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Spencer Pratt is a showboat, a loudmouth, a troll and a self-proclaimed villain who seems willing to say anything in his quest to be the next mayor of Los Angeles.

Little wonder that his critics rolled their eyes when the former reality television star told CNN host Elex Michaelson a few weeks ago that his campaign role model is Jesus Christ, because “he was a politician.” How on earth did Pratt — a man who tosses insults with the ease of someone spitting loogies — come off boasting that his political hero was the Prince of Peace?

But anyone who ridicules the exchange as a blasphemous moment by a deluded wannabe isn’t paying attention — which is exactly the error that has allowed Pratt to storm L.A. politics. He isn’t running on an explicitly Christian message — that would be risky in a city with large Jewish, Catholic and secular constituencies. But the proud born-again evangelical is channeling the zeal of an old-fashioned tent revival, even if some of his rhetoric falls far outside the bounds of the Good Book.

In his recent memoir, Pratt recounted his conversion — actor Stephen Baldwin baptized him in a river during the 2009 season of the reality show “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.” Before that, his Christianity had consisted of wearing a black diamond cross necklace he described as “thirty grand of Jesus bling” bought from a Beverly Hills boutique. Pratt credits his faith with providing direction at a low moment in his life, as he embraced Jesus with such fervor that a pastor told him to stop joining altar calls so much during church services — once was enough.

“I needed the receipt stamped weekly,” Pratt wrote, “like a parking validation, just to make sure it stuck.”

Seventeen years later, he’s still seeking that affirmation.

The memoir comes off as a millennial version of “The Confessions of St. Augustine” — perhaps the most famous literary example of someone who saw their wreck of a life not as a series of mistakes to apologize for but as necessary failures on the road to grace. That’s why Pratt and his followers don’t see his sketchy past as a disqualifier, but rather his biggest strength. Only someone who says he was reborn in the inferno of the Palisades fire could possess the clarity and willpower needed to bring salvation to an accursed land, they argue.

In another era, Pratt would have been a welcome edition to the roster of bombastic Southern California preachers a la Aimee Semple McPherson, Chuck Smith and Gene Scott, as well as radio titans such as George Putnam and John Kobylt. His claims that only he can deliver us from damnation and that we need to repent of City Hall’s status quo at the ballot box are nothing less than a modern-day gospel to his followers. Pratt feels the pulse of L.A.’s civic malaise far better than Mayor Karen Bass or another of his opponents, City Councilmember Nithya Raman. Like any good pastor, he knows how to distill that discontent into soundbites and stories.

That’s why the self-designated “Pratt Daddy” has cast this moment in L.A. history as a modern-day Armageddon, urging voters to wage war against apostates and usher in a Second Coming, lest the city continue its supposed descent into hell. He admits in his memoir to holding “epiphanies and apocalyptic visions” in equal measure — no wonder he told a Canadian podcaster in March that life for him is a “spiritual battlefield” where “however I can be to stop evil at this point feels like a purpose.”

Spencer Pratt is shown on a television while journalists work during the 2026 Los Angeles mayoral debate at Skirball Cultural Center on May 6.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Far from me to criticize someone’s faith. But I urge Pratt to reacquaint himself with the words of the messiah in whose path he professes to follow. Humility, frugality, turning the other cheek — it’s what Jesus taught and what Pratt has long rejected.

Nowhere does Pratt need more of refresher on Jesus’ lessons than when it comes to homeless people.

Instead of offering compassion or viable initiatives, Pratt consistently calls the unhoused “zombies,” “vagrants,” “drug addicts” and “bums,” with a particular fixation on the naked ones. He vowed to ABC 7 recently that he would push people off L.A.’s streets and onto federal land — like herding stray wildlife. The mayoral hopeful added that “scam homeless nonprofits” exacerbate homelessness, which must have been news to Scripture-based organizations such as the Los Angeles Catholic Worker, Union Rescue Mission and the Salvation Army, which have been trying to help homeless people since before Pratt was born.

Pratt also told ABC 7 reporter Josh Haskell that most of L.A.’s homeless are not locals.

“These people, when I unplug them … they’re all going to Seattle, where the mayor will welcome them,” Pratt proclaimed.

Jesus would not only roll out the welcome mat for homeless people — he would embrace them.

Spencer, what New Testament book says that your crude campaign against the most destitute among us is holy?

Christ never looked down on itinerants, famously saying, “The Son of man hath not where to lay his head.” In the Book of Mark, when Jesus sent his disciples out into the world, he told them to bring no food or money, because good people would take care of them.

“And if any place will not welcome you or listen to you, leave that place and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them,” Jesus said.

Christ did do some name calling, but his ire was directed at the powerful, the braggarts, the hypocrites — the Pratts of his time. The Nazarene saved his kindest words for the meek, the poor, the peacemakers — who are sorely lacking in Pratt’s caravan of disaffected liberals, Trumpers and the wealthy. Christ didn’t offer counsel to the comfortable but to outcasts — lepers, prostitutes, people possessed by demons or afflicted with disease — whose modern-day contemporaries live on our streets and whom Pratt World blames for all of L.A.’s ills.

Jesus especially embraced outsiders — the Canaanite woman he initially compared to a dog because she sought help for her daughter, the Samaritan lady at the well, the Roman centurion in the Book of Matthew of whom Jesus proclaimed, “I have not found so great faith” anywhere in Israel. Pratt would have rounded up all of them in donkey carts and dumped them in Babylon, if he had been around back then.

I understand how frustrating it is to see homeless encampments in neighborhoods and to deal with unhoused people who disrupt one’s day, as my wife does at her restaurant in Santa Ana. But whenever annoyance gets the better of me, I remember what Jesus told his followers: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me,” warning that he would keep this in mind on Judgment Day.

Those who didn’t take his advice? “Depart from me, ye cursed,” Christ thundered, “into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.”

Christianity — and good society — calls for us to look to our better angels, not to demonize others, as Pratt regularly does. He knows this too.

“When the whole world hates you,” Pratt wrote, “it’s comforting to think at least the big guy upstairs has your back, so long as you repent.”

But repentance means admitting you’ve done wrong. Instead, Pratt is doubling down on his anti-homelessness nastiness as more and more people join his crusade.

Let’s see how many Angelenos embrace this false prophet on election day.

WASHINGTON — In the 2024 election, hundreds of social media influencers were credentialed for the first time to attend the Democratic and Republican conventions. They have been invited to holiday parties in the Pennsylvania governor’s mansion, to political rallies in Texas and to events at the White House by both the Biden and Trump administrations.

The role of influencers is surging as candidates and groups across the political spectrum see their social media feeds and personas as a pathway to younger audiences and harder-to-reach groups of voters.

“You have that sense of authenticity, like a friend is talking to you,” said Emma Briant, a professor at Notre Dame University’s Lucy Family Institute for Data & Society who studies propaganda.

That’s exactly what campaigns are hoping to harness when they partner with influencers, she said.

But the nature of that partnership has come into question in California’s hotly contested gubernatorial race after it emerged that a number of content creators — some with millions of followers, others with only a handful — had taken payments from the campaign of Democratic candidate Tom Steyer and not disclosed that they were paid to create those posts.

Some popular content creators have felt the need to explain themselves to their audience. Others have questioned how common such under-the-table payments might be, since there are no disclosure requirements for paid content at the federal level and few jurisdictions have any rules mandating it.

Some campaign finance advocates are concerned that voters could increasingly be influenced by social media posts that they don’t know are sponsored.

“The problem is that it doesn’t look like an ad,” said Saurav Ghosh, a former enforcement attorney at the Federal Election Commission. “It ends up really getting people at a place where they’re not skeptical and not able to tell the difference between what’s voluntary and where the influencer is acting as a paid spokesperson.”

Ghosh is now the director of campaign finance reform at the nonprofit Campaign Legal Center, which has filed a petition asking the FEC to require disclaimers on paid content created by influencers.

Roughly 1 in 5 Americans said they regularly got news from social media influencers in 2024, according to the Pew Research Center, and that number was nearly double for younger adults between the ages of 18 and 29.

Working with social media creators can be an easy way for candidates to try to boost their image, particularly with a younger audience.

“If they don’t have big personalities, maybe partnering with some influencers who seem cool and fun can make you seem cool and fun also through association,” said Link Lauren, a political influencer and podcaster who served as a communications advisor for Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s presidential campaign in 2024.

California is one of the few places that requires disclosure of sponsored social media posts, but the 2023 law that created those rules hadn’t gotten much of a workout before the issue was raised in this contest through a series of dueling complaints with California’s Fair Political Practices Commission. The commission has yet to weigh in on the various accusations.

Under the law, influencers are required to provide disclosure that a post was sponsored and say who paid for it. Political groups are required to notify paid creators of the requirement.

Even if the commission finds that violations have occurred, the penalties are not especially harsh.

Violation of the law carries no civil, criminal or administrative penalties. The FPPC can take alleged violators to court and ask a judge to force compliance. And violations can be penalized with a fine of up to $5,000 per instance.

Influencers reporting influencers

In the gubernatorial race, the issue of compliance was raised, naturally, by a pair of influencers.

Beatrice Gomberg has built up a following of more than 180,000 followers on TikTok, where she posts under the handle antiplasticlady. Her side gig of creating nonplastic children’s cups and lunch boxes became her main gig after she lost her human resources job at Macy’s during the COVID-19 pandemic.

“I started doing social media because I didn’t want to hire a marketing company,” Gomberg said.

Gomberg’s posts were initially largely focused on research related to plastic, but have become increasingly political over time. When campaigns put out the call for influencers to meet with candidates, Gomberg answered.

She interviewed Katie Porter, she met with Xavier Becerra. And it was at a Becerra event in April when she met Kaitlyn Hennessy, another influencer focused on politics.

They found that the world of online influencers can be isolating. “We stare in front of our phones,” Hennessy said. “You don’t want to see our screen time.”

As they scrolled through social media posts about the governor’s race, they found a cause to unite them.

They kept seeing videos posted by social media accounts espousing similar messages in support of Tom Steyer. Hennessy wondered at first if they were actually created by artificial intelligence.

They found that the posts seemed to be created by a network of women who, in some cases, had created several different profiles to promote a variety of products.

They pored over Steyer’s campaign disclosures and saw that the campaign listed payments to several prominent influencers — including one with the handle Zay Dante, with 1.8 million followers on TikTok — who had not disclosed creating paid content for the campaign.

The pair filed a complaint laying out their allegations, which the Steyer campaign has called “baseless.”

In the wake of their complaint, Steyer defended his campaign’s use of paid influencers, writing on Substack that his campaign believed content creators should be paid for their work and that the campaign had been transparent about disclosing those payments.

In a separate post, influencer Carlos Eduardo Espina said he had been paid $400,000 for work he has done for the Steyer campaign. Espina, who has more than 14 million followers on TikTok, is an advisor to the campaign, which was publicly announced.

“You will never see anything on my channels that I don’t believe in, or that I think goes against the best interest of my community. No one buys my opinion. But I also think it’s fair to be compensated for my work,” he wrote on Substack.

Not everyone is ready to accept payment for posts.

Lauren, the influencer who advised Kennedy’s campaign, said that while he doesn’t begrudge other influencers accepting sponsorship, he chooses not to.

“A passive viewer might think you really believe this,” he said. “I have a strong connection with my audience. I really consider them my family.”

Lauren said he favors disclosure requirements.

Briant, the propaganda researcher, said she is concerned about the possibility of foreign actors trying to influence Americans through paid posts.

In 2024, for example, federal prosecutors filed an indictment alleging that Russian state media employees had paid nearly $10 million to a Tennessee company that paid popular right-wing social media influencers to unwittingly produce pro-Russia content.

Briant said she believes that the only way to counteract increased manipulation through social media influencers is to impose harsh penalties when paid content is not disclosed.

“Ultimately, it’s a wild west at the moment if there are no repercussions for not doing it,” she said.

WASHINGTON — In the latest escalation of a fight over the use of paid social media creators, Tom Steyer’s campaign for governor filed a complaint Tuesday accusing influencers who posted content supportive of Xavier Becerra’s campaign of failing to disclose that they had been paid, which is required by California law.

The complaint, filed with California’s Fair Political Practices Commission, accuses Jay Gonzalez of producing at least 14 pro-Becerra posts on Instagram and Facebook in late April and early May, after he was hired by the campaign, and only belatedly editing the posts to acknowledge they had been sponsored by the campaign.

The complaint also said that a social media creator named Maggie Reed, who posts under the username mermaidmamamaggie, created four pro-Becerra posts on Instagram and had previously offered to create paid posts for another gubernatorial campaign, though the complaint doesn’t specify how the campaign knows Reed was paid.

Reed and a talent agency that represents her did not immediately respond to requests for comment.

The Becerra campaign maintained that it has not paid influencers who have created posts in support of the campaign.

“All of the content you see online is entirely and purely organic,” said Becerra spokesman Jonathan Underland.

Becerra and Steyer have been the top two Democratic candidates in recent polling for the governor’s race, with Becerra consistently maintaining a slight edge in those polls.

The complaint by Steyer’s campaign comes after two influencers who support Becerra filed a complaint last week accusing social media creators hired by the Steyer campaign of failing to disclose that they had been paid to produce their posts.

The campaign of the billionaire candidate for governor had previously disclosed payments to some influencers with large audiences, including one creator with the user name zayydante, who has 1.8 million followers on TikTok, and another with the user name littleyeg, who has nearly 350,000 followers on TikTok. The complaint filed last week said that both of these influencers failed to disclose that they had been paid by the campaign to produce content.

The complaint also highlighted several accounts created by user who don’t appear to live in California who created posts promoting Steyer and, in at least one case, posted elsewhere that they had been paid by the campaign.

The influencers who filed the original complaint said they saw the newly filed complaint as an attempt by Steyer’s campaign to deflect criticism.

“All he’s done is attack his opponent instead of taking accountability for violating the law,” said Kaitlyn Hennessy, one of the two influencers who filed the complaint against Steyer’s campaign. Hennessy and the other influencer who filed the complaint both said they have not been paid by the Becerra campaign.

In a post on Substack, Steyer defended his campaign’s use of paid social media influencers and said that it had been transparent about their use.

“Every creator we compensate has been and will be publicly disclosed as required by law,” he wrote.

Under a California law passed in 2023, social media creators who create paid content on behalf of a political campaign are required to disclose in their post that the material was sponsored and who paid for it.

The onus is on creators to provide the disclosure, but campaigns are required to notify influencers they hire of the requirement.

Violation of the rules doesn’t trigger criminal, civil or administrative penalties but the FPPC can take alleged offenders to court and ask a judge to force compliance with the law.

If anyone needs the axiom “Tell me who you’re with, and I’ll tell you who you are” whispered to them every morning as a reminder to do better, it’s Spencer Pratt.

Can someone do that ASAP, por favor?

Instead of holding events around Los Angeles to convince skeptics that his mayoral campaign is for everyone, the former reality television bad boy has bunkered himself inside an echo chamber of sycophants, friendly podcasters and milquetoast media outlets.

Instead of offering an on-ramp to join his pissed-off posse, he calls Mayor Karen Bass “Basura” — trash — and her supporters “Bassholes,” insults that his followers share and like on social media by the thousands.

Instead of enlisting surrogates to push an uplifting vision for L.A.’s future, Pratt elevates those who speak of the city as a West Coast Chernobyl.

He’s running on a message of righteous fury as a survivor of the Palisades fire, in an era when many Angelenos feel pessimistic about what’s next. In recent months, he’s raised funds at a faster pace than Bass and City Councilmember Nithya Raman and delivered a decent debate performance, while holding strong in the polls with two weeks left before the June 2 primary.

Now that Pratt has shown his electoral quest isn’t a farce, it’s time he shows all Angelenos that they can rely on a Republican entertainer with no political experience to head a largely progressive, multicultural metropolis.

Instead, he continues to double down on his doomsday message, exciting the type of people who have been whining that L.A. is a “Lost Cause” since the days of the Watts riots.

They’re the ones depicting Pratt in AI-generated videos as a superhero — Batman, Luke Skywalker and a gladiator, among others — battling Bass, cast as a clown, Darth Vader, the Joker or as herself handing out needles to half-crazed homeless people.

They hound anyone who points out that L.A. is nowhere near as apocalyptic as they make it out to be, when homicides are at their lowest since the 1960s, burglaries are down 30% from last year and unsheltered homelessness has dropped two years in a row. They follow Pratt’s example and call unhoused people with drug problems “zombies” and “bums” while depicting the L.A. of the past as a problem-free playground out of “The Wonderful World of Disney” that derailed once Democrats took over.

Not all of Pratt’s supporters are this obnoxious. But he repeatedly platforms the worst of them and shows no signs of stopping. That nihilism might sell books and gain followers — but it’s no way to prove to Angelenos he’s serious about fixing anything other than his reputation.

Mayoral candidate Spencer Pratt, left, poses with a supporter during a campaign event in Sherman Oaks.

(Etienne Laurent / For The Times)

Anyone who truly loves the city complains about it even on its best days. They realize L.A. can never be perfect, and that’s what makes it so wonderful. When people try to better their part of paradise, everyone benefits.

But Pratt needs to realize that Angelenos don’t want the city to be torn down, as dissatisfied as they may be. Criticizing the status quo is necessary — but waging a campaign of humiliation, a la Donald Trump, isn’t how to heal L.A. It won’t get large swaths of the city on your side, and it can’t spark the true change City Hall so desperately needs.

Instead, we get people like former Times contributor Meghan Daum — who now calls herself the “official Liberal Elite for Pratt” — gushing in the Atlantic about how her man is the “factory-reset option” to Make L.A. Great Again.

Resetting to when, Meghan? The 2000s of the Great Recession? The 1990s of anti-immigrant policies, the Northridge earthquake and the riots? The 1980s and its out-of-control gangs? The white flight of the 1960s? The 1950s of legal segregation and hideous smog?

Or just to the days when the problems that have long racked L.A. didn’t lap up to the denizens of Prattland — until they did?

These are the people who stayed largely silent as Trump unleashed ICE goons across Los Angeles last summer. They said nothing about housing affordability and violent crime in the years when those issues primarily afflicted South L.A. and the Eastside. They didn’t have a fit about homelessness until encampments spread beyond Skid Row.

Pratt’s loudest fans fundamentally loathe modern-day L.A., and that should chill all other Angelenos. These haters would be his primary constituents and populate his brain trust if he does beat Bass — and if he lets them take over, heaven help the City of Angels.

I’m not discounting Pratt’s chances of winning — he’s too savvy a media pro to fully flop. I knew Bass and Raman would misjudge the anger of Angelenos, fail to capitalize on that rage and find themselves on the defensive against Pratt’s populist push. I also figured he would eschew politeness for the demonizing that has tainted past L.A. elections, from Yorty’s mayoral campaigns of the 1960s to the San Fernando Valley secession movement a generation ago to the continued charges of communism thrown at the democratic socialist wing of the City Council.

I don’t blame Pratt for jumping into the race after his life was upended. And I sure don’t underestimate L.A.’s middle-class malaise, long a reactionary force in city politics with a winning track record that spans decades. But I can’t trust the guy and his crew for just now beginning to say they care about reforming L.A., when all he has fought for is his dark idea of the city.

And if you think L.A. needs a complete makeover, then you probably never really loved it in the first place.

On a recent podcast with Adam Carolla — who has long railed against L.A.’s liberal, multicultural ways and is planning to move to Nevada after his children graduate high school — Pratt huffed that he will “be done with trying to live” in the city if he doesn’t become mayor.

“I’ll go find somewhere that my kids will not have to see naked zombies,” he said, in a comment that was cheered on and seconded by his online army.

Do Angelenos really want to entrust their city to someone who might pick up his ball and quit on a place he professes to love, if he doesn’t get his way?