My life in Opus Dei: why I joined & why I left

Commonweal, Feb 25, 2005 by Alvaro Silva

The huge, devout crowd attending the canonization of Opus Dei founder Josemaria Escriva at St. Peter's Square in the fall of 2002 could never have imagined that a much larger, worldwide audience would soon be introduced to Opus Dei through a best-selling novel. In The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown pits members of Opus Dei, the institution Escriva founded to foster holiness in ordinary life, against enemies of the Catholic Church in a tale that includes an assassination conspiracy.

Perhaps Brown chose Opus Dei because of its reputation as a highly disciplined, secretive group made up of intelligent, totally dedicated members. The fact that Opus Dei members still flagellate themselves may have added to the group's narrative appeal. Brown depicts Opus Dei as a quasi-military organization with enormous wealth and power, including an impressive Manhattan headquarters set amid the influence wielders of the world. Some of the plot line is simply off the wall. I can attest, for example, that in my thirty-five years as a member of Opus Dei, I was never commanded to assassinate someone--not even a liberal archbishop.

Still, despite all its fictional nonsense, The Da Vinci Code is on target when it comes to one point. Conservative religious groups in the Catholic Church today do not merely want to thrive, they want to save the church from the jaws of hell, both from within and without. It is a rescue mission that can turn dangerous, though, both for members of the group and for the rest of us.

For much of its existence, Opus Dei has been described in the popular media as "controversial." Radical, prestigious, international, its membership composed mostly of laypeople--the group's priests remain largely in the background--Opus Dei fashioned a new style and perhaps a salutary change in the traditional, highly clericalized church. More recently, though, the key word used by the media to describe Opus Dei has been "conservative," if not "ultraconservative," making it appear not much different from a number of similar groups in the church, all of which enjoy the favor of the current pope.

Religious competition has a long history in the Catholic Church, so I want to be clear that this is not what motivates my writing. Nor is my desire to tear down or detract from the group. For thirty-five years, twenty-five of them as a priest, I willingly gave my life and talent to Opus Dei. A full analysis and examination of it and its mission would take more space than is available to me, and it would have to include an extended exploration of church history and spiritual theology. So I will limit myself to a personal, sometimes critical testimony.

Opus Dei, or the Prelature of the Holy Cross and Opus Dei, began quietly in Madrid in 1928, and spread following the tragic Spanish Civil War (1936-39). Years later--in 1964 to be exact--as a young high-school student in the Basque country, I welcomed its message. Even before I had come to read Charles Peguy, I believed passionately that "the only sadness is not to be a saint." Holiness, as several bright Opus Dei university students explained to me while walking the rainy streets of Vitoria, was the only goal of Opus Dei. The idea was to demonstrate the truth and the beauty of the Christian faith through human excellence: in personal goodness and honesty, generous friendships, serious study, and exemplary professional work. Holiness consisted not in performing sentimental devotions but in doing serious daily work and in developing all the human virtues.

Many Catholics, of course, had been doing that, unsung, for centuries: following Christ in lives so humble and busy that there was no thought of claiming official recognition for themselves. Indeed, true holiness is often hidden, like a gospel treasure. But for centuries, both the lay state and marriage had been viewed largely as a sort of concession to human weakness. Indeed, the real disciple would abandon all fleshly desires and follow Christ as a priest or a religious.

Opus Dei's emphasis on ordinary life as the way to God felt like fresh air in the church; certainly it did to me. The members I met, mostly university students and a few professors, were truly remarkable people, obviously dedicated to a great spiritual enterprise. There were also priests in Opus Dei, and their presence was rather striking. They seemed natural and kind, smart, professional, and entirely accessible. Before ordination, they had all worked in the real world, in a variety of professional occupations, and had not gone to seminary--another fact that attracted me. They seemed to fade into the background, as you would expect from a servant, and didn't seem to crave power or distinction. This absence of clericalism came as another revelation to me, something I continue to long for in the church at large.

When I first encountered Opus Dei, I thought it would clear the air in the stale, bureaucratic church. One Opus Dei story told of how the founder hadn't wanted a separate name for the group. As an institution, it was to remain practically anonymous. An institution that cared more for persons and the church than for its own name and gain? I was young and innocent--and I joined.