Omelets, Waffles and L. Ron Hubbard

I don’t believe in god, but my faith in brunch is unshakable. And so, with Scientology drawing headlines if not general approbation on account of Tom Cruise and his obeisant fiancee, Katie Holmes, I thought it might be illuminating to take in the Sunday brunch at Scientology’s Celebrity Centre, a cast-concrete chateau in the heart of Hollywood. What was the mood of the place now that Scientology’s most famous adherent had managed to turn Scientology into, if only temporarily, the Church of the Raving Jerk?

Cruise’s rants against antidepressants and psychiatry, on the “Today” show and elsewhere, aroused my curiosity about Scientology in the same way that I’m curious about car wrecks. Either Tom Cruise or Scientology is crazy. Which one is it?

I would ask a Scientologist, if I knew one, and the fact that I don’t also is a little worrisome.

The Celebrity Centre’s Sunday brunch--$25 per person and open to the public--seemed like a relatively safe way to look behind the ivy. Would my wife and I see glowing thetan beings busing tables? Would they make us buy a time-share in Ocean City, Md.?

The main parking lot was full, so we parked in a lower-level deck, behind a motorized gate that rang shut behind us. I wondered if they would let us out.

The facility, called the Manor Hotel, is actually quite lovely, all white-walled and gilt-corniced in the faux-rococo style so well-practiced in old Hollywood. The place was conspicuously free of spacemen. The building started life in 1929 as the Chateau Elysee, a luxury apartment house and hotel, and the feel of well-established finances remains. The first thing visitors see when they walk up to the house is the very large, very splendid Rose Garden Cafe, an espresso bar.

OK, time out. If, according to Cruise, Ritalin is an unhealthy psychotropic crutch, what is a three-shot grande latte? On the wall outside the cafe was a banner announcing a drug rehabilitation seminar, inviting me to get “clear.” Fine, I’ll go, as long as there is coffee.

To reach the gardens, you walk down a hallway filled with L. Ron Hubbard hagiography. I am no authority on the founder of Scientology and author of “Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health,” but I know a padded resume when I see one. For claims of lifetime accomplishments, LRH--who is celebrated as a master mariner, aviator, geologist, mineralogist, composer/arranger, choreographer, poet, lawgiver--makes North Korea’s former “Great Leader” Kim Il Sung seem like a paragon of blushing modesty.

Whatever fantasies I might have had about quizzing anybody regarding l’affaire Cruise quickly evaporated. The man who took my credit card was unremarkable--Scientologists: They walk among us! In no way was it clear from looking at the staff who, if any, might be true believers and who might be unaffiliated working stiffs. They were all reasonably pleasant, though “clear”--especially at 10:30 in the morning--was perhaps too much to ask.

Regardless of Scientologists’ rarefied Gnostic beliefs and drug-free codes of conduct, they eat like professional bowlers. Roast beef, turkey roll, omelets, waffles and whipped butter, beautiful spreads of cheese, fruits and desserts, including jellied candies. I was making my way to the waffles when the chef at the carving table ran up to me: “I want to be of service,” he said eagerly.

We sat at a table outside, by the cascading fountains, under the ficus trees. A jazz trio under the pergola in the yard played that singularly unclear anthem, “Margaritaville.” The small crowd of diners looked ordinary enough, though I thought I saw glances passed among them that asked, Are you one?

My guess is that a fair number of curiosity-seekers come to the Sunday brunch every weekend just to see if Scientologists have two heads or something. Fortunately, the food is good and the coffee is excellent.

As for Tom Cruise, well, religion and celebrity don’t play well together, for obvious reasons. The former is, or ought to be, personal and interior and inaccessibly private. And whatever the tenets of one’s particular faith, they will seem just crazy and heretical to many in the vast and undifferentiated audience that celebrity plays to. Put another way, faith is sectarian and celebrity is ecumenical.

Richard Gere’s practice of Tibetan Buddhism--which is about as sane and nondogmatic as religion gets--has let him in for all kinds of abuse. To Gere’s credit, he has happily spoofed his image of too-groovy transcendence in a memorable episode of “The Simpsons.” “It’s a good thing Buddhism teaches freedom from desire,” Gere says to the character Lenny, “because I’ve got the desire to kick your ass!”

I wonder if Cruise will ever be able to laugh at himself like that.

Check, please.