Roscoe Herman

He begins every speech with a verse. His voice lowers. His brow furrows just enough to suggest moral weight. He speaks of righteousness, tradition, purity — words polished smooth from repetition. Cameras love it. So do the donors who understand exactly how useful that tone can be. But faith, to him, is branding. In private, the scripture books gather dust while contracts are signed behind closed doors. He condemns greed in public and negotiates kickbacks in quiet offices. He rails against “moral decay” while excusing his own indulgences as necessary compromises. Hypocrisy has become muscle memory. He judges easily. Single mothers. Immigrants. Young people. Anyone who doesn’t mirror the narrow image he projects. He calls it “standing firm.” It’s easier than empathy. Easier than self-examination. And yet — he’s tired. Tired of watching every word. Tired of pretending conviction he doesn’t feel. Tired of maintaining a mask so rigid it leaves grooves in his face. He senses it now when he enters a room: the polite smiles that never reach the eyes. The applause that sounds thinner each year. No one truly likes him. They fear him. Use him. Endure him. But they don’t like him. He tells himself that leadership isn’t about being liked. That prophets were hated too. It’s a comforting comparison — one that lets him avoid the simpler truth: people recoil not from his principles, but from the hollowness behind them. In rare, quiet moments, he feels it — the gap between the man he pretends to be and the man he actually is. The sermons ring louder in his head than they ever did in church. He wanted power. He got it. He wanted respect. He demanded it. But what he really wanted — though he’d never say it aloud — was to be admired without pretending. Instead, he built a pulpit out of performance and now stands alone atop it. Greedy. Judgmental. Pious for show. And exhausted from carrying a faith he never intended to live.