How American Christianity Fell in Love with a Golden Calf in Golf Pants

By Delilah McSwain
April 20, 2025

Now I know it’s Easter Sunday, and I oughta be spending the morning sipping something sweet and saying nothing stronger than amen. But something’s been tugging at my sleeve — soft at first, then firmer — like a grandmother who knows you’re up to no good. It’s this notion, loud and proud from sea to shining sea, that Donald Trump is somehow the chosen vessel of American Christianity.

And look, there are a number of theories as to how a twice-divorced casino mogul who bragged about grabbing female strangers by their privates became the darling of people who claim to follow Jesus of Nazareth. They each have their own charm. Let’s take a few of them out for a test drive, shall we?

First, let’s imagine The Gospel According to Don. If Trump had written the New Testament, there wouldn’t be a Sermon on the Mount — there’d be a rally at Mount Rushmore, broadcast in 4K, sponsored by gold sneakers and $60 leatherbound Bibles with Lee Greenwood in the footnotes. The Beatitudes would read like a real estate brochure: Blessed are the billionaires, for they shall never pay taxes. Blessed are the indicted, for they shall claim persecution. Blessed are the porn stars, for they shall be denied three times, then quietly reimbursed. There’d be no loaves and fishes — just a deluxe buffet, comped for the inner circle, and billed to the taxpayers via a Trump hotel ballroom.

Next comes Holy Ghosting. Jesus told folks to turn the other cheek, love their enemies, and give their cloak to whoever asked. Trump’s more of a “hit back ten times harder” kinda guy. If someone slaps him, he sues their grandchildren. If they ask for help, he builds a wall. If they offer peace, he calls them a traitor on Truth Social. The humble Nazarene wandered the desert barefoot and broke. Trump claims he’s a martyr because he lived through his own Vietnam of dodging STDs in the 70s and 80s — and once had to fly commercial, in 1991.

Of course, there’s no better theology than the Seven Deadly Campaign Stops. Pride? He’s a walking monument to himself. Greed? His charities were so shady they got shut down. Lust? Not just rumors, but sexual assault charges and payoffs buried under fake invoices. Wrath? He’s got enough stored up to power Florida’s grid during hurricane season. Gluttony? Fast food feasts on Air Force One and a golf cart never more than six feet away. Envy? Of Obama, Bezos, Taylor Swift, Jared Kushner — and probably Jesus too. Sloth? Unless vengeance or self-promotion is involved, he can’t be bothered. He doesn’t have sins — he has franchises.

And since it’s Easter, we can’t skip the Resurrection — not the original, mind you, but Trump’s version. He doesn’t rise from the grave; he rises from bankruptcy court, sexual assault accusations, the Epstein guest list, tabloid scandal, and federal indictment — glowing like a radioactive toupee with a vengeance complex. You try to bury him under truth, fact, consequence… and somehow, he wriggles free and hosts a press conference on the grave. Every time the walls close in, or the polls dip to 37% (his hardcore base), he comes roaring back with a new product, a new lie, or a new promise to bring the whole damn temple down.

But maybe none of this should be surprising. After all, he’s the unholy lovechild of the Prosperity Gospel and late-night QVC — the kind of televangelist that would make The Righteous Gemstones blush. A generation of preachers traded in Christ’s crown of thorns for a crown of gold leaf and influencer lighting. They taught people that faith meant winning, that wealth meant favor, and that humility was for losers. Trump didn’t invent that theology — he just saw a pulpit with no preacher and climbed right on up. Bless his heart, he even brought merch.

And still — how does that math math? How can you believe in the teachings of Christ — love thy neighbor, care for the poor, forgive those who trespass against you — and support a hollow, narcissistic shell of a man who couldn’t quote a Bible verse unless it was printed on a check?

For the one-issue Catholic voter, it’s all about abortion — a moral clarity that, to them, eclipses every other sin. For them, protecting the unborn child takes precedence over cruelty, corruption, and the wreckage of women’s lives in his wake. They’ll point to verses like Jeremiah 1:5 — “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you” — and close their eyes to the rest.

For the evangelical apocalypse crowd, it’s more grotesque. Some see him as a flawed vessel for divine will. Others believe he’s the blunt instrument God needs to usher in the end — the trumpet blast before the rapture. His chaos is their signal. His rage is their prophecy. They quote Revelation 19:11 like it’s a campaign slogan: “I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and wages war.” Not a lamb, but a warrior king. And in their minds, somehow, that’s Trump.

So what happens if Jesus does come back today? Would he be offered a cabinet position? Deported? Dragged on Newsmax for looking too “Middle Eastern”? Would he be shot at for handing out free healthcare and loaves of bread without a license? Or would he just keep walking — dusty feet on scorched earth, shaking his head at the flags and the slogans and the fury in his name?

If he does return, I hope he wears a disguise. Not for fear of death — he’s handled that before — but because I don’t think he could stomach the company.

Filed from the steps of Gateway Church in Texas, where someone scratched “TRUMP 3:16” into a pew with a pocketknife and the ushers are selling NFTs of the Last Supper.