Whenever I tell friends at E! I’ve been dedicating much of my free time lately trying to finding out, once and for all, what spiritual beliefs I am willing to embrace, and what God I actually might be willing to praise, many inevitably ask me if I have checked out the one religion that is most synonymous with Hollywood: The Church of Scientology.
So far, my answer has been along the lines of “Are you out of your mind?!”
The reason is simple: Strictly from an outside view, Scientology scares the hell out of me. I know it is practiced by thousands (or, if you believe the Church, several millions) of people, and that the religion has a long history of using Hollywood celebrity practitioners to promote itself as a path to unlocking one’s human potential and attain “wisdom, good health and immortality.” The Church even has its storied “Celebrity Centre” for high-profile stars opened by its late founder L. Ron Hubbard, a 1950s-era science-fiction writer who created the religion, which has been loyally followed by Tom Cruise, John Travolta, Will Smith, Priscilla Presley, Kirstie Alley, Beck, Jenna Elfman, Erika Christensen (who has called Cruise her spiritual mentor), and many other celebrities, including former Fox News anchor Greta Van Susteren, whom I sat next to at Kim Kardashian’s wedding to NBA player Kris Humphries (but the topic of Scientology never came up).
Although the religion’s celebrity fascination is a peculiar feature of Scientology, it is not the thing that scares me about it. The problem I have is that Scientology—which has been criticized for not being a religion but rather a self-help profit center allegedly using its “church” status to dodge taxes—has been embroiled in a PR war with numerous defectors attacking the Church for what they depict as its cultlike culture and oppressive policies.
The Church’s image took a serious blow with the 2015 release of the Emmy-winning documentary, Going Clear, which examined the shadowy world of celebrity members and gave voice to former rank-and-filers who claimed various incidents of abuse and exploitation. The Church repeatedly tried—and failed—to have the movie blocked from release. The acclaimed documentary was based on the comprehensive book of the same title by Pulitzer Prize–winning author Lawrence Wright. The book, published in 2013, delves into the history, present, and future of Scientology with great depth. Many of its revelations are disturbing—with allegations of forgeries, falsifying history, and covering up cultish human-rights abuses—but it also provides a glimpse inside the enigmatic bureaucracy, though the book depicts it as being more of a bureaucrazy!
Although Wright pulls no punches in his exposé, he also offered this even-handed review of Scientology in the context of other world religions:
Of course, no religion can prove that it is “true.” There are myths and miracles at the core of every great belief system that, if held up to the harsh light of a scholar or an investigative reporter, could easily be passed off as lies. Did Mohammed really ride into Heaven on the back of his legendary transport, the steed Buraq? Did Jesus’ disciples actually encounter their crucified leader after his burial? Were these miracles or visions or lies?
Wright, however, likens many of the Church of Scientology’s practices to cult movements such as the Branch Davidians and Peoples Temple, as well as the Amish culture, while also comparing its charismatic leader to religious prophets such as Mormonism’s founder Joseph Smith, one of the few modern spiritual leaders whose ideas have endured. In the end, Wright concludes that Scientology, despite its name, has no true basis in science and is an amalgamation of various New Age philosophies and semiscientific theories.
The sections of Going Clear focused on the Church’s relationship with celebrities, especially Tom Cruise, are fascinating, especially for someone like me who has covered Hollywood celebrity since the mid-1990s. While an entire book could be written just on celebrity Scientologists, Wright concludes in one chapter that the Church “orients itself toward celebrity, and by doing so, the church awards famousness a value…[and] the church has pursued a marketing strategy that relies heavily on endorsements by celebrities, who actively promote the religion.”
The downside of harnessing the power and platform of celebrities comes when a celebrity turns on you. An outspoken celebrity critic is actress and former Scientologist Leah Remini, who published a book titled Troublemaker: Surviving Hollywood and Scientology. Among her many critiques, Leah revealed in her memoir that in over thirty years as a member she spent upward of $5 million on the Church—on services, training, and donations to its causes—and she said the Church requires members to pay in the range of at least $500,000 to reach the highest levels of Scientology in what allegedly amounts to an elaborate pay-to-play scheme.
How did Scientology respond to Leah’s attacks? They attacked her with an aggressive campaign to discredit her. So viciously, in fact, it only reinforced in many people’s eyes that the Church and its leader, David Miscavige, deserved its shady reputation. As a journalist, the moment I realized the Church was losing its PR war (and why is a church engaging in a PR war when it could be focused on helping people?) came when it released this statement to the world media, including to me at E! News:
Leah Remini has become what she once declared she never wanted to be known as: “this bitter ex-Scientologist.” As USA Today wrote, Ms. Remini is “as famous for being an ex-Scientologist as she is as an actress.” She needs to move on with her life instead of pathetically exploiting her former religion, her former friends and other celebrities for money and attention to appear relevant again…
Scientology is the only major religion to be founded in the 20th century and emerge as a major religion in the 21st century. The Church has grown more in the past decade than in its first 50 years combined under the ecclesiastical leadership of Mr. Miscavige, a visionary parishioners and Church staff hold in the highest regard for carrying out the legacy of the Scientology Founder through the renaissance the religion is now experiencing. Mr. Miscavige works tirelessly for the parishioners and their benefit and to aid millions through support and participation in global humanitarian initiatives and social betterment programs. The real story of the Church of Scientology, what it does, its beliefs and practices, is available at www.scientology.org.
My professional reaction to the Church’s statement: Now, this is a seriously juicy Hollywood feud! As a journalist, I didn’t have an agenda one way or the other—and going into my current inquiry I still don’t. If people want to bash or embrace a religion, so be it. But it becomes a story when that religion unleashes their fury back on them.
Yet, admittedly, I did have a very personal reaction to the Church’s statement: It made me feel yucky.
Its heavy-handedness and meanness only confirmed why I previously had no interest in even exploring a religion that did things like issuing statements defaming its defectors and critics in such a harsh way that they make Donald Trump look like Gandhi. Seriously. The Vatican has its own share of faults and transgressions (as does most every major world religion), but would the Roman Catholic Church issue a statement about a former member, branding them a “spoiled entitled diva” filled with “bitterness and anger”? Or would the Dalai Lama put a disgruntled Tibetan monk on public blast with a press release?
But then I had to check myself. Even though I find the scandal-plagued leader of Bikram Yoga to be a foul human being, I still will enjoy taking Bikram classes because I find its series of postures performed in hundred-degree heat to be healing. As such, maybe Scientology, the practice, has merit even though the leaders appear to be just as vengeful and bitter as Leah has been. Scientology, from what I have read, promotes itself as offering a scientific approach to spiritual enlightenment. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with that stated purpose.
The more I think about it, I realize that, in the open-minded spirit of my search for meaning amid my Hollywood madness, I am not giving Scientology a fair, journalistic review. After all, as part of my spiritual quest, I have vowed to approach every spiritual practice I am drawn to with equal impartiality. I had some negative experiences with Christianity earlier in life, but that didn’t stop me from returning to it with a fresh, fair look. And if I am going to bring any bias to Scientology, I should hold that from a personal experience, not from what I read in a statement or see on TV or the web.
There’s no denying that the Church of Scientology’s public relations track record has not been stellar and its Hollywood-centric dogma isn’t exactly biblical. But to disregard it outright would be akin to banishing Catholicism because some of its leaders allowed sexual predators to prey on children for centuries.
Sure, intellectually I have trouble taking seriously a self-help-centered religion with principles that were based on a novelist’s imagination/inspiration. Yet I also felt as skeptical about Tyler Henry but walked away from my reading kind of/ sort of believing in psychic powers. And, lest we forget, Jesus Christ was derided as a false prophet and was persecuted for it.
Truly, I want to give Scientology a fair shake. In reality, I have only really had one personal encounter with the Church of Scientology. It was back in the mid-2000s when I was running Us Weekly’s West Coast editorial office and appearing part-time on TV and radio as an expert giving commentary on all things Hollywood. One day, I was paid a visit by a Church official who had come with a briefcase containing transcripts from my appearances on CNN and other shows in which I mentioned Tom Cruise, John Travolta, and Scientology. The official wanted to tell me that I had mischaracterized the Church in a few of my quotes and sound bites and he just wanted to “educate” me. He was a nice enough guy and didn’t creep me out. He just seemed genuinely to want to set the record straight that in his view the Church was a legitimate spiritual resource and not a “cult,” which many have suggested.
Mind you, the idea of a church (of any kind) keeping a file on what I have said, and then sending an official over to discuss my public comments about them, is definitely in the range of creepy, but still, I wasn’t particularly freaked out. I would spend big chunks of my time each week fielding phone calls from publicists complaining that the magazine had gotten something wrong. The official didn’t threaten me. He didn’t try to brainwash me. However, he did invite me to the Church headquarters in Hollywood to learn more about the religion. Since at that time in my life I had no interest in joining any religion, let alone Tom Cruise-ology, I politely declined.
But now, some ten years later, I want to experience firsthand what the hullabaloo is all about, probe into the religion that, in Hollywood, has become so divisive yet remains so pervasive.
So I begin my examination where most modern-day inquiries start: the Internet.
The home page of the L.A. Church of Scientology website features a video in which Los Angeles is heralded as “home to the largest Scientology community on Earth.”
But my first question is what is Scientology? I mean, is it really a religion? Or is it just a self-help system? Is it possibly a cult?
The Church’s official website defines itself as such:
Developed by L. Ron Hubbard, Scientology is a religion that offers a precise path leading to a complete and certain understanding of one’s true spiritual nature and one’s relationship to self, family, groups, Mankind, all life forms, the material universe, the spiritual universe and the Supreme Being.
Scientology addresses the spirit—not the body or mind—and believes that Man is far more than a product of his environment, or his genes.
Scientology comprises a body of knowledge which extends from certain fundamental truths. Prime among these are:
Man is an immortal spiritual being.
His experience extends well beyond a single lifetime.
His capabilities are unlimited, even if not presently realized.
Scientology further holds Man to be basically good, and that his spiritual salvation depends upon himself, his fellows and his attainment of brotherhood with the universe.
Scientology is not a dogmatic religion in which one is asked to accept anything on faith alone. On the contrary, one discovers for oneself that the principles of Scientology are true by applying its principles and observing or experiencing the results.
The ultimate goal of Scientology is true spiritual enlightenment and freedom for all.
There is no mention of members paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to make it into higher levels like a pyramid scheme, no reference to signing contracts dedicating your life to the Church, nothing about aliens coming to Earth, nothing about how Tom Cruise is the next Messiah. It also doesn’t mention some of the more, uh, interesting beliefs of the religion, namely that Scientologists believe that after death our thetan (soul) leaves our body, journeys to a landing station on Venus, and then is sent back to Earth, landing in the Pacific Ocean near California.
Yet judging solely by its own definition, especially the stuff about being able to follow any other faith tradition, it actually seems to be an appealing option to explore, since I am struggling with the whole notion of exclusively devoting my faith to any single tradition or dogma. Scientology, from its own website at least, appears to be an organization that is far more inclusive than Christianity.
Further clicking through the Scientology website leads me to a page listing several introductory classes one can take if they are interested in Scientology, offering classes both online and in-classroom to help you in all areas of life, such as “Relationships with Others,” “Difficulties on the Job,” “Communication,” and “Stress, Anxiety and Depression.” This last area piques my interest, seeing as though I have suffered with all three to some degree, though daily ten-minute meditations, led by my Buddhist guru on the Headspace mobile app, has calmed my brain a bit over the last month. Even so, I crave peace and calm and healing. I’m not exactly in a position to pretend I am A-OK, that I couldn’t use some help. Because I do. Badly.
I sign up for a class titled “Overcoming Ups & Downs in Life,” which is described as: “If someone has been doing well and suddenly worsens, it happens for a specific reason. Here are the remarkable Scientology breakthroughs that resolve it for good. With this course, you can change your life forever.”
While a little over-the-top in the promise department, the class seems like it’s worth a try to see what it might deliver. After all, my emotions do tend to swing, my anxiety does come and go, leaving my stomach often aching and me riding a psychological roller coaster. Plus, the class is free. What do I have to lose? It’s not like they can brainwash me in two hours. So I sign up for the five p.m. class that meets next week.
I have an actress friend who had once belonged to Scientology, but we have never really discussed her experience in great detail. I never wanted to pry. But now that I am about to enter the Sunset Boulevard compound on my own, I want to ask her about her experience with the Church. I call her up and explain that I will be taking a class.
“Be careful, Ken,” she warns.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because there are some cultlike qualities to it,” she says. “Not everyone there is bad, and I got a lot out of some of the classes, especially the communications courses. I did some auditing sessions that helped me clear some things in my mind.”
“I’ve read about the auditing,” I say. “They use that E-meter thing, right?”
“Yeah,” she says. “They have you hold on to these metal rods, they call them cans, that are connected to a sensor that supposedly can detect your energy levels. A lot of people think it’s kind of bullshit, but I found the process helpful because it’s kind of like therapy in a way. What happens is the auditor asks you a series of questions, usually just general questions about whether you are upset about something, or if you are ashamed of something you’ve kept secret, that sort of thing. They will ask the same question over and over, and the whole idea is that you eventually release negative energy and can become ‘clear.’ ”
“So it’s like therapy,” I say.
“Basically,” she says. “But after all my experience there, and I did it for a few years off and on, I realized it was cultish.”
“Like how?” I ask.
“There is something within that infrastructure, Ken. Not everyone is bad there at all. I know some great people, but there is something within that infrastructure that is not good. There are some bad eggs in there, and that scared me.”
“You mean, the higher-ups?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “I spent a lot of time at the Celebrity Centre and all the other actors I met there were great. They just wanted to become better people. The whole idea that we are spiritual beings and we have incredible powers within us that we can access through the Scientology principles is appealing. But it was not my intention to go up through the ranks, yet they push you to do that. They make you feel like you are not healed or whole unless you keep paying for more classes and buying more books. It was like, ‘Oh, you are doing better, but you are only operating at ten percent of your capacity.’ And the more I got into it, the more they would tell me that I had to give up any other faiths. But I am the kind of person where I don’t like to rely too much on anything. I like to rely on myself. I started to feel like it was gonna be a never-ending process and I feared it could drain me financially.”
“Well, that does sound like either a cult or a money-making scam—or both,” I say.
“I am not saying it is all bad,” she says. “But I had to tell them to stop calling me, stop emailing me, and, honestly, once I told them I was done they did leave me alone.”
“Did you sign a contract?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, I did. I never thought much about it. As an actor you are always signing releases and things, and I just thought it was a waiver. I probably should have read it more closely, but it was right at the beginning and they sort of trick you into it. That was definitely something that rubbed me the wrong way. But you should go look into it for yourself. Just be careful.”
My friend’s admonition hasn’t eased my anxiety about trying out Scientology. But it also hasn’t dissuaded me from giving it a go. If anything, I am now more curious to learn firsthand about this much-gossiped-about Hollywood religion.
A week after I signed up for the class on “Overcoming Ups & Downs in Life,” the day comes. All day at work, I am anxious, the knots in my stomach that had been loosening with my meditation ten minutes a day are back. I feel queasy and skip lunch.
I somehow make it through the day to tape the show, with my final segment being a hit from my desk in the E! newsroom of the day’s top stories that I read straight off the Teleprompter:
[KEN ON CAMERA]
COCO’S SEX LIFE HAS TAKEN A VERY, VERY SAD TURN: IT’S NONEXISTENT!
[—VO—]
THE 37-YEAR-OLD NEW MOM TELLS “PEOPLE” SINCE THEIR FOUR-MONTH-OLD DAUGHTER, CHANEL, WAS BORN, THEY HAVE NOT FOUND TIME FOR SEX!
SHE SAYS EVERYTHING IS ABOUT THE CHILD AND NOTHING IS SEXUAL.
[KEN ON CAMERA]
ARIANA GRANDE HAD A BRUSH WITH DEATH!
(—VO—)
THE 22-YEAR-OLD DISHED THE SCARY DETAILS ON ALAN CARR’S CHATTY MAN, EXPLAINING LAST YEAR DURING A CONCERT SHE WAS ALMOST CRUSHED BY A MOVING STAGE!
HER GUITARIST HELPED HER OUT AND SAVED HER!
[KEN ON CAMERA]
AND LADIES, I KNOW YOU’RE DYING TO KNOW…DOES NICK JONAS PREFER BOXERS…OR BRIEFS?
(—VO—)
IN A Q&A ON “REDDIT” THE SINGER PROUDLY SHARED HE WEARS BOXER BRIEFS.
ADDING “THE COMBO PACKAGE” IS THE BEST PACKAGE TO HOLD THE PACKAGE.
THANKS, NICK!
BACK TO YOU GUYS.
Yep, my job today is talking about a reality star’s sex life, a singer’s onstage drama, and a pop star’s private parts. If I am indeed a “spiritual being” as Scientology asserts, it’s evident that I am not exhibiting this on the job every day in front of millions of people. Christians might say I am not “glorifying God,” Hindus and Buddhists might observe that my actions aren’t aligned with the cosmic order of my dharma, and, from what I can surmise, Scientologists might say I am not “presently realizing my unlimited capabilities.”
When I unclip my mike from my tie and head to the bathroom to wipe the caked-on makeup from my face, I am feeling down, wondering how much longer I can dedicate myself to something that feels more and more like a distraction from my spiritual reality than a celebration of it. Perhaps this is the perfect day for me to take a class on managing life’s ups and downs.
I arrive at the Scientology center on Sunset Boulevard a few minutes early and find a parking spot in the otherwise packed lot. The center is in a low-income neighborhood a couple miles east of the polished bustle of tourism near the intersection of Hollywood and Highland, with the building just a few yards from the sidewalk. There are no barbed-wire fences, nothing imposing at all about the grounds. With its classical Greek columns on the facade and expansive lobby window, the blue building looks more like a modern library than a temple.
As I sit in my car munching on Chex Mix so that I don’t pass out in the middle of my class, a security guard starts circling me on a bicycle, conspicuously eyeballing me as if I am a suspicious visitor in my Mercedes SUV.
Rather than cause any more consternation on my or his part, I exit my car and walk toward the front entrance. Its glass doors are propped open and visitors, all normal-looking enough, come and go. I step up to the front desk and tell the lady that I am here to take a class.
“Wonderful!” she says. “Welcome to Scientology.”
The front desk clerk is tall, thin, attractive, and inviting. Not creepy whatsoever. However, she is wearing a white blouse and black slacks like the other uniformed workers I see stationed over in the bookstore across the glass-enclosed lobby, the tile floors of which are so shiny I could eat scrambled eggs off them and not fear illness. The uniforms are well tailored and stylish. The clerk slides a card across the counter and asks me to fill it out, but when I look at it I feel a little thrown.
“Oh, I already gave all my information when I signed up online for the class,” I tell her.
She offers a customer-is-always-right smile. “We just want to make sure we have the correct information.”
Though re-filling out my personal information seems redundant, I complete the short form and supply my name, address, and phone number—that is, my work address and phone number since I didn’t want to give the church my personal ones.
“Great!” she says. “Tommy here will get you started.”*1
A tall, clean-cut guy in his twenties who had been hovering near the desk steps toward me.
“Hello, Ken,” Tommy says, gripping my right hand with a firm, damn-glad-to-meet-ya shake. “I will take you back to the enrollment office.”
“But I already enrolled online,” I say.
“Yeah, we know,” he says. “But we have to have you check in first.”
I feel my face grow warm. My heart is beating faster.
“But I just want to take the class,” I reply. “I don’t want to enroll in any program.”
Tommy explains that it’s just normal procedure. I don’t bother protesting. I’ve come here to take a class and I don’t want to let their byzantine bureaucracy prevent me from doing that.
As Tommy leads me down the main hallway behind the front desk, I tell him I need to use the bathroom.
He detours us to a stairwell up to the second floor.
“Do people call you Kenny?” Tommy asks me randomly.
“My family does,” I reply.
“Is your legal name Kenneth or Ken?”
“It’s Kenneth,” I say.
Tommy laughs. “That’s pretty formal, huh?”
I give a “yep” as I follow him.
“So what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a writer,” I say.
“Oh, cool,” Tommy says. “What kind of stuff do you write? Screenplays?”
“Well, I have dabbled in TV and movie scripts, but I write books—fiction and nonfiction.”
“Well, you sound like L. Ron Hubbard,” Tommy says gleefully. “He did both too.”
As we awkwardly small talk down the hall I scan the walls, which are lined with photographs of members doing things like studying and attending church gatherings, and historical pictures of what appear to be leaders. Every twenty feet or so there are doors.
“Are these the classrooms?” I ask.
“Some of them,” he answers, stopping in front of one door. “Here’s the restroom. I will wait for you out here.” That’s good, because it would be creepy for him to monitor my restroom activity.
I thank him and enter the bathroom. After I pee, my cell phone chirps with a text alert on my way to the sink. I glance at it.
Hi Ken.
It is from a 323 number that I don’t have in my contacts. Strange timing that I would get a text from an unknown number just as I am about to enroll in my Scientology class. But I just chalk it up to someone messing with me, seeing as though I spent all day telling people at work how nervous I was about coming here. A producer told me they might kidnap me. Another correspondent suggested I beware of them “love bombing” me, and another warned they would “brainwash” me. Obviously, despite being the only religion synonymous with Hollywood, the staff of the leading news organization covering Hollywood is highly suspicious of it.
Tommy escorts me back downstairs into the enrollment office. A few women sit at cubicles at their computers in a setup that reminds me of the sales department at a car dealership. Tommy introduces me to one of the ladies, Angela*2, who offers me the customer’s chair next to her desk and types on her computer.
“So you signed up for the Ups and Downs class, correct?” she asks.
“Yes, online. Like, last week.”
“Perfect,” Angela says all perky. “Did you get my text?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“I sent you a message a few minutes ago,” she explains. “You were late so I was making sure you were still coming.”
How did she get my cell phone number? Maybe I gave them my cell on the application.
“Oh,” I reply, trying not to show my freaked-out-ness.
“Tommy will now show you the orientation video,” she explains. “It will give you an overview of Scientology.”
Tommy, who has been lurking behind the desk, points me to the video monitor outside the enrollment office in what’s called the Public Information Center, which is basically a museum-like series of video monitors and printed displays. I take a seat in front of the screen and he presses Play.
The video begins with dramatic orchestral music and beautifully shot scenes of Scientologists at work and play. As images flash on the screen, the narrator begins to explain the Scientology view of the world. He says there are only two types of people in the world—those with a “social personality” and those with an “antisocial personality”—and that crimes and criminal acts are committed by “antisocials.”
Images flash of war and violence and even a nuclear mushroom cloud as the narrator asserts that scientists have reigned over the most violent times in history as we have veered from our true nature. And then, later, I recall seeing the image of a scientist in a lab coat. He is stroking a monkey, but suddenly, the monkey leaps from his clutches and runs away. Conspicuously, there is no mention of Tom Cruise or any other celebrities.
The voice then explains, “The reason why we ride a roller coaster is suppression,” which he says is done to us by “people intent to keep others down.”
The narrator says that “artists are magnets for these kind of people.” The music turns dour as images of sad musicians and actors and painters pop on the screen and he adds, “Dreams are mysteriously shattered.”
According to the narrator, only 20 percent of the population are antisocials but “their havoc can be devastating.”
The voice further explains their dualistic worldview:
• An antisocial has a bad sense of property
• But a social has respect
• A social person is eager to relay good news
• Antisocials do the complete opposite and they will not pass on good news
• The antisocial (or “AS”) will alter communication to make it worse
“It’s easy to spot who these suppressive people are,” he says. “With these tools you can build a better life for yourselves and those around you.”
After the short video ends, and I try to process the weirdness that I just witnessed, I walk back into the enrollment office.
“How did you like the video?” Tommy asks.
“It was interesting,” I say diplomatically, not wanting to offend.
I sit back down at Angela’s desk. As Tommy leans against the wall nearby within earshot, Angela slides some papers across the desk.
“Now, just sign this and you can start your class,” she says.
I glance at the first page. At the top it reads “Religious Services Enrollment Application, Enrollment and Release.” What follows are several paragraphs of dense legalese calling the document a “Contract.” There is a clause stating I will never sue the church or its leaders.
“What is this for?” I ask.
“Just a standard waiver,” she says.
I read further into the document, which goes from defining what Scientology is (a religion) but devolves by the end into very legalistic language about my waiving my right to make claims against the church or its leaders.
“Sorry, I can’t sign this,” I tell Angela, sliding the paperwork back to her.
“Why?” she asks, seeming shocked.
“I just don’t sign any contracts without having a lawyer or someone look at it,” I explain. “I’m in the entertainment industry, and this is pretty much standard, so I’m sure you can understand that.”
“But don’t you want to take the class?” she asks.
I feel Tommy’s eyes focused on me from across the office.
“Yes, but I thought I would come here, take a class, and see what I could get out of it,” I say. “I have been to many churches and spiritual gatherings and no one has ever asked me to sign anything. It just doesn’t seem right.”
Tommy steps in and subtly nods at Angela as they lock eyes. He takes over in their team sales tactic. “It totally makes sense that you might be reluctant to sign something,” he says. “But you gotta understand that there are a lot of people out there who want to destroy Scientology and that we have to protect ourselves.”
“I understand,” I say firmly, feeling sales-force pressure. “But you have to understand that I just don’t sign contracts without consulting a lawyer.”
I take hold of the contract. “Look, I will gladly take this to my lawyer, sign it and bring it back so I can take the class.”
“Sorry, but we don’t allow that,” Angela says.
Now I am not only growing anxious, but I am very annoyed. I feel as if they are treating me like an idiot.
“I just want to take a class,” I say.
“But we can’t let you up into the classroom if you don’t sign this,” she says. “It’s just our policy.”
I shrug and as I am about to get up and leave, Angela looks to Tommy. He asks me to come with him. Reluctantly, I do, following him to a small room at the end of the office. Inside, there are two chairs facing each other. Tommy closes the door and sits beside me.
“Ken, I really want you to take this class. When I first joined, this was my first class. It helped me tremendously. At the time, man, I was doing drugs and in a real bad place, but that class helped me.” Tommy leans forward so close I can smell his breath mint. “And even though I don’t know what you are struggling with, I know that whatever it is, it will help you.”
I cross my legs and nod.
He continues, “Is there anything you are struggling with?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you signed up for this class,” he says, sitting back. “So I assume there is some reason you signed up.”
Now I’m feeling probed, that my intelligence is being insulted, and I am no longer comfortable.
“Look, Tommy, I don’t want to offend you,” I say. “You seem like a real nice guy, and I am so glad that you have overcome your issues with the help of Scientology. But I just came here to take a class. If I have to sign a contract just to take a class, that’s just not gonna happen. I am sure you understand.”
“Oh, completely,” he says.
“So maybe I can buy a couple books, learn more about Scientology, and when I am comfortable, maybe I will come back and sign it,” I reason.
“I know in all my heart,” Tommy adds, hand on chest, “that Scientology will help lead you to a trail to a better life, like it did for me. You will not regret it.”
“I appreciate your caring, but—”
“So let’s do this,” Tommy interrupts, standing up. “We will have you meet with our librarian. So sit tight and I will go get her and she can walk you through.”
“But can’t I just go to the bookstore?” I ask. “I saw it up front when I came in.”
“Of course, but I think it’s best if she is able to show you personally the books.” Yeah, I think, best for you to keep me caged here like a tough-bargaining customer at Toyota of Torrance haggling over whether to buy a Prius.
After Tommy leaves, I close my eyes and take a deep breath in and let it out, just as I have been doing with my daily meditations. I am feeling anxious and my heart rate is high. Several breaths later, I begin to settle down. Still, while I am turned off by their tactics, I am also conflicted about what to do next. Part of me wants to run out while I am still alive and my brain is unwashed, while the other part of me wants to see which wacky pressure-sales tactic they will throw at me next.
As I sit waiting for Tommy to come back with the “librarian,” I scope the walls of the meeting room.
On one hangs a sign reading, THE ONLY RICHNESS THERE IS, IS UNDERSTANDING. THAT IS ALL THAT SCIENTOLOGY HAS TO GIVE. —LRH
And another poster shows a volcano erupting with the slogan, YOUR ADVENTURE HAS ONLY JUST BEGUN…They sure do seem obsessed with cataclysm, war, and “Us vs. Them” disaster messaging.
Tommy returns a few minutes later with another tall, thin white woman clutching a stack of books. She goes through each of them, starting with Dianetics, which she calls “the original” by founder L. Ron Hubbard and is described as “the bestselling book on the human mind.” In a paperback edition for Dianetics, in the praise-quotes section at the beginning is an endorsement from John Travolta: “Dianetics put me into the big time. I always had the ability to be somewhat successful, but Dianetics freed me up to the point where something really big could happen, without interference.”
A dozen or so books later, totaling over $200, she asks me which ones I want. I pick Dianetics and The Way to Happiness by Hubbard, and another one titled Scientology: A New Slant on Life, also written by Hubbard. “I’ll get started with these and go from there,” I tell her.
Angela rings me up and as I am about to pay with my credit card, she goes, “You know, there is an option for you to take classes from home. It is our extension course. And the great thing about it is that you can take the first class upstairs.”
My ears perk. “So I can go upstairs?” I ask.
“Yes, but only for the first class,” she says, totally reversing what she had insisted was a strict policy that I must first sign a contract. “The course is based off the New Slant book.” She slides a gray-and-green laminated workbook over to me. “With this and the book you can take the class.”
I don’t call her out. I have gotten what I wanted. But I do ask, “Haven’t I missed the start time of the class, though?”
“It is self-guided, but there is a teacher there to help you,” she explains.
After I pay for the books and the extension course (totaling $110.67), Tommy shakes my hand and, with a toothy smile, thanks me for coming. A testament to Tommy’s likability and charm is that, even though I felt pressured and insulted by his recruiting tactics, I actually feel kind of bad for turning him down. Damn, he’s good!
Nonetheless, I grab my bag of books and follow Angela up to the second-floor classroom.
A Latina woman greets us inside and Angela hands her my course booklet.
The room looks like any other classroom, with individual desks lined up in a row. There are a half dozen people, including a teenager, sitting and reading and writing with a pen into workbooks. The teenager gets up and walks robotically to a shelf and returns a book, then leaves the room in a militaristic march step. In fact, the only thing about the classroom that suggests I am in a Scientology study center is I see an E-meter on a table at the front of the class.
The teacher opens up the class workbook and, in a gentle voice with a strong accent, explains there are no wrong answers and the only key is to be honest with each question. She says that for future classes I can just fill out the workbooks and mail them in or drop them off here. But for now, I just need to read the introduction of New Slant and a chapter titled “Is It Possible to Be Happy?” and then fill out the questions in the workbook.
“But why can’t I just take the classes online?”
Her answer: “We don’t do it that way.”
My actress friend was right. These people are very nice. But now that I am experiencing their recruitment tactics, I also conclude they are very manipulative.
Though miffed, I sit down and open the book and begin reading Hubbard’s introduction, which concludes with, “What are your goals? Where are you going? Why are you here? What are you? Scientology has answers to these questions, good answers that are true, answers that will work for you. For the subject matter of Scientology is you.”
I flip to the first chapter on happiness and read that “the truth of the matter is that all the happiness you will ever find lies in you.” The chapter is essentially a very engaging essay on how the world can distract us in ways that lead to unhappiness, but that being in touch with our true spirit, our eternal energy, knowing our true self, is the key to finding happiness. It is the most I have ever read of Hubbard’s writings and I am struck by the clarity, simplicity, and confidence of the prose. And I don’t disagree with much of what he has observed about the epidemic of unhappiness in the world, which, in truth, I have fallen into.
But when I read the final line of the chapter, Hubbard loses me when he writes that the thing that makes it possible for man to know himself is: Scientology. What about meditation? What about prayer? What about psychotherapy? What about belief in any of the other faith traditions? As I am finding over and over in my search for God, the claim of being the exclusive path to enlightenment comes across as intellectually dishonest and self-serving.
I turn to the workbook and thumb through the 104 questions I am to answer after reading the entire book. Some are personal (Give an example of a time when you trusted your own observations and had the courage to say so…) and others are typical questions with answers that can be lifted right from the book. But my gut tells me not to write down my answers and turn them over to the church. What if they get angry at me, what if they don’t like what I may say or write about them in the future? Might they use my “case file” against me like they have reportedly done to Leah Remini and other critics? My albeit cursory investigation into Tom Cruise-ology has led me to believe it’s not that I don’t trust the philosophies and self-improvement practices of Scientology, because there definitely seems to be merit in Hubbard’s view of the human mind and ways to heal it on a spiritual level. So why do I close my workbook without answering a single question in it, grab my book bag, and walk out of the room? Because I don’t trust the messengers, the late Hubbard’s neo-minions who are administering his vision. Not from what I have read, or from what I have seen on TV, or have been told by friends. My repulsed feelings come from spending two hours being cajoled, seemingly misled, pressured, and sold on a spiritual practice. Call me crazy, but I don’t want my introduction to a spiritual practice to feel like I have stepped inside a boiler room. Their behavior—tracking me down via text messaging, running me through several layers of car dealer–like salesmanship, telling me I could not go into the classroom without signing a legally binding contract only to reverse their stance and invite me into a classroom in which I am expected to reveal personal secrets and demons on paperwork that, according to the contract, the church has the legal right to possess and do whatever they want with—makes me feel like the whole recruitment is about them, not me. No thanks. If there is a God in Hollywood—and I truly believe there is—I would rather not find Him at all than do so at the expense of my own dignity and personal boundaries.
I hustle outside the room before the teacher can stop me, to find Angela standing outside the door. “You’re leaving?” she asks with a confused stare.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, but I’ve been here for almost two hours and I am tired and have a long commute back home,” I lie. “Thanks for letting me take the class. But I am going to leave now.”
I leave Angela, mouth agape, at her post outside the classroom, walk quickly downstairs, and exit the building knowing I will never come back to the Church of Scientology of Los Angeles—no matter how much I love Tom Cruise movies.