Notoriety + grievance + cash flow = sainthood and the Church of Trump
Who knew how quickly a conniving hustler could turn a whopping defeat into a potential victory? Who’d think millions of smitten evangelicals will betray a fallen hero who brags of perfect acts? True believers haul themselves hundreds of miles, risking dire pandemic, to face the sacred Donald of Queens. From Sunday’s Washington Post, school bus driver Sharon Tanner dismissed talk of a Biden presidency: “God’s going to open their mouths and let the truth come out,” she said, “I believe [Trump is] God’s anointed, that God chose him to fix our country.” Open mouths are not open minds. The only fixation greater than such political poppycock is the unwavering conviction the Almighty, obviously bemused, designated as his instrumental of world fixer, Donald the Dismal.
Certitude is a staggering force, undeterred by deathly disease or common sense, logic or evidence. From a congregation of true believers, bellowing their gut instinct hosannas, new crusades are born. And since crusades depend on holy wars, desperate multitudes must scour the landscape for a holy warrior, an agent of higher divinity. But when that divine agent is openly rebuked by suspect outsiders who shun churches, if not prayers and Satan next door, then martyrdom pops up with the velocity of coronavirus newbies greeting new hosts in a tiny bar full of demon rum, shouting and carousing.
The aggrieved, now shunned Declarer of Eternal Truths – “failed elections are rigged, scoffing elites rule, Trumpers always win (with God on their side), and Democrats are disguised commies” – is being transformed for zealots into St. Donald the Martyr. As always, Trump has two addictions: need for adoration and easy, tax-free sucker money. When God (or democracy) inexplicably raises up Biden, Trump must then ascend, from this dreaded trial, to lead his own church, the Messenger of the Stable, Winning Genius. For only with a church – assuredly with a far steadier income than any Trump property – does America, a crippled country racked with carnage, aspire to redemption, all via St. Donald of Queens.
Trump will lap up glimmers of martyrdom like a starving, mangy mongrel. What’s more natural than to rise from the Apprentice to the Anointed, the presidency merely a temp job – loaded with stop signs against doing whatever he pleases, whenever he wants. Unlike public office, where craven opponents collude with cowardly, election crooks, sainthood offers relief from unsavory, earthly vicissitudes.
A Martyr is forever
Better still, once a martyr always a martyr. Forgot that blarney about not being able to take it with you. Martyred saints – especially buoyed with enough cash flow and energetic PR – absolutely drag what they value beyond death. Martyrdom is the earthly gateway to the eternal life called everlasting fame, a PR grand slam. Indeed, St. Donald may well dream of turning the Trump family legacy into permanent, heavenly signposts. Surpassing in fame the Tower of Babel, why not “Trump Towers” crowning the Pearly Gates, in neon, flashing lights and very, very big golden letters?
Not a bad gig if you pull it off. Trump has all the ingredients. He revels in his endless suffering, a target of the most infamous stolen election ever. But in the process he transfigures the loss into an inexhaustible bonanza, amassing more than enough cash and clout to spur adoration. Hell, he already daily whines with more grievances than five full pews of Catholic saints (including St. Donald of Ogilvy, an obscure 8th C. Scottish nonentity).
And the clincher for Trump. St. Donald needs no elitist pope, elected by addled dissemblers called cardinals – nor must he wait for evidence of miracles and delayed gratification. His White House election – and not getting tossed out – are already miracles. Best of all, martyrdom has until now depended on suffering, torture and death – but that’s hardly Donald’s style. Even Jesus had to die, then inspire brilliant evangelists to fabricate a touching gospel storyline who spent hundreds years in conversion. Trump is already a prince of faith who can do no wrong and boasts his own gullible cult.
Suffering, the Trump way
Of course, St. Donald will find his path to suffering as grievance depends on being a victim. He will endure facing decades and spending billions to ward off the lash of lawsuits. That will assure St. Donald’s media exposure, forever battling countless crooked enemies out to plague him. Previous martyrs faced death, but St. Donald only had to lose a rigged election – then springboard a political death into temporal resurrection. Such a predictable sequence – one almost imagines Trump concocted this in advance, as insurance against losing. And having a surging church fuel a new media empire.
What’s core to Trumpian politics – his never-ending persecution – aligns him with his righteous base afflicted by heathens who war against Christmas, torture, kill and eat babies, or simply loathe all non-college, racist, gun-owning, church-going, Ten Commandment-loving Trumpers. If not Trump, who will lead these oppressed masses across the Jordan? Trumpers have abandoned expecting better jobs or controlling the pandemic, willingly risking life to defy demon masks. Fans will eagerly shun soul-sucking vaccinations pushed by medical experts – corrupted by elitist book-learning.
Trump has transcended such paltry measures of a corrupt world. That “God appointed Trump to fix the world” doesn’t mean actually fixing anything — just offering attitude, along with impossible promises only a top-draw divinity could deliver. Think of ascending to the Heavenly Gates, parishioners yearning to be greeted by St. Donald, no doubt with cash in hand for the special entrance fee – with ample discount to Trump PAC donors – and those who voted in person for the saint-to-be.
What’s a saint without a sermon?
Never short of verbiage, here’s St. Donald’s kick-off Sermon on the Tower (“mounts” being inconvenient these days):
“We come together to await what the good book calls winning the righteous “election, if not Armageddon. Deliverance is near but beware the doubters who demand details. Even were heaven as rigged as Georgia vote counting, I offer my modestly priced Trump Pass that guarantees admission. It’s a small indulgence for all your free cash flow and certainly, I was always a divinity in waiting. Praise the Lord and keep passing that plate. Like my life-style, this parade doesn’t come cheap.
“And when the holy Trump rollers join me in Heaven, we will have transcended today’s petty vote counting distractions. Worry instead about the tabulation of your sins and state of your soul. To serve the world, I accept your judgment that my sainthood is inevitable. Hallelujah! Will miracles never cease? Will my brilliant schemes ever wither?
“No, I say, verily, for I have willing children ready to embrace the leadership scepter. Does not the good book, one of the Isaiahs, declare, the scepter of rule “shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet, until Shiloh come”? Shiloh is Trump Towers, confirming my family’s dynasty destiny – clear as the Emolument clause: Trumps were made for better things than hustling real estate.
I welcome my hopefully-delayed sacrificial martyrdom, even better if I don’t have to die or lose my fortune. So inconvenient. Then I’d only be a pauper saint. Staying alive is the deal I abide, for then I will bring down blessings for all followers of the Church of Trump. Yeah, I prefer this shortened name. My heavenly pass guarantee still stands. Trust me. Would an unstoppable winner like St. Donald lie?
To end, this message was approved by Trump, Inc. Send in your last dollars and attain my divine presence – and maybe more. God, his saints and the Church of Trump bless America.
[off-mic: “Okay, that’s a wrap. Money and fame and adoration – all for promising pie in the sky, paid in advance. Proud of me yet, Dad?”]