Rich and Anne-Marie Dunning joined the Church of Scientology of
Buffalo because they wanted to help save the world.
When they left their high-level church staff jobs on Mother's Day
2003, it was to save themselves.
By then, the Niagara Falls couple had concluded the church was an
authoritarian, money-making cult that brainwashes its followers.
They say they ought to know, because it happened to them.
The Dunnings claim the church demanded unquestioning obedience to
every church policy, belief and decision. They say it kept members in
line with an elaborate security system - including use of personal
files and lie detectorlike devices; a system for informing on others,
including spouses; and its own justice system.
The church also nearly gained control of their 9-year-old
daughter.
"You're told your outside life is causing you harm. Your whole life is
supposed to revolve around Scientology and nothing else," said Rich
Dunning, 31, who was on the local church's staff from October 2001 to
May 2003. "Over time, you forget there is an outside world."
Dunning, who works as a science laboratory technician at Niabraze
Corp. in the Town of Tonawanda, was deputy executive director of the
church here. Anne-Marie Dunning worked for six months as an "ethics
officer."
Today, the Dunnings have broken off all ties with Scientology - and
they're trying to rebuild their lives.
Al Buttnor, the Church of Scientology's Canadian spokesman, claimed it
isn't unusual for members of newer religions such as Scientology to
abandon them, only to - in the words of Southern Methodist University
religious professor Lonnie Kliever - "magnify small flaws into huge
evils. They turn personal disappointments into malicious
betrayals."
Beth Akiyama, a church spokeswoman from New York City, said the
Dunnings did not properly understand Scientology.
"Their claims are completely false and are so distorted that it shows
their lack of understanding of Scientology," Akiyama said.
Scientologists from the Buffalo church also dispute the Dunnings'
claims.
They defend the church - which they say has about 500 local members -
as a place where Western New York residents use the philosophic
religion to seek enlightenment and self-improvement.
"The most common misperception is that we're a cult, that we're a
closed, secret society," said Teresa Reger of East Aurora, the
church's local president. "That's so funny because we're the most open
group you'd ever want to see."
Change for the good
Buffalo Scientologists say the church has positively changed their
lives.
"I was able to increase my own personal integrity to a point where I
became very certain about myself," said Mary Ojeda, a former
Buffalonian who now lives in Glens Falls and credits Scientology for
helping her turn away from cocaine use. "I was able to have my feet
planted firmly on the ground."
The church combats drugs through Drug-Free Marshals, which it founded
to target youth, and a drug detoxification program developed by
Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard.
The Buffalo church works with the Scientology-created Citizens
Commission on Human Rights to speak out against psychiatry.
And some members work with Scientology's volunteer ministers, who
offer help at disasters such as the aftermath of 9/11 in New York City
and the tsunami in the Indian Ocean.
The church also advances Hubbard's "study technology" to tackle
illiteracy.
Hubbard's teachings are offered at the church and the Joy of Learning
Center, a small, privately owned and Scientology-linked school that
opened a year ago in the former Pierce-Arrow building on Elmwood
Avenue in Buffalo.
The Buffalo church's main patron is Joseph Sgroi of Sgroi Financial, a
financial planning firm in West Seneca. The Williamsville resident
gave more than $1 million toward the building's more than $2 million
renovation in 2003 and an additional $470,000 to national and
international Scientology projects.
Sgroi is a proponent of the church's social improvement programs,
particularly its study of technology. But Scientologists' "study tech"
has met resistance in Buffalo and elsewhere.
Tracy Diina, executive director of Literacy Volunteers of Buffalo &
Erie County, said the church contacted her about using Hubbard's study
program. She declined.
"My biggest concern is that their methodology is not sound
educationally," Diina said. "They couldn't seem to point to
educational principles that are employed."
Not a Christian faith
In the beginning, the Dunnings said, they were seduced by the church's
warm embrace of new members.
They bought into its goals to "clear the planet" of mental illness and
strife.
The church also appealed to Rich Dunning because he desired acceptance
in a group. That quest had taken him from hanging around with racist
skinheads in his teens - something he now regrets with "every fiber of
my being" - to exploring religions.
Dunning, who had used psychedelic drugs years earlier, was also
attracted to the church for its drug detoxification program.
The elements of Scientology that attracted the Dunnings form some of
the church's main selling points.
Scientology promises to lead its members toward enlightenment, clear
them of harmful substances and provide them an all-absorbing community
of like-minded believers.
One thing Scientology does not do, however, is worship God, although
it believes in a "Supreme Being." It is not a Christian religion, and
it is not related to Christian Science.
That lack of a God-centered belief system has led to questions about
whether Scientology is a religion.
Members insist that it is.
"The basic philosophic beliefs are religious," said Jeff Hahn, a
certified financial planner from Williamsville. "The belief that man
is a spiritual being and is basically good, that he can live his life
at a higher level of spirituality and that his relationship with a
supreme being is unique and personal and not up to the judgment of
others."
But others dispute that. They said the church is a business, not a
religion.
"I was raised a Catholic, and I always did believe in God. But you
never read about anything (to do with God), ever, in Scientology,"
said Tory Christman, an ex-member who lives in California. "The truth
is, Hubbard didn't believe in God, not really. The tech is the
religion."
The selling spirit
Once at the Buffalo church, the Dunnings said they found the staff
under constant pressure to rake in money. The focus, they said, was
always on boosting the weekly "stats," which measure the church's
performance in such areas as income and memberships.
The Dunnings said they were trained to persuade members to buy
expensive courses and 121/2-hour blocks of spiritual counseling, or
"auditing" time, at the downtown church on Main Street at Virginia
Street, just north of the Theater District.
The building is an inviting, state-of-the-art facility, gleaming with
polished wood, fresh paint and high-tech plasma screens.
The nearly two-story tall main floor includes a room with long desks
for reading and studying Scientology texts. From a mezzanine level,
members of the church's Correction Division inform staff below if they
spot someone studying incorrectly.
The sanctuary is on the church's fourth floor, encircled by placards
touting Hubbard's accomplishments. There is also an office furnished
for Hubbard's use, as if his death 19 years ago never occurred.
Courses and auditing offered by Scientology quickly get pricey.
They start at a few dozen dollars and quickly accelerate, up to
$12,000 and more for high-level courses or tens of thousands when
purchased in packages.
It can cost more than $300,000 over a lifetime to climb the church's
"Bridge to Total Freedom," confirmed Reger, the local president.
"It's no different from going to Harvard for four years," she
said. "Not only do we attract upscale, successful people, but a lot of
people come in who aren't yet but become that way because of
Scientology."
But for the Dunnings, at least, selling people such expensive
treatments felt wrong.
"It made me feel horrible to try to get people who didn't have much
money to come up with funds they didn't have," Rich Dunning said. "The
people wanted it, though, and you just had to find their button to
want it even more."
A billion-year contract
The Dunnings' most chilling experience, they said, involved their
daughter Alicia when she was 9.
In 2003, Alicia signed - and her mother co-signed - a contract that
was to last one billion years (Scientologists believe in
reincarnation) with the church's elite Sea Organization, a group of
devoted followers. The "Sea Org," as it's called, has a militarylike
command structure, and members wear mock naval uniforms. When she got
a little older, Alicia would be turned over to the Sea Org to be
raised and educated in New York City for a career in Scientology.
"I didn't look at it that she was going to be taken away," recalled
Dunning. "This was an honor. She was going to be groomed for
international management."
The contract was canceled when the Dunnings quit the church. Alicia is
now 11, and her parents say they can't fathom how they almost allowed
her to leave.
Rich Dunning shudders when he recalls the Sea Org official's departing
words: "I'll be back for her when she's 13."
Beth Akiyama, a church spokeswoman in New York City, said the contract
was voluntary.
"It's like when you become a nun, you pledge your eternity," Akiyama
said.
The Dunnings said they were exposed to bizarre happenings during their
year-and-a-half as Scientologists.
On the Saturday before Easter in 2003, the Dunnings were hastily
summoned to an early evening staff meeting. It followed the tragic
deaths, one month apart, of two upper-level members - Elli Perkins,
who was killed by her son, and Marie Bolt, who died in a car
accident.
The church believes spiritually advanced Scientologists aren't
supposed to meet unfortunate fates, the Dunnings said, and it was
feared a "suppressive person" must be in the ranks who was in some way
responsible.
A suppressive person is someone from among the 20 percent of the
population that Hubbard declared was predisposed against
Scientology.
A Sea Org member from out of town was brought in to lead the
meeting. The staff members were put into a room, the windows were
drawn, and Executive Director Jeffrey Carlson - Perkins' son-in-law -
stood at the door to prevent anyone from leaving, the Dunnings
said.
In the end, no "suppressive" person was found.
Anne-Marie Dunning had planned to go Easter shopping for her children
that night. She thought of not going to the meeting but feared being
assigned a "condition of treason" for putting her own needs ahead of
the church's. That would have meant confessing her moral
transgressions in writing, she said, and undergoing a "security check"
interrogation using a lie detector-type device called an E-Meter.
Deciding to leave
The Dunnings' parents tried to warn them against Scientology. They
confronted them one night with material claiming the church was a
dangerous cult.
But because Scientology teaches such information is harmful, the
Dunnings decided to return it, unread, in a sealed envelope.
After Anne-Marie fell asleep, however, Rich took the papers out. What
he read, he admitted to himself, rang true. But he didn't dare tell
Anne-Marie, because she would have been required to turn in a
"knowledge report" detailing his doubts to church authorities.
"I was afraid she would have turned me in," Rich said.
The next day, the Dunnings gave the envelope to Carlson, who asked if
they had looked inside. Satisfied they hadn't, Rich Dunning said
Carlson told him they would have to start to "handle or disconnect"
from their families.
Carlson did not return phone calls from The News.
Buttnor, the church's Canadian spokesman, said advancing spiritually
is only possible by not being encumbered by people opposed to the
religion. Disconnection, he said, is a last resort.
"In Scientology, we're about reason. We're about understanding. We're
about love," Buttnor said. "If someone in your family has a
disagreement, you should be able to deal with that."
The Dunnings began to lessen contact with their parents, until they
slowly began to open up with each other about their unhappiness with
the church.
Rich Dunning said the grind of working for the church was taking a
physical and mental toll.
"You're there a lot, you're constantly barraged with orders, and sleep
deprivation sets in until you get like a zombie," Dunning said.
An important catalyst for leaving, he said, was getting on the
Internet and reading about former members' experiences that resembled
his own.
For Anne-Marie Dunning, it was a moment of clarity in May 2003 that
put her at peace.
"When I made the decision to leave," she said, "all I could think
about was, "Oh my God, I'm going to be labeled a suppressive person.'
I said that to my mom. What am I going to do?
"She looked at me straight in the eye and said, "What does that mean
in the real world?'"
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