Why Donald Trump Isn’t Going to Heaven — and Neither Are You
“If I can save 7,000 people a week from being killed, I think that’s pretty— I want to try to get to heaven if possible. I’m hearing that I’m not doing well. I am really at the bottom of the totem pole. But if I can get to heaven, this will be one of the reasons.”
Donald Trump said that recently, with his usual mix of confidence and theatrical humility. And that one line—“I want to try to get to heaven if possible”—might be the most accidentally honest thing he’s ever said.
Because in that one sentence, Trump summed up not just his own theology, but the entire spiritual rot at the core of America’s public Christianity. Heaven, for him, is a business acquisition. A club. A brand extension. You do the right things, or at least market yourself as doing them, and you get in.
And the wild part? Millions of self-proclaimed Christians nodded along as if it made sense.
The Transactional Faith of Donald Trump
For Trump, heaven is transactional—something you earn with enough perceived good deeds, much like a tax write-off. The language isn’t that of faith, but of a deal memo. In Trump’s world, salvation is the ultimate return on investment. “If I can save 7,000 people a week,” he says, then maybe God lets him through the gate.
That’s not Christianity. That’s capitalism dressed up as faith.
In classical theology—think Saint Paul or Augustine—salvation is not a negotiation. You don’t buy your way into heaven with deeds, donations, or public policy. You get there through transformation, repentance, and what Christians call grace—a concept that doesn’t care about your press releases. (christianpost.com)
But America’s version of Christianity—the megachurch, the influencer pastor, the “Jesus + flag = truth” movement—has turned that spiritual mystery into a subscription plan. Say the right slogans, vote the right way, post the right memes, and you’re “saved.”
The False Messiahs of Modern America
Here’s where the mirror gets uncomfortable.
If you think Donald Trump is going to heaven because he “did good things,” and you support him on that basis, you’ve already built your own golden calf. The Bible warned about this exact behavior thousands of years ago—worshipping the symbol instead of the substance. (biblegateway.com)
What’s tragic—and darkly comic—is that Trump’s biggest defenders have become evangelists not for Christ, but for him. They’ve confused moral leadership with brand loyalty, faith with fandom.
And let’s be honest: this isn’t unique to Trump. There’s an entire American industry built on political worship. The left has its own messiahs; the right has theirs. The altars just look different. But Trump’s brand of religiosity—half self-pity, half self-promotion—has taken it to new heights.
When a man says he’s “at the bottom of the totem pole” and still assumes he can negotiate a spot in heaven, it tells you something about how he views both God and himself: as peers in the art of the deal.
Heaven Isn’t a Loyalty Program
Trump’s worldview—shared, ironically, by many of his most pious supporters—treats heaven like a loyalty program.
You accumulate points for attendance, donations, social media outrage, and performative virtue. Eventually, when you’ve racked up enough miles, St. Peter waves you through first class.
But that’s not how this works. That’s not how any serious religion works.
Faith, at its core, is about inward change. About confronting your own darkness. About humility, which—let’s be real—is not something Trump or his most devoted followers have shown much interest in cultivating.
If your faith depends on a politician, you don’t have faith. You have an idol.
And idols don’t get you into heaven—they drag you down.
The Great American Misunderstanding
There’s a reason Trump’s version of spirituality resonates: it’s the American Dream repackaged as theology. Work hard, do enough good, get rich, go to heaven. Heaven becomes the celestial equivalent of the Hamptons—exclusive, expensive, and deeply self-congratulatory.
But faith was never meant to flatter you. It was meant to break you open.
Somewhere along the line, religion stopped being about becoming good and started being about looking good while being bad. We traded in the Sermon on the Mount for a punchline about “owning the libs.” We turned charity into performance, humility into PR, and grace into branding.
So when Trump jokes that he’s “not doing well” in heaven’s approval ratings, he’s right—he’s just accidentally indicting the rest of us, too.
Because if you’re backing someone whose entire life revolves around ego, greed, and vengeance, what does that say about your concept of salvation?
If He’s Not Going to Heaven, Why Would You?
Let’s be brutally honest: if Trump’s theology is the blueprint, you’re not going to heaven either.
If you think faith is about winning, you’ve already lost. If you think morality is about owning the other side, you’ve missed the point. And if you think your ticket to eternal life comes stamped with a campaign logo, you’ve confused the sacred for the spectacle.
The irony is that Trump might actually believe he’s trying to do the right thing. But self-belief isn’t salvation. Self-awareness is.
And as for the rest of us—well, heaven probably isn’t as partisan as we’d like it to be. It’s not left or right. It’s not red or blue. It’s the place where ego goes to die.
Which means most of us, if we’re honest, still have a long way to go.
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