With its first parish in Ireland, Opus Dei will be ministering to the flock of a wealthy Dublin suburb, much to the disquiet of some members of the clergy and laity. Why has the change come about, and what impact will it have on the community?
THE NEWS THIS WEEK that Archbishop Diarmuid Martin has decided that the Catholic flock of an affluent, Dublin 4 enclave is to be entrusted to the hardy men of Opus Dei met with mixed responses around the archdiocese. The reactions ranged from dismay to barely concealed rage - and that was just the priests.
As for the flock back at Our Lady Queen of Peace parish on Merrion Road, well, said one veteran parishioner: "It's wait and see, isn't it? What else can we do? They're here now. After all we've been through with the church in the past few decades - and I've been a big defender, through thick and thin - I suppose you'd be expecting a little humility and Christian understanding and total openness in your clergy. The bit I know of Opus Dei doesn't exactly square with that. But what do we know about Opus Dei?
"I think it's partly what we think we don't know about them, rather than what we actually know, that's troubling. On the other hand, if they just stick to the job, they can't do much harm either, can they? Unless they expect us to start sleeping on floorboards and the like . . ." he says, his voice trailing away uncertainly.
The trouble for him and for Opus Dei is that Merrion Road is the organisation's first parish in Ireland. The fact that the announcement virtually coincided with the changeover left no time for general discussion, never mind consultation with diocesan clergy.
In attempts to soften concerns, it was noted that 42 of Dublin's 200 parishes are already in the care of religious orders. That, however, is disingenuous. Opus Dei - aka The Work - is an entirely different creature, a highly traditionalist lay organisation, guided by an authoritarian ideology, that happens to have its own priests. It is also an organisation that has been shot through with obsessive secrecy and elitism up to recent times. Far from rubbing along with the traditional religious orders, Opus Dei is perceived as the vanguard of an other-worldly view of Christianity, replacing the influence of the religious orders which had become more grounded in their support of an experiential faith.
Some 70 per cent of Opus Dei's 86,000 lay membership worldwide (equal male and female) are "supernumerary" members, generally married men and women for whom the sanctification of their family duties is the most important part of their Christian life.
The rest are numeraries or associates, men and women who commit themselves to celibacy. Associates live with their families or wherever is convenient professionally. Numeraries usually live in Opus Dei centres. "The principal task of the women assistant numeraries is that of the domestic responsibilities in the centres . . . which constitute for them their ordinary professional activity," says the Opus Dei handbook. They are obliged to use a separate entrance when working in men's centres.
This week, a Dublin priest (who wished to remain anonymous) expressed grave reservations about the "huge psychological burden" that is often placed on new Opus Dei members. "Opus Dei will not try to interpret the documents of the church in a fluid way . . . They pride themselves on their orthodoxy. The problem is that for individuals who are vulnerable to scruples - who are compulsive, addictive, obsessive, which are all first cousins to scruples - a rigid approach to any faith in the hands of such people, if not properly managed, can be very damaging. Religion should be a consolation to those people, not a torture."
Apart from the constant calls to prayer, confession and proselytizing, numeraries are required to practise corporal mortification. This entails the use of a cilice (pronounced "sillis", a spiked chain worn around the thigh), self-flagellation (administered on the back once a week with a small device made of cord or twine), and sleeping on the floor or on boards.
Opus Dei insists that its only objective is to offer support and guidance to all those who want to achieve holiness in their ordinary lives, especially through their everyday work.
In its day-to-day operations, "it has opened up somewhat" in recent years, says RTÉ's Fergal Bowers, who wrote a book on the subject 20 years ago, amid enormous disquiet about recruitment practices. The organisation's website is extensive and clear about its centres and their location. Its retreats at Lismullen and bi-annual Cleraun media conferences, with speakers fearlessly drawn from all shades of media and politics, is an example of how it has attempted to draw issues of public ethics and integrity into the spotlight.
ANOTHER INTERPRETATION, however, might be that of Robert Hutchison, author of the well-regarded Their Kingdom Come(1997; St Martin's Griffin). In his view, Opus Dei's primary goal is to return the Catholic Church to the centre of society, as in medieval times. "Opus Dei . . . is seeking to recreate an alliance between the spiritual and the secular worlds that was last attempted during the Renaissance - with catastrophic results. In countries where it has a strong presence, Opus Dei labours silently and stealthily to align government policies with those of the Vatican."
It is the only Roman Catholic organisation, other than the church itself, that believes it was created by God. This view of itself was copper-fastened by the 2002 canonisation of its founder, Josemaría Escrivá, and its placing at the heart of the Catholic church by Popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI. Previous archbishops of Dublin made a point of resisting overtures by Opus Dei. These days, Rome requires them - and therefore, their more ambitious lieutenants - not to be merely neutral, but to show enthusiasm.
Thus Opus Dei's only Irish parish priest, 59-year-old Artane-born Fr Fergus O'Connor, took up residence last Monday, with his Opus Dei colleague, Fr Charly Connolly (who worked briefly as a Mirrorreporter, 40 years ago). They share a house on Herbert Avenue, across from the retiring pastor, Fr Seamus Moore. In an interview with The Irish Times, Fr O'Connor was at pains to point out that he will listen carefully to Fr Moore, who is staying on in his old parish house and will act as "pastor emeritus".
Asked if he understood why parishioners might be wary of the new arrivals, Fr O'Connor looked slightly mystified: "I'd like the people here to take me as they find me. See what I can do - then judge me. All we're asked to do is look after the people with spiritual needs in this parish and carry out the pastoral plan of the archbishop. I will be giving them the teaching of the church, helping them to pray, to have a social conscience, to develop the sense of responsibility that they should have. Because there are two full-time priests now and a pastor emeritus, they will see more priest hours."
Does he wear a cilice? "Yes. I do wear a cilice. It's part of the tradition of the church going back centuries . . . Self-denial has always been a part of it."
Will he take the famously authoritarian line of Opus Dei? "There is only one line. It's what you find in the catechism, which the Pope preaches."
But prodigal sons and daughters might expect a warm welcome from him. "I'd be like the father of the prodigal son . . . He ran forward and embraced the wretch. I certainly won't be 'giving out' to anyone. I'm not in the barrack square," he smiles.
The "barrack" reference is to a previous life as an Irish Army officer for 14 years, where he was an expert on armoured vehicles and motorcycles. He left with the rank of commandant in 1980, and became director of Opus Dei's Nullamore University Residence in Dartry, Dublin.
He was 24 and still a lieutenant when he joined Opus Dei as a numerary, a decision "which meant I willingly decided not to get married . . . I was really taken by the notion that you can live out your Christian calling to the full in your ordinary life . . . It's about being kind, honest, loyal, helpful, cheerful, ready to oblige, no backbiting . . . You need a coach and you can't deliver without the help of grace."
Ordained an Opus Dei priest by Pope John Paul II in 1990, Fr O'Connor served in Dublin and Limerick, with responsibility for the pastoral care of young people. Later, after two years as a school chaplain in Nairobi, he became chaplain at the Ely University Centre in Dublin - for students mainly of TCD and the Royal College of Surgeons - and the Anchor Youth Centre in Artane, Dublin.
He says he has been to "godforsaken" places and seen hungry people. He has never worked with them, however. In an organisation which admits to being top-heavy with affluent professionals and with an emphasis on cultivating third-level students, can he refute the charges of elitism? "I don't know how you can dispel that kind of perception. What people don't realise is that there are people from all backgrounds who are members - taxi drivers, bus drivers, farmers, factory workers . . . We don't make a fuss of it."
Given that there is good work being done by Opus Dei members in places such as Jobstown in Tallaght, for example, does he regret that the archbishop did not select a poorer parish for their first venture together? "There's not so much scope for that here [in Ireland]," he replies.
Does he understand why other churchmen might cavil at his - and therefore, Opus Dei's - suddenly privileged access to all communications between archdiocese headquarters and the deaneries? "I'm nobody . . . I'm only the most junior parish priest of the archbishop and I take my orders from him. You're just one more voice - and the most junior one - in the deanery."
"For now," murmurs one priest, when told of this last comment. "But in the meantime, it gives them plenty of access to the people of the diocese and to recruitment." Another says: "It's such a pity that Archbishop Martin didn't put them into a poor parish. It would have been win-win for both. The question is, would they have risen to the challenge?"
