Donald Trump’s recent exchange with the Pope and his depiction of himself as Jesus Christ mark another outburst in Western media, one that has provoked reactions among Christians. It should not, however, be misread as a clash between Zionist and anti-Zionist camps within Christendom. Neither side is contesting the terror of Israel as such; rather, they diverge over the methods and moral framing of its actions. Meanwhile, the episode could be seen as a reflection of the ongoing tension between Western liberal Christianity and the assertive rise of Christian nationalism. It says, more importantly, how Trump is seen, and perhaps how he sees himself, within contemporary Christian imagination.
When a Nigerian Facebook user, Ugochukwu, described Trump as “the Holy Spirit, the Comforter Jesus Christ said will be sent to us,” the claim was easy to dismiss. It could be attributed to theological illiteracy or the uncritical absorption of zionist preaching, compounded by a thin grasp of geopolitics. But then, when prominent evangelical figures such as Lance Wallnau, Paula White, and, most notably, Franklin Graham frame Trump as divinely appointed to “save America,” the issue moves beyond fringe enthusiasm into scriptural politicisation.
However, according to a 2024 Pew publication, only 8 percent of Trump’s supporters consider him “very religious,” while a majority view him as only somewhat—or not particularly—religious at all. Faced with the dissonance between Trump’s personal conduct and Christian ethical ideals, many evangelical leaders reach for biblical analogies. The morally compromised leader, known for his vulgarity, falsehoods, and conspicuous pride, is recast in the mould of Cyrus, the Persian king intioned in Isaiah 45: “Thus says the Lord to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I have grasped… For the sake of Jacob my servant, and Israel my chosen, I call you by your name… though you do not know me” (Isaiah 45:1–4).
Cyrus, notably, was not a believer in the Israelite sense, yet he was “anointed” for fulfilling the political purpose of restoring Israel. In today’s context, Trump’s overwhelming support among white evangelicals at home and Christians abroad rests on a similar calculus. His judicial appointments, his overt alignment with evangelical priorities, and, above all, his relentless defence of the modern state of Israel, have cemented his status.
Trump himself has keyed into this quasi-messianic narrative. Following the attempt on his life in July 2024, he declared: “Many people have told me that God spared my life for a reason, and that reason was to save our country and to restore America to greatness.”
Hence, assuming the role of a modern Cyrus, Trump not only seeks to safeguard American Christians but also to project this mission globally. His administration’s rhetoric has at times framed geopolitical manoeuvres in explicitly religious terms: from invoking the persecution of Christians in Nigeria when the actual aim was to get a base in the country, to defend Christian nations from the forces of godless “narco communism” and tyranny in Latin America.
Still, Trump’s appeal endures across evangelical and Pentecostal communities internationally—from conservative theologians in the United States to local preachers in Africa and parts of Asia. For many, he is not merely a political ally but a divinely sanctioned actor in the struggle between good and evil. But then what kind of Christianity does Trump represent?
Modern Christianity, particularly since the 20th century, has often been presented as a faith of nonviolence, humanitarianism, and charity. This self-image has been central to missionary work and global outreach, bolstered by media accounts that foreground compassion while downplaying the religion’s more turbulent past. Yet this portrayal sits uneasily with history. The Christianity that moulded empires, sanctioned conquest, and justified war bears little resemblance to its contemporary, softened image.
In this sense, Trump’s posture, however controversial, may be less an aberration than a reversion. Unlike the conciliatory tone associated with figures such as Pope Leo, Trump’s rhetoric draws on a more combative, historically grounded strain of Christian thought. His fanatical War Secretary’s habitual invocation of the Bible in the context of military action exemplifies this mindset. Prayer circles in the Oval Office, with pastors laying hands on the president, further blur the line between piety and bloodlust imperialism. The language of divine sanction, once thought relegated to history, has resurfaced. This is much expected when the War Secretary has tattoos of Crusader-era emblems.
None of this is entirely new. It echoes an older Christianity, maybe a more scriptural one. The one that sanctioned the Crusades, causing millions of Christians, Muslims and Jews to die; one that fuelled Europe’s religious wars, claiming between five and ten million lives; one that accompanied colonial expansion, preaching moral injunctions while extracting wealth and subjugating populations.
Against this background, perhaps the “messiah” has not overstepped his bounds at all. Perhaps he is, rather, a reflection of a tradition that modern narratives have sought to sanitise. If so, Trump’s Christianity is not an anomaly but a revival, stripped of its contemporary polish and returned to its more forceful, historical essence.
The saying suggests one cannot be “more Christian than the Pope.” Yet Trump and his allies appear intent on testing that proposition. In their fusion of piety and power, of scripture and state violence, they revive a familiar formula—one that history has seen before, and whose consequences it has already recorded.
*The views expressed in this content are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of İdrakpost.
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