I see you, true believer. You’re not just watching the news—you’re worshipping by glowlight. Your home shrine flickers in protest: TV screen bright, candles lit, praying that Voldemort will finally fix your rent. You whisper curses to Orange Foolius like he’s the final boss in a video game you never wanted to play. You won’t say his name, but your meme folders are devotional. This is where it started—in the dark. But this isn’t where it has to end. You built a liturgy of rage around a villain you helped canonize—Fanta Fascist.
Back in 2008, when Barack stepped up, it felt divine. Father God with a perfect smile and presidential playlists. Suddenly, the pain was supposed to fade, the bank accounts fill, the world heal. Hillary was backup vocals for the choir of change—Memaw with a policy binder. It was liturgy wrapped in campaign slogans. But those promises? Mostly confetti.
Marx authored the holy scriptures. He was a drunk philosopher with a self-serving grievance: the bourgeoisie are evil. His gospel was envy disguised as fairness—take from the bougie and give to the downtrodden, starting with himself. Mao read this and spotted the missing piece: divinity. So he decreed himself a god. Imperialist Communism was born—not just governance, but sanctified power.
The Dragon You Didn’t Slay
Then came HRH Obama, who didn’t declare divinity but inherited the hunger for it. His victory filled a god-shaped hole in his loyalists. They didn’t want a president. They wanted redemption. Obama gave them myth and meaning in a system otherwise starved of it.
And now Salmon Voldemort Trump. You can stop jeering now. No. Seriously. OW! That tossed liquor bottle hurt!
For this crowd, he’s not just a politician. He’s their Voldemort—the Anti-King they need to keep the faith alive. Their righteousness depends on his wickedness. Every tantrum, every street scream, every ritual protest is one more chapter in a myth they can’t let die. Not just to defeat the monster—but to justify their existence as monster-slayers.
Myth Making and the Monster
Two from Friedrich Nietzsche, “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you,” and “Without myth, however, every culture loses its healthy creative power: only a horizon encompassed with myth can unify a culture.”
And one from Voltaire, “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.”
Last, from Sasha Stone in Confessions of a Russiagate True Believer, “they’ve emerged from all of this as wild-eyed Doomsday preppers who have finally gone full Pizzagate, scraping the bottom of the barrel to chase a scandal that was never theirs to begin with, and one they never cared about until right now.”
So what happened? You didn’t slay a dragon—you sanctified one. Donald the Orange Foolius became the infernal engine powering your myth. You built a theology of rage that needs him to stay monstrous.
Your Nietzsche warmed you up to the abyss. And when God felt absent, you didn’t surrender—you rioted. As if graffiti and runway glue could summon a better world. You want God to come correct, but you’ve tried to boss Him around like a tantruming prophet.
Here’s the rub: when God isn’t welcome, false gods step in. Marx. Mao. Even memes of Obama and Hillary as divine parental figures. And now? You light candles next to your soundbar in a shrine to the man you claim to despise. Salmon Voldemort, the One Who Cannot Be Named.
Your culture lost its myth and filled the void with political liturgy. Problem is, you can’t exorcise a demon you helped invent.
The Shrine That Burns Back
I get it. You’re a true believer. The TV glows like stained glass in your living room temple. Candles flicker beside your icons of Voldemort—you know, the orange one who cannot be named. You mutter imprecations to drive out evil landlords and unsympathetic food banks, casting curses like spells against DJT.
This isn’t politics. It’s liturgy. Obama was Father God returned to Earth, heralding the paradise foretold. Hillary was Memaw Messiah. Together they promised healing, deliverance, and one chicken per pot.
But what you consume—emotionally, spiritually—becomes you. Every myth, grievance, prophecy, and tribal war story you digest becomes your doctrine. And your doctrine now requires a devil. You didn’t slay him. You canonized him.
So here’s the offer: Let go of the shrine. Let that myth die so you can live in the light. Yeah, it sounds suspiciously Christian. Guilty as charged. Our altar calls are real, and we aren’t shy about grace. But this isn’t a sermon. It’s a challenge. You’ve built your world around a monster you helped make holy. What if you dropped the torch and walked out of the ritual?
A Rebellion of Grace
I’ve lived that dark gospel. Raised Presbyterian, altar-called at fourteen, I still tried to outrun the ritual. My kin taught me that stepping left when the whole world marches right is a sacred inheritance. I joined the Navy and left after two weeks. One last pushup and I could’ve stayed. I stayed on the floor instead. Because my blood whispers rebellion.
You’re not cursed. You’re just caught in a liturgy that was built to fail.
Marx cursed fate. Mao filled the sky with himself. Obama lit the candles of hope but couldn’t baptize a nation starving for salvation. And Trump? He became the devil-shaped hole that let the liturgy stay alive.
But there’s another way. This isn’t a tantrum. It isn’t protest theater. It’s not a dopamine chase from digital applause. It’s something else—quiet, stubborn, sacred. A slow surrender. Grace first. Mercy next. That doesn’t mean weakness. It means power grounded in service. It means stepping into the dark carrying a lamp instead of a torch.
Inventing gods or inciting rebellion won’t do. Light—honest, unflinching light—is what’s needed.
John 1:5, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
Read history where the pages carry the scent of paper and ink—not digital fury or trending outrage. Speak with those whose beliefs are shaped by mercy, not vengeance. Consider that your shrine may stand on shifting sand, and grace offers a more enduring foundation.
Benediction
The internet is international. Borderless. It connects us, infects us, provokes us. The tantrums cross oceans, and the myths metastasize in meme format. Resistance becomes ritual. Protest becomes prayer. Riots are revival.
I won’t say the only way is Jesus. Even though I believe it is. What I will say is this: grace and service are borderless. They are compatible with any belief system that holds love above power and humility above pride. You don’t have to chant in tongues or tremble in bass-boost altar calls. Not every holy place is loud. Not every preacher is a thunderclap.
Find your people. Find your pace. Then stay.
And if your ritual has become a spiral—step out. Not in rage, but in grace. Choose a better myth. Not one forged in fear of the Orange Foolius, but built around quiet acts of restoration.
Proverbs 15:1— “A soft answer turns away wrath.”
Ecclesiastes 3:1— “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven . . .”
Try grace: the kind you give before you think they deserve it. And if your theology includes Jesus, then don’t just wear the cross—carry it. Because real resistance is patient, kind, and rooted in service.
You didn’t slay a dragon. You lit a candle under its chin. Blow out the candle. Step away from the shrine. Let that myth die so something holy can live.