There’s a strange form of moral theater that plays out in every town.
A newspaper runs a glowing profile about “a local hero” — someone who delivers food to the needy, volunteers at a shelter, or coordinates community drives. They’re described in angelic tones, halo practically Photoshopped in.
But here’s the quiet absurdity: they’re often paid employees of nonprofits, community coordinators, or people whose “volunteerism” is backed by stipends, donations, and tax-funded grants. Meanwhile, the guy cleaning the parking lot at Walmart or the woman hauling garbage in the midday sun — they vanish into anonymity, their labor deemed ordinary and unworthy of spiritual spotlight.
We live in a culture that confuses visibility with virtue.
When goodness is seen, it’s celebrated; when it’s lived quietly, it’s ignored. The moral hierarchy becomes less about who contributes and more about who appears to contribute in a photogenic way. It’s the same social mirage that makes “influencers” seem enlightened for saying “be kind,” while the night-shift nurse gets no headline at all.
The truth is, the parking lot cleaner and the vaunted volunteer are both performing acts of service — one just happens to have a better PR department. Yet we insist on giving the illusion of sainthood to those who operate under the soft light of media praise, as though a televised virtue carries more moral weight than the unseen grind of honest work.
Epicurus might say tranquility isn’t found in applause, but in a quiet life lived without pretense. The man who minds his business, earns his keep, and treats others decently is no less virtuous than the “pillar of the community” with a photographer in tow. The difference is that one seeks peace; the other, perhaps unconsciously, seeks immortality in the public eye.
And so the pedestal spins. We keep mistaking performance for goodness, spectacle for substance.
Meanwhile, the parking lot gets cleaned.
