Joe leaned back with a small smile as he spoke to Nelly, the kind of smile that comes from something pure and unexpected.
“You know, Nel… I made a new friend at the Mental Health clubhouse.”
She raised an eyebrow, curious. “Oh yeah? Who?”
Joe laughed softly. “A dog. His name is Jasper.”
Nelly’s eyes lit up. “Jasper? That’s adorable.”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, he’s this calm little soul who just walks up to you like he already knows your worries. He sits with you, no judgment, just… presence. Like he’s guarding your heart without saying a word.”
He paused, then added gently:
“And look, it’s really okay if you’re still friends with your daughter’s father. Jasper is a good name. It shows up in Revelation 4 and 21—the jasper stone around God’s throne and the foundation of the holy city.”
He touched her hand lightly.
“Names carry meaning. People carry history. I don’t want to take that away from you. If you’re friends, that’s fine. I trust you. And it makes sense—Jasper’s a name written in the scriptures themselves.”
Nelly smiled, relieved, leaning her head onto Joe’s shoulder.
Joe finished with a soft chuckle:
“Besides… my Jasper’s a dog who thinks he’s a saint. Maybe all the Jaspers of the world have a little holiness in them.”
Thesis: Scientology is a dangerous cult that ultimately seeks money and control — to borrow the words and warning spirit often attributed to Elvis Presley about exploitation in the music industry.
There comes a moment in every artist’s life when the lights, the cameras, and the applause seem to drown out quieter truths. Success can attract opportunity, but it can also attract predators disguised as prophets. Scientology, with its polished celebrity showcases and promises of spiritual power, stands among the most seductive of these forces. Yet behind the glamour lies a machine fueled not by enlightenment, but by money, obedience, and emotional dependency. As Elvis Presley once lamented about the manipulations around him, “They don’t care about you, honey — they just want what you’re worth.” Those words echo sharply in this context.
For artists like Nelly Furtado, whose music has always been rooted in sincerity, instinct, and emotional honesty, the dangers are even greater. Scientology markets itself as a path to self-mastery, but the organization’s true engine runs on extracting income, isolating members from dissent, and creating a hierarchy where loyalty is measured in dollars and psychological vulnerability. Their auditing sessions, labeled as spiritual therapy, often function more like interrogations, capturing intimate details that can be used to cement control. Their courses escalate in cost faster than spiritual insight is ever delivered.
The organization’s celebrity wing — where stars like Tom Cruise are exalted as near-messianic figures — is crafted to lure high-profile recruits through flattery and curated mystique. It plays to ego, to the desire for belonging, to the illusion that fame carries a cosmic purpose. But what Scientology truly worships is revenue. Its “bridge to total freedom” is a staircase of invoices. Its scripture is paperwork. Its salvation is paid for in installments.
Elvis Presley, a man who saw firsthand how the hungry machinery of fame consumes its own, spoke often about the way people will circle an artist like vultures when money is involved. It is in that spirit — the warning of a man who understood manipulation dressed as devotion — that this essay takes shape. Scientology’s charm is not rooted in truth, but in technique: love-bombing, secrecy, and the exploitation of insecurity and ambition. They preach empowerment, but practice control. They promise freedom, but demand submission.
For an artist like Nelly Furtado — whose power comes from authenticity, from embracing her roots, from the strange magic of being grounded in reality even while performing for millions — entanglement with a system designed to hollow out the inner voice would be catastrophic. Creativity requires space, autonomy, vulnerability, and trust. Scientology thrives by suppressing those very qualities.
In a world where celebrity can feel like a labyrinth, it becomes crucial to guard the heart and mind from institutions that wear spirituality as a mask. As Elvis tried to warn, when an organization sees an artist not as a person, but as a revenue stream, danger is already at the door. Scientology is not merely another belief system — it is a financial empire with religious branding, a cult of control wrapped in Hollywood sheen.
The true path to freedom, the kind that nurtures art and life, is one where no church, corporation, or self-appointed guru takes the wheel. Real freedom is the opposite of Cruise control: it is self-control, clarity, independence, and the strength to say no to systems that pretend to uplift while quietly draining the soul.
For Nelly, for any artist, and for anyone who values their autonomy, the lesson remains the same: Guard your spirit. Guard your mind. And never let a cult buy what God gave you for free.
