Trump’s Quest for a Mar-a-Lago Papacy
In the 2024 film Conclave, the dean of the College of Cardinals, played by Ralph Fiennes, addresses the assembly of spiritual leaders who have gathered in Rome to elect a new pope by quoting St Paul to the Ephesians: “Be subject to one another out of reverence to Christ.” The dean interprets this quote as a reminder that what gives the Catholic Church its great strength is its variety. He continues by saying the one sin he has come to fear above all others is certainty—which he calls the great enemy of unity and tolerance.
“Our faith is a living thing because it walks hand in hand with doubt, and if there is no doubt, there would be no mystery.” He concludes his homily by asking the cardinals to pray for a pope who doubts, and sins—and asks for forgiveness.
It was this great sin of certainty that was on full display this week in Trump’s now-deleted Truth Social post in which he lambasted Pope Leo XIV, accusing the pontiff of being “weak” on crime and “terrible on foreign policy.” The president claimed the only reason Pope Leo was named head of the Catholic Church was because the church thought that would be the best way to deal with Trump, stating, “If I wasn’t in the White House, Leo wouldn’t be in the Vatican.” The rant was accompanied by an AI-generated image of Trump appearing as Jesus Christ, surrounded by an American flag, bald eagles, the Statue of Liberty, and figures resembling … Power Rangers? Facing fierce backlash, Trump has since claimed the image was not meant to depict him as Jesus but as a doctor in biblical robes because, in his words, “I do make people better. I make people a lot better.”
Trump’s rant was a reaction to Leo’s condemnation of his administration’s recent military misadventures, which have included a genocidal threat to wipe out Iran’s civilization. It’s not hard to imagine this catching Leo’s attention. Indeed, during his Palm Sunday homily the pope declared, “God does not listen” to the prayers of those who wage war. His homily was in reference to rhetoric from Trump and his Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, who have claimed the war in Iran has been carried out “under the protection of divine providence.” But as crazy as Trump’s Jesus-like grandeur may be, it was his administration’s reported behavior earlier this year that gives real pause for concern.
In January, Cardinal Christophe Pierre, then papal nuncio—the Vatican’s ambassador to the U.S.—was invited to the Pentagon for a meeting with Elbridge Colby, the U.S. undersecretary of war for policy. The invite was a response to the pope’s then-fresh comments lamenting the growing use of force to resolve diplomatic disputes. The meeting turned tense after Colby appealed to the papal nuncio to align the Vatican with Washington’s policies. When the cardinal declared that Pope Leo would continue to follow his own course guided by church values, a Pentagon official invoked the Avignon papacy of the fourteenth century, when the French king appointed his own “antipope” in reaction to Rome. The invocation was read as a clear threat: If Leo did not start toeing the Trump line, the president might be forced to appoint his own rival pope.
Like many threats from the Trump administration, one to appoint a pontiff was not well thought through. Like all holy leaders, popes strive to be living allegories of their faith. Many throughout history have fallen short, but one spiritual responsibility of the pope is to serve as a unifying spiritual figure for over 1.3 billion believers for the Catholic Church. What sets the pope apart from other Christian leaders is that Catholics believe in papal infallibility; that when he speaks ex cathedra on doctrines of faith and morals, his words are inspired directly by God (JD Vance, take notice).
Following this same logic, any Trump-appointed Mar-a-Lago pope residing in palatial poolside splendor would not answer to God but to the president’s own godlike pretensions. Trump would no longer be a mere leader of men but a mortal who assumes all the celestial authority of a deity. In contrast to a pope elected to inspire all the teachings of Christ, a Floridian pope would encapsulate everything that embodies the spiritual rot of the MAGA movement.
When we think of the Antichrist, we tend to imagine demonic babies from horror films or red-tinted devils with pointed tails and horns. But what’s substantially more frightening than a diabolical figure brandishing a cartoon pitchfork is what Hannah Arendt described as the banality of evil on display in the trial of Adolf Eichmann in Jerusalem. Eichmann was an ordinary man who joined the SS, not because he loved fascism but because he wanted a step up from his job as a door-to-door vacuum salesman. On hearing him testify, Arendt genuinely believed the man responsible for designing the final solution bore no ill will toward Jews. The “banality of evil” she referred to in her book about his trial is the idea that the greatest evils are not committed by psychopaths but by ordinary, unthinking people who conform to systems and fail to critically evaluate their actions.
Christian eschatology offers a more disquieting vision of the Antichrist as a “man of lawlessness,” who will deceive humanity by preaching a false alternative to Jesus’s teachings, turning Christ’s message of love, humility, and self-sacrifice on its head. Consider the Trumpian moral antonym of the beatitudes: “Cursed are the meek, because might makes right”; “Cursed are the merciful, for they are suckers and losers”; “Cursed are those who suffer persecution, because they had it coming.”
Unlike the pope on St. Peter’s seat in Rome who surrounds himself with theologians, a Mar-a-Lago pope would be spiritually influenced by those, like Eichmann, who never stopped to consider the meaning behind an authoritarian’s slogans. “Make America Great Again” is all they’d ever need to repeat to themselves to dismiss any shred of guilt when faced with images of bombed-out buildings or ICE officers yanking children from their parents’ arms. Around this Floridian pope’s golden throne would gather tech oligarchs who view introspection as an obstacle to action, along with advocates of AI superiority over human creativity. Here freedom would be defined as the absence of restrictions on desires, rather than the spiritual definition that stresses freedom can be found in virtue.
And rather than citing a holy text, a Mar-a-Lago pope and his College of Influencers would rely on “content” to preach their gospel of unlimited and untaxable wealth. Salvation would be promised with all the conviction and reflection of an adolescent YouTube influencer accepting money from a cosmetics company to convince children they will only be loved and accepted if they preemptively sheet-mask. Contemplation, self-sacrifice, and a willingness to accept that one day you too shall die are not virtues, but vices that can be treated with Joe Rogan–esque self help.
Although Washington is already infested with the signifiers of Trump’s moral decay, these signs lack a unifying symbol of the MAGA movement. The real value of a Mar-a-Lago pope is that he’d stand as an indelible reminder of everything that students of history will learn that defined the Trump era. The only metaphor better than a billion-dollar ballroom for understanding MAGA’s corrosion of moral authority would be the image of a gilded antipope standing next to Trump in the Oval Office after his ascension to the papacy. In that sense, the pontiff would not merely symbolize spiritual rot but would serve as its most enduring allegory for Trump’s sin of certainty.