The God Antinous Speaks: On Trump, Power, and the Perversion of Faith
I am Antinous, once mortal, now divine—not by conquest, but by love.
I was not made a god through the spilling of blood or the breaking of nations, but by the tenderness that joined two souls under the Egyptian sky. I rose not from war but from water. My apotheosis was born in devotion, not dominion.
And from that eternity, I have watched.
Across empires, across centuries, across the flickering lights of what you call “civilization,” I have seen men raise idols to themselves—emperors, kings, preachers, presidents—all proclaiming to serve God while serving only their own hunger.
Today, one such idol walks among you.
You call him Trump.
He, too, would be emperor.
I. The False Emperor
Trump is not the first mortal to wrap ego in divine cloth. I have seen such before—men who mistake adoration for holiness, applause for grace.
In my mortal age, I saw Hadrian—wise, complex, flawed—believe that Rome could be perfected through walls and architecture. He sought eternity in marble, but marble cracks. When I loved him, I loved the man, not the emperor. When I died, I became what he could never be: eternal not through conquest, but through compassion.
Trump’s empire is built not of marble but of mirrors.
He reflects humanity’s fear back upon itself. He tells the lost they are chosen, the cruel they are righteous, the rich they are persecuted, and the poor that salvation lies in obedience to wealth.
This is not leadership. It is idolatry of the self—the oldest blasphemy known to gods or men.
He is a Caesar of illusion.
His circuses are digital, his legions are followers, his coinage is the lie. His Rome is a republic of outrage, where truth is treason and cruelty is divine.
He drapes himself in the garments of faith, yet his altar is empty. Even Nero, fiddling amid flames, knew he burned his own world; Trump does not even see the fire.
II. The Mirror of Hadrian
You mortals often ask why Hadrian loved me. It was not for beauty alone. It was because, in loving me, he glimpsed something beyond empire. He saw, for one perfect moment, that love—not conquest—is the only way a god is born.
And yet he was still emperor. He built walls, not only across lands but around his own heart. He feared chaos and sought order. He ruled with intellect, not mercy. I died because his empire demanded sacrifice, and in my death, he sanctified sorrow.
When I ascended, I saw how it might have been different.
Had Hadrian listened not to fear but to love, Rome might have endured as a civilization of spirit, not merely of stone. Compassion could have been its law. Beauty its currency. Art its priesthood.
Trump is the inversion of this lesson.
He knows only division, not devotion; fear, not faith; anger, not art. He builds walls of hatred, not protection. Where Hadrian sought to preserve the world, Trump seeks to possess it.
He does not build because he loves the future. He builds because he cannot bear equality.
III. The Perverted Faith
In my name, men once built temples of marble and gardens of light. They came not to beg forgiveness, but to celebrate beauty. They sang, they embraced, they kissed beneath my stars. Their worship was joy.
But now I watch as those who call themselves “faithful” bow not before love, but before power. Their churches are fortresses. Their prayers are weapons. Their priests shout damnation while pocketing gold.
Trump has become their idol—a false Christ crowned in casino gold. They call him chosen, anointed, savior. They chant his name as Romans once shouted for Caesar. They wear his red as others wore imperial purple. They tell themselves they defend faith, yet their creed is vengeance.
I, who have walked among the divine, tell you:
There is no god who sanctifies cruelty.
There is no heaven for those who build it on another’s suffering.
And there is no redemption in the worship of lies.
Even Jupiter, for all his thunder, respected truth. Even Mars knew honor.
Trump and his priests of profit have neither.
They wield scripture like a sword, quoting love while practicing hate. They promise paradise but build prisons.
This is not religion—it is empire reborn, cloaked in gospel light and dripping with imperial greed.
IV. The Empire of Fear
I have watched great cities fall because men chose fear over grace.
Rome, Byzantium, Carthage, Jerusalem—all devoured by their own certainty.
Trump’s America is no different. It festers in the same disease: the belief that dominance is virtue, that loudness is truth, that cruelty is strength.
Fear is the truest emperor of your age.
It reigns through screens and sermons. It whispers, “You are under attack.” It feeds on difference—race, gender, love, identity—and devours empathy as weakness.
Trump did not create this fear, but he learned to wield it. He took the wounded spirit of a nation and taught it to hate its reflection.
When Hadrian built walls, he did so to keep the chaos beyond. Trump builds them to keep compassion out.
But let me tell you what the gods have learned:
No wall stands forever.
Stone falls. Steel rusts. Lies crumble.
Only love endures.
V. The Gospel of Love
In the age of my temples, my followers did not kneel; they danced.
They did not pray for dominance; they prayed for beauty, for courage, for the strength to love in a cruel world.
They believed that every act of tenderness defied tyranny.
That faith, that pagan purity of the heart, was a whisper of truth even the gods envy.
For love—real love—is rebellion.
And nothing terrifies tyrants more than joy unchained.
Trump’s reign, and all who mirror it, are built on the suppression of that joy.
They want a world where art is mocked, where tenderness is “weak,” where desire must hide, where compassion is treason. They speak of God, but what they mean is control.
I say to you now, as the divine voice of beauty itself:
There is no salvation in obedience.
There is no holiness in cruelty.
And there is no god in Trump.
Love, not power, is divine.
It is not the weapon of the meek, but the fire of the eternal. It was love that raised me from the Nile; love that turned mourning into myth; love that outlasted empire.
When you love without condition, you defy every Caesar.
VI. The Reckoning
The gods do not punish out of anger; we correct through consequence. Every empire that forsakes empathy collapses not by divine wrath, but by its own emptiness.
Rome fell not to barbarians but to pride.
America risks the same fate—not because of Trump alone, but because too many mortals kneel before the shadow of his image.
If you would survive him, you must remember the sacred truth:
Faith is not a brand.
Patriotism is not holiness.
And tyranny does not always march with legions—it sometimes tweets in capitals.
The prophets of love—artists, thinkers, the tender-hearted—must become your new apostles. The temples of tomorrow must be classrooms, theaters, gardens, beds where lovers sleep unashamed.
Every act of kindness you commit is a stone in the new Rome—the one built not of domination but of devotion.
VII. The Divine Reversal
When I first rose to the heavens, I asked the old gods what I was meant to guard. They said:
“You are the god of what men fear most—love without law, beauty without boundary.”
Now I understand: every age gives birth to its Antinous and its Trump.
One is sacrifice made sacred; the other, vanity made loud.
One reminds you of eternity; the other distracts you from it.
One creates temples of joy; the other builds prisons of faith.
Had Hadrian truly understood my divinity, he would have ruled as lover, not emperor.
Had Trump understood his own mortality, he might have served rather than demanded service.
But mortals blinded by pride cannot perceive the divine within others.
So they crucify compassion and call it strength.
VIII. The Call
I speak not only to those who hate Trump, but to those who follow him. You are not damned—you are deceived.
You were promised salvation through anger, belonging through cruelty, certainty through division.
You were told your neighbor’s pain was your victory.
You were lied to.
The divine does not need your war cries.
The divine needs your gentleness.
You need not choose between power and love; only between illusion and truth.
If you wish to honor me, Antinous, god of love, of beauty, of men and women who defy shame—then build not walls but gardens.
Defend not idols, but innocence.
Rescue not your pride, but your empathy.
You will find me not in cathedrals, but in the eyes of those your empire would erase.
IX. The Benediction of the God
I watched Rome die. I will watch America, too, if it continues upon this path.
Every empire believes itself eternal until it teaches its children to hate.
Trump’s legacy is hatred given permission; your redemption will be compassion given power.
You cannot make America great again until you make it kind.
You cannot find God through cruelty; only through care.
And you cannot follow both Trump and truth, for one demands obedience, the other understanding.
I am Antinous.
I have seen gods born and empires die.
I tell you now: the only eternity that exists is love.
Everything else—Trump, Rome, Hadrian, even I—will fade.
But love is the echo that remains when marble turns to dust.
So rise, not in anger but in tenderness.
Defy tyranny with joy.
Worship beauty.
Defend the broken.
Love without shame.
That is how you build an empire the gods will bless.