The preachers also bleed

“We all live, in some measure, within contradiction. The difference between the famous and the ordinary is only the size of the spotlight. The rest of us preach patience and lose our tempers in traffic. We advise moderation and indulge excess in private. We encourage honesty while occasionally bending truth to convenience.”

At every point in history, every society produces men and women who speak with the confidence of those who have solved life’s deepest puzzles. They write books, command pulpits, build movements and offer guidance with the calm authority that weary listeners find irresistible. We buy their certainty because uncertainty is exhausting. We lean towards voices that promise clarity because doubt demands too much emotional labour.

Interestingly, time has a way of peeling back the layers and revealing the fowl’s underbelly and we discover that many who sell answers are still wrestling with the very questions they claim to have resolved. We discover that most humans, like characters in novels, are essentially flawed.

Let’s get into some proof of this age-old paradox. Who else fits the first example than Jean-Jacques Rousseau wrote passionately about virtue, society, and the careful upbringing of children in ‘Emile’, or ‘On Education’? Rousseau imagined ideal citizens shaped by careful moral formation. Yet he admitted that his own five children were placed in a foundling home.

We also have the case of Maria Montessori who built an educational philosophy articulated in works such as ‘The Montessori Method’ and ‘The Absorbent Mind’, placing the dignity and independence of the child at its centre, even though the circumstances of her early life forced her to leave her own son in foster care before he later rejoined her and became her collaborator.

And Russian writer Leo Tolstoy, whose later writings such as ‘The Kingdom of God Is Within You’ preached moral clarity, non-violence and simplicity, lived within a household often strained by deep emotional conflict and disagreement.

These contradictions have survived centuries not because they are unusual, but because they are painfully familiar.

The self-help tradition carries similar stories. Dale Carnegie’s ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People’ remains one of the most widely read guides to interpersonal success ever written, even as myths persist about the private loneliness of its author. In this class is also Benjamin Spock who reshaped modern parenting through ‘Baby and Child Care’, yet his later years were marked by difficult disputes within his family over care and finances.

What about Napoleon Hill who promised the pathway to prosperity in ‘Think and Grow Rich’, though his career was shadowed by controversy over business practices and financial claims?

Loyalists must have been taken aback by Ayn Rand who argued fiercely against collectivism and government welfare in ‘Atlas Shrugged’ and ‘The Virtue of Selfishness’, but later accepted Social Security and Medicare benefits.

Even more striking is the story of Derek Medina, who self-published ‘How I Saved Someone’s Life and Marriage’, only to commit the shocking crime of killing his wife and posting the image online. The contradiction is chilling because it demonstrates that the presence of advice is not evidence of mastery.

What these examples have shown is the distance between promise and practice.

Let me give you the example of a Korean writer celebrated as a “happiness evangelist”, Choi Yun-hee. He authored bestselling books on optimism and joyful living, including titles translated broadly as ‘How to Be Happy’, even while privately battling severe depression that later ended in tragedy. Her life illustrates that speaking hope does not always erase pain.

Really, religion, with its enormous moral authority, provides perhaps the most visible examples of this human tension.

Across the world, spiritual leaders have fallen from heights that once seemed unshakeable. Jim Bakker built his televangelist influence through prosperity-focused broadcasts connected to his PTL ministry before his conviction for fraud. Jimmy Swaggart, whose sermons and publications emphasized holiness and moral discipline, publicly confessed to sexual misconduct. Ted Haggard, once president of the National Association of Evangelicals and author of books such as ‘Primary Purpose’, resigned after revelations that contradicted his teachings.

Ravi Zacharias, known globally for apologetics works including ‘Can Man Live Without God?’ and ‘Jesus Among Other Gods’, was later the subject of credible investigations that revealed patterns of misconduct inconsistent with his public message.

And examples abound in Nigeria, a country where faith is woven deeply into public life. Let’s get into a few of this catalogue of uncomfortable truths.

Not long ago, news filtered in from the United States about a Nigerian pastor, Edward Oluwasanmi, whose name surfaced not in a sermon or revival, but in a courtroom. He had been sentenced for participating in a scheme that fraudulently obtained funds from pandemic relief programmes set up to support distressed businesses during the darkest months of COVID-19. Standing beside him in that grim narrative was Joseph Oloyede, a man who also bears the crown as a traditional ruler in Ipetumodu, Osun State. Court records showed that false loan applications were submitted and substantial sums were secured under pretences that could not withstand scrutiny. The symbolism was difficult to ignore. Two figures invested with moral authority found themselves answering for conduct that betrayed the trust their offices implied.

Closer home, another story unfolded in Lagos, where a cleric, Cletus Ilongwo, moved from the pulpit to the dock. An Ikeja Special Offences Court convicted him for obtaining about ₦59.7 million from a church member under false pretences, a case that laid bare how easily faith and vulnerability can intersect in ways that leave one party deeply wounded. The court heard how promises were made, expectations were raised, and money changed hands in the belief that spiritual guidance would translate into tangible relief, only for the assurances to collapse under investigation.

These stories land heavily because they wound trust. Religion in Nigeria is not merely a private belief. It is a social structure, an economic network, a psychological refuge. When those who occupy sacred spaces are found wanting, the damage travels beyond individual victims. Entire communities are forced to question the foundations of their faith in leadership.

It is tempting, when confronted with such patterns, to surrender to cynicism. One could decide that every preacher is a performer and every motivational voice a potential fraud. But cynicism, while emotionally satisfying, is rarely accurate.

Human beings are more complicated than simple categories allow.

There are religious leaders whose lives reflect genuine discipline and integrity. There are teachers whose private conduct aligns closely with their public message. They rarely dominate headlines because consistency is not dramatic. Quiet faithfulness does not trend.

The recurring contradiction between message and messenger is therefore less an indictment of teaching itself and more a reflection of human nature.

Expertise in explanation does not guarantee mastery in practice. A person may understand the mechanics of healthy relationships and still fail within their own marriage. A preacher may articulate moral principles clearly while struggling to live them daily. Knowledge can exist without full transformation.

In many cases, the urgency with which people teach is born from unresolved struggle. The man writing about saving relationships may be attempting to rescue his own. The motivational speaker promising discipline may be fighting private chaos. The preacher warning against temptation may be engaged in a personal battle with the very impulses he condemns.

Advice, in such moments, becomes less a declaration of victory and more a map drawn in the middle of the journey.

The danger begins when audiences mistake confidence for completion.

We live in an age that rewards certainty. Publishing industries amplify it. Congregations finance it. Social media multiplies it. A hesitant voice rarely goes viral. A nuanced message struggles to fill auditoriums. So we elevate those who speak as if doubt has already been conquered.

By the time contradictions surface, followers have already invested trust, money and emotional allegiance. The resulting disappointment is therefore not merely intellectual. It is deeply personal.

Nigeria’s religious environment illustrates this dynamic vividly. Churches and mosques often serve as centres of welfare, counseling, and community identity. When leaders within such systems fall, members must renegotiate not only their trust in individuals, but also their confidence in the institutions that shaped their daily lives.

Yet the existence of hypocrisy does not automatically invalidate every idea a flawed individual has ever expressed.

I must point out that Montessori’s educational insights remain influential; Tolstoy’s moral reflections continue to shape readers; and Carnegie’s guidance on human relations still helps professionals navigate difficult workplaces. What I am saying is that even controversial figures have, at times, articulated truths that stand independently of their personal failures.

Perhaps the deeper lesson is not that we should abandon teachers, but that we should abandon the illusion of perfection. We should listen with openness, but also with discernment. We should appreciate wisdom without surrendering judgment.

An idea does not become useless because its author is flawed. At the same time, charisma must never replace accountability. Influence should always invite scrutiny.

The older I grow, the more convinced I become that many who speak loudly about certainty are still negotiating their own uncertainties. The book, the sermon, the lecture may be less a final answer than a working draft offered in public.

This realisation does not diminish the value of what they teach. It simply restores proportion. It reminds us that knowledge is rarely pure and that growth is usually incomplete.

The preacher on the stage and the listener in the pew are often separated only by visibility. Perhaps the most honest posture, then, is humility on both sides. Those who teach should admit they are fellow travellers rather than final authorities. Those who listen should resist the urge to convert guidance into worship.

The distance between what we teach and how we live can be wide, but it is not fixed. It is a space that demands constant effort, reflection and correction.

People who sell answers are often still bleeding from the questions. And recognising this fact does not weaken the value of their words, but it simply reminds us that the work of aligning belief with behaviour is never finished, for them or for us.

My final take: We all live, in some measure, within contradiction. The difference between the famous and the ordinary is only the size of the spotlight. The rest of us preach patience and lose our tempers in traffic. We advise moderation and indulge excess in private. We encourage honesty while occasionally bending truth to convenience.