I cannot adequately express the horror I feel for a man who can

Host:
The church was empty now. Only the faint echo of footsteps and the soft scent of candle smoke lingered. Light from the stained-glass windows filtered through the evening air, coloring the stone walls with shifting shades of crimson, gold, and violet — the colors of passion, virtue, and remorse.

At the front pew, Jack sat hunched, his coat draped beside him, a Bible open but unread. He was not praying — merely staring, his grey eyes hollow, as if the world itself had disappointed him one too many times.

Jeeny entered quietly from the back, her steps light, the door closing softly behind her. She paused at the aisle, taking in the sight of him — the skeptic in the sanctuary, a man who had come not for forgiveness, but for truth.

Jeeny: gently — “You came here to hide or to listen?”

Jack: without looking up — “Both, maybe. There’s no better place to question God than in His house.”

Host:
The air shimmered faintly, dust catching the last light of the dying sun. A faint organ note carried from somewhere unseen — a sound too distant to be real, yet too sincere to be imagined.

Jeeny: walking toward him, her voice soft but sharp — “James K. Polk once said, ‘I cannot adequately express the horror I feel for a man who can be so base as to veil his hypocrisy under the cloak of religion, and state the base falsehood he has done.’”

Jack: glances up, smirking bitterly — “He must’ve been talking about half the world.”

Jeeny: sitting beside him now, her tone quiet but firm — “Or maybe he was talking about the other half — the ones who still let those people speak for God.”

Host:
The flame of a single candle flickered, casting shadows across the floor. The faint smell of wax and old wood filled the air, and the light from the window struck Jack’s face, dividing it — one side bright, the other in shadow.

Jack: coldly — “Hypocrisy is the oldest sacrament of man. We wear masks to survive. But when you wear one in the name of God, it’s not survival — it’s corruption.”

Jeeny: softly, eyes on the altar — “No. It’s betrayal. Religion was supposed to lift us — not be a costume for deceit. To preach virtue while practicing vice… it’s the cruelest theft. You don’t just steal trust, you steal faith.”

Jack: his voice rising slightly, rough with emotion — “And people still line up to believe! They kneel to men who sell holiness like a brand — forgiveness for a fee, purity in a slogan. It’s not faith anymore; it’s performance.”

Jeeny: turning to him, her eyes fierce — “Then why are you here, Jack? Why come to the temple if you’ve already condemned its priests?”

Jack: after a long silence — “Because I still want to believe the temple itself isn’t rotten. That beneath the rot, there’s something honest left — some remnant of what faith was meant to be before men learned to monetize it.”

Host:
The wind outside stirred, rattling the high windows, sending a ripple through the candle flames. Their light wavered like the trembling pulse of the sacred itself, struggling to endure beneath human flaws.

Jeeny: softly, almost in mourning — “It’s not just the priests, Jack. We’ve all done it — worn righteousness to hide our weakness. Every time we choose appearances over honesty, we veil truth beneath religion’s robe.”

Jack: leans forward, elbows on his knees — “That’s what haunts me. We speak of God as if we own Him — as if the divine bends to our ego. We invent purity to justify sin, and when someone calls it hypocrisy, we call them faithless.”

Jeeny: quietly, her eyes glistening in the dim light — “Faithless isn’t the one who questions, Jack. Faithless is the one who hides behind holiness while doing harm. Questioning is the last proof that something sacred still breathes inside you.”

Host:
Her words landed softly, like ashes settling after fire. The silence that followed was not empty — it was full of the weight of truth, the heaviness of knowing that the holiest things are often the most wounded.

Jack: after a moment, his tone softer — “You know what’s strange? It’s always the hypocrite who’s loudest about morality. The pure heart doesn’t need to shout. But the false one — it needs an audience.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly — “Because hypocrisy feeds on attention. It’s not content with deception — it needs applause. But real goodness… real faith… it hides. It doesn’t demand to be seen. It just is.”

Host:
The organ’s hum faded, leaving only the crackle of the candles and the distant rain beginning outside. The world beyond the stained glass blurred into streaks of color — as though heaven itself were weeping quietly for what humanity had done in its name.

Jack: leans back, sighing — “Maybe that’s why religion scares me. Not because it lies, but because it convinces good people to believe lies told beautifully.”

Jeeny: gently — “And yet, the same religion inspires the kindest acts — compassion, forgiveness, courage. The fault isn’t in belief, Jack. It’s in how we wield it.”

Host:
A thunderclap sounded in the distance, deep and resonant. For a moment, the whole church seemed to tremble — the old beams, the hanging lamps, the very walls whispering their ancient prayers.

Jack: after the rumble fades — “So what do we do? How do you save faith from the faithful?”

Jeeny: looks toward the altar, her voice barely above a whisper — “By living the truth they pretend to preach. By refusing to wear the mask. Hypocrisy dies when honesty costs us something — and we still choose it.”

Host:
Her words settled, and for a moment, the only sound was the rain tapping against the glass. Jack’s eyes softened, his anger dissolving into something closer to grief — or maybe relief.

Jack: softly — “So, in the end, maybe Polk wasn’t just condemning the hypocrite. Maybe he was warning the rest of us not to become one.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly — “Exactly. He wasn’t attacking religion — he was defending its soul.”

Host:
The camera would pull back now — the two figures small beneath the towering arches, their shadows long on the stone floor, framed by the glow of a thousand dying candles. The storm outside continued, but within the church, there was a strange, still peace — as if truth, once spoken aloud, had purified the air.

Host (closing):
James K. Polk’s horror was not for the believer, but for the betrayer of belief — the one who turns faith into theater, morality into manipulation.
His words echo through centuries, a warning and a mirror:
that to hide deceit behind holiness is not piety, but profanity —
a violation deeper than sin, because it kills trust in the sacred itself.

Yet even here, among the ruins of hypocrisy, faith endures — not in the sermons of the false,
but in the quiet, flawed hearts of those who dare to seek truth without disguise.

And as the rain eased and the candles burned lower,
Jack and Jeeny sat together in silence —
two souls stripped of illusion,
yet still reaching, still believing,
that somewhere behind every broken mask,
God was waiting — not to be defended, but to be rediscovered.