If there is an authoritarian structure at St. Hill it has been

The words of L. Ron Hubbard—“If there is an authoritarian structure at St. Hill it has been brought into being by the government itself. St. Hill is trying to correct itself. It doesn’t know what it’s trying to correct because nobody has told it what to correct.”—carry the sound of a man caught between freedom and control, between the will to create and the shadow of interference. These words, spoken during the tumultuous years when the Church of Scientology faced scrutiny from governments and the press, reflect a profound truth about human institutions: when authority presses too harshly upon the spirit of creation, confusion and self-correction without guidance become inevitable. Hubbard’s lament is not merely about a building or an organization—it is a cry against the paralysis that comes when power opposes understanding.

To understand the origin of this quote, one must journey to Saint Hill Manor in Sussex, England—the headquarters of Hubbard’s movement during the 1960s. There, amid both growth and controversy, Hubbard found himself under the eye of government inquiries and public suspicion. In this storm, he claimed that the “authoritarian structure” forming around his organization was not born from his intent, but as a defensive response to outside pressure. Like a body tightening its muscles in fear, Saint Hill, he said, was attempting to correct itself—not out of clarity, but out of anxiety. And in this, he revealed a deeper human truth: when institutions or souls are criticized without direction, they may strive endlessly to fix themselves, without ever knowing what the real illness is.

This pattern is as ancient as civilization itself. When the philosopher Socrates stood before the judges of Athens, accused of corrupting the youth, he too faced a charge without definition. The city wanted him to “correct himself,” yet it could not say precisely what was wrong. He was condemned not for a crime, but for making men think. And so, like Hubbard’s Saint Hill, he faced the impossible task of defending his integrity in a world that demanded conformity without clarity. It is one of the tragedies of history that those who challenge the old order are often told to repent, but never told why.

In the ancient style, let us see Hubbard’s words as more than defense—they are a reflection on the nature of authority itself. For when authority becomes blind, it breeds the very rigidity it seeks to prevent. A government, a church, or a man who feels unjustly accused will often become what his accuser claims him to be: defensive, rigid, fearful. Thus, Hubbard’s lament is also a warning—that control without understanding leads not to order, but to chaos disguised as discipline. He implies that Saint Hill’s “authoritarian structure” was not born from its own soul, but imposed upon it by the weight of suspicion. In trying to appease unseen critics, it lost sight of its own purpose.

History offers another mirror to this truth. After World War II, many nations—haunted by the specter of fascism—built vast bureaucracies to guard against tyranny. Yet in doing so, they often suffocated the freedom of thought that true democracy requires. The writer George Orwell foresaw this danger: that systems built to protect could themselves become the new oppressors, not through cruelty, but through endless, faceless correction. In the same way, Hubbard’s Saint Hill, pressured by misunderstanding, became caught in a web of self-surveillance and reform, ever trying to atone for sins that had never been named.

There is, however, a deeper spiritual message in Hubbard’s lament. He speaks to the human condition itself—the way individuals, too, internalize the voices of accusation. How often does a person, condemned by vague judgment or misunderstood by those around them, begin to doubt themselves, to change, to “correct” what was never wrong? This, too, is a form of spiritual captivity. When men and women strive endlessly for approval from those who offer no true guidance, they lose their inner compass. They become like Saint Hill—correcting themselves endlessly, never knowing what truth to serve.

So, my children of thought and faith, take from this a timeless lesson: clarity must precede correction. When you are told to change, first seek to understand by what measure you are judged. Do not surrender your integrity to vague accusation or shadowy authority. If you must correct yourself, let it be by your own light, not by the confusion of others. For a soul that knows its purpose stands firm even under scrutiny; but a soul that bends without cause loses both freedom and truth.

Therefore, let Hubbard’s cry be remembered not only as the defense of one man or one movement, but as the warning of every age: that power without understanding breeds fear, and fear breeds submission. Seek truth before obedience, understanding before judgment, and purpose before reform. For when men and nations know what they stand for, they cannot be bent by unseen hands. And when they do not—when they correct themselves blindly—they build prisons of their own making, and call them order.