How’s Trump’s health? He’d rather talk about the state of his soul

I am agnostic about Donald Trump’s health. When I look at him, I see Roy Cohn’s protégé, a man animated by his life’s mission of attaining unlimited power. Men with that kind of drive tend to live a long time. So last weekend, amid all the speculation about the president’s health, I remained dispassionate. 

Admittedly, the circumstances were strange. By Saturday, Trump hadn’t been seen since his epic three-hour Cabinet meeting four days earlier — unusually long for someone who loves public attention as much as he does. This fueled wild and baseless rumors that the White House had been relying on body doubles, that Trump had been felled by a stroke or some other catastrophic health event, and that the whole thing was being covered up, and that it was all being hidden like something out of Stalinist Russia or some other autocratic regime.

On Saturday, photos finally appeared of Trump leaving the White House, dressed in golf clothes. But there’s no evidence he actually played golf that day. Instead, he shared an old photo of him on the links. This odd behavior, of course, only fueled more speculation. Trump eventually sent out a barrage of peculiar posts on Truth Social, seemingly as proof he was alive. “NEVER FELT BETTER IN MY LIFE,” he declared in one. On Tuesday, he held a press conference to announce relatively minor news that could have been delivered by an underling: He intended to move U.S. Space Command headquarters from Colorado to Alabama.

The speculation about Trump’s health followed his recent public comments — and fundraising emails — about how he hopes to be found worthy of heaven. But amid all the chatter and coverage, people missed something important. Trump is continuing a weeks-long pattern of emphasizing his salvation anxieties to gain and retain the loyalties of the White Christian right.

For those who come from an evangelical background, his strategy is unmissable. But for many members of the mainstream media and political establishment, most of whom were not brought up in a culture that functions by using coded verbal cues and emotional pleas for understanding and support, Trump’s tactics aren’t as obvious. 

Trump is much more than just president of the United States. He is a symbol who plays many roles: Political strongman and dictator, billionaire, reality TV show host, professional wrestling heel and carnie, supervillain, king, Christian crusader, Great Man of History and Destiny, superhero, 1980s action hero and vigilante, mafia boss and gangster, and the strong father figure and role model.

By any honest assessment of his professed faith, Trump is also a willful sinner. Yet his popularity among White Christians has not suffered; if anything, he fits their “Cyrus prophecy” about how wicked men can be used to fulfill God’s plans for the nation.

But even this exhaustive list is incomplete. Trump also functions as a type of preacher. He is using the presidency’s bully pulpit to address, manipulate and control his congregation — the MAGA movement — or, in evangelical terms, his “church family.” As his authoritarian power and aspirations grow, Trump will likely only amplify this aspect of his persona. 

His talk of God and heaven holds great power over his MAGA followers for several reasons.

Trump’s public worries about his eternal soul activate his followers’ death anxieties, something social psychologists refer to as “terror management theory.” Research has shown that when a person’s fear of death is activated, they tend to crave safety and security from authoritarian leaders. This inclination appears to be especially true for conservatives, because a fear of death triggers worries about a changing world, and a lack of control. Conservative personality types also often have a stronger negativity bias than liberals. 

When Trump shares his worries about heaven and his soul, he is activating similar feelings among his MAGA followers. This makes him seem like a more authentic and relatable leader. One of the common explanations for why his MAGA followers are attracted to Trump is because he seems “real” and “raw” and “tells it like it is.” His God and Heaven performance plays into widely-felt fears about existence. This is the paradox of populist leaders: They are above the masses but are simultaneously “of the people.”

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Like other authoritarian populist movements, Trumpism is a belief system for its members. As scholars have documented, successful religions satisfy the core emotional needs of believers. This is especially true for converts, who tend to be more zealous than people who are born into a given religion or faith tradition.  It tells them how to think, defines the boundaries of their reality and dictates who they love and hate. It shapes how they live their day-to-day lives. MAGA itself is a surrogate family for many die-hard members who travel the country to attend Trump’s rallies, and for those who gather online via Truth Social and other right-wing echo chambers. Journalists have routinely described Trump’s rallies as a mix of an old-time Christian tent revival, a rock concert and a festival. Because of their sense of linked fate with Trump, his talk about heaven feels deeply personal and sacred.

It’s no accident that Trump has fundraised from his appeals to heaven. In many Christian churches, donating, or “giving offerings,” is integral to earning respect and a sense of belonging from the congregation. Even in poor communities, church members are urged to “give until it hurts.” In this way, Trump is a televangelist channeling the prosperity gospel, where wealth is seen as proof of God’s favor.

Televangelists have longed manufactured spiritual crises of various types — for themselves, for the church, for society and for the world — to drive donations. In his emails, Trump frames his movement as a holy war against “evil” liberals, Democrats and “WOKE.” He declares, “I have no other choice but to answer the Call to Duty, but I can’t do it alone.” Here he is invoking another evangelical tradition by portraying himself as a commander who will fight a spiritual war on behalf of his congregation.

For many evangelical leaders, having an expensive home, clothes, a car and other accouterments are a necessity — even if their own members are struggling financially. In the Church of Trump, white working-class supporters, who may be facing economic adversity themselves, still give generously. Studies show that donating to religious or charitable causes literally feels good, because such actions trigger the release of dopamine, endorphins and other “happiness chemicals”  in the brain.

Of course, the president brags he is a billionaire many times over. He doesn’t need the MAGA people’s money. But in the eyes of his MAGA flock, Trump’s extreme wealth — and their contributions to it — are proof that he’s chosen by God. It gives them a sense of belonging. 

Donald Trump is preaching now. His sermon is one of rage, revenge and hatred for his personal enemies and those who dare to oppose his MAGA agenda. To those outside of the MAGA flock, it all sounds like gibberish, the equivalent of speaking in tongues. But their failure to understand and translate this foreign language does not make his preaching any less powerful. As the 2024 election showed, over 70 million Americans are drawn, in varying degrees, to Trump’s MAGA gospel.

Meanwhile, Democrats and the resistance are not offering anything as inspiring or moving for their own supporters. Public opinion polls have shown that the party’s metaphorical church is struggling and fragile; its pews are thinning. 

Trump’s MAGA church may not be growing, but its members are strong in the faith, enthusiastic about evangelizing for a leader who, at least by some measures, seems to be immortal.