By Tony Bruce | Thursday, August 07, 2025 | 7 min read
When you hear that Robert Morris, a former spiritual advisor to Donald Trump and pastor of Gateway Church, has admitted to sexually abusing a 12-year-old girl, it’s more than a shocking headline. It’s an indictment of judgment, influence, and the dangerous intersections of power.
Back in June 2024, Morris stepped down from his role at Gateway Church. The reason wasn’t politics, and it didn’t come with fanfare—it came from the depths of a decades-old trauma revealed when a surviving victim, Cindy Clemishire, bravely came forward. Her account detailed abuse that began when she was 12 years old and carried on for nearly five years—just as he was establishing himself as a traveling preacher and, eventually, a national religious figurehead. Morris didn’t deny “inappropriate behavior,” but that phrasing felt insufficient, self-serving even, as the truth he could barely admit to seemed so much darker.
This isn’t just another fallen religious leader. It’s about the choices made at the heights of political power. Morris wasn’t simply someone Trump met. He was named to Trump’s evangelical advisory board in 2016, hosted a high-profile “Roundtable on Transition to Greatness” at Gateway Church with Trump and Attorney General William Barr in 2020, and even helped mobilize evangelical support ahead of the 2024 campaign. Imagine the optics of that relationship—spiritual guidance tied to political strategy, shrouded now by betrayal and abuse.
What’s especially troubling here isn’t merely associating with someone who later proved reprehensible. That happens. The bigger issue is the absence of scrutiny and skepticism from those in power. Presidents routinely vet their inner circles—not just for competence, but for character. They guard against blackmail, because what’s unspoken can corrode public trust. Trump, in contrast, named individuals like Morris to positions of moral influence, even after troubling behavior had surfaced—behavior that had been quietly handled by church elders, sometimes supported by legal maneuvering to downplay it
If there hadn’t been an adult in the Oval Office in 2024—a president willing to uphold the rule of law over personal vendettas—the case against Robert Morris might never have seen the light of day. The Department of Justice (DOJ), under leadership of Donald Trump, has shown us exactly how these kinds of scandals can be buried. We only need to look at the Epstein case to understand the playbook.
Recall how, during Donald Trump’s first term, key figures within his administration attempted to downplay or outright kill investigations tied to Epstein and his powerful network of enablers. Attorney General Bill Barr, whose father hired Epstein to teach at a prestigious New York prep school despite his lack of qualifications, oversaw a DOJ that barely lifted a finger when new evidence surfaced. The Justice Department dragged its feet, shielded high-profile names, and allowed Epstein’s death in custody to remain surrounded by unanswered questions. Even after Ghislaine Maxwell was convicted, the so-called “client list” was nowhere to be found. To this day, there’s been no meaningful accountability for the wealthy and powerful men who exploited young girls.
Now imagine that same DOJ handling the Robert Morris case—under pressure from a White House more concerned with optics than justice. It’s not hard to picture an administration ordering the suppression of evidence, pushing for sealed indictments, or pressuring prosecutors to “deprioritize” the case under the excuse of preserving national unity or religious freedom. We’ve already seen how Trump weaponized the DOJ—not just to shield his allies, but to pursue his enemies.
Like Epstein’s enablers, Morris’ allies shielded him. After Clemishire’s parents discovered the abuse in 1987, Shady Grove Church elders forced Morris into a two-year “restoration” period—a slap on the wrist disguised as repentance. By 1989, he was back preaching, falsely claiming Clemishire’s father had blessed his return. In reality, her father had threatened to kill him.
Gateway Church’s leadership repeated this pattern. Despite Clemishire’s emails to Morris in 2005 and a 2007 legal demand for restitution, the church ignored her until public outcry forced Morris’ resignation in 2024. Even then, elders claimed ignorance—though records prove they knew of her age and the abuse’s severity. The parallels to Epstein’s 2008 plea deal, brokered by powerful friends to avoid federal charges, are unmistakable.
In a second Trump term, with even fewer restraints and more loyalists in key positions, it’s highly plausible that the same tactics used to obscure Epstein’s trail would have been deployed to protect Morris. After all, what’s one more scandal among friends? The message would be clear: If you’re useful to the president—spiritually, politically, or financially—then your crimes are negotiable. Survivors? Irrelevant. Justice? Optional.
That’s why having principled leadership in the White House matters. Not because it guarantees justice, but because it creates space for it to breathe. Because when a president respects institutional independence, the DOJ can act in the interest of the public, not in service to a single man’s ambitions. Without that adult in the room in 2024, Robert Morris’s victim may never have been heard—and the pattern of silencing abuse to protect proximity to power would have continued unbroken.
That reckless generosity—with both influence and forgiveness—undermines the foundation of accountability. When a president suggests he’ll pardon anyone useful to his campaign, it sets a chilling norm: moral integrity becomes optional if your loyalty is sufficient.
Let’s be clear: Donald Trump isn’t responsible for Robert Morris’s abuse. But he chose to elevate him when others should have asked questions. Leadership isn’t just about who gets to speak in your ear—it’s also about who you listen to.
Clemishire’s long and painful journey to pursue justice brings its own weight to this story. Her accusations, kept private for decades, only saw action when she went public. Once the allegations surfaced, Gateway Church launched internal investigations. Multiple elders—some aware or suspecting the truth—were removed. Gateway eventually acknowledged that its earlier descriptions of the abuse as merely “inappropriate behavior” were inadequate, prompting apologies, transparency efforts, and reorganizations.
Justice still feels delayed; Morris is now formally indicted in Oklahoma on five counts of lewd or indecent acts involving a child. Each charge could carry decades in prison, though by his own account in court, he’ll plead not guilty.
Behind this personal tragedy lies a teaching. Presidents who tolerate or reward unchecked power send a signal. They tell us that the moral character of those close to them doesn’t matter—only the loyalty. That diminishes faith in institutions, from the pulpit to the Oval Office.
The moral breach here is twofold: one man abused the most vulnerable, while another chose to elevate him to political prominence. We must ask ourselves: what does the company we keep say about us?
It’s tempting to chalk up these lapses to coincidence or poor discernment. But when patterns repeat—when loyalty shields the guilty, and power immunizes the morally compromised—those choices become a blueprint for what leadership looks like. And if we’re honest, it’s one that many of us find deeply unsettling.
Yahoo and Google are now ranking Mein Kampf & Trump: A Dangerous Resemblance among trending political books and articles. What’s fueling the attention? Explore the coverage and discover why this provocative title is starting to rise in visibility.
- Yahoo Ranking: https://bit.ly/4lmhSCz
- Google Ranking: https://bit.ly/44LFppG
More From FeDlan News:
Trump Claims Epstein ‘Stole’ Virginia Giuffre From Mar-a-Lago Spa, Sparking Rift
Epstein and Ghislaine Are Weirdly More Popular Than Trump — And He Definitely Won’t Like It
The GOP’s Serious Approach to Comedy Led Them to Be Fooled by Rush Limbaugh, Trump, and Alex Jones
Copyright 2025 FN, NewsRoom.
