Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  Devlin smiled. Martin sat behind a desk so cluttered with papers no wood showed on the surface. “If the Dead Sea Scrolls had been hidden on that desk they never would have been found,” he said.

  Martin tapped the pile with a long bony finger. “I know exactly where every scrap is,” he said. “Unfortunately, some of those scraps are so old, I don’t recall why I put them there.”

  Martin had disheveled, wispy white hair that marked his sixty-three years, but everything else about him save his desk seemed ordered and purposeful. The broad smile he offered Devlin made him seem ten years younger.

  “So how are the lovely Adrianna and the equally lovely Phillipa?” he asked.

  “Both still the joy of my life,” Devlin said. “Although Phillipa has reached an age that I find mystifying.”

  “How old is she now?” Martin asked.

  “Ten. She’ll be eleven in a few months.” Devlin let out a breath.

  “And you don’t understand her at all, I take it.”

  “Less each day.”

  Martin brought his hands together in a clap. “Good. It will keep you on your toes. Children need parents who are on their toes, watching and struggling to understand. They may think their parents are hopeless fools, but deep down they know they’re loved, and that’s what counts.” Martin raised his hands as if giving a benediction. “As you can see, I enjoy offering advice about children from the safety of my celibacy.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers before his face. “So, you said on the telephone that you had some questions about Opus Christi. That is truly a fascinating subject. Why are you interested?”

  Devlin filled him in on the murder of the young nun and on the problems they had in getting even minimal cooperation from the order.

  “The death, or at least the nature of it, of course, surprises me,” he said, when Devlin had finished. “The lack of cooperation does not surprise me at all.”

  “Why is that?”

  The priest spread his hands and then brought them back to a steeple. “First, let me point out that you are asking a Jesuit about Opus Christi, a group the Society of Jesus is said to vehemently oppose—primarily, as current church wisdom holds, because Opus Christi is said to have replaced the Jesuits as Catholicism’s most influential religious order, especially among the powers in Rome.”

  “Is that true?” Devlin asked.

  “Oh, yes, it’s quite true. Opus Christi has more power and more influence with the present pope and those surrounding him than the Jesuits ever hoped to have.”

  “Why is that?”

  Martin raised a hand. “Let me get to that later. First, let me tell you bluntly that I consider Opus Christi to be nothing more than a very dangerous cult, dangerous to both its members and to the church itself. That said, I’ll give you a brief history of the order and a summary of its practices.”

  Martin rose and began walking behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. It was the pose of a lecturer, and it brought another smile to Devlin’s lips.

  “Opus Christi was founded some seventy years ago by an obscure Colombian priest by the name of José Chavarría de Mata. He was only thirty-one at the time and was already working in the Colombian prelature at Bogotá. By all accounts he was a brilliant young man, and had caught the eye of Colombia’s cardinal, who himself was highly regarded by Rome. Chavarría claimed to have had a vision in which God directed him to found a lay religious order, exclusively for men, that would lead them to lives of holiness by following the message of Christ in their daily endeavors. Under supposedly divine inspiration, Chavarría wrote a book—a catechism of sorts—called The Way, in which he detailed in broad brushstrokes the principles that should be followed to achieve this Christlike way of life. Those principles, that message of Christ, is, of course, subject to interpretation by those who run The Holy Order.”

  “And that’s the problem as you see it?” Devlin asked.

  Father Martin raised a lecturing finger. “The devil’s always in the details, isn’t it?” He tapped the finger against his nose. “Opus Christi, translated from the Latin, means work of Christ. But to the order the meaning of those words is not that they are doing the work of Christ but rather that they are the work of Christ. Ergo, there is an assumed infallibility in all their pronouncements and in their very interpretation of how a good Christian life should be lived.” He clasped his hands and gestured with them. “Unfortunately, no matter how great one’s piety, no matter how devoutly one strives to live a good life, none of it guarantees that one’s beliefs are correct. Neither does it guarantee that one’s actions are not misguided.”

  Devlin considered that, stored it away, and went on to something that was bothering him. “You said the order was exclusively for men. But we found women as members—and nuns.”

  Martin let out a small chuckle. “There was a second vision about ten years after Opus Christi was formed. Chavarría claimed the Holy Ghost appeared to him again and told him to include women among the order’s members. There were strict caveats, however. Men and women were to be kept isolated from each other. This was to ensure there were no romantic contacts. Celibacy was to remain inviolate. Female emancipation was also to be avoided. Women were to be confined to cleaning and cooking, with male and female members not even allowed to see each other at those times.” The priest laughed again. “I suspect those who first ran the order found that their accommodations were not quite tidy enough, their meals not quite satisfying enough, and decided a second visitation by the Holy Ghost might cure that initial planning error providing there were strict rules that would not compromise purity.”

  Martin sighed. “I know that sounds terribly snide, but for those of us who have steeped ourselves in the sometimes shameful history of the church, it is frustrating to see the relatively few advances we have made in women’s suffrage trampled underfoot with the blessing of Rome. It’s just one more of the practices and pronouncements that are driving people away from the church. And if we want to bring people back, want to see the church prosper and grow, a return to medieval thinking and cultist practices is not the path we should follow.”

  “You’ve used the term cult twice now, but you haven’t explained it,” Devlin said.

  Martin took his chair, clasped his hands again, and rested his forearms on the desk. “Like all elitist organizations, Opus Christi puts most of its energy into recruiting new members. Its education methods, though quite bizarre to most people, are not all that unusual for the type of organization it is. The Holy Order employs iron discipline, brainwashing, and insistence on absolute obedience. It demands a spartan lifestyle, constant self-accusation, complete subordination to authority, and a missionary attitude that can only be described as arrogant. These are characteristics that have always been employed by elitist organizations, be they the boarding schools of Britain—in certain instances, even some Jesuit schools—in the Prussian or Soviet cadet academies, and in the educational practices of the Third Reich.”

  “Whoa,” Devlin said.

  “I know, I know,” Martin said, “I sound rabid on the subject. But I assure you those feelings are well founded.” He leaned back in his chair and gave his head a sad shake. “As I’m explaining my reasoning, I want you to keep in mind other cults you’ve become familiar with, be they Jim Jones, the Reverend Moon, the Branch Davidians, or a host of others.”

  “Are you telling me this group is run by either madmen or charlatans?” Devlin asked.

  “No, I am not. I don’t question that these people are devout believers, and the good Lord knows we have few enough of those today. But like the others I mentioned it’s a religious piety that operates in an atmosphere of secrecy and zealotry and fanaticism, and from those positions, I’m afraid, it’s only a small step over the brink.

  “First and foremost, The Holy Order is based on absolute secrecy—even secrecy from those it hopes to recruit.” He looked at Devlin soberly. “They target young, religiously motivated people, often thos
e who seem somewhat lost and uncertain of themselves. Hence, recruits are usually in their late teens or early twenties. But here’s the important point. Those slated for recruitment never know who is recruiting them until they are considered emotionally dependent and safely in the fold. And when they do find out it’s too late. They’re dependent. They’ve come to believe they need the order for their very salvation. In short, they’ve become victims of psychological entrapment.

  “To do this, The Holy Order operates youth centers and clubs, offering things they know will attract young Catholic men and women. They offer camping and cycling trips, very closely chaperoned social gatherings, excursions to various places—all of it free, of course—and, later, discussion groups, some say to pinpoint areas of weakness to be worked on by those operating the centers. But throughout it all, those who have been targeted for membership are never allowed to know who really operates the center or club—not until they are considered safe and ready for recruitment.

  “Right now, Opus Christi opens approximately forty new clubs and centers each year worldwide and has eighty thousand members. They’re relatively new to this country, only about three thousand, but they are growing quickly. In Europe and South America they’re already quite a formidable force, with well-placed members in the media, medicine, the judiciary, universities, and, above all, in finance and politics.”

  “How do you know all this?” Devlin asked. “It sounds as if there are some big holes in their so-called penchant for secrecy.”

  Martin smiled. “We Jesuits have been keeping watch.” He gave Devlin a small shrug. “What we know about the organization’s inner workings we’ve learned from those who have fled.”

  “Fled? As in escaped?”

  “In some cases members have even been kidnapped and deprogrammed.”

  “Deprogrammed by professionals?” Devlin asked.

  “In some cases, yes. In others the individuals simply left on their own and told their families or parish priests what they experienced.”

  “I’d be more inclined to believe the latter,” Devlin said. “Professional deprogrammers and the results they end up with bother me. Deprogramming can be a form of brainwashing in itself.”

  “I agree completely,” Martin said, “except for one troubling fact. In almost every instance the stories told were frighteningly similar.”

  “How?”

  The priest tapped the tips of his fingers together. “First, recruitment appears to concentrate on students, intellectuals, professionals, and those who are wealthy. The reasons for this, of course, are obvious: vulnerability, influence, and financial gain. Next, all new members are required to turn their incomes and assets over to the order and are given a modest stipend to live on. They are also required to make the order the sole beneficiary of their wills.”

  “You’re kidding,” Devlin said. “And this is completely voluntary?”

  “Oh, yes. There is no force or coercion.” Martin laughed. “Other than fear of eternal damnation if they refuse. And, at that point, those recruited appear to believe that result will inevitably occur if they disobey.”

  The priest raised a hand and grasped two fingers. “Next, members must forsake all contact with their families. The Holy Order becomes their family. Each member is assigned to an older ranking member of the order, who becomes their spiritual guide—in effect, their new father or mother—and they must submit to that guide’s discipline without question. And the discipline is strict. Their mail is read before they receive it. They must confess all their thoughts and lose all sense of self. They are taught that if they are not happy all the time, it is because they are not connected with God; that such unhappiness is a sin and must be confessed to their spiritual guide.”

  Martin had run out of fingers and let his hands fall back to the desk. “Members must fall on their knees during spiritual discussions and confess their unhappiness. They must also perform acts of mortification every day. These start out simply at first. Taking a cold shower in the morning, denying oneself sugar or cream in one’s coffee if one prefers it that way, putting it in if one does not. Later, more painful acts of mortification are required. Members must wear a repentance belt for two hours each day. This is a metal wire that is tightened around one’s leg, a wire with sharp spikes inside that actually pierce the skin. Then there is scourging, beating one’s bare buttocks with a cord that has knots tied in it. This is required once every week for the duration of a Credo or a Salve Regina, or some similar prayer. And their bodies are checked regularly to make sure these acts are being done … adequately.”

  “And they actually get people to do this?” Devlin’s voice was filled with incredulity.

  “Oh, yes. The people in charge are quite persuasive, very powerful personalities. And they demand and receive total obedience.” Again, Martin shrugged. “Except from those who wake up one morning and realize what’s happening to them. Those are the ones who leave.”

  Devlin shook his head. “It’s hard to believe this is happening in the church I knew as a kid. But then I never expected to hear about the sexual and psychological abuse that priests and nuns inflicted on kids in Catholic orphanages either.”

  The priest swiveled his chair to stare out the office window, as if looking away from that ugly truth. “Evil doesn’t stop at the church’s door,” he said at length.

  Devlin nodded. “Or at the precinct door. Tell me about the organizational structure and the people who run the order.”

  Martin turned back and smiled. “Now you get a Jesuit’s subjective—perhaps even jaded—interpretation. Be forewarned.”

  “I’m so warned,” Devlin said.

  The priest leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, looked back at Devlin, and inclined his head to one side. “Very little is known about the organizational structure, other than that it is very rigid. Other facts are well guarded from public view. We do know that a German named Reinhard Holtz now heads the order. Up until five years ago he was a very successful banker in Frankfurt, but apparently he had been a member of the order most of his adult life. He is now an ordained priest—ordained by the order itself under its prelature status—and works out of Rome, where the order maintains its world headquarters.”

  “From banker to head of the order in five years? Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  The priest shook his head. “You must understand how the order operates. First there are regular members, who function as soldiers in the field, so to speak. They do the religious work of the order, primarily working in areas that seek to advance ‘family values.’” Farther Martin used his fingers to place quotation marks around his final words. “Essentially that means vigorous opposition to divorce, abortion, homosexuality, the ordination of women, and any other efforts that propose equality for women. They also work in Opus Christi business enterprises. The public, by the way, is never allowed to know that the order operates these businesses. That fact is always kept hidden.

  “Next we move up the ladder to the numerarier. These are trusted, established members, usually ordained priests within the order, who supervise the regular members. In actuality they control the lives of those members from morning until night, enforcing all discipline and ensuring that the directives of the order are followed exactly.

  “Above them are the supernumerarier.” Martin smiled. “This is where the secrecy of the order hits its zenith. Supernumerarier are known only at the highest levels of the order. In most cases even trusted numerarier don’t know who these people are, or exactly what their positions are within the hierarchy. But these supernumerarier are always prominent people—men at the top of their fields in business, banking, higher education, journalism, medicine, politics, or simply wealth—people who can act on behalf of the order without anyone’s knowing of their personal involvement. Ergo, they are powerful assets who can be used behind the scenes.” His smile returned. “Imagine if the entire College of Cardinals were known only to a select few, that instead of acting as bis
hops, they held high positions in the very institutions that governed and regulated every facet of modern society; and that they moved among us, doing the church’s work, without anyone’s knowing the true purpose of their actions.”

  “You’re scaring me,” Devlin said.

  Martin nodded. “Indeed.” He extended his hands at his sides, the long, bony fingers spread apart. “What you have in that instance, my friend, are tentacles that reach everywhere, secret untraceable power—all of it without accountability. And when you have that, the opportunity for abuse is limitless.”

  “How did the Jesuits breach this secrecy?”

  “With great effort,” Martin said. “And when the Society of Jesus applies great effort, it usually succeeds.” He rocked back in his chair. “Actually, when Reinhard Holtz became head of Opus Christi five years ago, we realized what was happening. He came out of the blue, so to speak—already an ordained priest, who had been a major world-banking figure for more than two decades. From there we began to look for others in Europe, and we found them in every facet of business and government, education and the media. All highly placed, and, to a man, dedicated above all else to the work of the order.”

  “What about here in the States?” Devlin asked.

  “The order is too new here. At present, we haven’t a clue. But I assure you, we are working on it.”

  Devlin stood and paced the small office, shaking his head. “How in hell did they get this kind of power within the Catholic church?”

  Martin let out a soft laugh. “Well, first, they fully agree with the present pope’s program on sexuality and reproductive health. This was not a widespread attitude when John Paul II received the white hat in 1978, so they quickly became a favorite of that new and somewhat embattled pontiff. But the real basis of their power came four years later with the Vatican banking scandal. That, if you recall, began with the 1982 failure of Banco Ambrosiano, one of Europe’s most influential banks. And since the Vatican Bank was inextricably linked with Ambrosiano, it too faced a financial crisis of immense proportions.” Martin raised his right hand in a dramatic gesture. “Enter Opus Christi, stage right, with an offer to pick up thirty percent of the Vatican’s annual expenditures—an offer the pope quickly and eagerly accepted. And suddenly, within months, Opus Christi was granted a personal prelature, and since that time its growth within the church has known no bounds.”