Religion's touchy and trending in the States. Even presidents don't want to brush up against it. Toss a brick, five out of ten folks you hit go to church. Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans, Reformed, Anglicans, Congregationalists, you name it, and that's before you get to the cults that aren't legit and do real harm.
If South Korea's a hotbed for cults, America's the spring. A certain A-list Hollywood star used to be a big shot in Scientology, a group a bunch of countries straight up banned.
Point is, even glittery Hollywood has religious shadows. Fox's producer Lukinsky and the crew never thought Season 7 would crash into the public eye like this.
The Twitter teaser dropped. Day one, controversy. Day two, a firestorm. Day three, forget ripples, it felt like someone set off a torpedo under the bay. Boom.
A few heavyweight clergy jumped in.
In New York, Pastor Ned, famous for hearing last confessions, told a TV crew, "If time turned back, half of us would choose to be great. People sin without noticing, then suffer to correct themselves. We stay trapped in that pain. I hope they realize their mistake soon."
"Them" meant the network and the singer they were hyping. He didn't mince words. Pastor Ned's specialty's pointing out guilt.
Down in Florida, Pastor Tris from the Panama City Service Center, a two-million-followers kind of influencer, posted twice.
"A fallen angel's to be despised. Paradise Lost's just Milton, seventeenth century. The name Azazel stitches Jewish legend to an English poem. It shows the singer doesn't get faith and only wants clout. God loves all, I hope he turns back."
He's not wrong about scripture. Neither Testament names Azazel as some onstage character. Calling the promo stitched together tracks.
Side note, Chinese internet calling Lucifer "chief of fallen angels" comes from a bad translation too.
Pastors lined up to talk. Most were critical. The news spread so far even folks who don't watch entertainment heard about it. Toss in a few quotes and you've got attention. Pastors like attention too.
Not everyone swung the same way. Some backed Chu Zhi, and their tone was smooth as honey.
"Everyone has the right to believe in God. Faith's the treasure of our souls. Real faith has room for questions. I'd love to meet the so-called fallen angel. If he wants to join our church, I'll be his godfather. The Lord receives anyone." That came from Chicago's Evangelical Pastor Bronson.
Everyone knows the Evangelical game. The more "blessed" the pastor looks, the more believers follow, the more money rolls in. It's a machine.
So Evangelical pastors gotta flex. Pastor Bronson's elite at it. He bought a private jet six months ago.
You could hear his calculator clicking worldwide. The Masked Singer's contestant obviously has reach. Use God's name, risk nothing, grab the benefit. Sweet deal.
Even the Christian Science Monitor weighed in, one of the big five papers. They don't write religion columns often, they parse geopolitics. When they do touch faith, it carries weight. Headline: "Religion shouldn't be a variety show garnish." The article scolded the media's hype train.
Fox's Masked Singer pushed celebrity scandals off page one. That's saying something. Then again, Hollywood scandals get buried all the time. If they can sandbag domestic abuse, it tells you feminist firepower can't beat religion's clout in America.
The scale surprised even Lukinsky. The show's a Fox hit, sure, but it's never been watercooler for the whole country.
"If Jesus Loves Me had even a nick, I'd be scared, scared of marches and boycotts," he grinned at night, the grin of a victor, "but…"
"He's flawless."
Lukinsky could feel it. Guard Chu Zhi well, and Season 7's buzz and ratings can jump past Season 1.
"If they find out he's Chinese, will those old-money boys hop mad?" He clicked his tongue. "His English's too good. Straight London accent.
I wanted to bring him into the Hudson River Club. Shame he's too proud. That Chinese pride." He sent a dinner invite, Chu Zhi declined for scheduling, and he read it as pride.
You can't please everyone. If you've got the goods, though, friends line up around the block. With Cameron and Na Mokan vouching, Chu Zhi's path in Hollywood scoring's gonna stay smooth.
He just doesn't have the bandwidth this year. The Chinese album and the 8th-anniversary tour still weigh on his shoulders.
He flew home, took a few days off with Aiguo's execs' blessing, then slipped from Shanghai back to Mountain City.
"It's been so long since I had time off I don't even know what to do." Even on break, he still went lights out at two and up at six-thirty. The dead-pig miracle drug makes deep sleep brutal in the best way.
He washed up, threw together a quick breakfast, cleared mail while chewing.
"February song royalties, totals."
"Candidates for our Spanish-language regional head."
"Orange Festival, theme design, third draft."
"China Musicians' Association, Annual Musician Awards, guest presenter invite."
A dozen more. Spam not included.
He replied to what needed replies, changed clothes, then paused. Right, he's on vacation.
Maybe write the French Herbert Poetry Collection? If the Haizi book Tour doesn't hit, he'll have to mount Mr. Cogito.
He'd just lifted a pen when Sister Big Boss's voice popped up in his head. "Brother Jiu, when I say rest, I mean rest. Not like New Year, when you 'rest' by switching locations."
Last New Year's Eve, a few friends video-chatted. Wang Yuan sniffed it out instantly. Brother Jiu "rests" by working elsewhere.
He thought a second and headed to the gym. The Mountain City condo he just bought has a free one. He's got three places now, two in Shanghai, one here.
Why the sudden workout itch? The system bro said he's frail and needs exercise.
Bro wouldn't harm him. He swaggered into the gym and said, full of faith, "Let's do four hours. Slow and steady."
[Host, don't overtrain. You'll break down muscle.]
Half an hour later, his face was calm, but inside he was screaming, "Tired tired tired."
He went out for a walk and a bite. He'd bookmarked a cave hotpot clip. Mountain City's got history with bomb shelters. Peaceful now, some turned touristy, some abandoned, some converted into hotpot joints, barely renovated, original grit intact.
Even at noon it's busy. Plastic stools out front, crowds waiting. He took a number. Thirty-six tables ahead. ETA, ninety minutes.
Cap low, he sat in line like a good melon-eater.
"Should I waste time on this?" he wondered. What if it's bad after all that waiting?
He stuck it out. It moved faster than quoted. Seventy-plus minutes and he was in. He's done a solo movie, solo birthday, now a solo hotpot.
Honestly, it felt great.
It cost 158. It tasted bad.
The worst outcome hit. Time gone, money gone, food sucked. He felt like a big old sucker.
Turned out, most people weren't there to eat. They came to take pictures. Good photos lift moods.
He got the logic. Spiritual joy can paper over flavor. His problem, he didn't get the joy part this round.
"Air-raid-shelter hotpot. Whatever, my original self's from Fog City. Consider it a paid experience," he consoled himself.
Two days of salted-fish rest later, he dove back in. He likes being busy.
Saturday, March 8, 7 p.m., primetime. CBS has Survivor, ABC has Dancing with the Stars, NBC has SNL, Bravo's got Project Runway. A royal rumble.
Usually Survivor and SNL split the crown.
Not tonight. Curiosity's universal, and the Masked Singer controversy pulled eyes like a magnet.
"Switch to damned Fox already."
"Why don't you get it? Don't watch Survivor tonight. I wanna see what 'the best performance in show history' even looks like."
"I bet they botch it, but I'm still excited."
"Tonight, we listen."
Even Pastor Bronson tuned in first. He stretched out on his ten-square-meter bed, sipped a '95 Pengoce, fired up the projector.
Not a typo. He'd custom ordered a ten-square-meter Hästens. Rich-people problems. When he gets up to pee at night, he rolls like a stranded whale to reach the edge.
After a few ads, the show rolled. Host Nick machine-gunned the intro, focused on the stage upgrade.
"The director made me say this. If I don't, my job's on the line," Nick deadpanned. "So our boss spent a fortune on sound and lights for you here and you at home. Enjoy the brain bomb and the show."
Bronson didn't like the cute routine. Everyone knows Nick Sork's also a producer, Sork Sisters Entertainment chair. Quit the "I'm just staff" act.
Round one, Himalaya vs Magician. Even an outsider like Bronson felt the gap. The mountain guy won.
The panel started guessing. Bronson's watched a few seasons. The four are there to keep the room warm. They almost never guess right. He'd trust his own ears.
"This Himalaya's voice feels familiar…" He frowned, then nodded. "He's definitely not old."
Round two, Red Lion vs Azazel.
Red Lion brought heat. Rock had Bronson nearly sloshing his wine.
Calm down, he told himself. '95 Pengoce ain't cheap.
He felt the same as before. They're good. And they stop at good.
"Now, here's the lightning rod, the so-called fallen angel. Even if he's better than both contestants tonight…"
"Think beef. Choice vs prime. It's still beef. It's not suddenly caviar." Why steak metaphors? He was hungry.
In his world, steak sits below caviar forever. He's an adult though. He can have both. Steak for dinner, plus 50 grams of caviar on top.
"Oh, and don't forget wasabi. Gotta celebrate my bigger house coming soon." Steak, caviar, wasabi. Bronson's palate could duel Little Bamboo from the Dark Cuisine Alliance.
He'd written his script already. Azazel's hype would outpace his talent, and Fox would be to blame. Then he'd descend like a savior and, in the Lord's name, forgive Azazel. That push would bump him up a tier. Sharp pastors get courted hard every election year, because candidates want believers' votes.
He's almost there.
The stage was set. Enter the actor.
🎵 Yes, Jesus loves me, for the Bible tells me so. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so… 🎵
Kneel from the first note.
That's what it means. Bronson literally sank to his knees on his mega-bed. He treats the collar like a money machine, sure, but deep down he still fears the Lord.
Azazel's voice felt like the Son teaching him face to face. A sign.
Cardinals from the Vatican wouldn't come on a TV show… right? Besides, this voice was young, almost unbearably pure.
The four minutes didn't just open strong. The A and B sections, then the cadenza, every note and syllable tapped at shut doors inside.
Then came the soft "oh," and a heavy clang. Locks flew back, the gate swung wide, and his heart stood bare.
Pins and needles spread up Bronson's neck. Only the best children's choirs he'd ever heard could touch this.
When it ended, he cried like a lot of folks there, tears streaming. Before this, he'd sworn the teaser's crying shots were paid extras.
"Where did Fox find this gentleman?"
By "find," he meant he didn't believe Azazel had a famous name. With a voice like this, if he'd been famous already, Bronson would know it.
He had to be a righteous believer hidden among the 334 million Americans. Round up to 340. There's always someone out there.
===
Paradise Lost, by John Milton.