with supremacy 

doling out inferiority

inspired by the one who grasps at divinity without comprehending that

Sanctified disdain is not love.

Silenced children are not saved.

Slaps are not sacraments.

Swords are not signs of the Spirit.

From the altars of kings

to the pews of presidents,

from Vatican crowns

to colonial mandates,

from crusades to codes of conduct—

religion and government

have long conspired

to make empire look divine.

Deceived, they have traded gardens for borders,

hospitality for hierarchy,

and the Christ who welcomed children

for the god who wounds them

and calls it obedience.

Do you see it now?

Does it stir a holy ache?

A fire?

A yearning?

Or fear—

that this god,

this hollow god of empire,

might smite you

for daring to tell the truth?

Then slow down and experience the truth infused with a resounding whisper from the One who comforted, cared for and corrected Elijah after his misaligned slaughter. 

Because Christ is not empire.

Christ is not wrath wrapped in ritual.

Christ is not the slap.

Christ is not the silence.

Christ is not the sword.

Christ is the child,

the wounded,

the weeping,

the wanderer.

The torn veil.

The undone temple.

The one who says,

“Let them come to me.”

Whisper it true. 

It will resound. 

Christ is not empire.

Christ is not wrath wrapped in ritual.

Christ is not the slap.

Christ is not the silence.

Christ is not the sword.

Christ is the child,

the wounded,

the weeping,

the wanderer.

The torn veil.

The undone temple.

The one who kneels in the dust

with the shamed,

and refuses to unclothe the shamers publicly,

but writes with his fingers:

I know you.

And just as I have covered her,

I cover you too.

The one who says,

“Do you love me?”

“Do you doubt?”

“Have you betrayed me?”

“I understand.”

“Come with me.”

“Walk with me,

and learn how to feed my sheep…”

Trump is one of the sheep to be fed, nurtured, restored. 

He is not to be blamed for being just like us. 

Deceived. 

Infected with supremacy and suckled on inferiority. 

And to us, Love says come. 

Sit, listen, heal.

Experience the kingdom of the true God.

Now. 

On Earth as it is in heaven.