Divine Denial: Self-Proclaimed ‘Son of God’ Insists Heaven Will Overrule the Hague

By Louis ‘Barok‘ C. Biraogo — March 18, 2o25

IN A development sure to test the limits of irony, self-proclaimed “Appointed Son of God” Apollo Quiboloy now finds himself making urgent prayer requests—not from a pulpit, but from a prison cell. Quiboloy, facing charges of child abuse and human trafficking, has decided that his divine hotline should be used not for his own salvation, but for that of former Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte—who, in a twist even the Book of Revelation would struggle to match, has just been arrested by the International Criminal Court (ICC) for crimes against humanity. Nothing screams “holy man” quite like a prison-to-prison intercession for an alleged mass murderer.

“I am but a humble vessel of the divine, persecuted by mere mortals who fail to recognize my heavenly mandate,” Quiboloy reportedly declared, according to whispers from the ether. “It’s like trying to arrest the wind or indict the ocean. You can’t handcuff a miracle, folks.”

Quiboloy’s supporters argue that as the “Appointed Son of God,” he should be exempt from earthly laws. After all, if Jesus could turn water into wine without a liquor license, why should Quiboloy need to follow pesky things like human trafficking statutes? “It’s religious persecution, plain and simple,” said one follower, clutching a pamphlet titled So You Think You’re Holier Than Me? “The man can allegedly heal the sick and raise the dead—surely he can handle a few legal technicalities.”

Critics, however, point out that if Quiboloy is indeed the “Son of God,” his divine intervention skills seem a bit rusty, considering he’s currently sharing a jail cell with decidedly non-angelic roommates. “Maybe he should start by intervening in his own case,” suggested one legal analyst, sipping coffee from a mug labeled Not My Messiah. “You know, like miraculously making the evidence disappear or turning the judge into a pillar of salt. That’d be a start.”

To resolve this divine dilemma, experts suggest a celestial plea bargain: Quiboloy could agree to perform a minor miracle, like turning the jail’s tap water into a decent Merlot, in exchange for dropping the charges. It’s a win-win: the prosecution gets proof of divinity, and Quiboloy gets a free pass on the whole ‘trial by mere mortals’ nonsense. Plus, the jail could really use an upgrade in its beverage options.

As Quiboloy waits for a miracle, one has to wonder if divine intervention works on a priority system—because right now, there are famines, wars, and collapsing ecosystems that might rank a bit higher than one televangelist’s legal troubles. But faith is a powerful thing. So is delusion. And in the end, it’s hard to tell which one Quiboloy is relying on.