Admittedly, it costs more financially to be lied to by Scientology than it does to be taken on an equally evidence-free journey by other faiths, and we should not for a moment gloss over the cruel and repulsive way in which the church has hounded their critics.

But when I think of Mel Gibson building his $42m church compound in Malibu, blithely telling interviewers at the time of the Passion of the Christ's release that his then wife would unfortunately be going to hell, because she was Church of England … well, I can't find it in myself to find him any less barking than Tom Cruise.

Clearly, Scientologists should be forced to justify their doctrinal lunacies – the only sadness is that other religions are apparently exempt from having to do the same. Imagine for a moment a Bashir-type interviewing some senior cardinal. "So," he might inquire, "you're saying that by some magic the communion wafer actually becomes the flesh of a man who died 2,000 years ago, a man who – and I don't want to put words into your mouth here – we might categorise as an imaginary friend who can hear the things you're thinking in your head? And when you've done that, do you mind going over the birth control stuff?"

The internet has done for Scientology. Could it rumble the Christians, too?
Marina Hyde