Trump feuding with the pope? I thought he was the pope

 

     By now you know what happened.
     President Donald Trump, up to his neck in the Iran quagmire and thus perhaps more angry than usual, lashed out at Pope Leo XIV for doing what popes do: urging peace, while pointing out that the efforts of the Trump administration to paint its war as the Ninth Crusade was not Christianity in its highest form.

     "Pope Leo is WEAK ON CRIME, and terrible for Foreign Policy," Trump began, in a long tirade posted on his Truth Social network.
      No doubt you've read all or part of it.
     So the "what" being established, I want to explore an aspect that is being lost in the noise and thunder:
     Why?
     Why would a struggling and isolated leader, having failed to lure his erstwhile allies into saving his butt in Iran, start tongue-lashing the pope, a beloved figure internationally, but particularly in the United States, and especially in his hometown, Chicago? A pope who, remember, wasn't doing anything beyond normal pope stuff — promoting harmony, encouraging brotherhood. That's like blasting Mr. Rogers for being neighborly.
     You would think that anyone with half a grip, his back against the wall, closing the Strait of Hormuz himself because Iran won't open it, would not pick this battle. It's like a man in a blazing room setting fire to one sofa that isn't burning.
     Again: Why?
     If the answer isn't crystal clear — and really, it should be, by now — here's a clue:
     Last May, when Leo was named pope, Trump distributed an AI picture of himself, Donald Trump, in the garments of the Vicar of Christ. Because — and forgive me, this is obvious, but so much so that it gets overlooked — it's all about him. He is the subject of all sentences, the cynosure of all eyes, and anyone else — anyone else — who isn't actively groveling before him is an insult and a threat. There is no Congress. No courts. No law. No pope. He is the pope. Donald Trump, pontifex maximus.
     In his own mind To me, Donald Trump is a morality tale about the futility of ego. He suffers from a grandiosity so bottomless that being immensely rich, the president of the United States, adored by millions, the golden spoon stirring the world pot for the last decade, are not enough. Nothing is ever enough. He is King Midas, breaking his teeth on gilt apples, starving in a room full of food.
     That's the only way any of this makes sense. It explains his every action.

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