Donald J. Trump has closed many deals in his life. He has built towers, hosted beauty pageants, and once tried to buy Greenland. But now, at the seasoned age of 79, the former and at the same time present and also possibly future president seems focused on his most ambitious acquisition yet: a penthouse suite in Heaven.
“I’m hearing I’m not doing well,” Trump confessed recently to Fox News, as if God were polling likely entrants to paradise. “I’m really at the bottom of the totem pole. But if I can save 7,000 people a week from being killed, I think that’s pretty good for heaven points.”
It is classic Trump: one part self-promotion, one part confession, and one part celestial bargaining. To hear him tell it, Heaven operates like a loyalty rewards programme. Do a few geopolitical miracles, earn enough points, and maybe St. Peter lets you skip the line.
Of course, Trump’s newfound theological musings have captivated America. After all, it is not every day a president gives us a peek into his personal salvation strategy. According to him, there is “some kind of a report card up there,” possibly with gold stars, or maybe just divine “good job!” stickers.
You can almost picture Trump standing before the heaven gates, wearing his signature red tie, arguing, “Look, nobody’s done more for Heaven than me, OK? St. Peter’s been a disaster, folks. Total disaster. But we’re going to MAKE HEAVEN GREAT AGAIN.”
While theologians debate salvation, psychologists see something else: a man facing mortality and trying to turn eternity into a negotiation. Experts say Trump’s comments may reflect “death anxiety,” a polite way of saying he is suddenly realising even Mar-a-Lago does not have a forever lease.
“Birthdays, milestones, and the realisation that you have been impeached twice tend to make people reflective,” said one existential therapist. “Some people write memoirs. Trump holds press conferences about Heaven.”
His approach, however, might be causing confusion upstairs. The Christian doctrine says salvation is a gift of grace, not a merit-based system. But Trump seems convinced Heaven runs on the same model as The Apprentice: perform well, avoid getting fired, and you are in.
“If I can stop wars and bring peace,” Trump reasoned, “I think Heaven’s going to look at that very strongly.” It is almost touching, like a man trying to talk his way past celestial security. Except Heaven, unlike the Secret Service, probably does not respond well to flattery.
To make matters more surreal, Trump reportedly reflected on the death of his ally Charlie Kirk, saying, “He’s going to make Heaven. I’m not sure I’m going to make it.” One wonders what kind of posthumous medal ceremony he is imagining: “Charlie, you were tremendous for the Lord. Everyone says so. Heaven’s lucky to have you.”
But Trump’s heavenly anxiety is not entirely unique. Politicians have always had an inflated sense of cosmic importance. Former New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg once bragged, “When I get to Heaven, I’m not stopping to be interviewed. I’m heading straight in.” Trump, however, seems more uncertain, like a man who suspects the bouncer has his name on the wrong list.
Still, you cannot help but admire his candour. There is something oddly endearing about a billionaire president publicly fretting about his eternal Yelp review. “I may not be heaven-bound,” he mused. “I may be in Heaven right now as we fly on Air Force One.” To which millions of Americans replied, “That’s definitely not Heaven, Mr. President.”
Ultimately, Trump’s celestial scorekeeping reveals less about theology and more about psychology. It is not that he fears divine judgment, it is that he cannot stand being rated poorly. Somewhere, deep down, he probably imagines Heaven as a five-star resort with his name in gold on the gates, and a press conference at the pearly podium.
So, will Trump make it to Heaven? That is above our pay grade. But if there is truly a “cosmic scoreboard,” you can bet he is already calling for a recount.
The writer is Senior Assistant Editor
