Trump is not Hitler. A more accurate comparison is Pope Julius II

A Renaissance Pope

Donald Trump Is Not Hitler. He Is Closer to Pope Julius II.

For nearly a decade, critics of Donald Trump have reflexively compared him to twentieth-century dictators, most commonly Adolf Hitler. The comparison is historically shallow. Hitler has become the universal modern shorthand for political alarmism: the name invoked whenever opponents wish to signal authoritarian danger with maximum emotional force and minimum historical nuance.

But if one steps away from the compulsive twentieth-century framework and instead looks further back into history — into the Renaissance — a far more illuminating comparison emerges.

Trump resembles Pope Julius II.

This is not intended primarily as condemnation or praise. It is an attempt at accuracy.

Julius II, the “Warrior Pope,” was one of the most consequential figures of the Renaissance. He was ambitious, theatrical, combative, intensely conscious of legacy, deeply invested in visual symbolism, and obsessed with monumental architecture that would outlive him. He projected strength constantly. He viewed conflict not as something regrettable, but as something intrinsic to leadership and history itself.

He also understood, instinctively, the power of spectacle.

Modern commentators often misunderstand Trump because they insist on interpreting him solely through the lens of ideology. But Trump, much like Julius II, is at least as much an aesthetic and symbolic figure as a political one.

Trump’s fascination with Christian imagery is impossible to ignore. Over the years, images have circulated portraying him in quasi-sacral form: elevated in the heavens, healing the sick, surrounded by divine light, or framed as a providential protector of the nation. His embrace of the commercially marketed “God Bless the USA Bible” blurred the line between political branding and religious symbolism. Following the Butler assassination attempt, in which a bullet grazed his ear, Trump repeatedly described his survival in terms of divine intervention, presenting the event not merely as luck, but as providence.

This is not unprecedented in history. Renaissance rulers routinely interpreted survival itself as evidence of heavenly favor.

Julius II similarly cultivated an image larger than ordinary political life. He wore armor. He personally led military campaigns. He fused spiritual authority with theatrical power projection. He understood that political legitimacy often depends less on policy detail than on the creation of mythic identity.

The comparison becomes even more striking when one considers architecture.

Julius II launched the rebuilding of St. Peter’s Basilica and commissioned Michelangelo’s work on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. These were not merely artistic endeavors; they were declarations of permanence. Julius sought to inscribe himself physically into history through grandeur.

Trump’s instincts operate in a remarkably similar register. His lifelong fixation on skyline dominance, gold-plated interiors, ceremonial aesthetics, and towering edifices reflects a Renaissance understanding of power: that architecture is political theater cast in stone and steel.

Most revealing has been Trump’s almost dogged focus on constructing a grand ballroom at the White House — a priority many critics regard as oddly disproportionate at a time when voters are more immediately concerned with inflation, markets, and the broader economy. Yet this very fixation is precisely what makes the comparison to Julius II historically illuminating rather than superficial. Renaissance rulers often viewed monumental construction not as a distraction from governance, but as governance itself: a statement of national vitality, permanence, and prestige.

Likewise, Trump’s enthusiasm for triumphal civic imagery, including proposals associated with monumental arches crowned by a winged Victory figure, belongs far more naturally to the symbolic language of Renaissance rulers than to modern managerial politicians. Julius II understood instinctively that grand structures shape historical memory long after legislation and economic statistics fade. Trump appears to understand this as well.

Critics often dismiss such impulses as vanity. But history suggests something more complicated. Monumental builders are frequently remembered long after more restrained administrators disappear into obscurity.

Even Trump’s recurrent tensions with Pope Leo XIV feel oddly Renaissance in character. During the Renaissance, disputes between secular rulers and popes were not unusual; conflict between political ambition and ecclesiastical authority was almost expected. Julius II himself was deeply immersed in geopolitical maneuvering, military alliances, and power struggles that blurred the distinction between spiritual leadership and statecraft.

Trump’s confrontational posture toward adversaries abroad, including military conflict and embellished rhetoric regarding Iran, similarly reflects a worldview in which strength, deterrence, and personal resolve are central virtues. Whether one agrees with that worldview is secondary. The important point is that it is much closer to the mentality of Renaissance power politics than to the ideological totalitarianism of the twentieth century.

Indeed, comparing Trump to Hitler may ultimately obscure more than it reveals. Hitler represented rigid ideological fanaticism directed toward industrialized conquest and racial annihilation. Trump, by contrast, operates more as a personality-centered Renaissance figure: improvisational, theatrical, image-conscious, ambitious, nationalistic, combative, and deeply preoccupied with legacy.

Democrats often prefer comparisons that cast Trump as purely monstrous, a Pope Alexander VI figure corrupted beyond redemption. Republicans, meanwhile, sometimes elevate him toward near-sainthood, imagining him as a providential defender akin to Pope Gregory the Great.

But Pope Julius II may be closer to the truth.

A gifted and deeply ambitious man. Militaristic in instinct. Intensely conscious of posterity. Combative, theatrical, and determined to leave behind monuments that force history to remember him.

Not a modern dictator.

A Renaissance ruler in a democratic age.

Richard C Semelka, MD