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BEYOND THE THRESHOLD -- A LIFE IN OPUS DEI |
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2. VOCATIONAL CRISIS What I will narrate in this chapter is not just my individual story, but reflects the way Opus Dei has always operated and how it still provokes a vocational crisis in a young woman. Persons or countries may vary but the strategy has not changed throughout the years. Opus Dei still describes recruitment in terms of "hunting" and "fishing." The same persuasiveness and subtleties are used to corner the prey. In January 1948, Dr. Panikkar invited me to collaborate with him in preparations for the International Congress of Philosophy, which was to take place in Barcelona in October and of which he was the general secretary. This was a new position at the Luis Vives Institute of Philosophy that involved a two-year commitment and subsequent preparation of the proceedings for publication. Although I would still be working at the CSIC in Madrid, I would leave Arbor. I was pleased with the job offer since it was more challenging intellectually and the salary was better. The loss of employment security after two years did not matter, since I expected to be married by then and would no longer be living in Madrid. I shared Dr. Panikkar's sense that this congress might well be the most significant intellectual gathering in Spain since the Civil War. Professor Juan Zaragueta was president of the congress. I was administrative assistant in charge of public relations and the editing of three volumes of the Proceedings. [1] Father Jose Todoli, O.P., was not officially a member of the team organizing the congress, but as secretary to the Luis Vives Institute, was always willing to lend a hand. At about the same time Dr. Panikkar was elected secretary of the newly founded Spanish Society of Philosophy. Although busy at work, I tried to get ready for married life. Daily attendance at Mass did not seem enough; I felt the need for an intelligent priest with whom I could share my ideas and questions about my forthcoming marriage. A number of my friends had a Jesuit as a spiritual adviser; I had considered seeking advice from Father Panikkar, but after that morning at Arbor when I voiced my criticisms of Opus Dei, I had never talked to him on personal matters of any kind. My high regard for Father Panikkar was largely based on the letters I typed for him to a number of people whose names I never knew since Father Panikkar would write their names and addresses by hand. His letters were powerful testimony to his Christian faith. He was never authoritarian, but had empathy for a person's weakness; his intelligence was lively, open, and discreet. Almost every day I also typed two to three pages of his personal writings, published much later in 1972 under the title Cameras ("Comets") and kindly dedicated to me. [2] These brief reflections touched on events at the university and in the world. I always looked forward to reading them, and still remember the one he wrote after Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated. [3] Another of his manuscripts, Religion and Religions, introduced me to the idea of the plurality of religions. [4] When Dr. Panikkar gave me this manuscript to type, I noticed the plural form "religions." Because of my strict Catholic education, I assumed that there was only one true religion and asked him to correct the spelling error. "Why do you think there is an error there?" he asked, smiling. "Because you wrote 'religions' in the plural, as if all religions are true." "How many 'religions' do you think are true?" he asked. "There are many religions, but only one true religion: Roman Catholicism." "If there is only 'one true religion,' what would you call the others?" "Just 'natural religions,''' I replied. "Oh!" he said with some amusement, "I did not know that you considered Roman Catholicism an 'artificial religion.''' Work with Dr. Panikkar broadened the horizon of all of us on the team, which included Roberto Saumells and Jose Gutierrez-Maesso. As I mentioned earlier I could not find a spiritual adviser and I knew that once married I would live in Morocco, and I deeply wished to understand the people there. I must make explicit here something that I consider very important: I was profoundly moved by Father Panikkar's spiritual qualities and I was also confident that a priest would not be influenced by institutional ties when giving spiritual guidance. So one fine day I asked Father Panikkar whether he would be willing to be my spiritual adviser. Father Panikkar was obviously surprised and said: "Very well, but you should know that I am very strict. I am afraid we will have to talk at the Opus Dei's women's residence." The following day we had an early morning appointment, and he gave me the address, Zurbanin, 26, and mentioned that the name of the directress was Guadalupe. Because of all the criticisms I had heard about Opus Dei, I arrived at the students' residence with both suspicion and curiosity. When I rang the bell, I realized that I only knew Opus Dei men and priests, and now I was going to meet Opus Dei women. I was surprised to see the door opened by a maid in a black uniform with a small satin apron. That kind of "uniform" was appropriate only in the evening. I told her that I had an eight o'clock appointment with Father Panikkar, and I followed her up the white marble steps covered with a red carpet and had to pass her to enter the living room. She asked for my name and motioned for me to sit down and left with the door ajar. Half an hour's wait gives you time mentally to rearrange a room from your chair! My first impression was that the room was unattractively furnished and did not look at all like the living room of a residence for university women. The room was not appropriately lit. The couch was pushed against one wall and a piano against another wall, from which direction I could hear the prayers of Mass being said. I noticed a crystal lamp and two Victorian-style arm chairs upholstered in a pale damask tea rose. On the right was a dark folding table standing by what I took to be the wall of the room whose closed door I saw on my left as I followed the maid up the stairs. On that table lay a volume of Camino. On another chest there was a picture of a lady whom I assumed was the foundress of the Women's Branch of Opus Dei. I was soon informed that Opus Dei had no foundress and that the woman in the picture was the Founder's mother, whom members called "the grandmother." There was also an easel with a classic Spanish painting of a Madonna graced with fresh flowers. On the wall was a photograph of Father Escriva. At the end of Mass, a tall, smiling young woman joined me. She introduced herself as Guadalupe Ortiz de Landazuri, directress of the residence. [5] With her round face and oblique eyes, she had an Oriental look. She seemed capable, self-contained, and affable, but I was unprepared for her directness and her many questions: Was I a student? Where did I live? Did I work? I gave her only the briefest answers. I also said that I had an appointment with Father Panikkar. She always recalled our first encounter saying, "You were so distant!" When Father Panikkar arrived, she left. In this first conversation with Father Panikkar as my spiritual adviser, I tried to speak of my goals in life as well as of my concerns. He listened carefully, trying to understand my personal situation. The first spiritual reading he recommended to me was The Story of a Soul by Saint Therese of Lisieux. Despite my continuing suspicion of Opus Dei, the session with Father Panikkar reassured me. I told him that I was looking forward to getting married and hoped he would help prepare me for my new responsibilities. The relationship with Father Panikkar as my spiritual adviser did not affect our daily work. Our work for the International Congress of Philosophy was distinct from his spiritual guidance. As I continued my visits to Zurbaran to see Father Panikkar, I found the atmosphere at the women's residence both friendly and attractive. I had also met several classmates who also sought spiritual guidance from Father Panikkar. I was 22 years old at the time and life held every possible promise of happiness. Father Panikkar would say that this happiness was the reflection of a normal, happy childhood. I was optimistic, curious about learning, passionate about reading and interested in art, mainly modern art. I was open to any challenge; I loved and felt loved. I was able to move freely in any circle because of my social upbringing. I had a more cosmopolitan point of view than most young Spanish women: my father had been educated in England and many close relatives had married persons of different nationalities. In March 1948 I decided to attend a retreat for young women that Father Panikkar was to give at the residence of Zurbaran. My hope was that it would help my spiritual life before taking on the new responsibility of marriage. My fiance and I had often discussed our ideal of a Christian marriage, happy and open to other people who might need our help. I had always been very much concerned about social problems; to help others was of primary importance in my life. As a teenager, I thought that this might be a sign of religious vocation, but I soon realized I was not called to be a nun. At this point I was not afraid of making a retreat organized by Opus Dei because I was totally confident in Father Panikkar's spiritual guidance. My fiance was in Morocco, and just before the seven-day retreat, several of his colleagues came to my home, imploring me not to attend the retreat. They spoke bluntly of their fear that Opus Dei would try to enroll me in their ranks. Their insistence offended me, since I was convinced I would see through any attempt by Opus Dei to proselytize. I disregarded the advice of my fiance's friends and replied that I would never give up my future husband to become a member of Opus Dei. My parents also had misgivings about the retreat. Nevertheless, I went to the retreat with confidence, knowing that I would be under the guidance of Father Panikkar. At the registration desk I met a friend, Carmen Comas-Mata, who seemed surprised and irritated: "What the hell are you doing here?" she asked. "Why should I not be here?" I replied. "You are here, too." "Yes, but 'they' are not trying to sign me up. And I am sure that they will go after you, and make your life complicated." "Don't be ridiculous! I came for the retreat and that is all." "Please, don't talk to anybody," she said mildly. I was getting tired of all this advice. Even though I did not completely trust Opus Dei women, I trusted Father Panikkar; I was sure that Opus Dei priests were concerned only for the souls in their care. The retreat started normally enough; the atmosphere was very pleasant, the meals carefully prepared, the table served with exquisite taste, and the house immaculate. During the first two days I found the Opus Dei women polite and discreet. Three days later, when Guadalupe asked me if everything was all right and whether I had any questions, I answered: "I am fine, thanks." In retreats of this kind, the priest usually gives meditations on death, charity, and religious vocation. Father Panikkar's meditation on death was superb, with no hint of terror. He even made us laugh when telling us about a priest at his secondary school who always used to talk about death as the last topic of the day before going to bed. I do not remember what he said on charity and there was no meditation whatsoever on religious vocation during the first three days. Then, on the fourth morning, Father Panikkar started the meditation by reciting the lyrics of a popular song of that time: They say that John
Alba's daughter The audience's first reaction was laughter. But suddenly the priest repeated the last sentence more forcefully: "But she replies that it does not matter! That it does not matter!" (what her fiance thinks). Father Panikkar continued his meditation by drawing on the parable of Lazarus and the rich man (Luke 16: 19-31), the poem by Rabindranath Tagore, The Chariot of the King: "What hast thou to give to me?" [6] And he ended it with the marvelous poem by Oscar Wilde: The Nightingale and the Rose. [7] Naturally, the examples, the stories of generosity in the meditation, were taken to heart as a challenge. Did I have anything to do with John Alba's daughter? No! I had no desire to be a nun. But what about the nightingale, the little bird who allowed the rose tree to take its blood to give the student the chance to do what the young woman he loved had asked: find a red rose in the middle of winter? What did Father Panikkar want to convey with these examples? The issue had been raised. A seed had been planted. That meditation was the most serious event of my entire life and the point of departure for a vocational crisis that totally changed my life. Lost in my own thought, I suddenly heard Guadalupe ask: "How would you interpret the meditation in your case?" "Oh!, it doesn't apply to me, because I don't want to become a nun." "Haven't you ever considered religious life?" she continued. "Yes, when I was a kid. But it isn't my vocation to be a nun; I have been clear about that for some time. Besides, I am not John Alba's daughter," I said somewhat sarcastically. "That is true, you are not," she went on. "But I am not talking about 'religious life' as such. As you noticed, in Father Panikkar's stories, one person's gift to God may be his wealth, for somebody else life itself, for another ... a fiance.... Have you ever thought about the possibility of dedicating your life to God's service as a lay woman? The Gospel needs to be read in terms of our individual situation; it is always a question of generosity." I was confused because what was being presented to me was not a religious vocation but an act of personal generosity. Was God speaking to me through Father Panikkar's meditation? Were Guadalupe's words an Opus Dei "trick"? I certainly tried to be a good Catholic, but was quite aware that I was not a saint. Why would God ask something special of me who was preparing to be a good Christian wife? I decided to speak with Father Panikkar. There was anxiety in my voice but my questions were clear and direct: was his meditation something I should consider for my own life despite my deep love for my fiance? Why shouldn't I just get married and work to help others? Shouldn't his meditation be totally disregarded in my case? His answer was unambiguous: I should not disregard the possibility of dedicating my entire life to God's service. On the contrary, I should consider it seriously and act accordingly, "at any cost," he emphasized. "I will pray very hard for you," he added. "I will ask God, who has given you so many things in life to help you to be generous to him. Tomorrow is the first Friday of the month; tonight," he continued, "I will pray for you especially before the Blessed Sacrament." The point of being generous with God bothered me tremendously: all the responsibility was on my shoulders, since I was told by Guadalupe that they did not pose that challenge to everybody. I finished the retreat in a sea of tears and with tremendous anguish. Mine was an impossible dilemma: to give up my forthcoming marriage for God's sake, or go ahead with my marriage knowing that I had refused God's invitation to a life of dedicated service to him in Opus Dei. A couple of days later Father Panikkar told me that during the retreat several girls had asked him to write a brief note on the back of a religious picture. If I had asked him, he told me, he would have used a couple of lines from Tagore: "If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars." [8] After the retreat, Guadalupe repeatedly called me at home and at work, asking me to discuss "my problem" with her. She and Father Panikkar suggested that I ask my fiance for a waiting period, a delay in which to consider this unexpected possibility without outside pressures. I prefer not to describe in detail the surprise, pain, and disappointment this request caused my fiance. He was stationed in Tetuan, Morocco, and finishing his compulsory military service there. He was initially unable to obtain leave from the army. However, when he managed to come to Madrid for a couple of days, we spoke, and then he talked with Father Panikkar who stressed that he also had to be generous and accept God's will. As a good Catholic he felt trapped and unable to fight with the people representing God. I shall always remember his sadness as he told me: "If you were leaving me for another man, I would break his head, but what can I do to a God to whom I kneel every day?" I loved my fiance deeply and his unhappiness and anguish made me feel terribly guilty. Meanwhile in Opus Dei Guadalupe and Father Panikkar told me that suffering was required by God as a sign of purification. They stressed over and over that suffering was the cornerstone for anyone entering Opus Dei at the "foundational stage" and insisted that I had to place my whole life in God's hands without asking for anything in return. They spoke of all this quite naturally. Guadalupe would remind me that I should follow her indications as well as those of my spiritual adviser. She told me that the Founder was accustomed to say that "Opus Dei was the manifestation of God's will on earth" and that "Opus Dei was the way of converting the world to God" and that "the day in which we put Christ above all human activities, God will convert the world to him." Since there were married men in Opus Dei, I asked Guadalupe why I couldn't marry and remain in Opus Dei. "Perhaps there will be married women members someday," she replied, "but who knows when?" She also added "That is not the vocation to which you were called." I was repeatedly told to be generous to God and committed to Opus Dei. But I felt I needed a clearer picture of my vocation and an understanding of Opus Dei, and asked Guadalupe for a copy of the Constitutions. "Why do you need it?" she laughed. She didn't give me a copy; she didn't even tell me that the Constitutions of Opus Dei had yet to be written. However she emphasized that, by virtue of the Vatican's 1947 promulgation of the Constitution Provida Mater Ecclesiae, [9] Opus Dei was the "first secular institute of the Roman Catholic Church" and that a few days later it had also received the Decretum Laudis. [10] She also remarked that because it was a novelty in the church and few people would be able to understand it, it was necessary to be "extremely discreet" -- silent -- about Opus Dei. In the beginning Opus Dei presented itself as the most modern, innovative, and avant-garde institution in the church. Its members were laywomen and laymen; they did not wear a religious habit but ordinary clothes. Nor did they change their names, as was required of members of religious orders. Opus Dei houses were not convents; no canonical community life was required. As prospective members we were told to continue our regular work since it would be by means of this work that we would exercise a fruitful apostolate, convert the world, and achieve our personal sanctity. After months of being told over and over again that "my way was clear and that I had been chosen by God for this new apostolate," I broke up for good with my fiance and I wrote the required letter to Monsignor Escriva, the president general of Opus Dei, asking him to be accepted as a numerary (full member) in Opus Dei. The directress of the Opus Dei women's residence made it quite clear that in accordance with Opus Dei policy, I could not breathe a word about my letter, which implied a decision for life, to anybody, especially to my family or to any priest outside Opus Dei. The struggle over this decision exhausted me, and I was still so confused about God's will for my life that I decided to go abroad to think things over. Guadalupe did not want me to leave, but Father Panikkar supported my decision. So I went to France and Switzerland. In the summer of 1948 I went to Paris and stayed at the residence of the French Dominicans, whose school I had attended in Spain. I visited Mortefontaine-sur-Oise, the Mother House of the French Dominicans of the Holy Rosary, a lovely old chateau in a very peaceful and beautiful setting in the countryside near Paris. I was happy to have the chance to speak at leisure with the mother general, Mere Catherine Dominique, a tall, elegant woman from an old Parisian family. She was very intelligent and an excellent listener. She knew me from my school in Spain. At the end of our conversation she strongly recommended that I review my situation with another priest not linked to Opus Dei. I also spoke with Mere Marie de la Soledad, who had encouraged me to come to France and to Switzerland. She had known me since I was twelve, when I entered the French Dominican School in Valladolid. Young, bright, and understanding, she had a doctorate in mathematics and had long been my teacher and spiritual confidant. Neither she nor Mere Catherine Dominique clearly understood Opus Dei's policy and goals, but were respectful of the institution, since it had been accepted -- if not yet finally approved -- by the Roman Catholic Church. They were concerned about my future, however, and did not believe life in Opus Dei would be appropriate for me; I should keep praying to God for guidance and review my situation with my parents as well as with another priest who was not a member of Opus Dei. I went on to Lucerne, Switzerland, where I decided to write my fiance asking him to come to Madrid on my return so we could talk things over. I never understood how he managed to get permission from the army and the director of his company, where he worked as a forest engineer, for a week's visit to Madrid. We talked at length and were soon reconciled. I asked Guadalupe Ortiz de Landazuri to disregard the letter I wrote earlier to Opus Dei's Founder and I phoned Father Panikkar to inform him of my decision to continue the relationship with my fiance. It was September 14, 1948, the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, a day of religious celebration in the church and a special feast day in Opus Dei. Father Panikkar reacted with sadness and told me that my decision made the burden of his own cross heavier since he was full of apostolic expectations with regard to my vocation. Years later I realized that this kind of reaction was typical in Opus Dei when new members tried to leave the institution. I was convinced, however, that from now on everything would be easy, but once again I was wrong: Guadalupe and Father Panikkar kept insisting I had failed to be loyal to Christ's call. When Father Panikkar learned that my fiance was coming to Madrid for two weeks, he made part of my penance not to use makeup or nail polish during his visit. All this time I was still working for the International Congress of Philosophy and about to leave for Barcelona for the big event. One day I received a call from Jose Maria Hernandez-Garnica, the priest in charge of the Women's Branch of Opus Dei, asking me to come to Zurbaran, the women's residence, because he wanted to ask a favor. I went without any idea of what was involved. I knew, however, that he was the priest in charge of all women in Opus Dei (central priest secretary) and one of the first three priests ordained for Opus Dei in 1944. He was known among Opus Dei's men by the nickname "Chiqui." Father Hernandez-Garnica was a tall, pale man with black hair and thick glasses. He did not look directly at people. Although he belonged to an old Spanish family, his way of speaking was too colloquial, not at all refined: he used lots of "muletillas" (verbal crutches). Rather rude while speaking to Opus Dei women, he was, however, as I came to realize over the years, honest with us. After a brief greeting and without preliminaries of any kind, Father Hernandez-Garnica asked me not to go to Barcelona in October for the International Congress of Philosophy that I had helped organize. I was tempted to give a sharp answer but held my tongue before saying that I could not comply with his request because the organization of the congress was my full-time work. Hernandez-Garnica said that he was asking me not to go to Barcelona as a "favor" since I was not an Opus Dei member; to members he would simply issue an order. The reason for his request was the severe criticism of Opus Dei in Barcelona. The fact that Father Panikkar's assistant at the congress was a woman could be an occasion for gossip against Opus Dei. In my naivete I could not then understand how important it was for Opus Dei not to have one of their priests next to a young woman. In my years in Opus Dei I learned that in accordance with its Constitutions, the separation between men and women members is total. [11] This separation is particularly stressed between Opus Dei priests and women members; to my understanding, this is a reflection of Monsignor Escriva's sexual repression. The request from Father Hernandez-Garnica put a damper on my enthusiasm for the congress, to which I had given the best of my abilities and much of my time. The congress committee's decision to allow me to attend the sessions in Barcelona would have given me the opportunity of meeting the world's leaders in philosophy and the humanities. When Father Hernandez-Garnica understood that I was unwilling to yield, he resorted to blackmail: he said that if I insisted on going to Barcelona, Opus Dei superiors would forbid Father Panikkar to attend the congress. I realized that this meant that the congress would be a total failure; Panikkar was not only the general secretary, but able to communicate fluently in all the official languages to be used at the congress. Realizing that he had left me no choice, Hernandez-Garnica added that I should offer a gracious excuse to the president of the congress without revealing the real reason. The anger with which I related this conversation to Father Panikkar led him to say that, if I wanted to attend the congress, he would be willing to renounce going to Barcelona; but as an Opus Dei priest, he was obliged to obey its orders. It was a sincere offer but I had no choice: whatever my disappointment, I could not do anything that would endanger the success of the congress. My excuses for not going to Barcelona were kindly and discreetly accepted by the committee in charge of the congress. My absence was sincerely regretted, but Father Jose Todoli, O.P., who as secretary of the Luis Vives Institute had been deeply involved in all the preparations, was not fooled and remained convinced that my decision was the result of an Opus Dei trick. It goes without saying that, from that day onwards, Father Hernandez-Garnica was not exactly my "cup of tea." In turn, I discovered that the strategy used on me was not an isolated case but the result of an oath that all Opus Dei priests, superiors, and members called inscribed -- inscritos -- (the numeraries who have a position on the Opus Dei governing or indoctrination board) are obliged to take. It is called a "promissory oath." This oath, taken with one hand on the Gospel, entails that any member in such a position must always consult with his or her respective superior on important matters such as whether or not a governmental, professional, or social position should be accepted. Since political activities are often related to social matters, this means that an Opus Dei member cannot accept a government appointment or agree to head a corporation, for example, by himself or herself alone. In virtue of the "promissory oath," the members are first obliged to ask for advice from the assigned Opus Dei major superiors. Theoretically, Opus Dei members are free to accept or reject advice received from their superiors. But Opus Dei superiors are also empowered to move an Opus Dei member to the other end of the world if they consider that any failure to follow "their advice" might interfere with Opus Dei's interests. All Opus Dei priests have to take this oath, which clearly shows the great farce and the fraud of Opus Dei "freedom." From October to December 1948, Opus Dei launched an offensive to regain my "lost vocation." Over and over I was told that I was going against God's will and therefore I could never again be happy or be able to make my husband happy. Father Panikkar told me not to invite him to officiate at my marriage ceremony since such an invitation would be tantamount to participating in a crime, and Guadalupe said that my idea of consulting a priest who was not a member of Opus Dei was diabolic. These are practical manifestations of Opus Dei doctrine taught by its Founder. As "new vocations" in Opus Dei, we were told not to disclose to our own families the commitment we had made to the institution. This often led to serious conflicts and even lies to our parents. Unfortunately, this Opus Dei policy continues in force to this day. As far as families are concerned, the Opus Dei idea of "discretion" -- a practice of being secretive -- consequently tend to make them suspicious. Opus Dei had the appeal of not rejecting the secular world but of calling rather for the sanctification of ordinary work, through which you could both serve humanity and achieve your own salvation. To be a missionary without going to a remote land was attractive to me. I was taken with the idea that through ordinary work we could bring peace and salvation into the world. For us Catholics who went through the turmoil and horrors of the Spanish Civil War, Opus Dei's perspective was not only attractive but able to awaken our inner generosity. I had now been invited to participate in this adventure. Once again I heard that giving to Opus Dei our life, our youth, our love, sacrificing a possibly brilliant future for the sake of God, was a fair price to pay. In the 1990s Opus Dei repeats the same arguments to potential recruits: generosity to God, yes, but through Opus Dei. I came to realize that Opus Dei does not undertake any apostolate unless it entails proselytism for the institution. By way of example, the visits to the poor which Opus Dei recommends to girls attending its schools are always manipulated by the numeraries directing this apostolate into an occasion to bind those girls closer to Opus Dei centers, rather than exhibiting real interest in the poor and their suffering. A true apostolate, as it is understood in the Roman Catholic Church, purely for God and the church, is not Opus Dei's primary intention. Nowadays, when all humankind trembles at the lack of basic human rights such as freedom, housing, food or basic reading skills, the Opus Dei doctrine continues to reflect an embarrassing lack of Christian concern for the poor and their suffering. No member of Opus Dei, much less an Opus Dei priest, enjoys the freedom to join a group of citizens in a demonstration for justice for a minority group. But, coming back to the thread of my story, on Christmas Day 1948, the mail brought me a card with a beautiful picture of the Madonna with the printed legend: Ecce Ancilla, Behold, the handmaid of the Lord. Below was a handwritten sentence by my spiritual director: Will you become one? It had been a struggle, but Opus Dei had won. On New Year's Eve 1949, I made a clean break with my fiance, believing that by entering Opus Dei I was doing God's will. Many people rebuked me for my behavior toward my planned marriage. I was told by relatives and friends that I was "a woman without feelings, without heart!" God knows well the painful crisis I went through until I finally surrendered to "God's will," as I understood it. Without doubt, Opus Dei presented the vocation to me on the basis of my own passionate temperament and the fact that they knew I liked to do things wholeheartedly. They saw my thirst for an apostolate and successfully channeled it toward Opus Dei. They emphasized the dilemma of apostolic limitations that marriage implies. It was also stressed that because of my family and its social connections, I could move in a wide range of social circles in Spain, giving me the opportunity to help young women of similar backgrounds and, eventually, even married women. My capacity for leadership was another gift from God. I was asked whether I wished to keep these gifts to myself or offer them to God. All these ideas were intermingled in my heart and in my mind, and, finally, I decided I must give to God whatever he asked me for, even if it meant giving up my future marriage and inflicting deep hurt on the man I loved. Many people judged me harshly for my decision. Many friends and even close relatives said I had treated my fiance frivolously; these were people I was not to see again for almost twenty years, when I had left Opus Dei. Their attitude would probably have been different if I had joined one of the established religious orders; at the time Opus Dei was largely unknown and regarded with considerable suspicion. Despite my mother's negative attitude toward my vocation, a few relatives and friends of mine, as well as my father and my brothers kept in touch, either by sporadic correspondence or by meeting me briefly when I passed through Madrid on a move from one house to another. I remember how touched I was when my youngest brother, who was twelve, managed to come with our housekeeper to visit me while I was living at Los Rosales, an Opus Dei study center in Villaviciosa de Odon, near Madrid. During the eighteen years I remained in Opus Dei my parents never came to visit me, nor was I ever allowed to go to my parents' home. Two facts are evident: (1) Opus Dei always kept me away from Madrid, and (2) Opus Dei superiors never had the basic human decency to visit my parents to explain to them what Opus Dei was. The meager explanation I gave to my parents was completely inadequate. At that time Opus Dei's Constitutions as such did not exist; there was no official or written information on the institution, which in fact had not yet received official and final approval by the Holy See. I learned about this years later while in Rome working close to the Founder as an Opus Dei major superior. The real attitude of the organization was shown by Opus Dei superiors and priests who frequently told us that parents were often a "tool" used by the Devil to destroy or take an incipient vocation away. New vocations were told to answer the question: "What are Opus Dei people like?" Reply: "As everyone should be." In the following chapters I shall give details of Opus Dei's structure and procedures that I was unfamiliar with when I joined the institution. A few specifics of which I was unaware on Opus Dei's modus operandi are worth mentioning here: a) I did not appreciate how my family's name and social circumstances made me a good "catch." Opus Dei's interest was recruiting women from the social elites. b) I did not know that my giving up a forthcoming marriage was going to be used as an example for future potential members to encourage them to do the same. c) I did not know that the reason Guadalupe Ortiz de Landazuri laughed when I asked to read Opus Dei Constitutions was because the Constitutions were not yet written nor even submitted to the Vatican for approval. d) I did not know that the secrecy of Opus Dei -- called "discretion" -- was due to fear because of the weakness of Opus Dei's legal status within the Roman Catholic Church. Escriva did not want to become involved in disputes within the social circle represented by the new candidates' families. But it is important to explain here that new vocations are still required to keep silent (discreet) about Opus Dei to their families, despite the current approval of Opus Dei as a personal prelature. Opus Dei still considers the candidate's family as the worst enemy of an incipient vocation, especially now that they proselitize teenaged girls. e) I also did not know why Opus Dei women and priests labeled those of us who went to their residence for Mass, confessions, or study circles as "the St. Raphael girls," their jargon for "possible vocations." Looking back from a distance, I must say that I consider totally immoral Opus Dei recruitment policies requesting people to assume a lifelong commitment as members of this prelature without first letting them read what in my time were the guidelines of the future Constitutions as a secular institute, a draft document called Praxis, whose existence was kept totally secret from us as new vocations, to which only the directress of the house had access. Even now Opus Dei's approved Constitutions as a personal prelature are not made available -- indeed have not been translated from Latin. Then, after reading over these documents, candidates should be given time to reflect and consider the responsibility their commitment would entail. Ironically, whereas in the conservative atmosphere of the 1940s and 1950s Opus Dei presented itself as avant-garde, it has since become the most retrograde and sectarian wing of the church. Opus Dei remains the same in its inner structure: its eagerness to be seen as "different"; its effort to convince the Pope and the hierarchy it is a providential institution for our time, while, in fact, Opus Dei exploits the church for its own purposes. Significantly, when Opus Dei fought the big battle to change its status from secular institute into personal prelature, whose main characteristic is precisely the freedom and independence (Opus Dei calls it "harmony") it enjoys from the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church throughout the world, it became an ecclesiola in Ecclesia, a sect. [12] Without leaving the church nut as a church inside the church, Opus Dei has all the characteristics of a sect. [13] Just as Monsignor Escriva was virtually worshipped in life as the incarnation of the spirit of Opus Dei, the goal of Opus Dei today is to elevate him to the altar. _______________ 1. Actas del Congreso Internacional de Filosofia (Barcelona, 4-10 Octubre, 1948): Con motivo del centenano de los filosofos Francisco Suarez y Jaime Balmes, 3 vols. (Madrid: Instituto "Luis Vives" de Filosofia, CSIC, Bolanos y Aguilar, 1949). 2. See Raimundo Panikkar, Cometas: Fragmentos de un diario espiritual de la postguerra (Madrid: Euramerica, 1972). 3. Ibid., pp. 245-46. 4. Raimundo Panikkar, Religione e Religioni (Brescia: Morcelliana, 1964), Religion y Religiones (Madrid: Gredos, 1965), and Religionen und die Religion (Munich: Max Hueber, 1965). Curiously, the original was written in English but has not yet been published. 5. Guadalupe Ortiz de Landazuri was finishing her doctoral dissertation in chemistry. Since I liked and trusted her, she had a lot to do with my decision to enter Opus Dei. She was convincing, refined, and persistent. In 1950 she founded the Opus Dei's women's branch in Mexico, returning to Spain in 1964 where she died in Madrid a few years later. 6. See Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali, No. L, in The Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore (New York: Macmillan & Co., 1967), p. 19. 7. See Oscar Wilde, The Nightingale and the Rose, in Poems, Fiction, Plays, Lectures. Essays and Letters, ed. H. Montgomery Hyde (New York: Clarendon Press, 1982). 8. See Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds, VI, in Collected Poems and Plays, p. 22. 9. Constitutio Apostolica Provida Mater Ecclesia, February 2, 1947, in Dominique Le Tourneau, Que sais-je? L'Opus Dei (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1984), p. 59. 10. See Decretum Laudis, February 24, 1947; in Giancarlo Rocca, L'Opus Dei: Appunti e documenti per una storia (Rome: Edizione Paoline, 1985), pp. 38ff. and original texts, pp. 159-163. Also in A. de Fuenmayor, V. Gomez-Iglesias, and J. L. Illanes, El itinerario juridico del Opus Dei: Historia y defensa de un carisma (Pamplona: Ediciones de la Universidad de Navarra, 1989), pp. 532-35. 11. See Rocca, L'Opus Dei, pp. 51, 163-65, where he includes Opus Dei's Internal Rules/or Administrations in its first version. Around 1954, in Rome, I copied and printed the new version prepared by Monsignor Escriva. It was longer and more detailed. 12. See chapter 10, especially nos. 11, 12, and 13 of de Fuenmayor et al., El itinerario juridico del Opus Dei. 13. See Bryan R. Wilson, Patterns of Sectarianism (London: Heinemann, 1967), pp. 22-45.
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