God, Greed and Groomers

The party that preaches "family values" has become a sanctuary for pedophiles.

Robert Morris, the Texas megachurch pastor and former spiritual advisor to Donald Trump

Republicans are anything BUT the party of family values.

They are the party that feeds children to wolves and dares to call it virtue. They parade as guardians of innocence while building sanctuaries for abusers. They pound their chests about law and order while handing power to the very men who break it. Every word is a lie. Not spin. Not hypocrisy. A rancid, deliberate lie, forced down the country’s throat like scripture gone rotten.

The same men and women who howl about drag queens and rip books from children’s hands are shielding rapists, covering for predators, and watching kids’ lives be torn apart while they strut around pretending they are righteous. They do not guard innocence. They sell it. They dress it up in scripture, wrap it in a flag, and shove it back down the country’s throat while daring anyone to gag.

They’re willing to shut the government down to keep their secrets. They will grind the machinery of the country to a halt rather than risk a vote that might expose who they protect. That is not theory. That is not rhetoric. That is the method. They have chosen recess over reckoning. Departure over disclosure. Bagged suitcases over answering to survivors. That decision should be the opening sentence of every headline, the emergency alarm of the nation. Instead it drifts by like static, swallowed by the hum of business as usual.

And this is not distant. This is here. This is now. A man who once stood as Donald Trump’s spiritual adviser just pleaded guilty to sexually abusing a twelve-year-old girl. Not just a man invoking God’s name, but a man who had Trump’s ear. A man in the inner circle. Twelve. It should stop this country cold, yet somehow it barely makes a ripple. My own baby girl is twelve. Twelve is crooked handwriting on wide ruled paper. Twelve is bike rides with skinned knees. Twelve is birthday candles burning down too fast. Twelve is posters taped to bedroom walls and secrets whispered at sleepovers. Twelve is sacred. And twelve was desecrated by a man cloaked in God’s name while the so-called party of family values welcomed him into the fold.

If Joe Biden’s spiritual adviser had confessed to raping a child, Fox News would play it on a loop until satellites fell from the sky. It would dominate every chyron, become a national emergency, an endless howl about morality and corruption. But because it happened inside Trump’s orbit, because it is just another diseased branch of that poison tree, the story was smothered before it could breathe. No outrage. No reckoning. No wall-to-wall coverage. Only silence. And silence is not neutral. Silence is the permission slip predators count on.

This is not an outlier. This is the bloodstream of the Republican Party, poisoned at the source. Donald Trump bragged about assault as if it were his birthright, was found liable, and they crowned him anyway. He spent decades steeped in Epstein’s filth, mugging for photographs, scribbling birthday notes about their beautiful secret, elevating the prosecutor who bent the law to protect him. When the pressure came to release the files he swore he would expose, he buried them. He handed Ghislaine Maxwell immunity, sent his own lawyer to shield her, and placed her in a minimum security retreat while survivors woke again and again in the dark, lungs full of screams that never stop.

What the hell are we even watching. How is this real life. How is this not the national emergency that rips away every mask, every excuse, every last shred of denial and force this country to look itself in the eye. A political party has shut the government down to protect abusers, and the people with microphones and platforms treat it like background noise, like just another Tuesday in hell.

And I know what carrying that silence means. It means shaping your life around the weight no one else will name. It means learning to smile while something inside you is breaking. It means waking in the middle of the night gasping for air because the scream never really left your throat. It means watching people look straight through you because believing you would cost them too much. I have carried that silence in my body, in my blood, in the hours no one else sees.

How do these men and women look their children in the eye. How do they hug their daughters knowing they are protecting men who raped girls their age. How do they tuck their sons into bed knowing they are teaching them that power means immunity, that shame is weakness, that money buys silence. What do they tell themselves in the mirror. What prayer do they mumble to justify serving the devil while holding the cross.

They parade as God’s faithful, they strut as guardians of law and order, yet every bow is to predators, every sermon a cover up, every law bent to shield the powerful while the broken are trampled. They do not just baptize rape in politics, they sanctify it, glorify it, and crown it as leadership. And let us be clear. This is not about God. It is about letting the grotesque do whatever they want, and it is about greed.

They clutch Bibles while serving corruption. They wave flags while suffocating the Constitution. They preach virtue while protecting abusers. A masquerade of holy words hiding the corruption at their core. And when the silence falls, it is not neutrality. It is abandonment that festers deeper than the wound itself. Because you expect cruelty from the monster. You steel yourself for that. What you do not expect is for the pastors and the lawmakers and the men and women in suits to hold the door open for him, to smile as they wave him through, to lock eyes with you and make it clear your pain is expendable. That is what they do. They paint over the cracks and call it safety. They spray air freshener on the stench and call it clean. Survivors see through it because we have lived in those rooms before and we know the smell.

Every time I see that hush paraded by men with gavels and microphones, it rips the scars open all over again. It confirms what survivors already know in our bones. The abuse never ended. It metastasized. It put on pinstripes. It mastered the language of power. It slithered into the halls of government, and now it rules in our name while spitting in our faces.

And they dare to call it politics. They dare to call it business as usual. Shutting down the United States government so predators can keep their secrets is not politics. It is atrocity in a navy suit. It is treachery sprayed with Febreze. It is the desecration of a nation’s soul.

This is how they do it. They bleach horror until it looks clean. They grind screams into static until the country can barely hear them. They polish crimes until they gleam like trophies. They train the nation to shrug. And survivors see it. We see it because we have lived it in smaller rooms. Behind closed doors. In the suffocating quiet where no one wanted to hear us scream. And now that same quiet has swollen to fill the halls of the United States government.

Trump is the idol they worship. They do not bow to God. They do not bow to country. They bow to him. They bow to a predator.

This should be the greatest moral scandal of our time. It should split the sky. It should thunder through every headline, crack the marble of Congress, and shake the foundations of power until the walls themselves demand justice. It should end careers, shatter legacies, drag enablers into courtrooms, and stain history with names that can never be washed clean. Instead we get shrugs. Excuses. Erasure. That void is not neutral. It is an accomplice.

I refuse to shrug while they desecrate innocence and call it order. If they feel no shame, then we will be their shame. If they stay silent, we will scream until the hush shatters. If they trade truth for lies, then we will not be governed by the fiction they wrote for themselves. Let this poison settle and we are not a nation but a stage for predators with children at their feet, and history will write that we saw it, that we knew it, and that we let it happen. I have carried that forsaking before, and I will be goddamned if I let it swallow this country too.

If the legacy media sleeps, fine. Then it is on us to refuse the lie. To drag the silence into the light. To say again and again that this is not normal. This may very well be who they want us to be, but it is not who we are. For all the women and girls who carry the trauma of the truth they are trying to bury, we will drag it out of the shadows and force this nation to see what some very powerful and deeply evil men very much do not want us to see.

And with that, today’s song:

I love you guys!

Please stay strong, stay safe out there, and keep calling this scum out for what they are!!

💙 Jo

Also, in case you missed it, we just launched a media network I am co-founder of, called The Siren! We have a whole slate of contributors, new shows, new faces, new voices and new ways to stay engaged and get involved! With so much more to come!

I hope you’ll check it out!!