The Fake & Fraudulent Prophets Around the President
September 4, 2026 |
Daniel Henderson
Once upon a time, we believed in things. We believed in truth. We believed in justice. We believed in heroes—ones who didn’t need branding deals or side hustles to justify their capes. But that world’s gone.
The last glimmers of idealism have been doused in algorithmic sludge and prosperity gospel glitter. What’s left? A zombified version of faith, shuffling from megachurch to megachurch, smiling on cue, high on vibes, low on substance. And no one’s talking about it because the smiling never stops.
“Do you worry that you’re not liked? How long ’til you break?”
– Our Lady Peace
We’ve built a culture—and a Christianity—on the artifice of positivity. Performance is king. Vulnerability is commodified. Church has become a place where your pain is only welcome if it can be wrapped in a bow and turned into a testimonial. And if you can’t fake it ’til you make it? You’re the problem.
Idealism? It’s not just dead—it’s been excommunicated. There’s no room for prophets in a religion that worships relevance. There’s no room for lament when every sermon ends with “but God…” and a bridge that repeats until belief kicks in. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
We’ve crucified hope on the altar of influence.
It’s not just the church. It’s everywhere. Politics, pop culture, social media. All we’re fed are polished lies with ring lights and pre-sets. We’ve been conditioned to trade meaning for messaging and substance for spectacle.
Superman’s dead because we no longer want someone to save us. We want someone to represent us. Wear the costume, say the lines, post the reel. Look strong, act confident. But don’t challenge us. Don’t call us to anything inconvenient. Don’t remind us that maybe the mess is our fault.
“You’re happy ’cause you smile, but how much can you fake?”
The answer? A lot. Entire ministries are built on faking it. Faith is now about optics, not action. Hope is a hashtag. And love? It’s a subscription service with tiered access. Want deeper connection? Upgrade to the gold plan and join our inner circle.
This isn’t Christianity. This isn’t even culture. It’s the death rattle of something that once meant something.
Superman’s dead. And he’s not coming back. Neither is hope, not if we keep outsourcing our meaning to pastors, platforms, or politicians. We keep looking for someone to rescue us from the very systems we refuse to dismantle. Faith has become a mirror that only reflects our denial.
We need something that speaks to now. Not someday. Not heaven. Not revival. Something grounded in the dirt, in the blood, in the disappointment. Something that makes space for grief, for rage, for the uncomfortable silence after the music stops.
If God is real, then God isn’t in the spectacle. God’s in the fallout. In the burned-out sanctuary. In the disillusioned, the discarded, the done. Maybe even in you. Right now. Without the need for polish, praise, or perfect theology.
So stop waiting for a hero. Stop pretending there’s a rescue plan. Let the myth die.
And in the wreckage, maybe—just maybe—you’ll find something real.
