“If you love Minions, don’t scroll,” the woman in the video gently implores. She points to an image of a minion, the bean-shaped, noseless, bespectacled yellow creatures form the Despicable Me franchise, washing the feet of another minion. Both minions are clad in robes and look like extras in Jesus Christ Superstar.
“Right above me is a picture of a minion washing another minion’s feet,” the woman, singer/songwriter Kalkidan Radford, says serenely. “But we both know a minion never did that. But let me tell you who did: Jesus.” Radford goes on to invite her followers to accept Jesus into their hearts and to leave a comment to that effect, encouraging them to subscribe to learn more.
@kalkidanradfordtv No one can do what Jesus did 🥹😇 #christiantiktok #fypシ #jesus #viral #christian #god
To say the purpose of the video is unclear is an understatement. Is it AI engagement bait? An earnest attempt at preaching the gospel? A wildly misguided branded content campaign for Despicable Me 4? Those commenting on Radford’s video are equally befuddled. “How do you know a minion never did that? They are complex,” one comment challenges. Another gets more to the point: “Ok but can I please have the Minion feet in my mouth.”
What’s even more befuddling is the template for Radford’s video — essentially, a creator using an AI-generated photo of a minion made to resemble Jesus Christ on a cross, or washing an acolyte’s feet, or touching the hem of another minion’s garment — has been replicated across short-form video platforms by dozens of other Christian creators, almost word-for-word. Some of the videos introduce the images by explaining that “an animator was fooling around” and accidentally produced the image, as if producing an image of a Universal Studios mascot being crucified is something that happens as easily as tripping on a shoelace. Others take the time to describe the image in almost absurdist detail, such as the nails penetrating the minion’s “three little yellow fingers,” or the crown of thorns encircling his dome. But all of them utilize a similar bait-and-switch: sure, a minion may not have died for your sins, but you know who did? Jesus Christ. And if that message (somehow) resonates with you, then feel free to like, comment, and subscribe.
The rise of the Christian minion memes on TikTok and, to some extent, Instagram, has perplexed many on the internet. Some have attributed the bizarrely repetitive nature of the videos to the “dead internet theory,” or the idea that nothing on the internet is genuine and everything is generated and reproduced by artificial intelligence or bots; others have speculated that all of the influencers may be working in concert to proselytize using the same specific iconography.
The popularity of the crucified Minion videos echoes that of the AI-generated “shrimp Jesus” meme, an unsettling amalgam of Jesus Christ and a crustacean that briefly went viral on Facebook, spawning discourse about the rise of AI-generated spam and engagement farming. Though many commenters have speculated as to whether the Minion videos are similarly AI-generated, they appear not to be, though that’s not to say that AI was not used in the “creation, editing, and post-production” of the clips, a spokesperson for the deepfake detection software company Reality Defender tells Rolling Stone.
What everyone can agree on, however, is the following: 1) the videos get a fair amount of engagement (one, by digital marketer and self-described Christian influencer Traci Coston, has more than 132,000 views on TikTok alone), and 2) they’re very weird. “They’re using this technique that tends to work really well on short-form video platforms where you have some kind of eye-grabbing imagery on the top and the person speaking on the bottom,” says Don Caldwell, the editor-in-chief of the meme explainer database Know Your Meme. These kinds of videos videos, such as the viral clips using footage from the mobile app Subway Surfer, capitalize on viewers’ short attention spans by marrying storytelling with compelling imagery, thus boosting watch time, explains Caldwell: “Then you’ve got something similar going on with the image of a minion being crucified. It’s just so odd.”
According to Caldwell, the most widely circulated image in the minion TikToks — that of a minion expiring on a cross — is not AI, but a 3D rendering made by an artist named Americo Cruz, who posted it on Facebook in 2021 with the caption, “in minions we trust.” The image went moderately viral, in part because it was referencing a rich internet history of Facebook users — mostly boomers — making inane minion memes. “There were all these Facebook posts associated with moms posting some kind of platitude with a minion in the background,” says Caldwell. “And then there were all these ironic memes that came from that.”
What differentiates the crucifixion Minion memes, however, is that they don’t appear to be ironic at all — on the contrary, they seem pretty serious. Though none of the content creators I reached out to responded to a request for comment, the memes appear to be using the iconography of irony-poisoned millennials and zoomers to deliver an earnest message about Jesus Christ, sort of like how your youth pastor might have used Simpsons quotes in his sermons.
The use of mainstream cultural iconography in proselytization is not at all uncommon on social media. (It’s not even uncommon with respect to the Despicable Me franchise specifically: as Slate reported in 2020, there’s a pretty thriving community of evangelical shitposters on Facebook and Pinterest, resulting in the rather jarring experience of seeing a quote from Scripture emblazoned above an image of a Minion in a thong.) Caldwell points out that the crucified minion TikToks are not dissimilar to the so-called “Mormon MomTok” trend, in which young women born in the Church post a mixture of dances, sketches, and implicit or explicit endorsements of the Church.
So are the Minion-on-a-cross videos actually intended as tools of proselytization? If they are, Caldwell speculates, he doesn’t think they’re effective: “I would wager that this isn’t getting any people to convert to Christianity or renew their faith or anything like that. I think it’s mostly based around the attention economy.” But what is the attention economy if not a form of proselytization in itself? And after all, if just one person is moved by the plight of a crucified Minion to stop scrolling and listen to the good word before accepting Jesus Christ as their lord and savior — or, at the very least, is moved enough to leave a horny comment about wanting dirty yellow Minion feet in their mouth — then maybe, for these influencers, it’s worth the effort.
Donald Trump and FIFA President Gianni Infantino stand as Spain celebrates its World Cup victory, on July 19, 2026.
America Got the World Cup It Deserves — Good and Bad
For the past six weeks or so I’ve been having a recurring fight with my friends. The dispute is over whether or not it’s ethical to support the U.S. national team in the World Cup.
To the vast majority of people reading this article, this is an absurd question: of course you can and should support the United States Men’s National Team, you weirdo. And look, I’m with you. But despite the fact that my friends are pompous dorks who are no fun to watch the game with, the question they raise is valid: Are our national teams avatars of the administration in power, or of the people and promise of that country?
If you believe the former, then yeah, it’s pretty fucking weird to support the USMNT. In doing so, by that thinking, you’d be engaging in a sort of athletic nationalism on behalf of a country run by Donald Trump, the most corrupt president in history, who forced the Iranian national team to flee across the border immediately after the final whistle of each of their games, whose federal police have shot numerous civilians dead in the street during a brutal immigration crackdown, who has started a war and supported a genocide while covering up his close personal friendship with the most notorious pedophile in modern history.
I mean just look at him. On Sunday he waddled down onto the field to present Spain with their trophy, lingering on stage with the victorious team as they tried to celebrate. The presence of Mexican President Claudia Steinbaum and Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney did little to dilute the image of Trump standing next to his crony Gianni Infantino, grinning at all the trappings of their power, hands caressing a trophy they’d done nothing to earn, lingering well past his cue to leave Spain to their glory. This World Cup, literally, had Donald Trump’s fingerprints all over it.
And yet, this was one of the most thrilling, beautiful World Cups in recent memory. That’s America, baby — contradictions abound.
Over the past five weeks of the greatest athletic competition on Earth, we’ve seen games that will literally never leave my memory. The final, which I attended yesterday in New Jersey, was remarkably forgettable — a 0-0 draw until the 106th minute, with Spain dominating every second of play and yet unable to score, undone time and time again by their insistence on tricksy passing and the personal heroics of Argentina’s goalkeeper Emi Martinez. The rest of the tournament, however, delivered. Cabo Verde, refusing to lose until the very last moments of the first knockout round, battling back again and again against both teams that would eventually play in the final. The sheer dominance of France’s Kylian Mbappe in front of goal, scoring at will, rivaled only by the aging GOAT Leo Messi and the Norwegian warlord Erling Haaland. England’s heroic stand at the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City, 45 minutes in the rain, a man down, holding out for the win and singing “Wonderwall” with what felt like half the stadium when it ended. Off the pitch, too: the Algerian national team being welcomed with open arms by Lawrence, Kansas; Scottish braves drinking Boston dry and partying wildly with Haitian fans that overcame so much just to be at the tournament. In Mexico, of course, the World Cup was everything, and its fans threw joyous South Koreans pumped full of tequila into the air, and celebrated in the streets with opposing fans even after their hard-fought defeat to England.
For the United States, what the 2026 World Cup was — what our team was, what our fans were, what our performance as hosts was — is a reflection of two things at once: what our nation is and what it can be.
Our star striker, Folarin Balogun, was born here by accident, a citizen only because of a birthright system that our president is currently trying to erase. We have Ricardo and Giovanni and Freeman and Zendejas. We have another striker whose name is Haji, for goodness sake. I look at that team and I see the country America can be, one in which any soul born in or living within our arbitrary borders can become part of a great national project that seeks to improve the lives of everyone it can. And yet, I can also look at that team and see a reflection of what the country is, because there is an anchor around its neck. When Balogun was — albeit unjustly — suspended for a crucial match, Trump himself stepped in. Cronyism saved the day and got Balogun reinstated, but ruined the fragile harmony the team had enjoyed. On the pitch against Belgium, they came apart. Temperamental star Christian Pulisic tried to go alone and then quit, aging defender Tim Ream’s legs failed him when he needed them most, a young goalkeeper slipped and fell when he had no good options for support.
What more can you say about a team, about our country? The team is an entity that is capable of more but still has so far to go, that is vulnerable to the same forces of avarice and selfishness and fear that plague our national identity writ large.
It’s possible to end the story there, to say good riddance to another failed year and fractured team. But I think that’s a mistake. I think if you believe that you haven’t really been watching. I think that’s also why it pissed me off so much that some of my friends wouldn’t root for the U.S. Yes, we have flaws, like every country involved in the tournament. Yes, our current team management and political government are filled with morons. But if you won’t put on the shirt you’re essentially opting out of our future. We can’t wait around for a better world, a better team, a better president, before we deign to lend our support. Progress only comes from effort, from caring, from believing in something more.
One of my favorite images of the World Cup was a crowd shot of the opening match against Paraguay in Los Angeles: every race, color and creed of American there is, all covered in red white and blue. It’s corny and trite, sure. But that’s what it’s all about. That’s why we’re here. You have to believe. The U.S. won that game 4-2. In four years, we’ll be even better.