God for Pay — When Politicians Suddenly Find Faith

Alisa Berry-Ryan is the Abortion Rights Champaign Manager.

They find God in election season, somewhere between a poll and a donor dinner, a revelation timed for the cameras. Trump lifts a Bible like a brand deal, Farage preaches “Christian values” with a smirk, faith reborn through focus groups. It’s not salvation, it’s strategy — god for pay, grace for the base. Saints by press release, sinners turned soundbites, they sell redemption by the headline and call it belief. Hallelujah for the polling numbers; amen to the optics.

Let’s be real, the new holy trinity is Power, Publicity, and Profit. Every grifter with a flag and a Bible suddenly discovers “Christian values” when it’s time to cash in. Farage talks about “defending faith” like he’s auditioning for Songs of Praise, while Tommy Robinson sells nationalism as a sacrament. It’s less about God, more about engagement metrics.

They don’t find faith, they rent it. Just long enough to sell merch, stir outrage, and ride the algorithmic rapture. Their miracles are measured in clicks, not conversions. The gospel’s gone digital, and redemption now comes with a promo code.

So yes – it’s god for pay. And the congregation? That’s us, doomscrolling through the sermon, hitting like and share while they pass the plate.

But take Nigel Farage as a case study. According to The Critic’s profile “Does Nigel Do God?” he describes himself as “a man of faith” — Anglican, though not a regular church-goer — whose politics draw on Christian ideas about family, community, and national identity. It paints a picture of belief that’s personal and perhaps sincere, yet one that conveniently aligns with the populist mood of “cultural Christianity”. He appeals to non-practising Anglicans who see faith as heritage more than habit — a way of being British rather than a call to humility. It’s not so much religion as it is branding with incense.

That image became clearer when Farage later said he would no longer attend church because of what he called the Church of England’s “woke agenda”. In a sense, his personal faith story mirrors his political one – less about devotion, more about defiance. His Christianity is as cultural as his patriotism: traditional when convenient, oppositional when useful.

Tommy Robinson, too, has learnt the power of borrowed holiness. As Prospect Magazine reported, Robinson “found God” in prison, embracing Christianity as part of his identity politics. Academic studies, such as those by the S. Rajaratnam School of International Studies, note how far-right groups have long used Christian imagery – crosses, Bible verses, “Judeo-Christian values” – to lend moral cover to anti-Islam and nationalist rhetoric. It’s religion as costume: a faith you can zip on before a rally.

Which raises the question: is this conviction quietly guiding politics, or faith quietly tailored for politics? Maybe it’s both. Farage’s “Christian Britain” pitch doesn’t need weekly church attendance, it just needs to sound familiar enough to those who miss the old hymns but not enough to challenge anyone to live by them. In that sense, it’s marketing genius disguised as moral revival.

And here’s the real kicker – why do the actually Christian ignore the obvious lie? Because for many, it’s not really about faith anymore; it’s about tribe. Once religion fuses with identity politics, loyalty to the team outweighs loyalty to the truth. When a politician waves a Bible for the cameras, their supporters don’t see hypocrisy; they see belonging.

However, as Sarah Cartin, co-founder of Christians for Choice said ‘Religious doctrine has been written and co-opted by men for their own gain since the beginning. Our faith is not for hire. We can’t allow them to shame women and pregnant people to suit their agenda. They can’t buy their way to redemption, and we must call them out every time.’

And if the message hits the right cultural notes, the morality of the messenger stops mattering. It’s easier to believe a liar who flatters your worldview than a prophet who challenges it. Some even convince themselves it’s all part of a divine plan, that God can “use” even the worst people for a greater cause.

As The Guardian recently observed, the invocation of “Judeo-Christian values” has become the new political shorthand for patriotism – a rhetorical shortcut that sanctifies nationalism. But that same rhetoric also lays the groundwork for something darker. When “Christian values” become a political brand, it gives moral cover to regressive policies – especially around women’s bodies.

Across the Atlantic, we’ve seen how performative piety fuels real consequences: the overturning of Roe v. Wade in the United States, driven by politicians who treat scripture like a campaign slogan. The UK isn’t there yet, but the pattern is familiar. When Farage and others wrap nationalism in faith, they resurrect the same moral framework that underpins attacks on abortion rights, the idea that personal freedom must bow to some imagined divine order.

That’s why this performance of belief matters. “God for pay” isn’t just empty theatre; it’s a political weapon dressed as devotion. It softens the public for moral authoritarianism, one “Christian value” soundbite at a time. The lie is obvious, but the cost – to truth, to women’s autonomy, to pluralism – is devastating.

Faith becomes fandom, belief becomes branding, and freedom – inconvenient as ever – gets left at the church door.