City Critic

For all the rumors that swirl around the Church of Scientology — the accusations that it is a cult, the hints about its supernatural teachings, the means by which it attracts so many celebrities — its center on West 46th Street, tucked between the soignée Paramount Hotel and the workaday Edison, is a rather straightforward presence.

The building looks more like a modern corporate headquarters than a religious outpost, with shiny black granite and a display of the founder’s books. A large stained glass panel is the only visual clue to the group’s religious claims.

Down a half-flight of stairs, placards celebrate the accomplishments of Scientologists working with drug addicts or performing missionary functions around the world. Every few feet, videos scored with triumphal music explain things like the relationship of the spirit to the body.

A woman welcomed me with a warm grin. When I said I was a writer — I did not say what kind — she asked if I had written any books. Alas, no. “Well, maybe we’ll find out why not,” she said. “Scientology makes able people more able.”

The first step was a personality test with 200 sometimes puzzling questions. Many addressed my interactions with others. Some asked about depression and suicide. A few were out of the blue: “Do you consider the modern ‘prisons without bars’ system to be doomed to failure?”

I tried to answer honestly: Yes, past failures sometimes trouble me. Though even as I filled in the oval, I thought: Tom Cruise would never admit such weakness.

The results were plotted along 10 axes, like stable/unstable, happy/nervous. I scored in the top 25 percent for most categories, and I saw a few eyebrows rise approvingly. But the test said I had only average communication skills and was overly critical: Interesting, given my job.

When I returned the next morning, everyone seemed very happy to see me. A platinum-haired woman sat me down and asked a big question: What had I heard about Scientology?

This summer, the latest in a series of defectors went public with accusations of intimidation by the group’s leaders. Last month a French court fined the group nearly $900,000 for fraud. Other European countries have further curtailed its activities.

I said that I knew some were critical of the church (“a few groups of people,” she said, “mostly manipulators, like bankers”), but that I wanted to learn more.

The test, for example: Was it sound? If I’m asked, say, whether people enjoy my company, does my response show how well I know myself, or how little? Could the test just be a survey of the lies we tell ourselves?

She did not see it that way. She felt that an introduction to Scientology course ($84 for 10 hours of personal instruction) could help an “upstat” — high scoring — person like me achieve my long-term goals.

As our discussion neared 90 minutes, I started to think, celebrity nonsense notwithstanding, what if Scientology’s basic method really does produce clarity of mind? I pictured my friends’ faces if I were to start preaching my new gospel. The improbability of it all made it that much more appealing.

I agreed to take the course. Just one thing: would I fill out this card for a six-month church membership?

Well, no. I was game to learn more, but not about to join. I was reluctant even to give my last name.

That didn’t sit well, with her or her supervisor, who talked to me for quite some time. Eventually I coughed up a last name — my husband’s.

Two pro forma questions: Am I wanted by the law? Am I in psychiatric care? Good. Then all that remained was to sign the waiver:

“By signing this agreement I recognize, acknowledge and agree that: A. Scientology is a religion and all the services and activities of the Scientology religion are exclusively religious in nature and intended for the betterment and well-being of mankind,” it read in part. “B. The Founder of Scientology is L. Ron Hubbard. The writings and the recorded spoken words of Mr. Hubbard on the subject of Scientology present a guide intended to...” etc.

What?

I had not read a single word of Hubbard, and wasn’t about to attest to things just because someone said they were true. But no waiver, no course.

I could, however, take a correspondence course — and to be nice, they let me start right there in the library. To reciprocate, I gave my real last name. And then I got down to studying.

The introduction to Mr. Hubbard’s “A New Slant on Life” tells readers to look up any words they don’t know. After I’d read a few chapters, a friendly young instructor quizzed me on some of the words they contained: Did I know what esoteric meant? Nobility? Critical? He seemed really impressed that I did.

One of the book’s main ideas is that people can learn only by questioning. Many pages are spent explaining the folly of believing something just because an authority figure said it was true. So then what about that waiver?

While I pondered this paradox, the instructors exchanged a few whispers, then asked everyone to leave for a short break. As they exited, a man in a tan suit entered, and extended his hand to me. He was the president of the New York chapter. Apparently while I had been studying, someone had been Googling. He complimented me on my articles in The New York Times. And my adventure in the press-shy Church of Scientology came to a halt.

He was very polite, even inviting me back for a tour. But after a few minutes, he escorted me out.

He said that location attracted 700 to 800 visitors a week. That would be more than 100 a day. I did not see anything close to that, but who knows. I would have liked to stick around longer and learn on my own what the group so often in the headlines was all about.

Perhaps the very nice people I met along the way will now dismiss me as one of the manipulators, in league with price-fixing bankers. Or perhaps they still view me as a potential member. For anyone who’s curious, the doors are open 9 a.m. to 10 p.m., seven days a week. Just be careful what you sign.

Email: citycritic@nytimes.com