Set up a statue...

It will fall, crumble, decay and turn to dust.

You may have seen the AI-generated YouTube video shared by U.S. President Donald Trump on his Truth Social account, where Gaza is reimagined as a luxurious resort named Trump Gaza. The video shows a massive golden statue of Trump towering over the city, suggesting his envisioned transformation of the region. And, well—watching that got me thinking.

It got me thinking about another giant statue. Not of Trump, but of Nebuchadnezzar. A towering monument, 90 feet high, 9 feet wide, planted firmly on the hot, dusty plain of Dura. It was a symbol of raw power and a declaration of control... and, if we’re honest, a bit of a joke.

What’s so amusing? While the Babylonian king demanded worship, the biblical writer couldn’t help but weave in a thread of sarcasm so subtle yet so sharp that it cuts through the centuries—in Daniel 3, all of Nebuchadnezzar’s officials—every satrap, prefect, governor, and postal worker—are gathered for what is essentially a government-mandated moment of reverence. Think of Big Brother by Orwell. It’s a loyalty exercise. A state-sponsored worship event and public bowing of the knee before the king’s personal, magnificent, human-made god.

The pressure to conform is immense. The music intro is bigger than a Hillsong worship conference. The music swells—harps, lyres, bagpipes, the whole orchestra. Everything is kicking off. The king’s decree is clear: when the sound hits the air, you hit the ground. Bow down. No exceptions. No hesitation. Compliance is worship. And in case anyone had doubts, the threat of the roaring fiery furnace looms large. The heat of consequences is more than metaphorical.

Now, if this were merely a historical account of a power-hungry king flexing his authority, that would be one thing, but there’s something else going on here.

The writer of Daniel 3 is doing more than just reporting. He’s ridiculing. How do we know? Because he repeats, with almost comedic excess, that this statue was something Nebuchadnezzar set up. That phrase—set up—is used nine times in the passage, like an insistent drumbeat. Nebuchadnezzar set up his image, the officials stood before what the king set up, and everyone was to worship what had been set up.

And that’s the joke, because gods aren’t meant to be set up.

A true deity, the real thing, doesn’t need scaffolding. A true God isn’t propped up by human hands, needing political power, sponsorship, or force to keep it upright. The writer is making a mockery of the entire scene; here is a king who demands worship, and yet the very object of that worship is a lifeless, man-made hunk of gold that would topple over if not for the strength of the workers who set it up.

It’s the kind of irony that has aged well.

The pomp and pageantry of power are often absurd. The coercion of worship, the demand for loyalty, the pressure to conform—it all looks very impressive from the outside, even enticing. The music swells, the masses bow, the golden idols shimmer in the desert sun, but at the heart of it, there’s nothing there, just a monument to human pride, propped up by fear.

If you’re wondering whether this kind of thing still happens today, well, perhaps we need look no further than some of the videos of those in power and their agenda on YouTube—other platforms are available! Take a look at any number of modern spectacles where power demands our reverence, where images are erected to dazzle and dominate, where thousands have to march in step following intimidating strict orders, or where the threat of exile—whether social, economic, or literal—keeps people in line.

The thing about statues is they don’t last.

Nebuchadnezzar’s golden image? Gone. The Babylonian Empire? Dust. The only thing that endures is what was never set up by human hands in the first place. A kingdom not made of gold but of spirit, where the King does not coerce but calls and does not demand worship but deserves it.

Unlike Nebuchadnezzar, or any other would-be ruler who erects monuments to their own greatness, the true King (Jesus) does not set up an image of Himself. No, He became the image. "He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation" (Colossians 1:15). And rather than raising a golden likeness, He raised a cross.

I have to say it - the gospel is the great reversal. Where kings and rulers demand that we bow before their power, Christ stoops low in humility. Where the world constructs idols of dominance, Christ takes the form of a servant, and where men build statues to their own glory, Christ allows Himself to be lifted up on a Roman execution cross, absorbing the fire of judgment in our place.

It’s why, in the end, the great statues fall. Collapse. The golden images crack and crumble, collapse and then become dust. The empires of man fade into history, but the glorious, ever-increasing kingdom of God remains because the true King doesn’t need to be set up. He is already enthroned.

So whether it’s Nebuchadnezzar’s colossal idol set up on the plains of Babylon or some gilded modern-day spectacle, the lesson remains the same: beware of the image that needs scaffolding.

Instead, take a long look at King Jesus, who reigns—not by force, but by love. Not with coercion, but with grace and not with the fire of intimidation, but with the fire of the Spirit.

In the end, the only throne that matters is the one that will never be toppled and the only King worth bowing to is the One who laid down His life so that we might rise... in new life, eternal allegiance, loyalty, obedience and heartfelt, willing worship.