What unfolded was not a tribute. It was not a solemn moment of reflection, nor a sincere attempt to honor the complexity of a young man’s life or the weight of his death. It was something else entirely—something colder, more calculated. This was not mourning. It was mobilization.
Mobilization to fascism, to Christian Nationalism. A call to mobilize a thought, an idea or a new leader to that point that pushes us into the darkest passages of our existence.
Under the guise of reverence, beneath the veneer of scripture and solemn hymns, a different story played out. One of mass conditioning. Of spectacle. It was not a memorial, but a performance—a 10-hour stadium revival draped in flags and flanked by fire. Less about the person lost, more about the cause gained. Less about grief, more about galvanization.
They didn’t gather to remember. They gathered to rally.
In this theater of patriotism, faith was twisted, contorted until it resembled not solace, but strategy. Sanctity became spectacle. The language of resurrection and sacrifice was co-opted—not to comfort, but to consecrate. To brand death as destiny. To reframe tragedy as triumph. It wasn’t about saying goodbye; it was about saying onward.
The narrative was clear: this wasn’t a loss—it was a “turning point,” a “divine appointment.” They rebranded a young man’s death as a holy mission fulfilled, a necessary offering on the altar of nation and God. The crowd didn’t weep; they cheered. They waved flags and sang anthems. The line between soldier and savior blurred beneath floodlights and smoke.
And yes—there were pyrotechnics.
This is the machine in motion. Polished. Practiced. Precise. It feeds on pageantry. With Miss Arizona at the helm, reaching back to her film days and channeling Serena Waterford, commanding the audience with ice-cold awareness: you will obey. I have power now.
The emotions in the crowd are on high alert and this pageantry thrives on fervor. It takes pain and repackages it into purpose, grief into propaganda. In that stadium, under the roaring applause and the thundering soundtrack of manufactured meaning, death was not mourned. It was marketed.
Don’t mistake this for a memorial. This was a crusade.
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