Faith Over Trump: Greene’s Stunning Break Shakes Conservative Movement

Paul Riverbank, 12/30/2025Marjorie Taylor Greene abandons Trump, citing faith; her break exposes deepening GOP rifts.

Marjorie Taylor Greene sat stone-faced in the crowd, hearing, it seemed, something no one else had put into words quite like that. “It just shows where his heart is…” she would later tell the New York Times, voice unwavering. “That’s the difference, with her [Erika Kirk] having a sincere Christian faith, and proves that he does not have any faith.” For Greene, the line wasn't just uncomfortable; it was unforgivable.

Greene’s not known for subtlety. From the day she landed in Congress—a force of nature if nothing else—she was unflinching in her devotion to Trump: called him “THE GREATEST PRESIDENT IN HISTORY,” championed his every claim, even the wildest rumors about the 2020 election. Her loyalty landed her in the conversation for vice president. In those days, Trump’s approval was currency, and she spent it lavishly.

But loyalty, at least in Washington, is rarely a fixed state. Over time, Greene chafed at what she began to see as something darker—“Our side has been trained by Donald Trump to never apologize and to never admit when you’re wrong,” she said. It was a confession mixed with regret: “You just keep pummeling your enemies, no matter what. And as a Christian, I don’t believe in doing that.” She nodded toward Erika Kirk at the memorial—perhaps the only one who’d voiced what Greene had felt for some time.

Faith, that old anchor, pulled her in another direction. Greene began questioning whether the movement she’d once charged into battle for had lost its center. “Yeah!” she said, when asked if her new path—apologizing, making amends—came out of her Christianity. “Because a Christian shouldn’t be that way. And I’m a Christian.”

Her criticisms grew less abstract. Greene, never shy about wading into controversy, let slip her discomfort with the performative flashes of Mar-a-Lago: “I never liked the MAGA Mar-a-Lago sexualization. I believe how women in leadership present themselves sends a message to younger women,” she told a reporter, and mentioned her daughters by name. “I’ve always been uncomfortable with how those women puff up their lips and enlarge their breasts. I’ve never spoken about it publicly, but I’ve been planning to.” It’s a frankness rarely witnessed on the right—an awkward honesty that made some in her camp shift uneasily in their seats.

Then came the Epstein affair, which brought an unbridgeable gulf. Greene said she wanted to read out names implicated in Jeffrey Epstein’s alleged crimes, but Trump objected: “My friends will get hurt.” For her, that was the tipping point. “It was Epstein. Epstein was everything.” In those words, any hope of reconciliation vanished.

Trump’s response was swift and punishing: he pulled his endorsement, followed with a flurry of public scorn. Predictably, the threats followed—venomous online, even menacing her children. When Greene protested, seeking even a modicum of sympathy, Trump blamed her for the consequences. “Instead, Trump insulted her in personal terms,” the Times would write. When she pleaded that children should be off-limits, Trump reportedly shot back that she had only herself to blame.

By December, the writing was on the wall. Greene told the world she’d leave Congress at the end of her term in 2026—an abrupt turn for someone who, just recently, couldn’t imagine earning a living outside the House chamber. On social media, she described it as a kind of liberation: “Breaking the chains from the bully is freeing. It’s also taking hold of real power over one’s self and the future. For me I give full authority to Jesus and I will fight like a lioness for my children’s generation and their children.”

Her exit sent shockwaves through Republican circles. Several aides confided, quietly, that Greene’s breakaway wasn’t simply personal—it laid bare a deeper anxiety inside a party wrestling with its own soul. Was she a one-off? Or did her disillusionment signal something larger—a generational changing of the guard, a growing discomfort with the Trump-era ethos? Greene, for her part, thinks the latter: “The old guard is dying, the bully is becoming a lame duck, and real America is rising.”

It’s too soon to know whether Greene’s self-exile is a fork in the road or just another Republican sidebar. American politics, as always, has a short memory for mavericks. Still, her story—a journey from loudest loyalist to public doubter, forged in the contours of faith and fracture—reminds us that no movement, no matter how monolithic it appears, is without fissures.

And sometimes, it’s in those cracks that the next chapter takes root.

Charlie Kirk’s memorial was supposed to be a day of unity for conservatives. Instead, an unexpected schism cracked open, right there in the quiet moments after the tributes. Donald Trump, as is his habit, dispensed with pleasantries: “He did not hate his opponents. He wanted the best for them. That’s where I disagreed with Charlie. I hate my opponent, and I don’t want the best for them.” It’s the kind of blunt confession that draws lines in an already divided sand.Marjorie Taylor Greene sat stone-faced in the crowd, hearing, it seemed, something no one else had put into words quite like that. “It just shows where his heart is…” she would later tell the New York Times, voice unwavering. “That’s the difference, with her [Erika Kirk] having a sincere Christian faith, and proves that he does not have any faith.” For Greene, the line wasn't just uncomfortable; it was unforgivable.Greene’s not known for subtlety. From the day she landed in Congress—a force of nature if nothing else—she was unflinching in her devotion to Trump: called him “THE GREATEST PRESIDENT IN HISTORY,” championed his every claim, even the wildest rumors about the 2020 election. Her loyalty landed her in the conversation for vice president. In those days, Trump’s approval was currency, and she spent it lavishly.But loyalty, at least in Washington, is rarely a fixed state. Over time, Greene chafed at what she began to see as something darker—“Our side has been trained by Donald Trump to never apologize and to never admit when you’re wrong,” she said. It was a confession mixed with regret: “You just keep pummeling your enemies, no matter what. And as a Christian, I don’t believe in doing that.” She nodded toward Erika Kirk at the memorial—perhaps the only one who’d voiced what Greene had felt for some time.Faith, that old anchor, pulled her in another direction. Greene began questioning whether the movement she’d once charged into battle for had lost its center. “Yeah!” she said, when asked if her new path—apologizing, making amends—came out of her Christianity. “Because a Christian shouldn’t be that way. And I’m a Christian.”Her criticisms grew less abstract. Greene, never shy about wading into controversy, let slip her discomfort with the performative flashes of Mar-a-Lago: “I never liked the MAGA Mar-a-Lago sexualization. I believe how women in leadership present themselves sends a message to younger women,” she told a reporter, and mentioned her daughters by name. “I’ve always been uncomfortable with how those women puff up their lips and enlarge their breasts. I’ve never spoken about it publicly, but I’ve been planning to.” It’s a frankness rarely witnessed on the right—an awkward honesty that made some in her camp shift uneasily in their seats.Then came the Epstein affair, which brought an unbridgeable gulf. Greene said she wanted to read out names implicated in Jeffrey Epstein’s alleged crimes, but Trump objected: “My friends will get hurt.” For her, that was the tipping point. “It was Epstein. Epstein was everything.” In those words, any hope of reconciliation vanished.Trump’s response was swift and punishing: he pulled his endorsement, followed with a flurry of public scorn. Predictably, the threats followed—venomous online, even menacing her children. When Greene protested, seeking even a modicum of sympathy, Trump blamed her for the consequences. “Instead, Trump insulted her in personal terms,” the Times would write. When she pleaded that children should be off-limits, Trump reportedly shot back that she had only herself to blame.By December, the writing was on the wall. Greene told the world she’d leave Congress at the end of her term in 2026—an abrupt turn for someone who, just recently, couldn’t imagine earning a living outside the House chamber. On social media, she described it as a kind of liberation: “Breaking the chains from the bully is freeing. It’s also taking hold of real power over one’s self and the future. For me I give full authority to Jesus and I will fight like a lioness for my children’s generation and their children.”Her exit sent shockwaves through Republican circles. Several aides confided, quietly, that Greene’s breakaway wasn’t simply personal—it laid bare a deeper anxiety inside a party wrestling with its own soul. Was she a one-off? Or did her disillusionment signal something larger—a generational changing of the guard, a growing discomfort with the Trump-era ethos? Greene, for her part, thinks the latter: “The old guard is dying, the bully is becoming a lame duck, and real America is rising.”It’s too soon to know whether Greene’s self-exile is a fork in the road or just another Republican sidebar. American politics, as always, has a short memory for mavericks. Still, her story—a journey from loudest loyalist to public doubter, forged in the contours of faith and fracture—reminds us that no movement, no matter how monolithic it appears, is without fissures.And sometimes, it’s in those cracks that the next chapter takes root.