Jesus Wept … And So Did Trump’s Legs.

Saints, I come before you this Sunday morning not just to pray for the sick and shut-in, but to testify to the glory of divine timing. Because we serve a god of justice.

Amen???!!

Church, the devil is limping through the White House. Yes, word broke this week that the president’s legs are revolting. His blood is pooling. His calves are throbbing. And the doctors are calling it chronic venous insufficiency.

But what we’re witnessing in this man’s body is not just medical. It is a spiritual diagnosis. I call it Holy Retribution Syndrome.

Turn to your neighbor on your right and say Holy Retribution Syndrome. Now turn to your neighbor on your left and say HRS.

This ain’t just about poor circulation. This is what happens when you spend your whole life cutting off the lifelines of others. When you put your knee on the necks of the poor, and now your legs swell with the wrath of every soul you left behind.

Turn with me to Galatians 6:7. Let us read aloud: “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

Trump sowed cruelty, and now he’s reaping compression socks.

He mocked the sick, the disabled, the poor, the desperate. He stripped protections from people with pre-existing conditions while hiding his own from the public. He’s turned hospitals into profit centers and leaving millions to pray for miracles instead of prescriptions.

But now church, his own body has turned against him. The blood has stopped moving. The limbs have grown heavy. The very legs that walked through halls of power are now swollen with the wages of sin.

This ain’t just inflammation, church. This is Old Testament affliction. I’m talkin’ Leviticus 13 legs. I’m talkin’ cursed-with-skin-blisters-and-divine-scabies legs. I’m talkin’ "don’t bring that man near the camp ‘til he’s been inspected by the priest and quarantined for seven days" legs.

Heavy with the weight of injustice. Tight with the pressure of every lie he told while snatching care from children and calling it “fiscal responsibility.”

Saints, these are Moses-warned-you legs. Legs like Egypt on plague number six. Veins like the walls of Jericho: swollen, unstable, and moments away from collapse. I wouldn’t be surprised if frogs start falling out his socks.

This is not a diagnosis, it’s a divine callback.

America’s president got Book of Exodus legs and Book of Lamentations policies. And now his body is crying out louder than the prophets he never read.

Turn to your neighbor and say OUCH!

This ain’t just a diagnosis. This is the Book of Isaiah made flesh. Turn to Isaiah 1:6: “From the sole of the foot even unto the head there is no soundness in it; but wounds, and bruises, and putrefying sores.”

Tell me that ain’t Donald Trump’s medical chart!

Now I know what somebody in the back pew might say, “Rev. Dr. Staceypants, we shouldn’t make fun of illness.”

And I agree, saints.

We shouldn’t. Because Jesus tells us that we should have compassion for the sick. We should care for the afflicted. We should anoint the suffering with oil, lift them up, and surround them with love and prayer.

But baby, let’s be real clear … That same Jesus also flipped tables. That same Jesus called out hypocrisy, cursed fig trees, and rebuked the self-righteous who wore power like a crown but left the people bleeding in the streets. This ain’t about illness. This is about injustice made flesh.

So no, I’m not making fun of his condition. I’m holding space for what his body is preaching louder than any pulpit ever could. Because sometimes, saints, god doesn’t need a burning bush. He’ll use a pair of bloated legs. He’ll make the ankles throb with truth. He’ll let the swelling rise like the cries of the oppressed. He’ll make every step a sermon! Every limp a lesson! Every clot a consequence!

Go ahead and clutch your pearls in the back pew if you must. But I didn’t come to play church this morning. I came to tell the truth. And the truth is this: when you legislate suffering, don’t be surprised when it shows up in your own body. You cannot mock the sick and walk away whole. You cannot gut care for others and expect your own flesh to thrive. You cannot laugh at the bleeding and expect your blood to flow smooth and clean.

Because Jesus heals the humble. But he exposes the proud. Let the congregation say Amen.

We can see what God is revealing.

Because this isn’t just some random ailment. This is empire decomposition. This is the throne cracking under the weight of cruelty. This is what it looks like when the wages of sin collect interest in your flesh. Not just political collapse, somatic collapse. The body bearing witness where the soul refuses to repent.

Job 4:8 says, “They that plow iniquity and sow trouble reap the same.” And beloved, the harvest is here. The fields are ripe with karma. And the fruit of injustice is swelling in his legs.

So what would Jesus do with them legs? Deacon Jones, make the organ swell up for us. Sista Johnson, rattle that tambourine for passuh. Usher dab my face with that lace handkerchief just a l’il and lemme have a sip of orange juice.

Would Jesus heal them legs, church?

NO!

He’d do what he did to the fig tree in Matthew 21:19. He’d look down at them bloated limbs, those stiff-ass ankles, those purple proclamations of pride, and say: “Let no good thing flow through you again.” Father god forgive me for cussin’ from the pulpit.

No mercy for roots that have never known justice. No healing for flesh that has never known humility.

Let the blood stop!
Let the ache rise!
Let every clot preach!

Because this is what happens when a man spends two terms mocking the sick, shredding the safety net, building power on the backs of the broken. Eventually, the body becomes the courtroom. The symptoms become the verdict. And the sentence has no appeal.

Amennnnn!

So on this Sunday, I ask the saints to pray.

Pray not for comfort. Not for recovery. Not for a miracle.

But for a reckoning!

Pray that god order his steps. Pray that every step he takes reminds him of who he harmed. That every compression bandage binds him tighter to the truth. That his legs carry not just the weight of his flesh, but the sorrow of the people he failed. That his blood becomes a sermon his ego cannot silence.

Let the veins scream. Let the ankles throb. Let the kingdom limp.

And let the saints gather, clutching not pearls and crying not. But let us gather with purpose, girded in truth, sanctified by fire.

Let us lay hands on this moment and call it what it is. Call it biblical. Call it plague. Call it prophecy fulfilled. Call it what happens when Pharaoh hardens his heart one too many times and the Lord sends a message not through lightning or locusts, but through lymph and legs.

Let us bear witness not in pity, but in clarity. And let us lift our voices—not in sorrow, but in scripture. And let us send our 47th president... Clots and prayers.

Go in peace, and serve Black Jesus.

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