I’m done.

Not the dramatic, door-slamming kind of done. The quiet, bone-deep exhaustion that comes when the last thread of hope finally snaps. When 82% of white evangelical Christians pulled the lever for a convicted rapist and felon—again—any whisper of faith I’d been harboring finally died.

Here’s what gets me: I spent thirty years in their world. Led worship, created art, and proclaimed what I thought was truth through music. They drummed me out for impropriety after thirty-two years of faithful monogamy and service. Called me apostate, backslider, reprobate. Fair enough—I broke their rules. But this same crowd that clutched their pearls at my sexual sin just handed the nuclear codes to a man with more sexual assault allegations than I have paintings in my Barcelona studio.

The math doesn’t work. If there’s a God who gives a shit about what these people claim He cares about—sexual purity, truth-telling, caring for the least of these—then how do you explain Trump? Either God has a wicked sense of humor, or He’s not there at all.

I’ve been wrestling with belief since 2006, but this time feels different. Maybe because I’ve had ten years to watch them contort scripture like circus performers to justify the unjustifiable. “God uses imperfect vessels,” they say. Sure, but there’s imperfect and then there’s pathologically evil. David committed adultery with Bathsheba, but at least he showed remorse. Trump would’ve grabbed her by the pussy and bragged about it on Truth Social.

You want to know what sealed it for me? It wasn’t just the voting. It was the joy. The fucking celebration. These people who taught me that lust was sin were posting orgasmic Facebook updates about their orange messiah’s return. The same people who wouldn’t give me the time of day after my divorce were weeping with happiness that a serial adulterer was back in power.

I can already hear the response—it’s as predictable as a three-point sermon. “Don’t look at humans, Randy. Don’t look at the church. Look at Jesus.”

This is the ultimate evangelical escape hatch, the get-out-of-jail-free card they play whenever their hypocrisy becomes too obvious to ignore. It’s like an abusive spouse saying, “Don’t judge our marriage by my behavior—judge it by the vows I took.”

If your God is real, then your life is the only sermon that matters. Jesus himself said you’d know them by their fruits. Well, I’m looking at the fruits, and they’re rotten to the core. You can’t claim to worship a God of truth while spreading lies. You can’t follow the Prince of Peace while voting for violence. You can’t serve a Savior who said “sell all you have and give to the poor” while worshipping at the altar of wealth and power.

Here’s the thing: if your God can’t transform his most devoted followers into something even slightly resembling the love they claim he embodies, then either he doesn’t exist or he’s not worth worshipping. A tree is known by its fruit, and this tree produces Trump voters.

The “don’t look at us, look at Jesus” defense is spiritual gaslighting at its finest. It’s asking us to ignore the evidence of our own eyes and trust in an invisible ideal that conveniently never has to match reality. It’s the theological equivalent of “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”

Living in Spain gives you perspective. Here, religion is cultural decoration—beautiful cathedrals, stunning art, meaningful rituals divorced from political power. Nobody’s trying to legislate their version of God. But American evangelicalism? It’s a death cult that’s traded Jesus for Trump and called it revival.

I understand the psychology. I really do. When you’re programmed from birth to submit to authoritarian figures, to never question the man behind the pulpit, you’re primed for someone like Trump. He speaks the language—the language of certainty, dominance, and us-versus-them. He validates their fears and baptizes their hatred. He’s every abusive pastor I ever knew, just with worse hair and a bigger platform.

But understanding doesn’t make it less sickening. These people will look you in the eye and tell you they follow a God of love while voting for cruelty. They’ll quote scripture about truth while swallowing lies that would make Orwell blush. They’ll weep during worship songs about justice while supporting a man who embodies its opposite.

The Jesus they claim to follow—the one who said “whatever you do to the least of these you do to me”—would be labeled a communist groomer by today’s evangelicals. They’d nail him up again, this time with American flag pins through his wrists.

So yeah, I’m done pretending there might be something salvageable in their faith. If their God exists, He’s either impotent or evil. If He doesn’t—which seems more likely every day—then at least the horror makes sense. It’s just humans being humans, using ancient myths to justify modern atrocities.

The ultimate proof there is no God isn’t suffering or science or philosophy. It’s 82% of evangelical Christians choosing Trump. Twice. If that doesn’t settle the question, nothing will.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need another Old Fashioned. Or three. Some realizations require proper sedation.