I Did A Personality Test At The Church Of Scientology

“I’ll meet you in the city when your class finishes and I’m taking you somewhere special.”

A day trip to Sydney’s Church of Scientology wasn’t really what I had in mind when Pete said we should ‘chill’ on a surprisingly beautiful and balmy autumn afternoon. Living on opposites end of the city, and our schedules constantly overlapping, we understandably milk our sporadic time together for all it’s worth. Scaling waterfalls, farting in tight spaces, secluded picnics on the harbour, making out in the park when the cafes are full. That kind of stuff.

But then again, it shouldn’t have really come as a surprise. Having covered just about every potential conversational subject known to man, we’d often pondered the mysteries surrounding Scientology, a religion that has drawn in idols such as Beck, and famous people such as Tom Cruise. Not to mention I’ve lived in Sydney for near six years, and the building isn’t so unfamiliar to me. I can’t count how many times I’d walked past it on my way to work (or stumbled past on a night out).

Approaching the church that Pete likened aesthetically to a cosmetics store, we kissed each other reassuringly, stomped out our cigarettes on the gum-peppered pavement and abandoned all scepticism as we strode through the open double doors. We were ready to take the plunge.

Paul – he would have been a similar age to us – greeted us ardently from behind the counter (yes a counter) and led us directly to the testing space, where our personalities would be measured.

There was no introductory crash course regarding the religion, what our interest in the church was or any basic formalities, just the efficiency of figuring out how our personalities measured up. Would they be compatible? Would they shock me? How do they calculate my results? Does the emphasis on a free test mean that they want my money upon completion before I progress to the ‘next round’?

Hush, I told myself, the answers would surely come.

I was grinning as I took my seat. I scoped my surroundings and found it identical to Pete’s previous comment: antiseptic. All the employees were wearing get ups duplicate to the staff at a Myer Department store. There were massive bookshelves advertising HAPPINESS and OVERCOMING FEAR, huge scaled televisions in glassed enclosures boomed at those who had wandered into the Church before me (either tourists, sceptics or the curious) concerning topics of marriage and children.

A couple was already seated, deeply absorbed by the test, occasionally leaning over their desk barrier to consult one another on a particular question.

Paul laid out our paperwork with little instruction. The front page explained that ‘your IQ, personality and aptitude determine your future success and happiness. The Oxford Capacity Analysis has benefited millions of people since 1960. It is the only test of its kind that delivers measurable, accurate analysis. You are a unique individual with your own personality traits—some of these traits enable you to achieve great things in life, and others can seem to hold you back and ultimately stifle your true potential.’

I began to fill out my address in the contact section when Pete pulled a perplexed expression. “Dude I’m going to be honest the whole way. C’mon, what’s the worst they could potentially send me, I’m not giving them my credit card details.”

He shrugged and jotted down my address too. It was riding solo from there on. The questions were simple enough. 200 in total, a yes, no or neutral answer required.

I breezed through mine, answering as scrupulously as possible and taking gulps of bewilderment at certain questions. I was occasionally stumped, by queries like ‘If you invaded a country, would you feel apathetic for the citizens that identify as conscientious objectors’.

The suspicious serenity was interrupted as a blatantly stoned man took a seat across from me, knocking over pencils and giggling, while another was answering his phone in the thickest Maori accent I’ve ever overheard. “Oh I’m just doin’ a quiz bro!” he proclaimed.

After signalling to an attendant (Member of the church? Employee? At that point it was unclear as to how I should address the staff) who took my test away, I was ushered to a seat to view an educational video of my choosing. I was more entranced by the quotes etched on the bookshelves.

Pete eventually joined me, revealing that he wasn’t completely honest with his responses. Meh. One of us was- it’ll make for a more stimulating experiment, considering the variables.

We meandered through the video menu, looking for the overview of the Church that we had assumed we would have been given upon arrival. In its absence, to Pete’s dismay, I selected the marriage video, and we were bombarded with overzealous failed scenarios that we were to avoid. I regretted my decision immediately. There was zero enlightenment, and I was distracted by the bookstore (bookstore?) and the elderly gentleman sitting behind the counter scratching his balls.

Before we could scoff at the prices of the books (all by the same author, the elusive founder of Scientology, L Ron Hubbard), our results were in.

Again, we were separated. All this was occurring in the same hall. Enclosures were made out of glistening glass that reminded me of an old time police station, but far more sterile.

Wendy hailed me away from the ominous marriage seminar and eagerly sat me down in her booth to examine my results. She was a reasonably well-presented woman, middle aged, not intimidating in the slightest, but as our conversation progressed, it was made rapidly apparent that while meek in nature, Wendy was quite assuming and confrontational. I had the persistent urge to ask her what her qualifications were, but I resisted being a cunt. I was a willing participant, after all.

My results were presented in a graph and she was visibly appalled by the grim nature of my outcome.

“Sasha, I’m concerned. There is high aggression activity and the most appalling depressive nature I’ve ever encountered. Tell me, has someone died recently, were you assaulted, suicidal thoughts?”

WHOAH.

I understand that churches often feel they have a spiritual obligation and responsibility to their members, but this was the first thing she said to me after pleasantries and introductions were exchanged. And I’m not even a member. This is a personality exercise, but God, the bluntness! After initial abandonment of scepticism, I could feel it creeping back.

I resisted every urge to remark that if indeed I did have these feelings of aggression, I would seek ‘professional’ help. But I wasn’t there to belittle or question her work.

It was absurd. The Church, whilst preaching to be a temple dedicated to the pursuit of happiness and realising your full potential, was quick to assume the worst in me. Not that I wanted to rush out of the joint, but I wanted her to get away from the test for a second and see me as a living, breathing, fucking articulate young woman.

“I honestly thought the test would emphasise the good aspects of my personality,” I disclosed, hoping that the conversation would take a different direction.

“In saying that, what is the exact measurement you use to graph the results?”

“Yes these are the worst results I’ve ever seen. We need to fix this Sasha. It may take some time. We don’t have time to go into the technicalities of the difficult process that is graphing the results.”

The conversation went in circles. I can remember her using the phrase ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ an obscene amount. As I swayed in and out of involved consciousness, that’s all that was ringing in my cranium. This woman, who proclaimed that the test assisted her in changing all aspects of her life for the better, was patronising. I could smell her money-grabbing ambitions as she gave up on my defences and turned to Hubbard’s collection of books.

After conjuring a not so white lie (people usually understand the financial woes of students) about not being able to afford the literature, her sigh engulfed the entire hall. It was clear: I was a lost cause. I led the way to the exit, Wendy hot on my heels.

“Here are some DVDs in case you reconsider, you can watch them in a darkly lit room and feel the light that the positive talk will bring you.”

“Thank you Wendy.”

“Your soul needs to be saved.”

I got the fuck out. No sale.

Pete had a cigarette rolled for me. He was laughing, I was reverberating. I was nothing but pleasant. I’m sure a ‘test analyser’ as possessed as Wendy is a 1:100 shot if you decide to undergo a personality test, but I have to go past that damn building every day on my bus ride to university and be reminded of that hellish 60 minutes.

Sure, I was only in there for an hour, but there was no divulging of their beliefs. That is, unless I wanted to fork out hundreds of dollars to attend courses in striving for happiness. And then, maybe, they might disclose what it’s all about.

It’s ok though. I have my happiness. I wanted enlightenment, but instead, I signed up to a personality test and a complete stranger tore me a new asshole.
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Words by Sasha Godman.