Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Welcome back to Unholy Orders, the podcast where spiritual grifters meet a healthy dose of journalistic skepticism—and where the phrase “blessed and highly favored” is usually followed by an eye roll.
I’m your host, Julian Reed, and yes—before anyone asks—I’m alive. I haven’t been abducted by a cult or lost in a sensory deprivation tank. I’ve just been… marinating. In research. And rage. Mostly rage.
Today’s episode is one I never thought I’d record. Because for the first time in the illustrious history of this podcast, I’ve met a fraud I can’t stop thinking about. And no, I don’t mean that in a cute way. I mean it in “keeps me up at night like a bad tattoo and an untreated ulcer” kind of way.
Let’s talk about Jude Brooks.
Pause. Breathes into mic.
This man—this barefoot, beatific little demigod of Riverbend, Virginia—has managed to con an entire town into believing he can heal them.
Heal. Them. Like with touches and rituals and sacred crystals from Etsy.
And people believe it. They walk into his so-called healing center with ailments and come out with testimonials.
Glowing ones. Like they just got Botox and a spiritual enema.
But here’s the thing. I’ve made a career—hell, a life—out of peeling back the curtain on so-called messiahs.
I’ve stared down snake-handlers and prosperity gospel televangelists with yachts named Divine Favor.
But this? Jude Brooks is different. He’s not loud.
He’s not flashy. He doesn’t even ask for money.
And that makes him ten times more dangerous.
Because people trust him.
Because people want to trust him.
And maybe—maybe—because he looks like a lost Hemsworth cousin who took a vow of celibacy and does yoga at sunrise.
Pause. Clears throat.
Okay. Yeah. We’re gonna talk about that.
Let’s get this out of the way. Jude Brooks is hot. Like, objectively. Disgustingly. That kind of hot where even your mom would pause mid-rosary and go, “Well, the Lord did make him in His image.”
But don’t let the cheekbones fool you. That’s not a halo—it’s camouflage.
People love a beautiful lie. Wrap nonsense in a six-foot frame with soulful eyes and a white linen shirt and suddenly no one cares about facts.
Jude could wave a bundle of sage over your head, whisper something about energetic alignment, and next thing you know, you’re paying fifty bucks for a chakra cleansing and calling it a medical expense.
And it pisses me off.
Not because he’s attractive. Not because he turned me down—[muttered] we’ll unpack that in another episode, maybe never—but because he’s good at this.
He knows exactly how to walk the line between mystic and messiah, between humble and holy.
He plays the long game. Says the right things.
Smiles like forgiveness incarnate. And behind it all? I see the con.
The soft-spoken ones are always the worst.
So here’s the plan.
I’m going back. Back to Riverbend. Back to the incense-soaked air and moonstone madness.
And this time, I’m not just looking—I’m watching.
I’m asking the right questions. Recording the right answers. And when I find the cracks in the halo, I’m going to pry them open until the whole illusion shatters.
Because Jude Brooks isn’t a savior.
He’s a performance artist.
And I’m going to prove it.
Beat. Voice lowers, more intense.
This time, nothing’s going to stop me.