Next to two of Canberra’s most popular clubs, Fun Time Pony and One22, sits the Church of Scientology. On many nights out, I have stared at the building while waiting in line for the club. The fodder for jokes is endless. The juxtaposition is almost too good to be true.
One day, I decided the joke needed a new punchline: I had to go inside. When I told my friends and family, they warned me about the documentaries and YouTube videos they had seen on Scientology. They said that the church can be harsh on its critics, citing stories of detractors being stalked. I pride myself on being open-minded, so I ignored the cacophony of fear-mongering and attended the Church’s Sunday service.
I recruited a friend to join me, and we concocted fictional backstories on the way. I dressed for the occasion in a black headband and loafers that read, “indoctrinate me!” I was Cherry; he was Noah. We were a young couple at a crossroads in our lives, seeking spiritual guidance. Never mind that Noah is a gay man—he adopted his best straight accent as we walked through the doors of the Church and up the stairs.
We were greeted by an older woman named Rachel (not her real name), who asked us to write our names and phone numbers in a book and offered us a glass of water. She explained that the minister wasn’t in, but she could give us an introduction to the Church. While writing down my fake name and number, I asked if people ever came in after seeing the Church on a night out. She said yes, though often “to come in and take the mickey”. Rachel was warm and kind and seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of two young people showing interest in Scientology. My lies felt heavy on my chest.
On the back wall was a shelf full of books and DVD lectures by L. Ron Hubbard, the Church’s founder:Formulas for Living, Creating a Successful Marriage, Having a Happy Baby, Unlocking the Door to Success, and more. All this “wisdom” for just $55 each! “They don’t give you a manual for life,” Rachel said, a statement that struck me as oddly significant — perhaps the key to understanding Scientology. “I’m sure we would all like one of those,” I replied.
I asked Rachel about her personal history with Scientology. Her mother had introduced her to the Church when she was seven. Rachel didn’t care; she was simply glad that she didn’t have to attend Sunday school. Eager to teach us about Scientology, she put on a CD introducing the concept of Dianetics. The narrator explained how, through Dianetics and mind auditing, one could remove painful memories, called engrams, from one's analytic memory, thereby disabling the reactive mind and achieving the ultimate “clear” state. It was inoffensive and palatable, like self-help baby food—far from the alien rulers and thetans I had been warned of. I suspect that was deliberate: that level of enlightenment isn’t attained for free; you are exposed to it gradually as you progress through the levels of Scientology.
Rachel beckoned us into a small, sunlit room. A poster advertised the new National Scientology Centre in Belconnen, intended as a meeting place for members and a hub for “humanitarian campaigns,” including the Citizens Commission on Human Rights, an organisation I recognised as anti-psychiatry. She pulled out an e-meter, a device she claimed could measure mental energy. It had two cylindrical tins attached to a dial, and Rachel instructed me to hold them while thinking of various people and situations in my life. I thought about my parents, with whom I have a great relationship. The dial, however, indicated I was in great distress.
“Is there some kind of stress regarding your parents?” Rachel asked. “Yes,” I lied. She probed further, asking about obstacles in our relationship and how I planned to overcome them. I told her that I love the outdoors (I do not) and I was being pushed into a commerce degree by my father (an angel), who doesn’t understand that I am a free spirit (I am very type A), unable to be confined by rigid tertiary institutions (I love university). She responded to my fiction with compassion and prescribed L. Ron Hubbard’s course on Rachel turned her attention to Noah’s problems with fickle people at his fictional workplace and delivered a frank appraisal on the nature of the human race: “80% of people are good, 20% are trouble makers, and 2.5% are evil”. Fortunately for her, it's not called the Church of Numerology.
As I squeezed the cylinders on the e-meter, I cottoned on to the machine’s magic; it was not an electromagnetic stress detector, but a pressure sensor. When Noah had his turn, I scanned his face for recognition of the machine’s simplicity. “It’s interesting that when you clutch your hands really hard, the dial goes straight up,” he said. I held my breath, fearing Rachel would sense our scepticism and become defensive. “It’s an electrical current less than a double-A battery,” she replied, unaware of Noah’s implication. Faith in any religion often involves setting aside rational, scientific thinking, but I was surprised to find this was also the case for one that claims science in its name.
I said goodbye to Rachel and promised to return the following weekend with a richer understanding—not of Scientology’s practices, but of its people. I am fortunate to have friends and family from whom I can seek guidance when facing personal conflict and indecision; not everyone is so lucky. For someone without a solid support structure, the Church’s promise of a “manual for life” could feel like a lifeline, a place to store hope. The desire to believe in something—be it Christianity, astrology, manifestation, or a loser boyfriend—is universal. So, how do we treat Scientologists like Rachel? Are they victims of this desire, or participants in an abusive institution? I do not know the answer, but next time I am gazing up at the Church from the line outside One22, I will be grateful to be looking from the outside in.
We acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Woroni, Woroni Radio and Woroni TV are created, edited, published, printed and distributed. We pay our respects to Elders past and present. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.