February 5, 2026
Trump wandered into the National Prayer Breakfast like a man who’d accidentally been scheduled for a revival service in between a rally and a grievance deposition, and proceeded to deliver what can only be described as a theological Mad Libs stitched together with ego, revenge fantasies, and intermittent references to God as a kind of celestial brand sponsor.
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Then Trump took the microphone and did what Trump always does: he turned a prayer breakfast into a self-review, a campaign rally, and a personal therapy session conducted in front of Congress and God.
He joked about not getting into heaven, then immediately clarified that, actually, he probably should, because look at all the good he’s done for “perfect people.” This was less a confession than a preemptive Yelp review of the afterlife.
From there, the speech lurched across familiar terrain: the fake news is mean, Democrats hate God, elections are rigged, immigrants are criminals, windmills are destroying Europe, and he has personally ended eight wars, saved Christianity, revived church attendance, rebuilt the military, and apparently achieved peace in the Middle East for the first time in 3,000 years, which is a fascinating claim to make at a breakfast intended to celebrate humility.
At various points he praised airstrikes as Christmas gifts, suggested pastors should be allowed to endorse him without losing tax-exempt status (but also joked he might revoke it if they criticize him), and described law enforcement “beating the crap” out of criminals as part of America’s spiritual renewal. It was less Blessed are the peacemakers and more Blessed are the poll numbers.
What made the spectacle so grotesque wasn’t just Trump’s usual carnival of exaggeration and cruelty dressed up in religious vocabulary; it was the room’s willingness to treat it as normal. To applaud and pray over him as if he were a misunderstood prophet rather than a man using Christianity as stage lighting for authoritarian politics. Instead of a prayer breakfast, it was a political branding exercise with hymnals.
The question hanging over the waffles and amens is unavoidable: What does it say about American Christianity that so many of its leaders are willing to call this “faith”?
There is a temptation, especially among political commentators, to treat Donald Trump’s capture of American Christianity as just another electoral oddity, a cultural alliance, a transactional marriage, a mutually beneficial arrangement between power and pulpits. But that framing is way too small, because Trump is not only cratering democracy, he is cratering Christianity. Whatever else Christianity claims to be, a faith built on humility, sacrifice, mercy, truth, it cannot survive indefinitely as the background music for a man who embodies its negation. A man whose public life is a rolling pageant of cruelty, greed, vengeance, and self-worship, now being draped in religious language like a ceremonial stole.
The spectacle at the National Prayer Breakfast was not merely embarrassing, it was spiritually obscene. It is difficult enough to believe that there is such a thing as a “White House Faith Office,” as if the divine can be bureaucratized, as if holiness belongs in the West Wing alongside the communications shop and the scheduling desk. But what is truly staggering is not the existence of the office, it is the willingness of Christian leaders to treat it as legitimate when its central function appears to be laundering authoritarian politics through the vocabulary of God.
To invite Donald Trump to speak at a prayer breakfast is already a kind of confession: that the event is not about prayer, but about proximity. Not about faith, but about access.
Then show him reverence, to applaud him, bless him, flatter him as a champion of the Gospel, is something darker. It has shades of V for Vendetta, that chilling marriage of cross and state, where religion becomes a prop in the theater of power. The hymns play, the robes are pressed, the words are holy, and the soul has quietly left the room.
History is full of parallels. Whenever religion stops speaking truth to power and starts speaking power in the language of truth, it becomes something else entirely: not a refuge, but a weapon; not a conscience, but a court.
We have seen this before in Franco’s Spain, where Catholicism was folded into the machinery of dictatorship, blessing the regime while dissenters were imprisoned and silenced. We have seen it in the “German Christians” movement of the 1930s, when churches draped the cross in nationalist spectacle and remade Christianity into a servant of authoritarian identity rather than a challenge to it. We have seen it in the segregationist South, where pastors quoted scripture to defend white supremacy, turning the church into a moral shield for injustice rather than a force against it.
In every era, the pattern is the same: the Gospel is replaced with loyalty, the pulpit becomes an amplifier for the state, and faith is reduced to a kind of sanctified branding.
The tragedy is not simply political, it is spiritual. When Christianity becomes the chaplaincy of power, it ceases to be Christianity at all, it becomes a costume religion for empire, a church of access, a court of applause.
That is the great scandal here. Trump does not merely exploit Christianity, he reshapes it in his own image, into a religion of grievance, dominance, spectacle, and permission. Faith that once claimed allegiance to the crucified now genuflects before the gilded.
What does it say about American Christianity that so many of its leaders looked at this man, this lifelong monument to ego, and decided he was the one to be prayed over, honored, and called “the greatest champion of faith of all time”?
What does it say about a Church that cannot recognize idolatry when it is standing at the podium, soaking up applause?
follow me on Substack at marygeddry.com and @magixarc.bsky.social
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