The secret Scientologist
As the starstudded church opens its new NZ headquarters this weekend, David Farrier discusses his attraction to Scientology and its practices.
I’ve been fascinated by Scientology ever since I walked down L Ron Hubbard Way in Los Angeles 10 years ago. It’s the cleanest street in LA, meticulously policed by Scientologists on push bikes, who parade up and down all day long.
It struck me that achieving a clean, shiny street is no easy feat in a city so notoriously grubby. But it’s a city where Scientology has flourished, thanks to adherents like actor Tom Cruise and musician Beck, giving it a certain star quality not afforded to many other religions.
I think that street says so much about Scientology. Obviously, it’s named after its founder, science fiction and fantasy writer Lafayette Ron Hubbard (LRH to his fans). He was a passionate, podgy-faced little chap, who holds a Guinness World Record for most audio books published by one man.
His street was named in 1996 with the blessing of the LA City Council. It got the blessing in part because the church owned 55 per cent of the sprawling property, and had been there for about 40 years. But while it was entrenched in the community, council voters were torn.
The naming of a street involved money, property, power and controversy. It’s the story of Scientology.
As for Scientology here in New Zealand, we have Frank to thank.
Frank Turnbull lived in Christchurch in 1952. His whole world changed when he heard about Scientology. According to the church, he flew to Philadelphia the following year to attend a Scientology doctorate course.
He met LRH, who awarded Frank the title of ‘‘Scientology Bishop of Oceania.’’ And thus Frank became a Bishop (decades before Bishop Brian Tamaki came along).
Frank returned to New Zealand, and in January of 1955, the first Church of Scientology outside the US was formed. This was a truly, momentous moment for Scientology.
I joined the church about nine years ago when its New Zealand headquarters was a drab, characterless building on the Ellerslie-Panmure Highway.
Ijoined because I was writing an article about it, but also because I was infinitely curious about what it was like inside. And to be honest, it was fairly unremarkable. There was a lot of carpet, and some of the walls needed paint. The people were far removed from the artificial smiles, suits and slicked-back hair of the Scientology I’d experienced in Los Angeles. This was a down-to-earth, Kiwi affair. Bog standard New Zealanders, getting on with the job. They were a bit frumpy, and had kind eyes. A woman lead me to a small theatre, where I watched a 90s-era instructional video about Scientology. This was a religion out to fix people and their problems – to save them from drug addiction, relationship problems and psychiatry (if it’s one thing you learn very early on, it’s that Scientology bloody hates psychiatry).
Next I took a personality test, which involved answering a lot of questions about my life, and grading them on an intensity scale. Relationships. Family. Happiness. Stress.
I discovered there were lots of things wrong with my personality. My problems had been broken down into figure and graphs. Fortunately, Scientology could help me through a process called ‘‘auditing’’.
I entered an auditing room, where I sat down at at table. Opposite me was a man in his mid30s.
Sitting on the table between us was an E-meter, a device with a little needle that would flick back and forth when I picked up the two metallic handles attached to the machine.
The man told me to start talking about something in my life that had been traumatic. As I did so, the E-meter would read my electro-dermal activity. I told the man about how I’d hit and killed a cat on the way to my Year 12 ball. I would talk, and the auditor would listen. ‘‘I saw it run onto the road and then I heard a thump and felt a jolt’’. The needle would flick and move, gauging my emotional state while I relived those horrible events of 1999. Then I’d tell the story again. ‘‘It’s eyes were squished out of it’s head’’. And again. ‘‘I felt awful, I think it was still half alive’’. And again: ‘‘One eye was looking at me. It looked annoyed’’. You tell the story until the auditor tells you you are ‘‘clear’’ of the event. The whole idea of auditing, and of Scientology, is to reach a As you ascend the ranks, you climb The Bridge of Total Freedom. Eventually you became on OT: An Operating Thetan. I think at some stage you’re able to levitate. state of ‘‘clear’’.
As you ascend the ranks, you climb The Bridge of Total Freedom. Eventually you became on OT: An Operating Thetan.
I think at some stage you’re able to levitate.
This process is easy to mock, but I couldn’t help but think it’s essentially just therapy – one human talking to another human, who is taking their money.
As for the E-meter – well, I’ve spotted similar devices in psychology studies and lie detector tests.
But there’s controversy every step of the way. Louis Theroux and Alex Gibney have both made films about Scientology, pointing out that all those sensitive stories you tell your auditor are stored and filed.
Past members claim they’ve been used by the church to blackmail them when they try to leave. I wonder if they still have the story about the cat.
Then of course there’s the money.
To keep a religion alive, you need plenty of money. It’s been widely reported that LRH himself once said, ‘‘You don’t get rich writing science fiction. If you want to get rich, you start a religion.’’
I joined the church for a short time, and because I paid them a fee of a few hundred dollars, I got a membership card that said I was a Scientologist.
It wasn’t particularly fancy. The piece of card wasn’t even laminated. I purchased some reading materials as well – workbooks, and Scientology’s bible: Dianetics.
Every church has a store filled with reading materials and audiobooks – it feels a bit like the colourful material of a Tony Robbins course. All up I think I spent about $300. It wasn’t outlandish, but I admit I’d feel more comfortable if I’d given it to charity.
I’m no longer a member – I didn’t keep paying – but I follow the activities of the church when I can. From what I can tell, for the past 62 years it’s led a rather drab existence, largely keeping its head down and not making a fuss.
It’s far removed from the mania of its life in Los Angeles, where its shiny headquarters and Celebrity Centre are loud and glamorous.
I often treat Scientology in America like a ride. Instead of visiting Universal Studios, I will take friends along to the Celebrity Centre, asking for a tour. It lasts for a few hours, and is one of the most surreal activities to do in LA. If that doesn’t float your boat, then you can amble down to the Museum of Psychiatry, a kind of Te Papa for Scientology.
I’m still as fascinated by Scientology as I ever was. I know there’s documentary evidence they’ve been involved in some hideous things. I know it’s incredibly wrong that an organisation with so much money is tax-exempt simply because of its religious status.
But a small part of me – the part of me that likes to argue with people over bad dinners – feels that compared with other religions, Scientology ain’t all that unique.
It has a leader, it has followers, it has a set of beliefs you must follow. Occasionally it does some good. It also does some bad things.
What Scientology can’t do is hide behind the rich history afforded to so many religions. For better or worse, it’s much easier to mock and tease Scientology purely because it’s so new and shiny.
It’s origins are dead clear. They’re on Wikipedia. It wasn’t founded thousands of years ago, it was founded in 1954 by Ron.
I went along to the grand opening of the new Scientology centre on Grafton Rd yesterday.
It was buzzing with activity outside. I noticed a lot of men wearing earpieces. I was welcomed in and given a wrist band, I took my seat in a large outdoor courtyard.
Then with five minutes to showtime I was pulled aside and shown the door. As I left a row of men in suits with those earpieces clocked me. They’d had eyes on me the whole time. I’d never stood a chance.