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The "Truth" in a Manilla Folder: A Primer on Scientology

Okay, so we had a short detour into the “bluesy” pop riffs of one John Mayer.

Now, we must get back to the stone countenance of one L. Ron Hubbard.

Before we move on with our hair-raising narrative, here is a short primer on the tenets of Scientology.

Here we go:

Scientology proper (an oxymoron to end all oxymorons) is a curious mish-mash of Hinduism, Buddhism, and a number of Western philosophies, including Christianity.  

It asserts that 75 million years ago, a diabolical galactic warlord named Xenu was the leader of seventy-six planets in this part of the galaxy, which was way overpopulated.  To solve this problem, Xenu flew 13.5 trillion beings to Earth, dumped them into volcanoes around the globe, and vaporized them with bombs.  Thus, their radioactive souls (or “thetans”) were scattered like dust until they were captured in electronic traps set up around the atmosphere and implanted with a host of spurious ideas, among which were the concepts of God, Jesus Christ and organized religion in general.  Many of these false ideas attach themselves to human beings, where they remain to this day unless rooted out via “auditing."

French sociologist Regis Dericquebourg—an expert in comparative religions, describes Scientology’s belief system as one of “regressive utopia,” in which man seeks to return to a primordial state of bliss, through a rigorous process that involves lots of jumping through psychological hoops. 

And if the above is not bizarre enough, here is something even more bizarre.  As a scientologist, you do not even have access to this “truth” until you reach the level of O.T. (operating thetan) 3; a level which you have to be invited to.  It is at this stage that you are handed a manilla folder and given the secrets of the universe, which the initiated must read in a locked room.

And as Rolling Stone reporter Janet Reitman so aptly observes, this manilla folder “moment-of-truth” would be tantamount to Jesus telling his followers that He was the Son of God only after years and years of discipleship.  Or Buddha not telling his minions about the poison arrow or Nirvana.  Or Moses not telling the Israelites about the precepts of Yahweh after 40 years of wandering…instead making the longsuffering Israelites sweat it out and wait for the truth until he deemed them ready for it.

And what’s more, the process of enlightenment, also known as the “Bridge to Total Freedom,” actually drains one’s pocketbook.  Scientology charges for almost all of its religious services—auditing is generally purchased in 12.5 hour blocks, ranging from $750 to $9,000, depending on how high up you are on the food chain. 

And Scientology’s response to this?  Mike Rinder, one of the directors of Scientology’s International legal wing, tells Rolling Stone: “Do you want to know the real answer?  If we could offer everything for free, we would do it.”  Another official says “We don’t have 2,000 years of acquired wealth to fall back on”—an obvious dig at the Church.

When I asked Lucy the same monetary question, she was not quite as acerbic. Yet she confirmed for me that auditing charges were not cheap. At the Minneapolis center, auditing charges start at $200 for twelve sessions of professional auditing. The sessions are an hour long each, yet Lucy made a point to tell us that they would not stop in the middle of a session if they hit an intense “engram” that needed to be resolved. In other words, you get your money’s worth.

What is an “engram”????

Stay tuned for the answer (hint: it does not fit into a toaster), as well as the final wrap-up—and concluding blog—for this series on my adventures with Scientology. And believe me, it will be a humdinger!

Things I Learned While Watching John Mayer Perform

You can play the blues if you’re black and poor (i.e. Blind Lemon Jefferson), black and rich (B.B. King), or even white and poor (a young, coked-out Stevie Ray Vaughn)…yet if you’re white and flush with cash (i.e. John Mayer), it lacks a certain gravitas and just looks silly.

Please, John, stick with teenage pop ditties, that’s your forté.

I loved John Mayer’s rendition of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin” though. That’s worth the price of the new video, entitled “Where The Light Is: Live in Los Angeles.”

Also, there is minimal froggy-face action in this video, and that is a good thing;there is also the added bonus of Jessica Simpson's maltese puppy, Daisy, riding shotgun in Mayer's car while Mayer pontificates about the lumbering burden of superstardom and the weight of ten thousand girls on his hapless soul.

Check it out!

Into the Bowels of a Strange Movement: My Investigative Brush with Scientology (Part II)

As Christa and I descended into the bowels of the church of Scientology we both had queesy pits in our stomachs. We held hands. We do this a lot, actually, but we squeezed even harder now—fear of the unknown, perhaps…or in this case, fear of the known; we were in no mood for a financial fleecing or a theological lobotomy. 

As we opened up the jingly door I had many questions swimming around in my skull, such as: Do Scientologists really believe that Jesus was a false dream implanted in our minds (billions of years ago) by an evil galactic warlord named Xenu? Did founder L. Ron Hubbard once hook up a lifeless tomato to his infamous e-meter? If one of the chief tenets of Scientology is not to seek attention or approval of any kind from another human being, then why do people like Tom Cruise seem to seek nothing but…as evidenced by his clownish antics on Oprah’s poor couch? Is it troublesome at all that the founder of Scientology was a sci-fi writer before he came up with his global brainchild? The point is that the goal of my project was not to go on a wild theological goose chase; I had to be disciplined and stay focused on the subject of medical ethics…and perhaps hit some theology along the way.

Suffice it to say lots of questions were swirling around in my head when we opened up the door to the Church of Scientology. We were greeted by a swift “hello” from a receptionist as we strolled in, strawberry frappuccino’s still in hand (we thought this might be a nice “spontaneous” touch) as we proceeded to enter into the foyer. A cornucopia of L. Ron Hubbard books decorated this foyer—an eponymous shrine—as we made our way into the jaws of the church itself.

A receptionist came out to greet and then led us into a large room, the décor of the which was spartan; the walls were drab and nondescript, all white. A massive bookshelf partitioned the large room into two sections: one section was clearly for visitors, the other was not. Toward the back of the room I noticed a bronze statue of L. Ron Hubbard, a bust of his chest and neck and head and exceedingly large lips; these lips were portruded out and frozen in time, as if he were defying grafity with his deep thought. Needless to say it was not a very flattering bust. He looked like a bass-fish mount: A frozen torso of an odd-looking man who looked at once smug and fishy, cocksure and befuddled, princely and eccentric.

Our receptionist handed us off to a nice woman named Lucy (a bottle-blonde, middle-aged; I changed her name), who led us toward a simple wooden table next to the sidewalk window. After meaningless chit-chat we told her that were interested in their free stress test. Within minutes I agreed to be hooked up to the notorious e-meter, which is a low-voltage box (it looked like it was made of fiberglass) with two metallic receptors for gripping with one’s palms. It looked like a cheap Tonka Toy—only slightly more ominous. At first I was somewhat skiddish. Lucy told me that a mild current of electricity would go through my body as it pinpointed my level of stress, specifically, any negative thoughts that I had. The needle on the e-meter would jump (it looked like a polygraph machine) at any sign of stress or negativity. Still somewhat tentative, I asked Lucy to show me how: Bottom line, if this Tonka Toy somehow zapped electricity through people and fried them like bacon, then I wanted to know...and I wanted Lucy to go first. She obliged and picked up the receptors and held them and pressed a button on the machine. She then gripped the arms of the e-meter as the needle on the window of the-meter jumped slightly, then moved back to the left where the needle had originated. I asked her why the needle had jumped for her, a card-carrying Scientologist? She explained by saying that she wasn’t entirely “clear” (more on this term later) yet.

Now it was my turn. I gripped the metallic arms of the e-meter. Lucy told me to think unpleasant thoughts. I specifically did not. I thought about lying in the sunshine at Malibu Beach on the Pacific Ocean—the waves gently lapping onto the shore while I sipped an adult beverage. Immediately the needle started to vacillate wildly. “Looks like you’ve got some stress,” Lucy informed me. “What were you thinking about, just now?” Since I was not in the mood for any kind of therapy (after all, I was supposed to be asking the questions), I sort of wiggled out by saying something to the effect of “I’d rather not say,” which was the most honest answer I could think of. I changed the subject by asking her how the e-meter could capture negative thoughts per se. She answered that the mild currents flow through your body, and any negative thoughts or memories (“engrams” was the term that she used) would hinder that flow, so the energy bounces back and forces the needle to jump.

Lucy, by the way, was very friendly and easy to talk to. She exuded motherliness, which, I suppose, is why she has the job that she has. Yet as maternal as she was, Christa and I sensed something broken about her, something that yearned for someone else to throw her arms around and baby them in order to alleviate her pain. We liked her. Yet there was something about her eyes that was zonky and glazed over. We made a mental note to pray for her.

Up until now there had definitely been a strange vibe in the visitor room. The bust of Hubbard kept staring at us. Now it was time for some of my questions for Lucy.

Turns out, the evening was only beginning to get strange...

(Please stay tuned for third installment, entitled: “Lucy in the Sky with Dianetics”)

Into the Den of Xenu: My Investigative Brush With Scientology

The sunset over Minneapolis skyline was streakish and purple and mad-with-colors, as if someone had spilled a Bloody Mary onto an apocalyptic storm cloud, very epic and odd and bizarre. As I walked toward this mad sunset I hoped that my upcoming pow-wow with the Church of Scientology would be less apocalyptic and less bizarre than the mammoth star that loomed before me. Unfortunately it wasn’t, yet we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. 

(It just hit me that I am probably the only thinking mammal in the history of thinking mammals to ever compare the Church of Scientology to a colorful, breathtaking sunset. Odd analogy, I know. For the record the Church of Scientology gets the better of this comparison. Little did I know that within minutes upon entering their center I would agree to be hooked up to a low-voltage box and be pumped through with electricity—by a glazed-over, bottle blonde, no less. Yet again we’re getting way ahead of ourselves.

Here is my official report, in blog-sized installments of course…

The Church of Scientology in Minneapolis is located on the south end of the outdoor Nicollet Mall—right across from Chipotle and 9-iron stroke away from Macy’s, not far from Starbucks; in other words, it is nestled smack dab in the epicenter of the after-work martini crowd of downtown Minneapolis. In fact one can flip through magazines at Barnes & Nobles, grab a strawberry frappuccino, and casually stroll past the bonhomie on the sidewalk until one stops at what appears to be a bookstore—lots of colorful books on window display, all written by a pompous-looking fellow named L. Ron Hubbard—all the while still sipping on those creamy strawberry frappuccinos, all the while awkwardly gawking at the “Come Take Our Stress Test” sign that hangs so prominently in the window; all of which is exactly what my wife and I did. We strolled. We gazed. We gawked.

(Props here to my beautiful wife, Christa, who chose to be right by my side during this covert operation—theological espionage, we called it. She was there to help me fight off any freaky dragons that came out of the wordwork.)

Suffice it to say, this was no happenstance encounter. I was on a research outing on behalf of my ethics class at Bethel Seminary. My mission was unique. For this project I was interested in exploring the rationale behind the medical ethics of Scientology: Why is Scientology so fiestily anti-medicine? What are the roots of this belief? What does Scientology have to say about things like cancer treatment, or coping with genetic illness? What is the crux of the “Come Take Our Stress Test” signage in the window? And how does this “stress test” hold up to the rigors of academic psychology and/or medicine? First off a necessary caveat: My wife and I are both journalists by trade (my wife more so than me, as she is one full-time; I, part-time—which means that I write whatever I want whenever I want for whomever will hire me) and as such it is worthy of note that this turned out to be somewhat of an unorthodox interview, to say the least. Due to the very nature of Scientology, which on the whole is very media gunshy—it’s no secret that they have been horsewhiped by the media in every city where they hang their hat—I did not feel right about walking into their Minneapolis headquarters only to blithely pull out my digital recorder and start asking a bunch of questions. This would have surely shot my project in the foot. Also, I did not want to draw attention to this encounter by setting up an interview and perhaps jeopardizing its content (like I said, Scientology is very skiddish with the media, especially in the wake of a massive protest last April outside the center here in Minneapolis). Bottom line: I wanted to get the skinny as a man off the street. My wife Christa came along for three reasons: First, she wanted to; Second, we thought that as a couple we may somehow gain a more welcome access into “front lines” of this singular cult. Third, sans digital recorder and without the subsequent crutch of a transcript (which is how I normally do interviews) I needed all of the memory help that I could get in lieu of a transcript. Christa graciously agreed and was a smashing assistant I might add. 

One more caveat: We did not take this project lightly. We were entering into the den of Xenu (more on this galactic warlord below) so to speak, and as such, we prayed that somehow God would use us to be a light in such a dark place. It is my firm belief that as a believer one should never, ever undertake a project of this kind without ample prayer for God’s protection and grace. We needed God’s help to be as savvy as snakes but as innocent as doves. Turns out, we needed those prayers.

Please stay tuned for the next blog, tentatively dubbed (for the scatalogically inclined): My Brush with Scientology: Into the Bowels of a Strange Movement.

(Part II of this blog series will follow next week)

My Inaugural Baby Blog

Welcome to the soft-launch of my brand-spanking new baby blog, which will hopefully grow into a mature blog (with arms and legs and a brain) with a forum for significant pop-culture and theological discussion.

As the name implies, I like stuff and I am interested in all things du jour. I am a Jesus-follower; as such, I have an evangelical spine and an irenic spirit. If you know me then you already know this. If not, then you know now...whatever.

Here is my tentative macro-bird’s eye plan for my blog: First up, a smashing, titillating report on Scientology. It’s not an exposé so much as an inside report on the zany happenings of this bizarre cult. Last May my beautiful wife and I went incognito into this den of Xenu (more on this evil, galactic warlord later) and asked the Scientologists there lots of questions, both medical and theological. This was for an ethics project at Bethel Seminary. Suffice it to say it was two-hours that Christa and I will never forget.

Other things on the agenda (in addition to theology): good songs, Jakob Dylan and his legendary dad, Irish hops, field notes on spontaneous jaunts to Sunset Boulevard, movies, etc., as well as other things exotic and sundry. I’m kicking around the idea of starting an Oprah-esque book-of-the-month club (minus the wishy-washy blatherings and slobbering over Eckhart Tolle), where we discuss certain Christian classics: on a bad day we can pool our collective insights and wisdom to whatever end result; on a good day we can save the planet, and then go after other galaxies.

For now I’m just excited to be up and running, over the wires or wireless or satellite, or whatever you do. True to blogging decorum and the unwritten rules of cyberspace, I will try to keep my threads snappy and concise, yet sometimes the subject matter (i.e. Scientology and Oprah’s poor couch) dictates a more lengthy and nuanced essay. No pompous diatribes I promise. Okay, maybe one or two...if that happens, then please feel free to take a swipe at my runaway ego. I’ll thank you in the afterlife.

Thanks for reading and don’t be shy about posting your thoughts.

Cheers,
Will