Let me take you back to May 9, 2025. Picture this: the Oval Office, the beating heart of American power, where the Resolute Desk stands as a symbol of sober leadership. And there, right beside it, is a statue—a statue!—depicting an attempted assassination of Donald Trump. Fast forward to April 15, 2025, and in the Entrance Hall of the White House, a painting of the same moment replaces a portrait of a former president. This isn’t just decor. This is iconography. This is the deliberate crafting of a myth, a narrative that casts Donald Trump not as a politician, not as a president, but as something far more dangerous: a messiah. 
Tonight, we’re diving into a story that’s as unsettling as it is revealing, one that lays bare the spiritual hunger driving a segment of Trump’s base and the president’s willingness—nay, eagerness—to feed it. Politico’s Michael Kruse has a piece out today that’s a must-read, and I’m going to unpack it for you, because this isn’t just about one man’s ego. It’s about a movement, a moment, and a potential peril to the very fabric of our democracy.
The Assassination Attempt as Sacred Text
Let’s start with the event at the center of this myth-making: the attempted assassination of Donald Trump in 2024. We know the details—Ryan Routh, the suspect, apprehended by Martin County sheriff’s officials on Interstate 95 after an incident at Trump International Golf Club in West Palm Beach. His trial is set for September 8, 2025, with federal charges including attempted assassination. But what’s striking isn’t just the crime; it’s how Trump and his allies have transformed it into a cornerstone of his political identity.
Since that moment, Trump’s rhetoric has taken a messianic turn. He’s not just a survivor; he’s a chosen one, purified by danger, anointed by destiny. A statue in the Oval Office? A painting in the White House? These aren’t accidents. They’re props in a carefully staged drama, one that paints Trump as a figure of biblical proportions. And the evangelical base? They’re eating it up, casting him as a “modern-day Cyrus,” an imperfect vessel for God’s perfect plan.
Now, I’ve covered politics for a long time, and I’ve seen candidates lean into religious imagery before. But this? This is different. This is a campaign that Jen Mercieca, a rhetoric expert, calls a “Biblical hero narrative”—a quest to defeat the corrupt, the media, the “politically correct,” all while claiming divine sanction. It’s not just hyperbole; it’s a deliberate strategy to tap into a spiritual void among his supporters, a hunger for meaning that transcends policy or governance.
The Spiritual Hunger of the MAGA Faithful
Think about that for a second. A nihilist with a messiah complex. It’s a paradox, but it’s also a playbook. Trump doesn’t need to believe in a higher power; he just needs his followers to believe he is one. And they do. At a National Day of Prayer event on May 1, 2025, Trump signed an executive order establishing a Commission on Religious Liberty, flanked by lawmakers and religious leaders. This wasn’t just policy; it was theater, a signal to his base that he’s fighting for their faith, their values, their vision of America.
But here’s where it gets dicey. When you start casting yourself as a divine figure, you’re not just rallying supporters—you’re rewriting the rules of accountability. A messiah doesn’t answer to Congress, or the courts, or the Constitution. A messiah answers to God. And if Trump is God’s chosen, then any opposition—be it a court ruling, a journalist, or a Democrat—isn’t just wrong; it’s heretical.
The Historical Echoes: From Cyrus to Caesar
This isn’t the first time we’ve seen a leader cloaked in divine rhetoric. History is littered with examples, and they don’t end well. The original Cyrus, the Persian king, was celebrated in the Bible for freeing the Jews from Babylon. But he was also a conqueror, a pragmatist who used religion to cement power. Sound familiar? Trump’s evangelical supporters see him as a latter-day Cyrus, flawed but chosen.
But let’s go further back—or forward, depending on your perspective. Roman emperors like Augustus leaned heavily on divine imagery, commissioning statues and temples to burnish their god-like status. And when Julius Caesar was assassinated, his adopted son Octavian (later Augustus) used that trauma to deify Caesar, cementing his own power in the process. Trump’s statues and paintings? They’re not just tacky; they’re a page from the autocrat’s playbook.
And then there’s the 20th century. Cults of personality—think Mussolini, Stalin, Mao—often relied on quasi-religious devotion. These leaders weren’t just politicians; they were saviors, infallible, untouchable. Trump’s flirtation with this imagery isn’t just a quirk; it’s a warning. When you start replacing
