How Scientology Destroyed Its Biggest Enemy: The Chilling Takeover of the Cult Awareness Network
It’s a story that sounds like it was ripped from a spy thriller. A plot so audacious, so perfectly executed, it feels like fiction. But it’s not. It’s the story of how a powerful, controversial organization faced its most vocal critic and didn’t just defeat it. It consumed it. It hollowed it out and wore its skin like a trophy.
This is the story of the Cult Awareness Network, or CAN. Once the number one resource for families desperate for information on high-control groups, its very name became a weapon for its greatest foe.
So, did Scientology really destroy the Cult Awareness Network? The answer is far more terrifying than a simple “yes.” They didn’t just destroy it. They bought the corpse.
Who Were the Original Cult Awareness Network? The Watchdogs on the Wall
Before the war, there was a mission. The Cult Awareness Network wasn’t born in a boardroom. It was born from parental fear. It started in the 1970s, a grassroots alliance of families who felt they were losing their children to strange, new movements. Groups like the Unification Church (the “Moonies”), the Children of God, Hare Krishnas. Groups they didn’t understand. Groups that seemed to change their kids overnight.
CAN became a central nervous system for these terrified families. It was a simple, powerful idea. A hotline. A place you could call when your world was falling apart. They weren’t an attack dog, not at first. They were a library. They collected information, newspaper clippings, court documents, and firsthand accounts from former members. They connected families with support groups, therapists, and, yes, deprogrammers—a practice that would later become a critical weakness.
For years, CAN was the first and last line of defense for thousands. They were David against a host of Goliaths. A small, underfunded non-profit standing against powerful, wealthy organizations that demanded absolute loyalty from their members. They were a thorn in the side of many groups. But for one group, a thorn wasn’t just an annoyance. It was a threat to be neutralized. Permanently.
Enter Scientology: A Collision Course with CAN
The Church of Scientology has always been a lightning rod. Born from the mind of science fiction author L. Ron Hubbard, it presented itself as “an applied religious philosophy,” a path to spiritual enlightenment. To its critics and a growing number of ex-members, it was something else entirely. They told stories of intense psychological pressure, financial ruin, and families being torn apart by the policy of “disconnection.”
Where did these people go to tell their stories? Where did their frantic parents call for help?
They called CAN.
And so, the battle lines were drawn. In Scientology’s eyes, CAN was not a support group; it was an “anti-religious hate group.” They saw them as merchants of chaos, spreading lies and profiting from misery. Scientology, an organization known for its aggressive and litigious response to criticism, saw CAN as Public Enemy Number One. A collision wasn’t just likely. It was inevitable.
The Weaponization of the Legal System: A Thousand Paper Cuts
To understand what happened next, you have to understand a single, terrifying concept allegedly at the heart of Scientology’s defense strategy: Fair Game.
Deep Dive: The “Fair Game” Doctrine
In the 1960s, L. Ron Hubbard wrote down a policy for dealing with the church’s enemies, who he called “Suppressive Persons.” The policy was called “Fair Game.” The text was chilling and direct. An enemy of the church “May be deprived of property or injured by any means by any Scientologist without any discipline of the Scientologist. May be tricked, sued or lied to or destroyed.”
The Church of Scientology will tell you this policy was canceled in 1968. Critics and former members will tell you that only the *name* was canceled, not the practice. They argue that the strategy of destroying enemies through litigation and harassment simply continued under different names. It became a core part of the church’s DNA.
Whether the official policy was on the books or not didn’t matter. The spirit of Fair Game was about to be unleashed on the Cult Awareness Network with a ferocity that no one saw coming.
A Firestorm of Litigation
It didn’t happen all at once. It was a slow, methodical strangulation. It started in the early 1990s. A lawsuit here. Another there. Then another. And another. Soon, CAN was drowning in legal paperwork. Scientologists from all over the country filed suit against the tiny non-profit. The claims varied wildly—from libel and slander to religious discrimination.
Most of these lawsuits were, to be blunt, frivolous. They were often dismissed by judges. But that wasn’t the point. Winning was never the point. The point was to bleed CAN dry.
Think about it. Every single lawsuit, no matter how ridiculous, requires a legal response. It requires lawyers. It requires time, money, and energy. CAN was a small non-profit that ran on donations and volunteers. Scientology was a global organization with billions in assets and legions of dedicated followers. It was a war of attrition, and CAN was outgunned, outmanned, and out-financed from day one. It was a boa constrictor slowly squeezing the life out of its victim, and the legal fees were the pressure.
At one point, CAN was fighting over 50 lawsuits filed by Scientologists simultaneously. The organization’s entire budget was consumed by legal defense, pulling resources away from its actual mission of helping people. The watchdog was so busy fighting for its own life it could no longer guard the henhouse.
The Final Blow: The Jason Scott Case
After years of being bled dry, CAN was weak. It was financially ruined and exhausted. All Scientology needed was one good punch to land. One clean shot to knock their enemy out for good. That shot came in the form of a young man named Jason Scott.
A Botched Deprogramming
Jason Scott, an 18-year-old, was a member of a Pentecostal group called the Life Tabernacle Church. His mother, concerned for his welfare, contacted CAN for help. CAN gave her a referral to a deprogrammer named Rick Ross (no, not the rapper). Ross, along with two associates, essentially kidnapped Scott and subjected him to a forceful, five-day deprogramming session. It failed. Scott returned to his church and was, understandably, traumatized and angry.
The Lawsuit That Broke the Camel’s Back
This is where the story takes its dark turn. Jason Scott decided to sue. And who was his lawyer? A man named Kendrick Moxon. Moxon was not just any lawyer; he was a well-known, high-ranking Scientologist attorney. An attorney who had been involved in the legal war against CAN for years.
The lawsuit wasn’t just against Rick Ross, the deprogrammer. It named the Cult Awareness Network as a co-conspirator. The argument was that CAN was negligent in referring Ross to Scott’s mother, making them responsible for the kidnapping and emotional distress. After a long and complicated trial, the jury agreed.
In 1995, they awarded Jason Scott a staggering judgment of nearly $5 million. Ross was ordered to pay millions. And the Cult Awareness Network, which had only ever made a phone referral, was on the hook for $1,875,000.
For an organization that was already broke from fighting dozens of other lawsuits, it was a death sentence. They couldn’t pay. They had no choice. CAN filed for bankruptcy.
The war was over. Scientology had won.
Or so it seemed. The final move was yet to come. And it was more diabolical than anyone could have imagined.
The Ultimate Takeover: Buying the Enemy’s Corpse
When a company goes bankrupt, its assets are sold off at auction to pay its debts. For CAN, this meant everything: their office furniture, their files, their logo, their trademarks. And, most importantly, their name and their famous hotline phone number—the number thousands of people trusted.
In a surreal turn of events at the 1996 bankruptcy auction, a new buyer emerged. A man named Steven Hayes. Hayes purchased the entire identity of the Cult Awareness Network—name, logo, phone number, everything. And who was Steven Hayes? He was a Scientologist.
The takeover was complete. The most prominent anti-cult organization in America was now owned and operated by the Church of Scientology.
Let that sink in. The fox had not just killed the guard dog. It had bought the kennel, put on the guard dog’s uniform, and was now answering the emergency phone.
What Happens When You Call the “New” CAN?
The change was immediate and chilling. People would call the old, trusted CAN hotline looking for help and information about a group like Scientology. But instead of getting a sympathetic ear and critical resources, they got something very different. They were greeted by operators who would tell them that the “New” Cult Awareness Network was about religious freedom and tolerance.
They would be told that there’s no such thing as a “cult,” only “new religious movements.” They would be warned about the bigotry and intolerance of “anti-cult” activists. If they asked about Scientology specifically, they would be directed to Scientology’s own PR websites or to groups friendly to the church.
The trap was set. The very organization people turned to for protection was now a front for the very group they were seeking protection from. It was a public relations masterstroke. A checkmate of epic proportions.
Aftermath and Legacy: A Conspiracy Come to Life
Was this a conspiracy? Or just smart, aggressive legal work?
Look at the facts. A sustained, multi-year campaign of dozens upon dozens of lawsuits designed to financially cripple an opponent. An alleged history of infiltration to gather intelligence. The use of a high-profile Scientologist lawyer in the one case that finally bankrupted the target. And the final, strategic purchase of the target’s name and identity in a bankruptcy auction.
Could this all be a series of stunning coincidences? Or was this a deliberate, brilliantly executed plan to not only silence a critic, but to absorb its identity and turn it into a propaganda tool?
The story of CAN is a brutal cautionary tale. It shows what can happen when a small, mission-driven organization goes up against a foe with bottomless pockets, infinite patience, and a burning desire to win at all costs. It’s a story about the weaponization of the American legal system, turning a tool designed for justice into a bludgeon for silencing speech.
Today, the “New” CAN still exists online, its website promoting a message of religious tolerance, a pale ghost haunting the internet. But its original soul is long gone, captured and repurposed in one of the most shocking hostile takeovers in modern history. It serves as a permanent, chilling reminder to always ask yourself one simple question before you ask for help:
Who is really on the other end of the line?
