The question at the heart of Lawrence Wright's new book, Going Clear, is obvious, yet seldom asked: Why would anyone in their right mind become a Scientologist? Some would say, "Nobody in their right mind does." But I don't think that's quite fair, or accurate. Plenty of sane, accomplished, otherwise ordinary and intelligent people have at least dabbled in Scientology. Leonard Cohen did. So did Jerry Seinfeld. Even Mikhail Baryshnikov, the ballet legend, took courses. So what is the appeal? Why do reasonable people continue to tie themselves to a church with a reputation for ruthlessness?

Wright doesn't quite answer these question directly, but he does provide many clues. (And some fantastic reporting.) He suggests that a large part of it has to do with convincing people that they are superior, immortal beings. Through Scientology "auditing" (a kind of therapy conducted while holding cans), people are led to believe they have memories of past lifetimes — as a rival of Machiavelli's, or a race-car driver in the alien Marcab civilization, as Hubbard claimed to have been. They are persuaded that with enough practice — and enough expensive coursework — they can control the laws of matter, energy, space, and time. Many are also made to have out-of-body experiences.

"Sometimes during the course of these treatments, people have the feeling of leaving their body. They actually 'go exterior,' as they say. After that, you're hooked," Wright says in a video included in the "Enhanced Edition" of the book.

Scientology, in other words, is well-designed to have a pull on a certain sort of person who believes highly (excessively?) in their own abilities, and likes to be reaffirmed. That includes Tom Cruise, who is recalled by one defector as saying: "If fucking Arnold can be governor, I could be president." Responded church leader David Miscavige: "Well, absolutely, Tom."

Other would-be candidates include people drawn to mind-altering experiences, who crave mystery, mission, and a higher purpose in life. Someone, perhaps, a bit like you and me. I can personally attest to this pull.

As a journalist, I began reporting on Scientology in 2011. (I focused mainly on their education practices at a remote Oregon boarding school and a Los Angeles business school.) As with any subject, but even more so, I immersed myself in Scientology materials. I read reams of text. I spoke with ex-Scientologists of all ranks (including some who seem to have been sources for Wright's book) and liked almost all of them. None of this persuaded me to convert, of course. (Especially after talking to people who had spent years in the RPF, which defectors describe as a prison labor camp.) But I did see how Scientology could tug at a person with my tendencies and weaknesses.

Scientology is a sprawling, self-contained world: catnip for the obsessive and the monomaniac. It has its own lingo. It has millions of words of "scripture." It has charts and chains of command and courses upon courses. It feels like a giant mental labyrinth cut off from the outside world. To a certain kind of nerd, it's intoxicating in a similar way to, say, Dungeons and Dragons.

In fact, being a Scientologist is a lot like living in a video game: As you ascend through the levels of Scientology, you discover that you are on a cosmic quest; you have multiple lives; you (supposedly) gain super powers; you unlock secret levels. Unlike Grand Theft Auto, though, no one ever "beats" this game.

And then there's all the cloak-and-dagger intrigue. As Wright documents, the church has a long history of secrecy, spying, and old-fashioned thuggery. One Scientologist he interviews recounts how, in order to thwart defectors, his team staked out their relatives' houses, impersonated family to get flight details, and conned telecom companies to get phone records. Other clandestine exploits include stealing documents from the IRS and infiltrating the Justice, Treasury, and Labor Departments as part of Scientology's "Operation Snow White," the largest domestic espionage ring in US history.

To seal the deal — and soothe the believer's conscience — all this work is presented as being in the service of a cosmic mission. You could say that Scientologists regard themselves as the Knights Templar of L. Ron Hubbard. They steep themselves in ritual, and observe a strict organizational hierarchy. The church tries to project an aura of mystery and power on par with the great world religions. "To keep a person on the Scientology path," Hubbard said, "feed him a mystery sandwich." If nothing else, Scientology is full of mystery sandwiches.

Adepts learn that when they obtain a certain level of progress on "The Bridge to Total Freedom" — a measure of Scientology enlightenment that goes in degrees, like a karate belt — they will possess superhuman abilities: clairvoyance, telekinesis, the ability to see the future.

Realizing this is not true is, needless to say, a letdown. "I didn't get these amazing abilities," one low-level ex-Scientologist told me in 2011. "I got a few neat things. But it wasn't worth the control."

None of this is to say that anyone should become a Scientologist. Don't. Allegations of forced labor and physical abuse are widespread and well-known. Vindictive policies have ruined countless careers, reputations, and families. My own family lost a relative to Scientology decades ago under circumstances that have left lasting pain and confusion. But understanding what factors bring people into the Scientology fold can help others to avoid them.

Bit by bit, revelation by revelation, the church does seem to be losing its edge. The ease with which Katie Holmes left Tom Cruise, their most prized and prominent celebrity follower, seems to show a loss of control. And for all its strenuous attempts to be seen as just another faith, Scientology today is a stigmatized and wounded organization. Its ranks have been steadily decreasing for years, down to roughly 30,000, even as sits on over $1 billion in liquid assets — a figure that "eclipses the holdings of most major world religions," Wright says.

Wright's book is a worthy exploration of these and other themes. While Going Clear is relatively weaker in discussing ordinary, grassroots Scientologists than Janet Reitman's masterful Inside Scientology of 2011, Wright's colorful accounts of Hubbard's early days in the Los Angeles occult scene (particularly his participation in black-magic sex parties) more than compensates.

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