Saving My Husband from Scientology

Outside the New York Scientology Center
Image: Getty

For years when I lived in New York, and on subsequent visits to its theater district, I had found myself outside the Times Square Scientology Center. It is no accident that this operation is located in the city’s touristic epicenter. Despite all the bad things we have heard about Scientology over the years, it is boldly, defiantly, right there, down West 46^th Street from the Richard Rodgers Theatre where Hamilton plays. Like a Venus flytrap for the spiritually adrift, it is meant to attract an endless flow of lost souls and irresolute wanderers -- putty in Scientology’s hands.  

The thought of entering this space never crossed my mind until I was on the way to the theater with my husband Joe about a decade ago. 

Through a combination of idle curiosity and having time to kill before our show, we made the questionable decision to cross this creepy threshold into the periphery of an unseemly cult characterized by insane ideas and zombified celebrities. 

My motivation was to see what kind of BS they were peddling. I believe Joe was more intrigued by Scientology’s celebrity factor, gleaned from famous adherents like Tom Cruise and John Travolta. Cruise is considered a deity in this “religion.” It did not take much arm-twisting to get Joe to go along.

They say that if you go to a barber shop, you will get a haircut. Frequenting bars leads to the consumption of alcohol. So I went in with my guard up, aware that if we hung out in a Scientology recruitment center, we were going to get recruited. 

Inside, it was a slow night and there were no other visitors. The place had the sterile feel of a trade show, albeit one for the spiritually unhinged. The lobby was filled with free literature and monitors showing loony videos with laughable production values. These videos spouted Scientology’s science fiction-esque suppositions and arcane ideas. You would think that with Tom Cruise as their deity, the cult would put out Hollywood-level propaganda. But no.

Immediately, the staff was all over us like -- well, like Scientologists. A young man and woman quizzed us about our lives and what we were doing in New York. They wasted no time broaching the topic of Scientology.

According to Joe, I was rude to them -- and he is right. To this day, he reminds me of my abrupt manner and confrontational questions disapprovingly, as if my being more polite would have resulted in -- what, exactly? A better visit with the Scientologists? Successful recruitment? Maybe for him.

I did not feel their brainwashed views commanded the respect I would give to adherents of a legitimate religion. In some odd way, I thought that by confronting them with Scientology’s wackiest beliefs, like the role of UFOs and aliens in their “church,” I was doing them the favor of at least provoking thought and debate. That was silly of me -- you cannot question anyone’s faith on the basis of intellect.

The more we talked, the more antagonistic I became. And as is his wont, Joe felt that he needed to compensate for my prickliness by being more agreeable. He politely listened to their lines about L. Ron Hubbard and how Scientology can change lives. Unlike me, he felt no need to challenge them. He didn’t scowl.

The staffers were paying special attention to Joe and seeking to minimize my interference by ignoring me and my barbs. I was starting to feel threatened on Joe’s behalf. 

And that is when they led us through a door into a darkened theater to watch a film about Dianetics and their savior, Hubbard. 

Now, I was getting uncomfortable. This theater had two doors -- one for entering -- the other for -- who knows? Was it an exit through which they shepherd you into a van to go off and work for the Sea Org and aspire to be Tom Cruise’s slave?

I told Joe we had to get out of there. I had seen enough and wasn’t having any more of this nonsense. The Scientologists did everything they could to stop us. This experience had gone from jokey curiosity to something that felt vaguely threatening.

The most chilling moment came at the end. Pressing a pamphlet into Joe’s hands, they pulled him aside and said in a hushed tone so only he could hear, “Come back without him.” Meaning me. In their argot, I was an SP -- a suppressive person. 

And there you have it. That could have been a turning point. But we got out and our minds remained intact enough to tell the tale. 

Joe swears he was just being polite. I maintain that you don’t have to be polite to brainwashed cult recruiters. Who knows if Joe’s politeness made him an easy mark? Who knows if he would be slaving for Tom Cruise for $50 a week if I had not saved him?

All I know is that if you are silly enough to wander into a Scientology center expecting a cheap laugh, you might instead find yourself with a serious case of the creeps.