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Part 1: The Making of L. Ron Hubbard
Chapter One: The Mind Behind the Religion
From a life haunted by emotional and financial troubles, L. Ron Hubbard
brought forth Scientology. He achieved godlike status among his followers, and
his death has not deterred the church's efforts to reach deeper into society.
It was a triumph of galactic proportions: Science fiction writer L. Ron
Hubbard had discarded the body that bound him to the physical universe and was
off to the next phase of his spiritual exploration — "on a planet a galaxy
away."
"Hip, hip, hurray!" thousands of Scientologists thundered inside the
Hollywood Palladium, where they had just been told of this remarkable feat.
"Hip, hip, hurray! Hip, hip, hurray!" they continued to chant, gazing at a
large photograph of Hubbard, creator of their religion and author of the
best-selling "Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health."
Earlier that day, the Church of Scientology had summoned the faithful
throughout Los Angeles to a "big and exciting event" at the Palladium. They were
told nothing more, just to be there.
As evening fell, thousands arrived, most decked out in the spit-and-polish
mockNavy uniforms that are symbolic of the organization's paramilitary
structure.
The excited assemblage was about to learn that their beloved leader, a man
who dubbed himself "The Commodore," had died. Yet, death was never mentioned.
Instead, the Scientologists were told that Hubbard had finished his spiritual
research on this planet, charting a precise path for man to achieve immortality.
And now it was on to bigger challenges somewhere beyond the stars.
His body had "become an impediment to the work he now must do outside of its
confines," the awe-struck crowd was informed. "The fact that he … willingly
discarded the body after it was no longer useful to him signifies his ultimate
success: the conquest of life that he embarked upon half a century ago."
The death certificate would show that Lafayette Ronald Hubbard, 74, who had
not been seen publicly for nearly six years, died on Jan. 24, 1986, of a stroke
on his ranch outside San Luis Obispo.
But to Scientologists, the man they affectionately called "Ron" had ascended.
The glorification of L. Ron Hubbard that brisk January night wasnot
surprising. Over more than three decades he had skillfully transformed himself
from a writer of pulp fiction to a writer of "sacred scriptures." Along the way,
he made a fortune and achieved his dream of fame.
"I have high hopes of smashing my name into history so violently that it will
take a legendary form, even if all the books are destroyed," Hubbard wrote to
the first of his three wives in 1938, more than a decade before he created
Scientology.
"That goal," he said, "is the real goal as far as I am concerned."
From the ground up, Hubbard built an international empire that started as a
collection of mental therapy centers and became one of the world's most
controversial and secretive religions.
The intensity, combativeness and salesmanship that distinguish Scientology
from other religions can be traced directly to Hubbard. For, even in death, the
man and his creation are inseparable.
He wrote millions of words in scores of books instructing his followers on
everything from how to market Scientology to how to fend off critics. His
prolific and sometimes rambling discourses constitute the gospel of Scientology,
its structure and its soul. Deviations are punishable.
Through his writings, Hubbard fortified his clannish organization with a
powerful intolerance of criticism and a fierce will to endure and prosper. He
wrote a Code of Honor that urged his followers to "never desert a group to which
you owe your support" and "never fear to hurt another in a just cause."
He transmitted to his followers his suspicious view of the world — one
populated, he insisted, by madmen bent on Scientology's destruction.
His flaring temper and searing intensity are deeply branded into the church
and reflected in the behavior of his faithful, who shout at adversaries and even
at each other. As one former high-ranking member put it: "He made swearing
cool."
Hubbard's followers say his teachings have helped thousands kick drugs and
allowed countless others to lead fuller lives through courses that improve
communication skills, build self-confidence and increase an individual's ability
to take control of his or her life.
He was, they say, "the greatest humanitarian in history."
But there was another side to this imaginative and intelligent man. And to
understand Scientology, one must begin with L. Ron Hubbard.
In the late 1940s, Hubbard was broke and in debt. A struggling writer of
science fiction and fantasy, he was forced to sell his typewriter for $28.50 to
get by.
"I can still see Ron three-steps-at-a-time running up the stairs in around
1949 in order to borrow $30 from me to get out of town because he had a wife
after him for alimony," recalled his former literary agent, Forrest J. Ackerman.
At one point, Hubbard was reduced to begging the Veterans Administration to
let him keep a $51 overpayment of benefits. "I am nearly penniless," wrote
Hubbard, a former Navy lieutenant.
Hubbard was mentally troubled, too. In late 1947, he asked the Veterans
Administration to help him get psychiatric treatment.
"Toward the end of my (military) service," Hubbard wrote to the VA, "I
avoided out of pride any mental examinations, hoping that time would balance a
mind which I had every reason to suppose was seriously affected.
"I cannot account for nor rise above long periods of moroseness and suicidal
inclinations, and have newly come to realize that I must first triumph above
this before I can hope to rehabilitate myself at all."
In his most private moments, Hubbard wrote bizarre statements to himself in
notebooks that would surface four decades later in Los Angeles Superior Court.
"All men are your slaves," he wrote in one.
"You can be merciless whenever your will is crossed and you have the right to
be merciless," he wrote in another.
Hubbard was troubled, restless and adrift in those little known years of his
life. But he never lost confidence in his ability as a writer. He had made a
living with words in the past and he could do it again.
Before the financial and emotional problems that consumed him in the 1940s,
Hubbard had achieved moderate success writing for a variety of dime-store pulp
magazines. He specialized in shoot'em-up adventures, Westerns, mysteries, war
stories and science fiction.
His output, if not the writing itself, was spectacular. Using such pseudonyms
as Winchester Remington Colt and Rene LaFayette, he sometimes filled up entire
issues virtually by himself. Hubbard's life then was like a page from one of his
adventure stories. He panned for gold in Puerto Rico and charted waterways in
Alaska. He was a master sailor and glider pilot, with a reported penchant for
eye-catching maneuvers.
Although Hubbard's health and writing career foundered after the war, he
remained a virtual factory of ideas. And his biggest was about to be born.
Hubbard had long been fascinated with mental phenomena and the mysteries of
life.
He was an expert in hypnotism. During a 1948 gathering of science fiction
buffs in Los Angeles, he hypnotized many of those in attendance, convincing one
young man that he was cradling a tiny kangaroo in his hands.
Hubbard sometimes spoke of having visions.
His former literary agent, Ackerman, said Hubbard once told of dying on an
operating table. And here, according to Ackerman, is what Hubbard said followed:
"He arose in spirit form and looked at the body he no longer inhabited…. In
the distance he saw a great ornate gate…. The gate opened of its own accord and
he drifted through. There, spread out, was an intellectual smorgasbord, the
answers to everything that ever puzzled the mind of man. He was absorbing all
this fantabulous information…. Then he felt like a long umbilical cord pulling
him back. And a voice was saying, 'No, not yet.'"
Hubbard, according to Ackerman, said he returned to life and feverishly wrote
his recollections. He said Hubbard later tried to sell the manuscript but
failed, claiming that "whoever read it (a) went insane, or (b) committed
suicide."
Hubbard's intense curiosity about the mind's power led him into a friendship
in 1946 with rocket fuel scientist John Whiteside Parsons. Parsons was a protege
of British satanist Aleister Crowley and leader of a black magic group modeled
after Crowley's infamous occult lodge in England.
Hubbard also admired Crowley, and in a 1952 lecture described him as "my very
good friend."
Parsons and Hubbard lived in an aging mansion on South Orange Grove Avenue in
Pasadena. The estate was home to an odd mix of Bohemian artists, writers,
scientists and occultists. A small domed temple supported by six stone columns
stood in the back yard.
Hubbard met his second wife, Sara Northrup, at the mansion. Although she was
Parsons' lover at the time, Hubbard was undeterred. He married Northrup before
divorcing his first wife.
Long before the 1960s counterculture, some residents of the estate smoked
marijuana and embraced a philosophy of promiscuous, ritualistic sex.
"The neighbors began protesting when the rituals called for a naked pregnant
woman to jump nine times through fire in the yard," recalled science fiction
author L. Sprague de Camp, who knew both Hubbard and Parsons.
Crowley biographers have written that Parsons and Hubbard practiced "sex
magic." As the biographers tell it, a robed Hubbard chanted incantations while
Parsons and his wife-to-be, Cameron, engaged in sexual intercourse intended to
produce a child with superior intellect and powers. The ceremony was said to
span 11 consecutive nights.
Hubbard and Parsons finally had a falling out over a sailboat sales venture
that ended in a court dispute between the two.
In later years, Hubbard tried to distance himself from his embarrassing
association with Parsons, who was a founder of a government rocket project at
California Institute of Technology that later evolved into the famed Jet
Propulsion Laboratory. Parsons died in 1952 when a chemical explosion ripped
through his garage lab.
Hubbard insisted that he had been working undercover for Naval Intelligence
to break up black magic in America and to investigate links between the
occultists and prominent scientists at the Parsons mansion. Hubbard said the
mission was so successful that the house was razed and the black magic group was
dispersed.
But Parsons' widow, Cameron, disputed Hubbard's account in a brief interview
with The Times. She said the two men "liked each other very much" and "felt they
were ushering in a force that was going to change things."
In early 1950, Hubbard published an intriguing article in a 25-cent magazine
called Astounding Science Fiction. In it, he said that he had uncovered the
source of man's problems.
The article grew into a book, written in one draft in just 30 days and
entitled "Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health." It would become the
most important book of Hubbard's life.
The book's introduction declared that Hubbard had invented a new "mental
science," a feat more important perhaps than "the invention of the wheel, the
control of fire, the development of mathematics."
Hubbard himself said he had uncovered the source of, and the cure for,
virtually every ailment known to man. Dianetics, he said, could restore withered
limbs, mend broken bones, erase the wrinkles of age and dramatically increase
intelligence.
Not surprisingly, the nation's mental health professionals were unimpressed.
Famed psychoanalyst Rollo May voiced the sentiments of many when he wrote in
the New York Times that "books like this do harm by their grandiose promises to
troubled persons and by their oversimplification of human psychological
problems."
But "Dianetics" was an instant bestseller when it hit the stands in May,
1950, and made Hubbard an overnight celebrity. Arthur Ceppos, who published the
book, said Hubbard spent his first royalties on a luxury Lincoln.
Hubbard had tapped the public's growing fascination with psychotherapy, then
largely accessible only to the affluent. "Dianetics," in fact, was popularly
dubbed "the poor man's psychotherapy" because it could be practiced among
friends for free.
In the book, Hubbard claimed to have discovered the previously unknown
"reactive mind," a depository for emotionally or physically painful events in a
person's life. These traumatic experiences, called "engrams," cause a variety of
psychosomatic illnesses, including migraine headaches, ulcers, allergies,
arthritis, poor vision and the common cold, Hubbard said.
The goal of dianetics, Hubbard said, is to purge these painful experiences
and create a "clear" individual who is able to realize his or her full
potential.
Catapulted from obscurity, Hubbard decided in the summer of 1950 to prove in
a big way that his new "science" was for real.
He appeared before a crowd of thousands at the Shrine Auditorium to unveil
the "world's first clear," a person he said had achieved a perfect memory.
Journalists from numerous newspapers and magazines were there to document the
event.
He placed on display one Sonya Bianca, a young Boston physics major. But when
Hubbard allowed the audience to question her, she performed dismally.
Someone, for example, told Hubbard to turn his back while the girl was asked
to describe the color of his tie. There was silence. The world's first clear
drew a blank.
"It was a tremendous embarrassment for Hubbard and his friends at the time,"
recalled Arthur Jean Cox, a science fiction buff who attended the presentation.
More problems were on the way for the man whose book promised miracles but
whose own life would move from one crisis to the next until his death.
He became embroiled, for instance, in a nasty divorce and child custody
battle that raised embarrassing questions about his mental stability.
His wife, Sara Northrup Hubbard, accused him of subjecting her to "scientific
torture experiments" and of suffering from "paranoid schizophrenia" —
allegations that she would later retract in a signed statement but that would
find their way into government files and continue to haunt Hubbard.
She said in her suit that Hubbard had deprived her of sleep, beaten her and
suggested that she kill herself, "as divorce would hurt his reputation."
During the legal proceedings, Sara placed in the court record a letter she
had received from Hubbard's first wife.
"Ron is not normal," it said. "I had hoped you could straighten him out. Your
charges probably sound fantastic to the average person — but I've been through
it — the beatings, threats on my life, all the sadistic traits which you charge
— 12 years of it."
At one point in the marital dispute with Sara, Hubbard spirited their
1-year-old daughter, Alexis, to Cuba. From there, he wrote to Sara:
"I have been in the Cuban military hospital, and am being transferred to to
the United States as a classified scientist immune from interference of all
kinds…. My right side is paralyzed and getting more so.
"I hope my heart lasts. I may live a long time and again I may not. But
Dianetics will last ten thousand years — for the Army and Navy have it now."
Hubbard, who had earlier accused his wife of infidelity and said she suffered
brain damage, closed his letter by threatening to cut his infant daughter from
his will.
"Alexis will get a fortune unless she goes to you, as she then would get
nothing," he wrote.
He also wrote a letter to the FBI at the height of the Red Scare accusing
Sara of possibly being a Communist, along with others whom he said had
infiltrated his dianetics movement.
The FBI, after interviewing Hubbard, dismissed him as a "mental case."
In one seven-page missive to the Department of Justice in 1951, he linked
Sara to alleged physical assaults on him. He said that on two separate occasions
he was punched in his sleep by unidentified intruders. And then came the third
attack.
"I was in my apartment on February 23rd, about two or three o'clock in the
morning when the apartment was entered, I was knocked out, had a needle thrust
into my heart to give it a jet of air to produce 'coronary thrombosis' and was
given an electric shock with a 110 volt current. This is all very blurred to me.
I had no witnesses. But only one person had another key to that apartment and
that was Sara."
After months of sniping at each other — and a counter divorce suit by Hubbard
in which he accused his wife of "gross neglect of duty and extreme cruelty" —
the couple ended their stormy marriage, with Sara obtaining custody of the
child. In later years, Hubbard would deny fathering the girl and, as threatened,
did not leave her a cent.
Not only was Hubbard's domestic life a shambles in 1951, his once-thriving
self-help movement was crumbling as public interest in his theories waned.
The foundations Hubbard had established to teach dianetics were in financial
ruin and his book had disappeared from The New York Times bestseller list.
But the resilient self-promoter came up with something new. He called it
Scientology, and his metamorphosis from pop therapist to religious leader was
under way.
Scientology essentially gave a new twist to the Dianetics notion of painful
experiences that lodge in the "reactive mind." In Scientology, Hubbard held that
memories of such experiences also collect in a person's soul and date back to
past lives.
For many of Hubbard's early followers, Scientology was not believable, and
they broke with him. But others would soon take their place, conferring upon
Hubbard an almost saintly status.
But as Hubbard's renown and prosperity grew in the 1960s, so, too, did the
questions surrounding his finances and teachings. He was accused by various
governments — including the U.S. — of quackery, of brainwashing, of bilking the
gullible through high-pressure sales techniques.
In 1967, Hubbard took several hundred of his followers to sea to escape the
spreading hostility. But they found only temporary safe harbor from what they
believed had become an international conspiracy to persecute them.
Their three ships, led by a converted cattle ferry dubbed the "Apollo," were
bounced from port to port in the Mediterranean and Caribbean by governments that
wrongly suspected the American skipper and his secretive, clean-cut crew of
being CIA operatives.
While anchored at the Portuguese island of Madeira, they were stoned by
townsfolk carrying torches and chanting anti-CIA slogans.
"They (were) throwing Molotov cocktails onto the boat but they weren't lit,"
a crew member recalled. "Fortunately, this was not an experienced mob."
The years at sea were a watershed for Hubbard and Scientology. He instituted
a Navy-style command structure that is evident today in the military dress and
snap-to behavior of the organization's staff members. Hubbard named himself the
"Commodore," and subordinates followed his orders like Annapolis midshipmen.
As former Scientology ship officer Hana Eltringham Whitfield put it:
"Scientologists on the whole thought that Hubbard was like a god, that he could
command the waves to do what he wanted, that he was totally in control of his
life and consequences of his actions."
Chapter Two: Creating the Mystique
To his followers, L. Ron Hubbard was bigger than life. But it was an image
largely of his own making.
A Los Angeles Superior Court judge put it bluntly while presiding over a
Church of Scientology lawsuit in 1984. Scientology's founder, he said, was
"virtually a pathological liar" about his past.
Hubbard was an intelligent and well-read man, with diverse interests,
experience and expertise. But that apparently was not enough to satisfy him. He
transformed his frailties into strengths, his failures into successes. With a
kernel of truth, he concocted elaborate stories about a life he seemingly wished
was his.
There was his claim, for example, of being a nuclear physicist. This was an
important one because he said he had used his knowledge of science to develop
Scientology and dianetics.
Hubbard was, in fact, enrolled in one of the nation's early classes in
molecular and atomic physics at George Washington University, in Washington,
D.C., where he unsuccessfully pursued a civil engineering degree. But he flunked
the class.
Church of Scientology officials deny that Hubbard claimed to be a nuclear
physicist and point to a taped lecture in which he admits earning "the worst
grades" in the class. But they fail to mention contradictory statements Hubbard
made when it suited his needs.
Perhaps Hubbard's most fantastic — and easily disproved — claims center on
his military service.
Hubbard bragged that he was a top-flight naval officer in World War II, who
commanded a squadron of fighting ships, was wounded in combat and was highly
decorated.
But Navy and Veterans Administration records obtained through the federal
Freedom of Information Act reveal that his military performance was, at times,
substandard.
The Navy documents variously describe him as a "garrulous" man who "tries to
give impressions of his importance," as being "not temperamentally fitted for
independent command" and as "lacking in the essential qualities of judgment,
leadership and cooperation. He acts without forethought as to probable results."
Hubbard was relieved of command of two ships, including the PC 815, a
submarine chaser docked along the Willamette River in Oregon. According to Navy
records, here is what happened:
Just hours after motoring the PC 815 into the Pacific for a test cruise,
Hubbard said he encountered two Japanese submarines. He dropped 37 depth charges
during the 55 consecutive hours he said he monitored the subs, and summoned
additional ships and aircraft into the fight.
He claimed to have so severely crippled the submarines that the only trace
remaining of either was a thin carpet of oil on the ocean's surface.
"This vessel wishes no credit for itself," Hubbard stated in a report of the
incident. "It was built to hunt submarines. Its people were trained to hunt
submarines."
And no credit Hubbard got.
"An analysis of all reports convinces me that there was no submarine in the
area," wrote the commander of the Northwest Sea Frontier after an investigation.
Hubbard next continued down the coast, where he anchored off the Coronado
Islands just south of San Diego. To test his ship's guns, he ordered target
practice directed at the uninhabited Mexican islands, prompting the government
of that neutral country to complain to U.S. officials.
A Navy board of inquiry determined that Hubbard had "disregarded orders" both
by conducting gunnery practice and by anchoring in Mexican waters.
A letter of admonition was placed in Hubbard's military file which stated
"that more drastic disciplinary action … would have been taken under normal and
peacetime conditions."
During his purportedly illustrious military career, Hubbard claimed to have
been awarded at least 21 medals and decorations. But records state that he
actually earned four during his Naval service: the American Defense Service
Medal, the American Campaign Medal, the Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal and the
World War II Victory Medal, which was given to all wartime servicemen.
One of the medals to which Hubbard staked claim was the Purple Heart,
bestowed upon wounded servicemen. Hubbard maintained that he was "crippled" and
"blinded" in the war.
Early biographies issued by Scientology say that he was "flown home in the
late spring of 1942 in the secretary of the Navy's private plane as the first
U.S.-returned casualty from the Far East."
Thomas Moulton, second in command on PC 815, said Hubbard once told of being
machine-gunned across the back near the Dutch East Indies.
On another occasion, Moulton testified during the 1984 Scientology lawsuit,
Hubbard said his eyes had been damaged by the flash of a large-caliber gun.
Hubbard himself, in a tape-recorded lecture, said his eyes were injured when he
had "a bomb go off in my face."
These injury claims are significant because Hubbard said he cured himself
through techniques that would later form the tenets of Scientology and
Dianetics.
Military records, however, reveal that he was never wounded or injured in
combat, and was never awarded a Purple Heart.
In seeking disability money, Hubbard told military doctors that he had been
"lamed" not by a bullet but by a chronic hip infection that set in after his
transfer from the warm tropics of the Pacific to the icy winters of the East
Coast, where he attended a Navy-sponsored school of military government.
Moreover, his eye problems did not result from an exploding bomb or the
blinding flash of a gun. Rather, Hubbard said in military records, he contracted
conjunctivitis from exposure to "excessive tropical sunlight."
The truth is that Hubbard spent the last seven months of his active duty in a
military hospital in Oakland, for treatment of a duodenal ulcer he developed
while in the service.
Hubbard did, however, receive a monthly, 40% disability check from the
government through at least 1980.
Government records also contradict Hubbard's claim that he had fully regained
his health by 1947 with the power of his mind and the techniques of his future
religion.
Late that year, he wrote the government about having "long periods of
moroseness" and "suicidal inclinations." That was followed by a letter in 1948
to the chief of naval operations in which he described himself as "an invalid."
And, during a 1951 examination by the Veterans Administration, he was still
complaining of eye problems and a "boring-like pain" in his stomach, which he
said had given him "continuous trouble" for eight years, especially when "under
nervous stress."
Significantly, that examination occurred after the publication of
"Dianetics," which promised a cure for the very ailments that plagued the author
himself then and throughout his life, including allergies, arthritis, ulcers and
heart problems.
In Hubbard's defense, Scientology officials accuse others of distorting and
misrepresenting his military glories.
They say the Navy "covered up" Hubbard's sinking of the submarines either to
avoid frightening the civilian population or because the commander who
investigated the incident had earlier denied the existence of subs along the
West Coast.
Moreover, church officials charge that records released by the military are
not only grossly incomplete but perhaps were falsified to conceal Hubbard's
secret activities as an intelligence officer.
To support their point, a church official gave the Times an authentic-looking
Navy document that purports to confirm some of Hubbard's wartime claims. After
examining the document, though, a spokesman for the Naval Military Personnel
Command Center said its contents are not supported by Hubbard's personnel
record.
He declined further comment.
Hubbard's biographical claims were not confined to the events of his adult
life.
He claimed, for example, that as a youth he traveled extensively throughout
Asia, studying at the feet of holy men who first kindled in him a burning
fascination with the spirit of man.
"My basic ordination for religious work," Hubbard once wrote, "was received
from Mayo in the Western Hills of China when I was made a lama priest after a
year as a neophyte."
Hubbard did, in fact, tour China while his father was stationed in Guam with
the Navy. However, a diary of that period makes no mention of his spiritual
awakening. Rather, it portrays him as an intolerant young Westerner with little
understanding of an unfamiliar culture or race.
He described the lama temples he toured as "very odd and heathenish."
After visiting the Great Wall of China, Hubbard remarked: "If China turned it
into a rolly coaster it could make millions of dollars every year."
He described the "yellow races" as "simple and one-tracked." Wrote Hubbard:
"The trouble with China is there are too many chinks here."
Hubbard also claimed that he spent many of his childhood years on a large
cattle ranch in Montana, where he grew up.
"Long days were spent riding, breaking broncos, hunting coyote and taking his
first steps as an explorer," according to a Hubbard-approved biography issued by
the church.
But Hubbard's aunt laughed when asked whether he had been a pint-sized
cowboy.
"We didn't have a ranch," said Margaret Roberts, 87, of Helena, Mont. "Just
several acres (with) a barn on it…. We had one cow (and) four or five horses."
Hubbard's biographical claims took center stage during the 1984 Superior
Court lawsuit in which the church accused a former member of stealing the
Scientology founder's private papers. Ex-member Gerald Armstrong said he took
the documents as protection against possible church harassment.
Judge Paul G. Breckenridge Jr. found in Armstrong's favor and, in his ruling,
issued a harsh assessment of the church's revered leader.
"The evidence portrays a man who has been virtually a pathological liar when
it comes to his history, background and achievements…."
"At the same time," Breckenridge continued, "it appears that he is
charismatic and highly capable of motivating, organizing, controlling,
manipulating and inspiring his adherents."
Hubbard, the judge said, was "a very complex person."
The church and Hubbard's widow, Mary Sue, have appealed Breckenridge's
decision, saying that it was based on "irrelevant, distorted and, in many
instances, invented testimony" of embittered former Scientologists.
"Any controversy about him (Hubbard) is like a speck of dust on his shoes
compared to the millions of people who loved and respected him," a Scientology
spokesman said. "What he has accomplished in the brief span of one lifetime will
have impact on every man, woman and child for 10,000 years."
Chapter Three: Life With L. Ron Hubbard
Aides indulged his eccentricities and egotism.
L. Ron Hubbard enjoyed being pampered.
He surrounded himself with teen-age followers, whom he indoctrinated, treated
like servants and cherished as though they were his own children.
He called them the "Commodore's messengers."
" 'Messenger!' " he would boom in the morning. "And we'd pull him out of
bed," one recalled.
The youngsters, whose parents belonged to Hubbard's Church of Scientology,
would lay out his clothes, run his shower and help him dress. He taught them how
to sprinkle powder in his socks and gently slip them on so as not to pull the
hairs on his legs.
They made sure the temperature in his room never varied from 72 degrees. They
boiled water at night to keep the humidity just right. They would hand him a
cigarette and follow in his footsteps with an ashtray.
When Hubbard's bursitis acted up, a messenger would wrap his shoulders in a
lumberjack shirt that had been warmed on a heater.
Long gone were those days when Hubbard was scratching out a living. Now, in
the early 1970s, he fancied silk pants, ascots and nautical caps. It was evident
that the red-haired author had enjoyed many a good meal.
It was a high honor for Scientologists to serve beside Hubbard, even if it
meant performing such dreary tasks as ironing his clothes or ferrying his
messages. But, for some, it was also disconcerting. The privileged few who
worked at his side saw personality flaws and quirks not reflected in the staged
photographs or in Hubbard's biographies.
They came to know the man behind the mystique.
They said he could display the temperament of a spoiled child and the
eccentricities of a reclusive Howard Hughes.
When upset, Hubbard was known to erupt like a volcano, spewing obscenities
and insults.
Former Scientologist Adelle Hartwell once testified during a Florida hearing
on Scientology that she saw Hubbard "throw fits."
"I actually saw him take his hat off one day and stomp on it and cry like a
baby."
Hubbard had been hotheaded since his youth, when his red hair earned him the
nickname "Brick."
One of Hubbard's classmates recalled a day in 11th Grade when the husky
Hubbard, for no apparent reason, got into a fight with Gus Leger, the lanky
assistant principal at Helena High School in Helena, Mont.
"Old Gus was up at the blackboard," recalled Andrew Richardson. "He taught
geometry. He was laying out this problem and Brick let loose with a piece of
chalk and he missed him. Leger whirled and threw an eraser at Brick, who ducked,
and it hit a girl right behind him in the face."
Hubbard wrestled with the teacher, then stuffed him into a trash can, said
Richardson.
"We all got to laughing and he (Leger) couldn't get up," Richardson said,
chuckling at the memory.
Richardson said that, while the students helped their teacher, Hubbard
stormed out and never returned. He left to be with his parents in the Far East,
where his father was stationed with the Navy.
In later life, one thing that could throw the irascible Hubbard into a rage
was the scent of soap in his clothes. "I was petrified of doing the laundry,"
one former messenger said.
To protect themselves from a Hubbard tirade, the messengers rinsed his
clothes in 13 separate buckets of water.
Doreen Gillham, who had who spent her teen years with Hubbard, never forgot
what happened when a longtime aide offered him a freshly laundered shirt after
he had taken a shower.
"He immediately grabbed the collar and put it up to his nose, then threw it
down," said Gillham, who died recently in a horseriding accident. "He went to
the closet and proceeded to sniff all the shirts. He would tear them off the
hangers and throw them down. We're talking 30 shirts on the floor."
He let out a "long whine," Gillham said, and then began screaming about the
smell.
"I picked up a shirt off the floor, smelled it and said, 'There is no soap on
this shirt.' I didn't smell anything in any of them. He grudgingly put it on,"
said Gillham, who added: "Deep down inside, I'm telling myself, 'This guy is
nuts!' "
Gillham said that Hubbard had become obsessed not only with soap smells but
with dust, which aggravated his allergies. He demanded white-glove inspections
but never seemed satisfied with the results.
No matter how clean the room, Gillham said, "he would insist that it be
dusted over and over and over again."
Gillham, formerly one of Hubbard's most loyal and trusted messengers, said
his behavior became increasingly erratic after he crashed a motorcycle in the
Canary Islands in the early 1970s.
"He realized his own mortality," she said. "He was in agony for months. He
insisted, with a broken arm and broken ribs, that he was going to heal himself
and it didn't work."
According to those who knew him well, Hubbard was neither affectionate nor
much of a family man. He seemed closer to his handpicked messengers than to his
own seven children, one of whom he later denied fathering.
"His kids rarely, if ever, got to see him," Gillham said, until his wife Mary
Sue "insisted on weekly Sunday night dinners."
Hubbard expected his children to live up to the family name and do nothing
that would reflect badly on him or the church. And for that reason, his son
Quentin was a problem.
Quentin had once tried suicide with a drug overdose and was confused about
his sexual orientation — a fact that was quietly discussed among his friends and
at the highest levels of the church.
"He thought Quentin was an embarrassment," said Laurel Sullivan, Hubbard's
former public relations officer, who had a falling out with the organization in
1981. "And he told me that several times."
In 1976, Quentin parked on a deserted road in Las Vegas and piped the exhaust
into his car. At the age of 22, he killed himself.
When Hubbard was told of the suicide, "he didn't cry or anything," according
to a former aide. His first reaction, she said, was to express concern over the
possibility of publicity that could be used to discredit Scientology.
Hubbard also had problems with another son, his namesake, L. Ron Hubbard Jr.
Hubbard feuded with his eldest son for more than 25 years, dating back to
1959 when L. Ron Hubbard Jr. split with Scientology because he said he was not
making enough money to support his family. In the years that followed, he
changed his name to Ronald DeWolfe and accused his father of everything from
cavorting with mobsters to abusing drugs.
For his part, Hubbard accused his son of being crazy.
Although Hubbard cast himself as a humble servant to mankind, former
assistants said he was not without ego. He craved adulation and coveted fame.
Sullivan, the former public relations officer, recalled how after an
appearance he would ask: "How many minutes of applause did I get? How many times
did they say, 'Hip, hip, hurray!'? How many people showed up? How many letters
did I get?"
"If you remained in awe of him … he was great," said Sullivan, who had a
falling out with the church in 1981. "If you crossed him, or appeared to cross
him, he would lash out at you, scream at you, accuse you of things."
Gillham and other former aides said he would accuse even his most devout
aides of trying to poison him if he did not like the taste of a meal that had
been laboriously prepared for his table. "Somebody's trying to kill me!" former
aides said he would shout. "What have I done? All I've tried to do is help man."
He envisioned global conspiracies designed to smash Scientology, and he
ingrained this dark view in the minds of his followers through his many
writings.
"Time and again since 1950," Hubbard said in 1982, "the vested interests
which pretend to run the world (for their own appetites and profit) have mounted
full-scale attacks. With a running dog press and slavish government agencies the
forces of evil have launched their lies and sought, by whatever twisted means,
to check and destroy Scientology."
"Our enemies on this planet are less than 12 men," he announced in a 1967
tape-recorded message to his adherents. "They are members of the Bank of England
and other higher financial circles. They own and control newspaper chains and
they are oddly enough directors in all the mental health groups in the world
which have sprung up."
Chief among his suspects were psychiatry and government agencies that probed
his organization, including Interpol the Paris-based international police
agency, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, the Internal Revenue Service and
the FBI.
Former Scientologist Hartwell told the Florida hearing that she was present
when Hubbard made a film about "bombing the FBI office."
"I was in makeup and we had so much blood on those actors, which was made out
of Karo syrup and food coloring," Hartwell said. "And we couldn't get enough on
them to suit Hubbard. We had guys' legs off, there were hands off, arms — I
mean, it was a mess from the word go."
Even before Scientology, Hubbard believed that unseen forces were against
him.
"I watched him operate," said "Dianetics" publisher Arthur Ceppos, who later
split with Hubbard. "If he felt he was under attack, that's when his paranoia
showed."
This siege mentality led Hubbard to author a series of church policies on how
to combat suspected foes — writings that, more than any of his others, have
worked to reinforce Scientology's cultish image and undermine its quest for
legitimacy.
He counseled his followers to discredit the opposition to "a point of total
obliteration" and to remember that "the thousands of years of Jewish passivity
earned them nothing but slaughter. So things do not run right because one is
holy or good. Things run right because one makes them right."
In this spirit, during the mid-1970s, Scientologists launched nasty smear
campaigns and turned to criminality, burglarizing private and government
offices.
Eventually, 11 top Scientologists were jailed, including Hubbard's wife Mary
Sue, who oversaw the sweeping operation. Hubbard was named as an unindicted
co-conspirator.
At one point during this period, FBI agents raided church headquarters in Los
Angeles and Washington. Hubbard and three trusted aides, fearing that his
enemies had at long last gained the upper hand, ran for cover. They fled a
Scientology compound near the town of Hemet and drove to Sparks, Nev., where
they used false names and lived in a nondescript apartment for six months until
things cooled off.
"When the raids happened he never really knew what they (the FBI) had,"
recalled Dede Reisdorf, one of those who accompanied Hubbard.
To disguise Hubbard's appearance, Reisdorf said, she cut his red hair and
dyed it brown. He often wore fake glasses, donned a phony mustache and pulled a
hunter's cap down over his ears.
"He got to a point," Reisdorf said, "where he wouldn't even walk in front of
a window…. He was afraid of being seen by somebody. There was always somebody in
a bush somewhere. A reporter or an FBI agent or an IRS agent."
It was not the last time Hubbard would go into hiding. In 1980, on St.
Valentine's Day, Hubbard pulled another disappearing act. This time, he never
returned.
Chapter Four: The Final Days
Deep in hiding, Hubbard kept tight grip on the church
Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard often said that man's most basic drive is
that of survival. And when it came to his own, he used whatever was necessary —
false identities, cover stories, deception.
There is no better illustration of this than the way he secretly controlled
the Church of Scientology while hiding from a world he viewed as increasingly
hostile.
Hubbard was last seen publicly in February 1980, in the desert community of
Hemet, a few miles from a high-security compound that houses the church's movie
and recording studio. His sudden departure fueled wild and intense speculation.
The church said Hubbard went into seclusion to continue his Scientology
research and to resurrect his science fiction-writing career. But former aides
have said he dropped from sight to avoid subpoenas and government tax agents
probing allegations that he was skimming church funds.
Publications throughout the world ran stories about Hubbard's disappearance.
"Mystery of the Vanished Ruler" was the headline in Time magazine.
In 1982, Hubbard's estranged son filed a probate petition trying to wrest
control of the Scientology empire. He argued that his father was either dead or
mentally incompetent and that his riches were being plundered by Scientology
executives.
The suit was dismissed after Hubbard, through an attorney, submitted an
affidavit with his fingerprints, saying that he was well and wanted to be left
alone.
No doubt, Hubbard would have chuckled with satisfaction over the speculation
surrounding his whereabouts. For he had always considered himself a shrewd
strategist and a master of the intelligence game, endlessly calculating ways to
outwit his foes.
Hubbard took with him only two people, a married couple named Pat and Anne
Broeker.
Pat Broeker, Hubbard's personal messenger at the time, had gone into hiding
with him once before and knew how to ensure his security. Broeker relished
cloak-and-dagger operations. His nickname among Hubbard's other messengers was
"007."
Anne had been one of Hubbard's top aides for years. She was cool under
pressure and able to defuse Hubbard's volatile temper.
Hubbard and the Broekers spent their first several years together on the
move. For months, they traveled the Pacific Northwest in a motor home. They
lived in apartments in Newport Beach and the suburbs of Los Angeles.
Then, in the summer of 1983, they decided to settle down in a dusty ranch
town called Creston, population 270, where the hot, arid climate would be kind
to Hubbard's bursitis.
About 30 miles inland from San Luis Obispo, it was a perfect spot for a man
of notoriety to live in obscurity. In those parts, people don't ask a lot of
questions about someone else's business.
Hubbard and the Broekers concocted an elaborate set of phony names and
backgrounds to conceal their identities from the townsfolk. Pat and Anne Broeker
went by the names Mike and Lisa Mitchell. Hubbard became Lisa's father, Jack,
who impressed the locals as a chatty old man, charismatic but sometimes gruff.
They purchased a 160-acre ranch known as the Whispering Winds for $700,000,
using 30 cashier's checks drawn on various California banks. Pat Broeker told
the sellers, Ed and Sherry Shahan, that he had recently inherited millions of
dollars and was looking to leave his home in Upstate New York to raise livestock
in California.
At the time, the Shahans were suspicious. As Ed Shahan recalled, "They were
having trouble deciding whose name to put the property in."
In less than three years, Hubbard poured an estimated $3 million into the
local economy as he redesigned the ranch to his exacting and elaborate
specifications.
He launched one project after another, some of them seemingly senseless,
according to local residents. He ordered the construction of a quarter-mile
horse-racing track with an observation tower. The track reportedly was never
used.
The 10-room ranch house was gutted and remodeled so many times that it went
virtually uninhabited during Hubbard's time there. He lived and worked in a
luxurious 40-foot Bluebird motor home parked near the stables.
All this was done without work permits, which meant that Hubbard and his
aides would not have to worry about nosy county inspectors.
Like Hubbard's aides in earlier years, the hired help saw extreme sides of
the man who was chauffeured around the property in a black Subaru pickup by Anne
Broeker.
Fencing contractor Jim Froelicher of Paso Robles remembers asking him for
advice on buying a camera. Several days later, Froelicher said, Hubbard
presented him with a 35mm camera as a gift.
Longtime Creston resident Ed Lindquist, on the other hand, said painters
dropped by the local tavern at lunch to talk about how the "old man" was acting
eccentric. They said he had them paint the walls again and again because they
"weren't white enough," according to Lindquist.
Scientology officials insist that Hubbard was in fine mental and physical
health during his years in seclusion. Most of his days, they say, were spent
reading, writing and enjoying the ranch's beauty and livestock, which included
llamas and buffalo.
But Hubbard was doing much more, according to former aides. Even in hiding,
they say, he kept a close watch and a tight grip on the church he built — as he
had for decades.
As early as 1966, Hubbard claimed to have relinquished managerial control of
the church. But ex-Scientologists and several court rulings have held that this
was a maneuver to shield Hubbard from potential legal actions and accountability
for the group's activities.
Over the years, efforts to conceal Hubbard's ties to the church were
extensive and extreme.
In 1980, for example, a massive shredding operation was undertaken at the
church's desert compound outside Palm Springs after Scientology officials
received an erroneous tip of an imminent FBI raid, according to a former aide.
"Anything that indicated that L. Ron Hubbard controlled the church or was
engaged in management was to be shredded," recalled Hubbard's former public
relations officer, Laurel Sullivan.
For more than two days, Sullivan said, roughly 200 Scientologists crammed
thousands of documents into a huge shredder nicknamed "Jaws." Documents too
valuable to destroy, she added, were buried in the ground or under floorboards.
In his self-imposed exile, Hubbard continued to reign over Scientology with
almost paranoid secrecy.
He relayed his orders in writing or on tape cassettes to Pat Broeker, who
then passed them to a ranking Scientologist named David Miscavige, the man
responsible for seeing that church executives complied.
Hubbard's communiques travelled a circuitous route in the darkness of night,
changing hands from Broeker to Miscavige at designated sites throughout Southern
California. To mask the author's identity, the missives were signed with codes
that carried the weight of Hubbard's signature.
Sometimes Broeker himself appeared from parts unknown to personally deliver
Hubbard's instructions to church executives.
From his secret seat of power in the oak-studded hills above San Luis Obispo,
Hubbard also made sure that he would not be severed from the riches of his
Scientology empire, high-level church defectors would later tell government
investigators.
They alleged that Hubbard skimmed millions of dollars from church coffers
while he was in hiding — carrying on a tradition that the Internal Revenue
Service said he began practically at Scientology's inception about 30 years ago.
Hubbard and his aides had always denied the allegations, and accused the IRS of
waging a campaign against the church and its founder.
While Hubbard was underground, the IRS launched a criminal probe of his
finances. But the investigation would soon be without a target, and ultimately
abandoned.
By late 1985, Hubbard's directives to underlings had tapered off. At age 74,
he no longer resembled the robust and natty man whose dated photographs fill
Scientology's promotional literature. Living in isolation, separated from his
devoted followers, he had let himself go.
His thin gray hair, with streaks of the old red, hung without sheen to his
shoulders. He had grown a stringy, unkempt beard and mustache. His round face
was now sunken and his ruddy complexion had turned pasty. He was an old man and
he was nearing death.
On or about Jan. 17, 1986, Hubbard suffered a "cerebral vascular accident,"
commonly known as a stroke. Caring for him was Gene Denk, a Scientologist doctor
and Hubbard's physician for eight years.
There was little Denk could do for Hubbard in those final days — the stroke
was debilitating. He was bedridden and his speech was badly impaired.
One week later, at 8 p.m. on Friday, Jan. 24, Hubbard died.
Throughout the night, according to neighbor Robert Whaley, heavy traffic
inexplicably moved in and out of the ranch. Whaley, a retired advertising
executive, said that he was kept awake by headlights shining through his
windows.
For more than 11 hours, Hubbard's body remained in the motor home where he
died. Scientology attorney Earle Cooley had ordered that Hubbard not be touched
until he arrived by car from Los Angeles with another Scientology lawyer.
The next morning, Cooley telephoned Reis Chapel, a San Luis Obispo mortuary,
and arranged to have the body cremated. With Cooley present, Hubbard was
transported to the mortuary.
Once chapel officials learned who Hubbard was, however, they became concerned
about the church's rush to cremate him. They contacted the San Luis Obispo
County coroner, who halted the cremation until the body could be examined and
blood tests performed.
When then-Deputy Coroner Don Hines arrived, Cooley presented him with a
certificate that Hubbard had signed just four days before his death. It stated
that, for religious reasons, he wanted no autopsy.
Cooley also produced a will that Hubbard had signed the day before he died,
directing that his body be promptly cremated and that his vast wealth be
distributed according to the provisions of a confidential trust he had
established. His once-ornate trademark signature was little more than a scrawl.
After the blood tests and examination revealed no foul play, coroner Hines
approved the cremation. With Cooley's consent, he also photographed the body and
lifted fingerprints as a way to later confirm that it was the reclusive Hubbard
and not a hoax.
Within hours, Hubbard's ashes were scattered at sea by the Broekers and
Miscavige.
Two days after Hubbard's death, Pat Broeker stood before a standing-room-only
crowd of Scientologists at the Hollywood Palladium. It was his first public
appearance in six years, and he had just broken the news of Hubbard's passing.
The cheers were deafening.
Broeker announced that Hubbard had made a conscious decision to "sever all
ties" to this world so he could continue his Scientology research in spirit form
— testimony to the power of the man and his teachings.
He "laid down in his bed and he left," Broeker said. "And that was it."
Hubbard left behind an organization that would continue to function as though
he were still alive. His millions of words — the lifeblood of Scientology — have
now been computerized for wisdom and instructions at the touch of a button.
In Scientology, he was — and always will be — the "Source."
Defining the Theology
It's a space-age religion that abounds in galactic tales, and its deepest
secrets are known to few
What is Scientology?
Not even the vast majority of Scientologists can fully answer the question.
In the Church of Scientology, there is no one book that comprehensively sets
forth the religion's beliefs in the fashion of, say, the Bible or the Koran.
Rather, Scientology's theology is scattered among the voluminous writings and
tape-recorded discourses of the late science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard, who
founded the religion in the early 1950s.
Piece by piece, his teachings are revealed to church members through a
progression of sometimes secret courses that take years to complete and cost
tens of thousands of dollars. Out of a membership estimated by the church to be
6.5 million, only a tiny fraction have climbed to the upper reaches. In fact,
according to a Scientology publication earlier this year, fewer than 900 members
have completed the church's highest course, nicknamed "Truth Revealed."
While Hubbard's "Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health" typically is
one of the first books read by church members, its relationship to Scientology
is like that of a grade school to a university.
What Scientologists learn in their courses is never publicly discussed by the
church, which is trying to shake its cultish image and establish itself as a
mainstream religion. For to the uninitiated, Hubbard's theology would resemble
pure science fiction, complete with galactic battles, interplanetary
civilizations and tyrants who roam the universe.
Here, based on court records, church documents and Hubbard lectures that span
the past four decades, is a rare look at portions of Scientology's theology and
the cosmological musings of the man who wrote it.
Central to Scientology is a belief in an immortal soul, or "thetan," that
passes from one body to the next through countless reincarnations spanning
trillions of years. Collectively, thetans created the universe — all the stars
and planets, every plant and animal. To function within their creation, thetans
built bodies for themselves of wildly varying appearances, the human form being
just one.
But each thetan is vulnerable to painful experiences that can diminish its
powers and create emotional and physical problems in the individual it inhabits.
The goal of Scientology is to purge these experiences from the thetan, making it
again omnipotent and returning spiritual and bodily health to its host.
The painful experiences are called "engrams." Hubbard said some happen by
accident — from ancient planetary wars, for example — while others are
intentionally inflicted by other thetans who have gone bad and want power. In
Scientology, these engrams are called "implants."
According to Hubbard, the bad thetans through the eons have electronically
implanted other thetans with information intended to confuse them and make them
forget the powers they inherently possess — kind of a brainwashing procedure.
While Hubbard was not always precise about the origins of the implants, he
was very clear about the impact.
"Implants," Hubbard said, "result in all varieties of illness, apathy,
degradation, neurosis and insanity and are the principal cause of these in man."
Hubbard identified numerous implants that he said have occurred through the
ages and that are addressed during Scientology courses aimed at neutralizing
their harmful effects.
Hubbard maintained, for example, that the concept of a Christian heaven is
the product of two implants dating back more than 43 trillion years. Heaven, he
said, is a "false dream" and a "very painful lie" intended to direct thetans
toward a non-existent goal and convince them they have only one life.
In reality, Hubbard said, there is no heaven and there was no Christ.
"The (implanted) symbol of a crucified Christ is very apt indeed," Hubbard
said. "It's the symbol of a thetan betrayed."
Hubbard said that one of the worst implants happens after a person dies.
While Hubbard's story of this implant may seem outlandish to some, he advanced
it as a factual account of reincarnation.
"Of all the nasty, mean and vicious implants that have ever been invented,
this one is it," he declared during a lecture in the 1950s. "And it's been going
on for thousands of years."
Hubbard said that when a person dies, his or her thetan goes to a "landing
station" on Venus, where it is programmed with lies about its past life and its
next life. The lies include a promise that it will be returned to Earth by being
lovingly shunted into the body of a newborn baby.
Not so, said Hubbard, who described the thetan's re-entry this way:
"What actually happens to you, you're simply capsuled and dumped in the gulf
of lower California. Splash. The hell with ya. And you're on your own, man. If
you can get out of that, and through that, and wander around through the cities
and find some girl who looks like she is going to get married or have a baby or
something like that, you're all set. And if you can find the maternity ward to a
hospital or something, you're OK.
"And you just eventually just pick up a baby."
But Hubbard offered his followers an easy way to outwit the implant:
Scientologists should simply select a location other than Venus to go "when they
kick the bucket."
Another notorious implant led Hubbard to construct an entire course for
Scientologists who want to be rid of it.
Shrouded in mystery and kept in locked cabinets at select church locations,
the course is called Operating Thetan III, billed by the church as "the final
secret of the catastrophe which laid waste to this sector of the galaxy." It is
taught only to the most advanced church members, at fees ranging to $6,000.
Hubbard told his followers that while unlocking the secret, he "became very
ill, almost lost this body and somehow or another brought it off and obtained
the material and was able to live through it."
Here's what he said he learned:
Seventy-five million years ago a tyrant named Xenu (pronounced Zee-new) ruled
the Galactic Confederation, an alliance of 76 planets, including Earth, then
called Teegeeack.
To control overpopulation and solidify his power, Xenu instructed his loyal
officers to capture beings of all shapes and sizes from the various planets,
freeze them in a compound of alcohol and glycol and fly them by the billions to
Earth in planes resembling DC-8s. Some of the beings were captured after they
were duped into showing up for a phony tax investigation.
The beings were deposited or chained near 10 volcanoes scattered around the
planet. After hydrogen bombs were dropped on them, their thetans were captured
by Xenu's forces and implanted with sexual perversion, religion and other
notions to obscure their memory of what Xenu had done.
Soon after, a revolt erupted. Xenu was imprisoned in a wire cage within a
mountain, where he remains today.
But the damage was done.
During the last 75 million years, these implanted thetans have affixed
themselves by the thousands to people on Earth. Called "body thetans," they
overwhelm the main thetan who resides within a person, causing confusion and
internal conflict.
In the Operating Thetan III course, Scientologists are taught to scan their
bodies for "pressure points," indicating the presence of these bad thetans.
Using techniques prescribed by Hubbard, church members make telepathic contact
with these thetans and remind them of Xenu's treachery. With that, Hubbard said,
the thetans detach themselves.
Hubbard first unveiled his Scientology theories during a series of often
breathless lectures he delivered in Wichita, Kan., Phoenix and Philadelphia in
1952.
His talks were sprinkled with tales of interplanetary adventures he said he
had experienced during earlier lives.
There was the time, for instance, that Hubbard said he was resting in a
peaceful valley on a barren planet in some remote galaxy, and decided to spruce
up the place. He said he "fixed up a lake" and "managed to coax into existence a
few vines."
Then, "all of a sudden — zoop boom — and there was a spaceship," Hubbard
recalled, saying "I got pretty mad about the whole thing."
"I remember bringing a thunderstorm," Hubbard said. "Moved it over the ship….
And then (I) let them have it."
Hubbard told associates that he had been many people before being born as
Lafayette Ronald Hubbard on March 13, 1911, in Tilden, Neb. One of them was
Cecil Rhodes, the British-born diamond king of southern Africa. Another,
according to a former aide, was a marshal to Joan of Arc.
After Hubbard's death in 1986, a Scientology publication described him as
"the original musician," who 3 million years ago invented music while going by
the name "Arpen Polo." The publication noted that "he wrote his first song a bit
after the first tick of time."
Hubbard realized that his accounts of past lives, implants and
extraterrestrial creatures might sound suspect to outsiders. So he counseled his
disciples to keep mum.
"Don't start walking around and telling people about space opera because
they're not going to believe you," he said, "and they're going to say, 'Well,
that's just Hubbard.' "
Burglaries and Lies Paved a Path to Prison
- A web of criminal conspiracy to discredit the church's foes resulted
- in
5-year sentences for 11 defendants.
It began with the title of a fairy tale — Snow White.
That was the benign code name Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard gave to an
ominous plan that would envelop his church in scandal and send its upper echelon
to prison, a plan rooted in his ever-deepening fears and suspicions.
Snow White began in 1973 as an effort by Scientology through Freedom of
Information proceedings to purge government files of what Hubbard thought was
false information being circulated worldwide to discredit him and the church.
But the operation soon mushroomed into a massive criminal conspiracy, executed
by the church's legal and investigative arm, the Guardian Office.
Under the direction of Hubbard's wife, Mary Sue, the Guardian Office hatched
one scheme after another to discredit and unnerve Scientology's foes across the
country. Guardian Office members were trained to lie, or in their words, "to
outflow false data effectively." They compiled enemy lists and subjected those
on the lists to smear campaigns and dirty tricks.
Their targets were in the government, the press, the medical profession,
wherever a potential threat surfaced.
The Guardian Office saved the worst for author Paulette Cooper of New York
City, whose scathing 1972 book, "The Scandal of Scientology," pushed her to the
top of the church's roster of enemies.
Among other things, Cooper was framed on criminal charges by Guardian Office
members, who obtained stationery she had touched and then used it to forge bomb
threats to the church in her name.
"You're like the Nazis or the Arabs — I'll bomb you, I'll kill you!" warned
one of the rambling letters.
The church reported the threat to the FBI and directed its agents to Cooper,
whose fingerprints matched those on the letter. Cooper was indicted by a grand
jury not only for the bomb threats, but for lying under oath about her
innocence.
Two years later, the author's reputation and psyche in tatters, prosecutors
dismissed the charges after she had spent nearly $20,000 in legal fees to defend
herself and $6,000 on psychiatric treatment.
It seemed that no plan against perceived enemies was too ambitious or daring.
In Washington, Scientology spies penetrated such high-security agencies as
the Department of Justice and the Internal Revenue Service to find what they had
on Hubbard and the church.
In nighttime raids, they rifled files and photocopied mountains of documents,
many of which the church had unsuccessfully sought under the federal Freedom of
Information Act.
The thefts were inside jobs; the Guardian Office had planted one agent in the
IRS as a clerk typist and another in the Justice Department as the personal
secretary of an assistant U.S. attorney who was handling Freedom of Information
lawsuits filed by Scientology.
So bold had they become that one Guardian Office operative slipped into an
IRS conference room and wired a bugging device into a wall socket before a
crucial meeting on Scientology was to be convened. The operative rigged the
device so he could eavesdrop over his car's FM radio.
The U.S. was losing a war it did not even know it was fighting. But that was
about to change.
Two Scientologists used fake IRS credentials to gain access to government
agencies and then photocopied documents related to the church. Their conspiracy
was exposed when one of the suspects, after 11 months on the lam, became worried
about his plight and confessed to authorities, prompting the FBI to launch one
of the biggest raids in its history.
Armed with power saws, crowbars and bolt cutters, 134 agents burst into three
Scientology locations in Los Angeles and Washington.
They carted off eavesdropping equipment, burglar tools and 48,000 documents
detailing countless operations against "enemies" in public and private life.
In the end, Hubbard's wife and the others were found guilty of charges of
conspiracy and burglary. The grand jury named Hubbard as an unindicted
co-conspirator; the seized Guardian Office files did not directly link him to
the crimes and he professed ignorance of them.
In a memorandum urging stiff sentences for the Scientologists, federal
prosecutors wrote:
"The crime committed by these defendants is of a breadth and scope previously
unheard of. No building, office, desk, or file was safe from their snooping and
prying. No individual or organization was free from their despicable
conspiratorial minds. The tools of their trade were miniature transmitters, lock
picks, secret codes, forged credentials and any other device they found
necessary to carry out their conspiratorial schemes."
The 11 defendants were ordered to serve five years in federal prison. All are
now free.
Church leaders today maintain that this dark chapter in their religion's
history was the work of renegade members who, yes, broke the law but believed
they were justified because the government for two decades had harassed and
persecuted Scientology.
Boston attorney Earle C. Cooley, Scientology's national trial counsel, said
the present church management does not condone the criminal activities of the
old Guardian Office. He said that one of Hubbard's most important dictums was to
"maintain friendly relations with the environment and the public."
"The question that I always have in my mind," Cooley said, "is for how long a
time is the church going to have to continue to pay the price for what the
(Guardian Office) did…. Unfortunately, the church continues to be confronted
with it.
"And the ironic thing is that the people being confronted with it are the
people who wiped it out. And to the church, that's a very frustrating thing."
The Man in Control
A protege of L. Ron Hubbard now leads the church, wielding power with the
stern approach of his mentor.
The Church of Scientology today is run by a high-school dropout who grew up
at the knee of the late L. Ron Hubbard and wields power with the iron-fisted
approach of his mentor.
At 30, David Miscavige is chairman of the board of an organization that sits
atop the bureaucratic labyrinth known as the Church of Scientology.
This organization, the Religious Technology Center, owns the trademarks that
Scientology churches need to operate, including the words Scientology and
Dianetics.
The Religious Technology Center licenses the churches to use the trademarks
and can revoke permission if a church fails to perform properly. Therein rests
much, but not all, of Miscavige's power.
He is the man in control, charting a direction for the organization that is
at once expansionist and combative — in keeping with the dictates and
personality of Hubbard, his role model. He refused repeated requests to be
interviewed for this report.
Church spokesmen say Miscavige is a tireless, no-nonsense leader who works
15-hour days and whose vision is guiding the church's foray into mainstream
society.
"He has a tremendous ability to cut through bull and get to the point," said
one Scientology spokesman, who has worked closely with Miscavige.
"He's an initiator," said another.
High-ranking former Scientologists describe him as a ruthless infighter with
a volatile temper. They say he speaks in a gritty street parlance, punctuated
with expletives.
One recalled the time that Miscavige became enraged with the performances of
Scientology staffers on a church record album. He propped its cover against an
embankment outside his Riverside County, office and shot it repeatedly with a
.45-caliber pistol, said the associate.
To the public, the Rev. Heber Jentzsch, president of the Church of
Scientology International, is portrayed as Scientology's top official. He
appears regularly at news conferences and on talk shows, and was one of a group
of Scientologists detained recently by Spanish officials investigating the
church. In reality, Jentzsch appears to be chiefly responsible for church public
relations.
The real power is consolidated among a handful of Scientologists, led by
Miscavige, who keep low public profiles.
Miscavige's climb to prominence is a lesson in the origins and nature of
power in the church that Hubbard built.
At the age of 14, with the blessing of his Scientologist parents, Miscavige
joined a cadre of trusted youngsters called the "Commodore's messengers." In the
beginning, they merely ran Hubbard's errands. But as they emerged from
adolescence, Hubbard broadened their influence over even the highest-level
church executives.
In time, the messengers controlled the communication lines to and from
Hubbard — a critical component of power in an organization that revered him as
almost saintly. When messengers spoke, they did so with Hubbard's authority.
Bad-mouthing a messenger, Hubbard said, was tantamount to personally challenging
him.
When Hubbard went into hiding in 1980, he left behind but did not forget
Miscavige, one of his favorites.
It was Miscavige's job to ensure that Hubbard's orders, secretly relayed to
him, were followed by church executives. In effect, Miscavige became the sole
link between church leaders and Hubbard.
Miscavige also was put in charge of a profit-making firm called Author
Services Inc., which was established in 1981 to manage Hubbard's literary and
financial affairs. The job further enhanced Miscavige's reputation as having
Hubbard's confidence.
Church defectors say Miscavige wasted no time flexing his new muscles.
Among other things, he spearheaded a purge in 1981 of upper-echelon
Scientology executives accused of subverting Hubbard's teachings and plotting to
seize control of the organization.
He also cracked down on owners of Scientology franchises, or missions, who
pay the church roughly 10% of their gross income.
At a 1982 church conference, Miscavige accused the mission owners of cheating
the "mother church." He and his aides announced that "finance police" would
audit the missions to ensure that the church was getting its fair share of
money. And the audits would cost the missions $15,000 a day.
In taking command of Scientology after Hubbard's death, Miscavige survived a
challenge from two other Hubbard lieutenants once thought to be his likely
successors: Pat and Anne Broeker, who had been in hiding with Hubbard.
The power struggle was so intense at one point that even Hubbard's final
Scientology writings, revered as sacred scriptures, became the object of a tug
of war between Miscavige and Pat Broeker, according to Vicki Aznaran, a top
Scientology executive who left the church in 1987 after a falling out. Aznaran
said Broeker threatened to use the writings to start his own church.
Miscavige today has achieved exalted status within the Scientology movement.
He has personal aides who walk his dog, shine his shoes and run his errands,
according to Aznaran, a top Scientology executive who left the church in 1987
after a falling-out. In his rare public appearances, he is surrounded by
respectful subordinates.
And like Hubbard, who was frequently referred to by his initials, David
Miscavige is called D.M.
Staking a Claim to Blood Brotherhood
As L. Ron Hubbard told it, he was 4 years old when a medicine man named "Old
Tom" made him a "blood brother" of the Blackfeet Indians of Montana, providing
the inspiration for the Scientology founder's first novel, "Buckskin Brigades."
But one expert on the tribe doesn't buy Hubbard's account.
Historian Hugh Dempsey is associate director of the Glenbow Museum in
Calgary, Canada. He has extensively researched the tribe, of which his wife is a
member.
He said that blood brothers are "an old Hollywood idea" and that the act was
"never done among the Blackfeet."
As for "Old Tom," Dempsey has informed doubts. For one thing, he said, the
name does not appear in a 1907 Blackfeet enrollment register containing the
names of hundreds of tribal members.
For another, "It's the kind of name, for that period (1915), that would
practically not exist among the Blackfeet," he said. "At that time, Blackfeet
did not have Christian names."
In 1985, church leaders produced a document that they say proves Hubbard was
not lying.
Typed on Blackfeet Nation stationery, it states: "To commemorate the
seventieth anniversary of L. Ron Hubbard becoming a blood brother of the
Blackfeet Nation. Tree Manyfeathers in a ceremony re-established L. Ron Hubbard
as a blood brother to the Blackfeet Tribe."
The document actually is meaningless because none of the three men who signed
it were authorized to take any action on the tribe's behalf, according to
Blackfeet Nation officials.
The document was created by Richard Mataisz, a Scientologist of fractional
Indian descent. Mataisz said in an interview he tried to prove that Hubbard was
a Blackfeet blood brother but came up empty-handed.
"It's not," he said, "something you go down to the courthouse and look up."
So Mataisz, using the name Tree Manyfeathers, said he held a private
ceremony, made Hubbard his own blood brother and, along with two other men,
signed the commemorative document.
"You should not give it (the document) very much credibility," said John
Yellow Kidney, former vice president of the tribe's executive committee. "I
don't."
Church Scriptures Get High-Tech Protection
Scientology is determined that the words of L. Ron Hubbard shall live
forever.
Using state-of-the art technology, the movement has spent more than $15
million to protect Hubbard's original writings, tape-recorded lectures and
filmed treatises from natural and man-made calamities, including nuclear
holocaust.
The effort illustrates two fundamental truths about the Scientology movement:
It believes in its future and it never does anything halfheartedly.
In charge of the preservation task is the Church of Spiritual Technology,
which functions as archivist for Hubbard's works.
It has a staff — but no congregation — and its fiscal 1987 income was $503
million, according to court documents filed by the church.
The organization has purchased rural land in New Mexico, Northern California
and San Bernardino Mountains to store the Hubbard gospel.
According to Church of Spiritual Technology documents, the New Mexico site
has a 670-foot tunnel with two deep vaults at the end. The tunnel is protected
with thick concrete and has four doors with "maintenance-free lives of 1,000
years."
Three of the doors purportedly will be "nuclear blast resistant."
All this to house mere copies of the original works, which include 500,000
pages of Hubbard writings, 6,500 reels of tape and 42 films.The originals
themselves are being kept under tight security on a sprawling Scientology
complex near Lake Arrowhead.
While details of the facility are sketchy, a San Bernardino County sheriff's
deputy, who requested anonymity, said the group has burrowed a huge tunnel into
a mountainside.
At the Arrowhead repository, sophisticated methods are being used to prepare
Hubbard's works for the bomb-proof vaults. Here, according to Scientology
officials and documents, is the process:
First, the original writings are chemically treated to rid the paper of acid
that causes deterioration. Next, they are placed in plastic envelopes that
church officials say will last 1,000 years.
From there, they are packaged in titanium "time capsules" filled with argon
gas to further aid preservation.
Hubbard's writings also are being etched onto stainless steel plates with a
strong acid. Scientology officials said the plates are so durable that they can
be sprayed with salt water for 1,000 years and not deteriorate.
As for Hubbard's taped lectures, they are being re-recorded onto special
"pure gold" compact discs encased in glass that, according to Scientology
archvists, are "designed to last at least 1,000 years with no deterioration of
sound quality."  Previous Table of Contents
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