Holy Hell: Why The Righteous Gemstones Is the Most Chaotic (and Accurate) Satire on TV
By Trinity Barnette
Megachurches. Family dysfunction. Southern accents, shotgun weddings, and more neon-lit heresy than the Book of Revelations could ever predict.
That’s The Righteous Gemstones in a nutshell—and somehow, it’s even better than that.
Danny McBride’s dark comedy on Max isn’t just about a wealthy televangelist family—it’s a masterclass in satire, character chaos, and everything wrong (and hilarious) about religion, wealth, and legacy in America. It’s camp. It’s cringe. It’s blasphemy wrapped in bedazzled Bible covers. And honestly? It might be one of the most brilliant shows on TV.
God, Greed, and Guns: The Holy Trinity of Hypocrisy
Let’s be real—the Gemstones aren’t pastors. They’re reality stars in disguise. Jesse’s ego could power a small country. Judy’s the most unhinged soprano in Sunday school. And Kelvin… Kelvin is every Christian boy who discovered fashion and muscles and decided Jesus was also jacked.
But underneath the glittery sermons and baptismal hot tubs, The Righteous Gemstones perfectly captures the sickening glamor of prosperity gospel. These aren’t spiritual leaders—they’re CEOs in white suits and fake humility, peddling forgiveness for a fee. The show doesn’t hold back, and that’s what makes it hit: the hypocrisy is the joke, and the joke is painfully real.
Baby Billy Freeman alone is proof that McBride wrote this show with equal parts rage and reverence for Southern evangelical culture. He’s a scammer, a showman, and a tragic relic of an era where Jesus and showbiz were one and the same. And he’s not even the wildest one.
Family Values, But Make It Toxic
There’s something spiritually wrong with the Gemstones—and that’s exactly the point. Behind their million-dollar mansions and “God bless you” smiles lies a family more dysfunctional than a Maury polygraph episode. Sibling rivalry? Check. Daddy issues? Check. Petty backstabbing disguised as fellowship? Double check.
Jesse, Judy, and Kelvin might be adults, but they act like middle schoolers fighting over who gets to sit in the front pew. Their love is conditional. Their alliances shift faster than a church choir key change. And the only thing thicker than their Southern accents is their collective delusion.
But this isn’t just for laughs—The Righteous Gemstones nails the way faith-based families can weaponize religion to mask toxic patterns. From Judy’s emotional instability to Kelvin’s insecurity-fueled Jesus-freak fitness cult, the show doesn’t shy away from showing how spiritual trauma festers beneath fake holiness. Even patriarch Eli Gemstone—played with stone-faced brilliance by John Goodman—is less of a loving father and more of a spiritual CEO trying to keep his empire from collapsing (while ignoring the cracks in his children’s souls).
It’s biblical dysfunction at its finest.
Character Study: Judy Gemstone, The Southern Soprano of Chaos
Let’s talk about Judy. Because no one is doing it like her.
Judy Gemstone is what happens when a woman is raised in a patriarchal empire, handed a Bible, and told to shut up—but instead she grabs the mic, screams at the top of her lungs, and throws a glass of wine in your face.
She is the show’s most chaotic force, and yet also its most emotionally raw. She’s constantly dismissed by her brothers, overly intense, and high-key violent when provoked—but her rage? It makes sense. She grew up in a family where being loud and dramatic was the only way to be heard. And even then, she still wasn’t taken seriously.
Her relationship with B.J. (the sweet, glittery punching bag of a husband) is both hilarious and sad. She treats him like a pet one minute and a threat the next. But under all that glittery rage and emotional spirals is a woman desperate to be seen, loved, and taken seriously. She’s not crazy—she’s deeply wounded. And her character is a brilliant, if chaotic, mirror of what patriarchal religion does to ambitious women.
Judy & B.J. vs. Shiv & Tom: The Church Girl and the Corporate Girlboss
If Succession is corporate Shakespeare, The Righteous Gemstones is Southern-fried Scorsese in a megachurch. But somehow, both shows ended up with one of the most toxic (and fascinating) relationship dynamics on TV: the emotionally erratic daughter of a powerful man… and the awkward, nice-guy husband who will never quite measure up.
Judy Gemstone and B.J. are the Pentecostal version of Shiv Roy and Tom Wambsgans—right down to the passive-aggressive bickering, humiliating public moments, and warped gender dynamics.
Shiv weaponizes intellect. Judy weaponizes chaos.
Tom tries to climb the corporate ladder. B.J. tries to survive Sunday brunch.
Both men are emasculated. Both women are desperately trying to prove they’re just as powerful as their brothers—and taking it out on the only person they have control over.
The tension in both couples is rooted in power imbalance. Judy and Shiv love their partners in theory, but loathe them in practice. And while B.J. and Tom are often the butt of the joke, both shows remind us that being passive doesn’t make you innocent. Tom weaponizes loyalty to climb. B.J.? He weaponizes softness to survive. Both end up staying… but not without losing pieces of themselves in the process.
Where Succession leaves us with a heartbreaking final image of Tom holding Shiv’s hand like a hostage ring, Gemstones gives us B.J. getting baptized in a pink sequined Speedo. Both are camp. Both are tragic. Both are iconic.
Every Sinner Has a Spotlight: The Dysfunctional Brilliance of the Gemstone Ensemble
Jesse Gemstone: The Walking Midlife Crisis
Jesse is what happens when a man is raised with too much money, too little accountability, and just enough Jesus to weaponize it. He’s a self-righteous hypocrite who preaches purity while secretly diving headfirst into sex tapes, fraud, and moral rot—then cries when confronted like he’s the victim. He wants to be Eli’s successor, but he lacks the emotional intelligence, backbone, and basic self-awareness. And that’s exactly why he’s hilarious. Jesse is the kind of man who ruins his own life and calls it persecution
.
Kelvin Gemstone: Holy Abs and Identity Issues
Kelvin is a mess in crop tops. He’s a former youth pastor turned faith-based fitness influencer who masks deep insecurity with protein shakes and “cool pastor” aesthetics. His storyline with Keefe—a reformed Satanist turned devoted sidekick—is one of the most fascinating and weirdly tender arcs in the series. There’s queerness, repression, and codependency simmering under every neon-lit scene they share. Whether he’s baptizing gym bros or fighting with Judy, Kelvin embodies what happens when image matters more than actual belief.
Eli Gemstone: Godfather in Gucci Loafers
Eli is the spine of the empire—the one who built the castle and now watches it crumble. Played with deadpan perfection by John Goodman, Eli is less of a preacher and more of a mob boss in a linen suit. He’s haunted by his past (and by a wife who maybe never bought into the BS), and his version of “leadership” is quiet emotional abandonment dressed up as stoic authority. He’s trying to hold onto control while pretending his kids aren’t emotional wrecks who inherited his worst qualities. Spoiler: they are.
Baby Billy Freeman: The Ghost of Gospel Past
Baby Billy is every washed-up former star clinging to relevance, dressed in rhinestones and resentment. He’s a con man, yes—but he’s also a deeply wounded manchild who never moved on from being pushed aside. Every episode with him feels like watching a train derail in real time, and yet you almost root for him. Whether he’s ditching his family at the mall or trying to host a bizarre Christian game show revival, Baby Billy gives the show its most unpredictable, brilliant moments. He’s a scammer, but he’s our scammer.
Final Verdict: Southern Gothic, But Make It Sparkle
The Righteous Gemstones is more than just a satire—it’s a spiritual autopsy. It opens the chest of American Christianity, pulls out the gold-plated organs, and makes you laugh at the absurdity of it all before hitting you with a moment of gut-wrenching truth. Underneath the outrageous costumes, the biblical quotes, and the accidental shootings, this show is about legacy, shame, hypocrisy, and the desperate desire to be loved… even if you have to buy it.
It’s not just a show about faith—it’s a show about performance. And every Gemstone is performing: for God, for their father, for the crowd, for themselves. But the masks crack. The microphones cut out. And in those moments, you see the brilliance of what Danny McBride created—something hilarious, painful, and deeply human.
So if you haven’t watched it yet, repent and stream it immediately. And if you have? Just remember: the devil doesn’t wear Prada. He wears pastel and drives a golf cart through the front doors of the Lord’s house.
