Obituary: Rev. Michael Rokos, Episcopal priest

​

The Rev. Michael George Rokos, a retired Episcopal priest who served in Baltimore parishes and led Czech organizations, died of cancer Aug. 30 at MedStar Union Memorial Hospital. The Mayfield resident was 71.

Michael Rokos ​served as ​The Cult Awareness Network (​CAN​)​ president from late 1989​ - October 1990​.

​"​CAN declared bankruptcy after a jury found that CAN conspired to violate the civil rights and religious liberties of Jason Scott, a Pentecostalist, who had been forcibly kidnapped and subjected to a failed deprogramming by Rick Ross, a CAN-referred deprogrammer and others."

​"​The court ordered CAN to pay a judgment of US$1 million. The large award was intended to deter similar conduct in the future; the court noted that the defendants were unable to appreciate the maliciousness of their conduct towards the deprogrammee, and portrayed themselves, throughout the entire process of litigation, as victims of the alleged agenda of the plaintiff's attorney, Church of Scientology attorney Kendrick Moxon.​"​

​"​In 1996, CAN went bankrupt and its assets were bought by a coalition of organizations and individuals, including Scientologists.​"​

​https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cult_Awareness_Network​

Jacques Kelly
The Baltimore Sun
September 3, 2017

The Rev. Michael George Rokos, a retired Episcopal priest who served in Baltimore parishes and led Czech organizations, died of cancer Aug. 30 at MedStar Union Memorial Hospital. The Mayfield resident was 71.

Born in Chicago and raised in Mayfield, he was the son of George Rokos, an attorney, and his wife, Dorthea Wildeson, a homemaker. He was a 1964 graduate of Baltimore City College and earned a bachelor’s degree at the Johns Hopkins University. He was a 1972 graduate of Virginia Theological Seminary. As a child he was active in the Church of the Redeemer.

Bishop David K. Leighton ordained him to the priesthood in 1973. He was assigned to the Church of the Ascension in Silver Spring, St. Thomas in Garrison Forest, the Church of the Resurrection in Joppa, Grace Memorial Church in Darlington; and St. Margaret’s in Parkville, where he retired in 2014. He also served at Christ Church in Wilmington, Del.

“He had a dedication of the betterment of his parishioners,” said his husband, Gene-Michael Addis. “He had a deep understanding of the challenges of a modern day life.”

Rev. Rokos was also a strong advocate for and member in local national and international Czech organizations. He was a past president the Sokol Baltimore, the Bohemian National Cemetery in Armistead Gardens and American Friends of the Czech Republic.

“With the fall of Communism in what was then Czechoslovakia, he began an extensive search for long-lost relatives and for the original Rokos grist mill that was the forerunner to the Rokos Rye Bakery here in Baltimore,” said his husband. “Rokos Bread and Rokos ‘Only Genuine’ Rye Bread were registered with the National Patent Office in 1905 and 1915.” The family bakeries were once located throughout East Baltimore.

Mr. Addis said he celebrated his 70th birthday in Prague surrounded by 38 of the relatives he connected with over the years. The event was held at a restaurant on the Charles River.

Rev. Rokos joined the American Friends of the Czech Republic and was its past president and a board member.

His family members were among the earliest immigrants from Bohemia. His ancestors also included members of the Klečka family.

Bishop Eugene Sutton and the Revs. Tony Lewis and David Ware will preside at a funeral Mass at 11 a.m. Wednesday at the Church of the Redeemer, 5603 N. Charles St.

Survivors include his husband, the general manager of the Lord Baltimore Hotel who has been his life partner for 35 years; a sister, Georganna Rokos of Cockeysville; and nieces and nephews.

jacques.kelly@baltsun.com

http://www.baltimoresun.com/news/obituaries/bs-md-ob-michael-rokos-20170903-story.html

Anti-Cult Group Dismembered As Former Foes Buy Its Assets Network Forced Into Bankruptcy After Legal Battle

By Laurie Goodstein

Wash Post staff writer
December 1, 1996

BARRINGTON, Ill.--For 20 years, the Cult Awareness Network ran the nation's best- known hot line for parents who grew distraught when an unconventional religious group they neither trusted nor understood suddenly won the allegiance of their children. From its offices here in a Chicago suburb, the network (known as CAN) answered more than 350 telephone inquiries a week, counseled relatives at conferences attended by thousands, and gave news interviews to everyone from small- town daily newspapers to "Nightline." As CAN's influence rose, so did the ire of its foes, who were furious at being depicted as dangerous cults. 

In particular, Church of Scientology members fought CAN with a barrage of lawsuits. One high-stakes suit, handled by a lawyer who has frequently represented the church, succeeded, and a jury ordered CAN to pay as much as $1.8 million. The group filed for bankruptcy. 


Now CAN's assets are up for sale, and last week its name, logo, Post Office box and telephone number were finally sold to the highest bidder: a Los Angeles lawyer named Steven L. Hayes, who is a Scientologist. Hayes says he is working with a group of people "united in their distaste for CAN" who plan to reopen the group so it "disseminates the truth about all religions." "It kind of boggles the mind," said David Bardin, an attorney who has represented CAN in Washington. "People will still pick up the CAN name in a library book and call saying, 'My daughter has joined the Church of Scientology.' And your friendly CAN receptionist is someone who works for Scientology."

It is a turn of events applauded by the Church of Scientology, whose literature calls CAN "a hate group in the tradition of the KKK and the neo-Nazis." The Rev. Heber Jentzsch, president of the Church of Scientology International, said in an interview: "I just don't think a hate organization has a right to operate in america with impunity, and obviously the courts feel the same way." Hostile takeovers are nothing new in the corporate world, but this is an exceptional tale of the hostile take- over of a nonprofit organization. The anti-cult advocacy group is gradually being dismembered and absorbed by its adversaries, who attorneys say have deftly outmaneuvered CAN in the courts. CAN's fate also highlights the crippled state of what was once a prominent nationwide movement that for years kept america's unor- thodox religious groups on the de- fensive. For years CAN's charges of cult mind-control and brainwashing helped shape the public's impressions of groups like Scientology, the Unification Church, the Hare Krishnas, Boston Church of Christ, Transcendental Meditation and others. But with each passing decade, these religious groups have become increasingly mainstream and even institutionalized, opening new houses of worship, buying universi- ties and other properties, attending interfaith events. Now it is the anti- cult camp that no longer has an institution of its own.

Next up for auction could be 270 boxes of CAN files that former staffers say are stuffed with confidential information about current and former cult members, efforts to extricate them and private testimonies of anguish and abuse. Kendrick L. Moxon, the lawyer who has frequently represented Scientologists, is actively pursuing a purchase of these files, says the trustee handling the bankruptcy. 

"The fear [is] that this list of information could be bought by the highest bidder," said Bob Grosswald, a Long Island dental supply salesman who contacted CAN when his son joined the Church of Scientology, ~And could only be used to harass people, to make people feel uncomfortable, and to further damage the relationships people have to family members still inside these cults. How a court could even consider selling such a thing is beyond me." The modern anti-cult movement was born in the 1960s when American youth were experimenting with Eastern religions and alternative spirituality. The Citizens Freedom Foundation, CAN's predecessor, became a nonprofit group in 1978, the year that 9I.~ followers of the Rev. Jim Jones died in a mass suicide at the People's Temple compound in Guyana. In 1986 the group changed its name to CAN. The next year, Cynthia Kisser, who had turned to CAN when her younger sister joined an obscure Bible-based group, was named executive director.

 From its suite on the ground floor of a Tudor style building it shared with a few accountants, CAN took telephone inquiries from around the world about hundreds of controversial groups. Every request for help, whether from a relative or reporter, a congressman or police officer, was logged and filed. Aside from Satanic groups, more callers asked about Scientology than about any other group, according to a 1992 telephone log that CAN supplied to Congressional Quarterly. But CAN did not just supply information. It also gave some parents. references to self-styled "deprogrammers," whom CAN maintained were skilled at extricating devotees from cults by systematically challenging cult teachings and undermining beliefs. But there were repeated cases of deprogrammers convicted for using force or other criminal means to wrest their targets away from the cults. The CAN board articulated a policy advocating only "legal methods" of deprogramming, but the stigma of associating with criminals left CAN vulnerable to its detractors. 

The Scientology magazine Freedom last year devoted a special issue to CAN, headlined: "The serpent of hatred, intolerance, violence and death." An inside story called CAN's executive director Kisser "the mother of the serpent" and purported to expose her past as a topless dancer, which she has denied. The magazine highlighted alleged deprogramming excesses and quoted scholars de- fending new religions such as Scientology. "The time has come to do something about the Cult Awareness Network and its anti-religious crusade," Freedom concluded. "This organization has plagued the American people for too long." Beginning in 1991, CAN and its local affiliates and staff were hit with a series of lawsuits filed by several dozen members of the Church of Scientology and others. In one week in 1992, Scientologists filed 12 suits against CAN, Kisser said. 'Td open the door, a process server would hand me a suit, I'd say thank you, close the door, fax it to the attorney," said Kisser, a thin, intense woman who speaks at a machine-gun clip. "Then another knock would come on the door. It was ridiculous." Most of the suits were civil rights claims, according to attorneys on both sides. People who identified themselves in the lawsuits as Scientologists alleged that the group denied them membership or participation in CAN conferences. Others sued because CAN would not allow them to volunteer in its national of- fice here. Some self-identified Scien- tologists sued after they attempted to form local CAN chapters and use the CAN letterhead, and the national CAN office refused to recognize them. Kisser said many of these were "cookie-cutter lawsuits," in which only the plaintiff's name was changed. Moxon, whose law firm filed many of the suits against CAN, said: "What would you do if you had a religious belief and somebody was intentional- ly trying to destroy your church and destroy your belief and destroy your family? I'm a lawyer. People hired me to go to court and vindicate their rights. What could they be expected to do when there's somebody out there who's bent on destroying them?" 

Many of these lawsuits were dismissed, but CAN was cannibalizing its $300,000 annual budget to defend itself, and the five-member staff, only one of whom worked full time, grew increasingly absorbed by the litigation, Kisser said. What's more, she said, CAN's insurance carrier refused to renew its policy because of all the lawsuits, and no other insurer would agree to cover the group. 

CAN struck back in 1994 with a countersuit against the Church of Scientology, 11 individual Scientologists and the Los Angeles law firm of Bowles and Moxon. The group's "malicious harassment" suit alleged that the Church of Scientology orchestrated the filing of 45 unfounded and frivolous lawsuits in an attempt to drive CAN into bankruptcy. CAN's suit was dismissed by the Cook County Circuit Court, but an appeal is pending in the Illinois Supreme Court. 

The lawsuit that succeeded in driving CAN into bankruptcy involved an 18-year-old from Bellevue, Wash., named Jason Scott. In 1991, Scott's mother hired a "cult deprogrammer" and two assistants in an attempt to get him to renounce his membership in the Life Tabernacle Church, a Pentecostal group. Scott alleged in the suit that he was kidnapped for five days at a beach house, handcuffed, gagged with tape and forced to watch video- tapes about religious cults. Scott feigned conversion, and when his deprogrammers took him to a restau- rant, he ran off and went to police. In late 1993, the county prosecutor brought charges against the deprogrammer. who was acquitted. But the case lived on in civil court. The lawyer who took the case on Scott's behalf was Moxon, a Sciento- logist and a frequent attorney for the church in high-profile cases, who has been sued by CAN for allegedly filing malicious lawsuits.

This time, Scott sued not only the deprogrammer and his two assistants, but also CAN. Scott maintained the woman who referred his mother to the deprogrammer did so as a local CAN volunteer. The Scott case essentially put the anti-cult movement on trial. Testifying for the prosecution, Anson Shupe, a sociologist at Indiana-Purdue University, told the jury that CAN's persecution of Scientology was born of the same irrational big- story that Americans earlier directed toward Baptists, Methodists, Irish Catholics, Jews and Mormons. "Are you saying the anti-cult movement is a cult?' Moxon asked. "It has all aspects of it, yes," Shupe replied. 

A jury found all the defendants liable and awarded Scott more than $4 million in damages, CAN was ordered to pay as much as $1.8 million; the group has appealed. Paul Lawrence, an attorney for CAN, acknowledges that Scott suffered an "unfortunate" deprogramming attempt. But CAN "did not deserve to be swept up" in the case because the volunteer who referred Scott's mother to the deprogrammer did so without CAN's knowledge, he said. "It is extremely unusual for a non-profit organization to be hit with punitive damages based on the actions of a volunteer member," said Lawrence, who is president of the American Civil Liberties Union in Washington state. "This is a dangerous precedent for a wide range of non- profit associations .... Most non- profits have tens or thousands of members out there acting in a way that the nonprofits can't hope to monitor."

Several nonprofit groups, including Mothers Against Drunk Driving, have filed friend-of-the-court briefs in the case. 

In the meantime, CAN filed for' Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection in October 1995, hoping to develop a reorganization plan that would allow it to keep operating while pursuing the appeal. CAN's main creditor is Jason Scott. Moxon, Scott's lawyer, contested CAN's plan in bankruptcy court, and the judge refused to approve it. In an attempt to protect its assets, CAN filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy last June, which meant that it transferred control of its assets to an independent trustee. The trustee is Philip R. Martino, a plain-speaking Chicago attorney. "CAN doesn't exist," Martino said in an interview. 'whatever power CAN had is now mine." 

The CAN Staffers were last in their office here on June 22, when Martino phoned to say he was coming over. He brought a locksmith who changed the locks. he told the staff to take only their personal belongings and leave. Kisser took photographs of her son and her collection of turtle statues given to her over the years by supporters as a reminder to "go slow and stick your neck out." She was not allowed to remove her nine appointment diar- ies; Martino considered them CAN assets. 

Martino sold CAN's name and logo, telephone number and P.O. box--the essence of its identity-- along with CAN's office furniture and computers (stripped of their hard drives) for $20,000. CAN tried to contest the sale, but dropped the attempt this week after the judge required the group to post a $30,000 bond first. Martino says he put CAN's name-brand assets on the auction block only because Kisser herself asked to buy them. Her highest bid was $19,000. 

"I have an asset to sell. It's a name," Martino said. "I sell it to the highest bidder. What the bidder does with it is not my concern. It can't be my concern. Congress didn't make it my concern. And if I made it my concern, I would be rewriting the bankruptcy law." 

£ The attorney who bought CAN's identity, Steven Hayes, said in an interview that he represents a group of several people he cannot name without "permission." He said they put up money of their own and money "from this country and other places." Hayes said he is a Scientologist, not an employee of the Church of Scientology. Hayes also had sued CAN in the early 1990s on behalf of several Scientologists who wanted to attend CAN's national conference, according to CAN attorneys. Hays said his group intends to re-vamp CAN so that "religions that have been attacked in the past would have an opportunity to at least show what they believe the truth to be." The anti-cult movement has now turned to the Internet to share information. A small meeting of anti-cult activists gathered at a Newark hotel earlier this month to discuss how best to carry on the cause, but the meeting was marred when a coterie of Scientologists showed up uninvited, several participants say. Cynthia Kisser is suing the Church of Scientology for libel. She says she was never a topless dancer. Scientologist Jentzsch, for his part, says that Kisser is "in the business of spreading the bubonic plague, and she feels bad that some- one stopped her." Little remains of CAN now but 600 feet worth of files. 

CAN's trustee, Martino, says that Moxon has already mentioned his interest in bidding for those. Martino said he won't sell the files until names and personal information are removed, a process that he estimates will cost about $50,000, to be paid by the buyer. 

People who were heavily involved with CAN could ask to have their names removed, Martino said. "Scientology. will pay anything to get their hands on those files," said Robert Vaughan Young, a former Scientologist who served as a church spokesman for 20 years before he quit and became a church critic. "We always figured that CAN was the nexus for all the rest of the problems [Scientology had]," he said. "So the idea of getting the files is similar to the KGB being able to buy the files of the CIA."

Giving Cults a Good Name

Esquire magazine/June 1997
"Reality Check" column

A former cult-bashing organization is now doing PR for some sects.  Shortly
after the Heaven's Gate mass suicide, the Cult Awareness Network, which has
long battled cults, sent reporters a list of "experts" on the subject.  One
of them, J. Gordon Melton, is considered by many cult foes to be an apologist
for the groups.  Melton, who has written extensively on cults and religions,
has come out in defense of Aum, the Japanese cult linked to the gassing of a
Tokyo subway in March 1995 that killed twelve people, and the Church of
Scientology has asked him to testify in court on its behalf.  What's more,
Melton, whom CAN identified as "executive director, Institute for the Study
of American Religions, University of California, Santa Barbara," is not a
professor at the school; he works in the library.  

Why would CAN list someone known to be a sympathetic to these groups?  "We
have a different philosophy here now," says Isadore Chait, CAN's new
director.  "We're an information source on religions."  He adds that Melton
has written "the authoritative book on religions in America."

Chait was appointed after CAN lost a recent lawsuit, went bankrupt, and saw
its name, logo, and hot line bought by a Scientologist. 

"We figured this would happen," says a source.  "The foxes are guarding the
henhouse."

Group Says Movement a Cult

Phil McCombs
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, July 2, 1987; Page C03

On the eve of a "yogic flying" demonstration by followers of His Holiness Maharishi Mahesh Yogi set for the Rayburn Building of the U.S. House of Representatives next week, a group of concerned parents and others known as the Cult Awareness Network (CAN) has gathered here to debunk the flying as fake and sound an alarm about cults.

The group charged in a press conference yesterday that the maharishi's Transcendental Meditation (TM) movement, of which yogic flying is an advanced stage, is not simply a method of relaxation through meditation, but a cult that ultimately seeks to strip individuals of their ability to think and choose freely.

"They want you to dress and think and speak in a certain way and not to ask questions," said Steven Hassan, a former follower of the Rev. Sun Myung Moon who has studied cults for a decade. "They go into hypnotic trances and shut off who they are as a person."

A spokesman for the maharishi, Mark Haviland of MIU's College of Natural Law here, said yesterday that "TM is a very simple, useful thing {with} practical benefits of relaxation, of increased inner potential." He added that TM is "not a philosophy, a life style or a religion."

Two former TM adherents who studied yogic flying at the Maharishi International University (MIU) in Fairfield, Iowa, Joe Kelly and John Taity, gave a demonstration of it at the press conference by sitting cross-legged on the floor and hopping in an awkward forward motion that lifted them completely off the floor a few inches.

"It's strictly physical exercise," said Kelly. "There's nothing spiritual about it."

"It's purely physical," said Taity.

Another former MIU student, Patrick L. Ryan, said that he studied yogic flying there in a "totalitarian environment" where every minute of his day was programmed.

Yet, he said, "I never saw anybody fly."

Dean Draznin, who teaches TM here and identified himself as a spokesman for the movement, discounted CAN's claims, saying that TM is "a very simple, effortless mental technique that's practiced 20 minutes, two times a day. It doesn't involve beliefs or a life style. It gives more energy, more dynamism."

Draznin also disagreed that TM involves any mind control. "We don't force people to take courses," he said. "They can take advanced courses if they choose."

A press release from the maharishi's Age of Enlightenment News Service advertises his "program to create world peace" and is headlined: "TM-Sidhi 'Yogic Flying' Technique to Be Demonstrated in the Nation's Capital."

Haviland said yesterday that "hopping" is the first stage of yogic flying. He added that "hovering" and "actual flight" -- the second and third stages -- have not yet been achieved.

"Given the results we've experienced so far, we feel that it won't be long before we'll be getting onto the second and third stage," Haviland said. He said the important thing is the "coherence" that the "flying" creates individually and collectively, "which leads to world peace."

Ex-members of the TM movement said at their press conference that TM is in fact a religion for its adherents with the maharishi seen as a god. Patrick Ryan has sued the maharishi for compensation for the eight years he said he devoted to raising money and promoting the cause. In leaving TM, Ryan said he had help from CAN and a related group, FOCUS, which offers support for those seeking to leave "cultic or totalistic involvement."

These groups are holding an anticult conference open to the public at the Shoreham hotel starting at 9:30 a.m. today and continuing through tomorrow.

A new group called TM-EX, for those leaving the TM movement, is being formed, according to Ryan.

A spokesman for Rep. Jim Leach (R-Iowa) said yesterday that the congressman set up a room in the Rayburn Building for the maharishi's adherents to demonstrate yogic flying after receiving a request from the MIU, which is located in Leach's congressional district.

The presentation will be made for the benefit of members of Congress and their staff, according to spokesmen for Leach and the maharishi.

Leach's spokesman said the congressman, after being told of yesterday's criticisms of the TM movement, responded that MIU is "accredited by the North Central Association of Colleges and Schools and also recognized by the Federal Interagency Commission on Education."

He quoted Leach as saying, "I have no objection to any American citizen expressing their First Amendment rights on Capitol Hill or elsewhere."

Hassan said at the press conference -- held at the Shoreham yesterday at the same time that the Maharishi Continental Assembly, a conference for followers of the maharishi, was getting underway in another part of the hotel -- that TM adherents suffer a "destruction of personality. It's an addiction, akin to alcohol and drugs."

He handed out a pamphlet saying that "physical and psychological harm" may result by using TM techniques "even if only for a short time."

Patricia Ryan, the daughter of Leo J. Ryan (D.-Calif.), the representative who was shot to death on Nov. 18, 1978, in Guyana as the Rev. Jim Jones led hundreds of his followers in a mass suicide, said that "bright, idealistic people are the most vulnerable" to movements such as TM. "They become unsuspecting victims."

TM became popular in the 1960s when a number of celebrities, including the Beatles, traveled to India to study with the maharishi. Draznin estimated that 1.5 million Americans have learned TM techniques.

Outside the hotel yesterday, a group of parents from CAN carried pickets against the maharishi's conference.

The signs said: "Don't Be Fooled by Maharishi's Flying Circus," "Parents Against Cults" and "Cults Steal Minds."

One of the parents, Rudy Arkin of Washington, said he lost his son to the Hare Krishnas several years ago. The son eventually "walked out, but without deprogramming. I fear he's out there floating, because we haven't heard from him in over a year."


© Copyright 1987 The Washington Post Company