Let’s not pretend this is normal. Let’s not sit in silence while history unravels like a badly knitted MAGA scarf. This Holy Week, the former (and once again current) President of the United States—Donald J. Trump—released a statement so pious, so full of holy flourishes, one might expect it was written while he knelt in silent reflection beneath the cross.

Except, well… no.

“This Holy Week,” he declares, “Melania and I join in prayer with Christians celebrating the crucifixion and resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ—the living Son of God who conquered death, and freed us from sin.”

Let’s pause. Because this, my friends, is not the prayer of a man who has ever cracked open the Bible for anything other than a photo op. (And even then, it was upside down. Which, if we’re being honest, is probably the most spiritually accurate metaphor for his presidency yet.)

The statement oozes with biblical gravitas—but if you listen closely, you can almost hear the clattering of a White House intern’s keyboard from 2020, probably still trapped in a West Wing basement, forced to ghostwrite scripture-flavored propaganda for a man who once bragged about never needing forgiveness.

Do I believe Donald Trump actually wrote this line? That he meditates deeply on the crucifixion and resurrection, reflecting on salvation, grace, and redemption?

Absolutely friggin’ not!

This is the same man who:

• Was sworn into office without placing his hand on the Bible- a subtle nod to the Constitution? Maybe. A sign of piety? Hard pass.
• Held a Bible upside down in a photo-op so hilariously awkward even televangelists had to cringe.
• Once said “Two Corinthians” like he was ordering cocktails for himself and Mike Pence at a country club bar.

And now, suddenly, he’s channeling the Book of Romans like he just got back from a revival tour?

Cue the ghost of Napoleon, sipping espresso in eternal exile and muttering, “Je vous l’avais dit.”
“I told you.”

Because on March 4, 1806, Napoleon nailed it:

“I don’t see in religion evidence of the mystery of the incarnation, but rather the mystery of social order. Religion associates heaven with an idea of equality that keeps the rich from being massacred by the poor.”

Translation? Religion is a tool, not a truth. It’s a cosmic sleight-of-hand designed to keep angry pitchfork-wielders from storming the metaphorical castles of the elite. And Trump? Oh, he gets this. Maybe not intellectually—he’s not exactly known for Socratic depth—but instinctively. Like a con man sniffing out a mark in a megachurch.

He doesn’t believe, but he believes in belief. Especially when it comes with votes, donations, and a choir of well-rehearsed “Amens.”

Now enter RFK Jr.—Trump’s unofficial spiritual co-star in this morality play masquerading as a government.

While Trump wraps himself in borrowed holiness, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. wraps himself in lab coats he never earned. Let’s be clear: RFK Jr. is not a doctor. He has never held a medical license. His entire vaccine crusade is built not on expertise but on hubris and Google. And yet he’s somehow managed to become Secretary of Health and Human Services in the current administration.

RFK Jr. is to public health what Trump is to theology: loud, misinformed, and terrifyingly influential.

This is a man who built his brand on the thoroughly debunked lie that vaccines cause autism. That claim stems from a fraudulent 1998 study whose author, Andrew Wakefield, was in fact stripped of his medical license. But that wasn’t RFK Jr.—because again, he never had one to lose.

And yet here we are, in 2025, watching him helm a federal health agency like a wellness podcaster on bath salts. Between detox myths, mercury hysteria, and Wi-Fi conspiracies, the man is one FDA warning away from rebranding as a moon juice consultant.

Together, Trump and RFK Jr. represent the unholy merger of religious cosplay and scientific illiteracy.

If Trump ever holds a Bible study session in the Rose Garden, RFK Jr. will probably be there with an essential oil diffuser and a pamphlet titled “Jesus Wouldn’t Have Vaccinated.”

Let’s take inventory:

• One says climate change is a Chinese hoax and windmills cause cancer.
• The other says Big Pharma is brainwashing you through childhood immunizations and cell towers.

And now they’re leading the charge—spiritually, scientifically, and politically—into what can only be described as the great American backslide.

So why does it work? Why do millions still believe these men when they invoke scripture, science, or anything that smells vaguely credible?

Because they’re not selling truth—they’re selling stories – bad, very bad, fairy tales!

Trump’s Holy Week narrative isn’t about Jesus. It’s about looking like the chosen one, surrounded by evangelicals who confuse moral theater for spiritual leadership. And RFK Jr.? He’s found his flock in a post-truth America desperate for easy answers and rebellious heroes.

Just like Napoleon said, religion—and by extension, belief systems—are a tool of social order. Not because they bring enlightenment, but because they offer a hierarchy. A reason not to riot. A reason to trust the very institutions that are exploiting you.

If God can forgive Trump, surely you can vote for him.

If RFK Jr. says he’s protecting your kids, surely you can ignore the mountains of peer-reviewed science that say otherwise.

The tragedy isn’t that these men don’t believe.

It’s that they don’t have to. You do.

So this Holy Week, light a candle.

Not for resurrection.
Not for forgiveness.
But for the last dying embers of reason.

Because when a fake theologian and a fake doctor become America’s most powerful truth-tellers, it’s not a revival.

It’s a rerun.

And even Napoleon would change the channel!