True Crime in the Catholic Church
Franciscan University, Opus Dei, and Extreme Fundamentalist Thinking
I did all the right things growing up Catholic. I went to daily mass, prayed the rosary and various novenas, and structured my life around the basic principle that the Catholic Church was not only the final authority on spiritual and moral matters, but also an authority on all earthly matters as well. Thankfully, I was never put in a position where someone with power over me in the church had the opportunity to abuse that power, but in attending college at Franciscan University, I literally had one or two meetings with Fr. Dave Morrier – narrowly avoiding the great harm he caused. It was misguided of me to place so much trust in a male-dominated hierarchy of spiritual authority, especially one not grounded in practical, mental-health fields like psychology. My immersion in this conservative, fundamentalist Catholicism kept me back from fully realizing my LGBTQ identity, and prevented me from living authentically for decades – prevented me from fully flourishing as a human being.
There are a few key metrics that researchers look at when working to identify whether or not a group (of any kind) exhibits high control and manipulative practices. One model for evaluating these practices is the B.I.T.E. model (created by Dr. Steven Hassan), which stands for Behavior Control, Information Control, Thought Control, and Emotional Control.
Are there rigid rules? Is there control of the physical environment? Is information highly controlled through outright deception or heavily biased propaganda? Is access to other, outside information discouraged? Is there an insider/outsider dynamic? (Pew-warmers versus daily mass goers?) Are even your thoughts policed through “all or nothing” dogmas?
The answer to almost all of these questions, it turns out, is a resounding “yes” for Opus Dei, an institution started in 1928 (not quite a century old yet) that is the subject of a new book by Gareth Gore: Opus: The Cult of Dark Money, Human Trafficking, and Right-Wing Conspiracy inside the Catholic Church, 2024. The book not only details the way in which controlling practices have historically been performed on members, but which also outlines the hidden motives at work under the surface layer of seeking holiness.
Much of the information in the book is not new. Many of the Opus Dei scandals are pretty well known at this point: from human trafficking charges in Argentina, (homeland of Pope Francis), to substantiated accusations of sexual abuse by Opus Dei celebrity priest of the 80’s and 90’s Fr. John McCloskey, to financial manipulation of a Spanish bank called Banco Popular where Opus Dei members were key players in decisions made at the bank. And yes, the information control aspect of the B.I.T.E. model is present in Opus Dei as well: the organization historically had a list of popular books and movies members were instructed to avoid. They also kept detailed notes on both members and prospective members, and even took notes on personal details revealed in the privacy of confession.
For its part, Opus Dei has denied much of what actually happened and even put out a statement accusing Gareth Gore of twisting the truth and making false claims. “The book “Opus” gives a false picture of Opus Dei based on distorted facts, conspiracy theories and outright lies.” This statement is in keeping with their typical practice of lacking accountability and outright rejecting any critique of their organization, which is another red flag when evaluating whether or not a group does indeed exhibit elements of high control and manipulation. A healthy organization is able to identify and admit when mistakes have been made and own up to them.
Personally, I actually attended some Opus Dei events prior to my transition from female to male: prayer and reflection meetings known as “Circle,” as well as one-on-one meetings with an Opus Dei Numerary (a member committed to celibacy) first in Chicago and then in Pittsburgh while I attended college at Franciscan University of Steubenville, Ohio. At the time, their rigidity in structure actually appealed to me, (I’ve always loved a good schedule or checklist), because I was still suppressing my LGBTQ identity. Without a fully-packed schedule of work and church (that ultimately did lead to burnout), I experienced a gnawing emptiness that dominated my life. I wasn’t living authentically.
My experience with “the work” (literally “God’s work” in Latin but often shortened to “the work” in casual conversation) was overall pretty tame: I was interested in getting more involved because again the structure appealed to me even as the rigidity contributed to the suppression of my identity, but I was never offered a path forward. Gore outlines how thorough Opus Dei has been in their recruitment techniques to ensure the successful acquisition of wealthy, connected candidates. Not only did I fail to meet those requirements, but it was also clear to them that I was part of the LGBTQ community.
I remember once privately meeting with a Numerary where the way I dressed (very masculine among a group of pretty feminine women) was brought up. The Numerary mentioned I could ask one of my friends for tips on how to dress more femininely.
I was put off by this, primarily because growing up Catholic I was never able to understand the fixation people had with appearance (specifically related to gender expression). If what truly mattered was belief and faith—intangible and internal realities of human experience—then God wouldn’t care whether or not I wore a dress to mass on Sunday. And Jesus obviously doesn’t care about external appearances since throughout the Bible He is constantly spending time with people who are not “presentable” to society.
It was only when I later embraced my own LGBTQ identity that I began to understand that a fixation on gender roles (including both performance and appearance) is part and parcel of rigid fundamentalism and can be a feature of high control groups. Gore details aspects of this gender essentialism present in Opus Dei, but another place I witnessed this type of thinking was while attending college at Franciscan University.
I attended Franciscan from 2011-2015 and completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Communications, minoring in Film Studies and Philosophy. I was not spiritually nourished by my time at Franciscan; again, this period in my life was an exercise in avoidance. Loading up my schedule with work and church events was the only way to prevent myself from the type of introspection that would years later finally lead to my understanding and acceptance of my LGBTQ, and specifically transgender, identity. During college I was focused on “doing” rather than “being,” and with that attitude I at one point held several jobs while studying and even traveled in Europe for a semester through a study-abroad program. I was literally too busy for any serious self-reflection.
My on-campus life was defined by being different. Other students saw a woman wearing masculine clothes–highly unusual on a campus where traditional gender roles were embraced. I definitely had some awkward moments, like the time I stayed after class to speak with a professor and a group of men came into the classroom to start setting up for an RA meeting. I happened to be wearing an outfit that included a bowtie that day, and as they filed into the room I saw that they all were wearing bowties as well. As my professor and I stepped into the hall to continue our conversation, I felt the major side-eye. Why was a woman wearing a bowtie?
Beyond these personal experiences of witnessing gender essentialism at Franciscan (I didn’t even mention the Household t-shirt plus jean skirt combo, a classic), the University has of course harbored sexual abusers and definitely lacked any type of healthy accountability. I remain friends with many fellow alumni who often publicly warn against sending children to attend the school based on the track record and failure to prevent sexual violence perpetrated by men in positions of spiritual authority.
Later, after leaving Franciscan and fully accepting my LGBTQ identity, I saw how the preoccupation with gender roles present both at Franciscan and within Opus Dei lies at the core of strict fundamentalism and is often a hallmark of controlling groups. Maintaining control over people (whether physical or purely psychological) requires conformity and uniformity and the elimination of any hint of individuality. LGBTQ people tend to exude individuality both in our attraction to people we’re “not supposed” to be attracted to as well as our creativity and flair for unique style and ways of presenting ourselves.
In Gore’s book, I learned that men and women were strictly separated in the early days of Opus Dei, to the point that corresponding men’s and women’s leaders could not even speak face-to-face due to the concern that they may form an overly intimate bond. They could exchange written notes to communicate, however they had to be typed and not handwritten to again avoid any chance at intimacy. While the controlling elements here seem obvious to me, I also saw why Josemaría and many of those close to him were so staunchly anti-gay: what good are all these attempts at avoiding romantic entanglements between men and women if a member is gay? So, once again, the LGBTQ community eschews the desired outcome of fundamentalist high control groups. It’s no accident that so much vitriol is directed our way.
But my identity wasn’t the only problem with my interest in Opus Dei: there was also the matter of money. I had many private conversations with Opus Dei Numeraries but there was also a visit to my parents house, and I suspect our modest, middle-class lifestyle did not fit the recruitment profile laid out in Gore’s book. I never got a call with instructions on how to go deeper or join the group, and this was likely a combination of the identity issues I had spoken to them about in confidence (such as my attraction to women) and the family home visit. My family did not have enough means to add much to an organization that I now know is highly driven by the acquisition of earthly wealth, influence, and power.
This point in Gore’s book was particularly eye-opening for me, as my experience of learning about Josemaría Escrivá was (of course) always in glowing terms—he was a saint, after all, having been canonized in 2002 by friend of Opus Dei Pope John Paul II. Certainly the founder of Opus Dei would only be spoken of highly at meetings run by the organization, but there was a lot I didn’t know: such as the way his canonization was a rush job, or the way Pope John Paul II gave Opus Dei their status as a personal prelature prematurely, or the fact that Josemaría had microphones installed inside Opus Dei houses to surveil members, or the frankly nasty way the saint spoke about and towards people who didn’t support his agenda behind closed doors. Did I mention he was also friendly with the nationalist government of Spain?
In 2011, the film There be Dragons was released and I went to see it along with some women I’d met through Opus Dei. The film was absolutely an attempt to cinematically sanitize Josemaría and hype him up as an important historical figure… which he certainly is, but not exactly in the way the film wants him to be. There be Dragons unapologetically casts Josemaría as an uber humble, folk-hero style priest and when I watched the film in 2011, it gave no clue as to either Josemaría’s true character or to his actual allegiance to power—not to revolution, freedom, or justice, as the movie tries to imply. The film mostly gets away with these issues, though, because eighty percent of the story is focused on another character altogether, freeing up Josemaría from the burden of holding the spotlight. In the end, the film feels like a student’s attempt to be deeply profound and artistic while misremembering and misrepresenting history to somehow paint the nationalist government as a better option for the people of Spain.
The Da Vinci Code, on the other hand, is the most famous fictional Opus Dei portrayal, and is definitely a much more entertaining story–and there were strong objections from Opus Dei about the fictional version of the organization. The interesting part isn’t the portrayal itself or indeed even the scope of the objections (though again I find it relevant that Opus Dei is so reactive and lacks accountability by refusing to “own” anything negative), but rather the inspiration. Dan Brown has taken the basics of a secretive, controlling organization and spun it out into a fictional, full-blown conspiracy thriller. He was able to do this with great popularity and mainstream success in part because the foundation of a high control, manipulative organization was already all there.
An early scene in the film that stood out to me showed a bishop flying on a private jet and speaking with a PR consultant who attempts to coach the cleric on how to respond to criticisms towards Opus Dei, since the press has been a bit hostile lately. This is echoed in Gore’s book (and in reality) when discussing the way Opus Dei chooses to respond to real scandals and accusations of crimes, as well as books and films like those created by Dan Brown.
Ultimately The Da Vinci Code is entertainment, not a real attempt at theology, but I do think Dan Brown accurately captures the inherent anxiety about women that exists in patriarchal systems of power–not just in Opus Dei but also in the greater church. After all, if women are granted more access, influence, or status, what will become of all that potential currently being hoarded by men?
Still, there are plenty of women and men (and non-binary people too, even if they would not be acknowledged by the church they love) who believe in the best of what the church can be and earnestly do want to seek holiness in their everyday lives and occupations, which is all in keeping with the stated mission of Opus Dei. In a review of Gore’s book published in the National Catholic Reporter, Matt Murray, executive editor of the Washington Reporter, notes that the ordinary, earnest believers are neglected by the book: “Indeed, there is virtually no space devoted to exploring the spiritual lives of Opus Dei members, especially ordinary people, or consideration of the notion that its leaders, even deeply flawed ones, might hold sincere convictions. The focus of the reporting is almost solely on the leaders and their scandals.”
Throughout my experiences with different churches, non-profits, and ministries as a lifelong Catholic, I have seen my fair share of scandals and dangerous leaders. Whether you grew up Catholic or not, we have all lived through endless reports of sexual abuse perpetrated by Catholic priests. Today, much of the world simply associates Catholicism directly with abuse. This can not be ignored or metabolized in such a way that we cease to be scandalized, outraged, and moved to action. Demanding more of the institutional church is one way we can imitate Christ at the temple, overturning the tables of the money-lenders.
In fact, it is concern for the spiritual lives of ordinary people that motivates my analysis and criticism of the power held by organizations like Franciscan University, Opus Dei, and indeed the larger Catholic church. Power will always be a disease, no matter who wields it. "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely,” Lord Acton, 1887. As we live through challenging times of reckoning with abuses of power across society—from entertainment to government to religion—we are faced with the sacred task of ensuring that the spiritually vulnerable are safe and protected.
Even the most horribly controlling groups have people who recall wonderful things about them: all of these groups are started with lofty ideals and goals, and populated by highly motivated, eager and earnest people. Abuse can and does still happen. The suppression of individuality, control over personal identity, and a preoccupation with gender roles contributes to a harmful, manipulative culture where more serious crimes can occur.
Ultimately, my own journey away from controlling environments led to finding freedom in the authenticity of my transgender identity. Not only did I embrace belonging to the LGBTQ community, but I was also able to reject the repressive systems that had controlled me and defined my life. I have witnessed firsthand the destructive power of dogma, the importance of questioning authority, and the necessity of protecting individual freedoms in both spiritual and secular life. As I continue to reclaim my voice, I remain committed to warning others about the dangers of extreme fundamentalism, wherever it may be found.
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I am so glad you reclaimed your voice. It is so valuable that you are bringing attention to these issues. Understanding the BITE model is huge!
I had a brush with Opus Dei too. It is hard to believe the church canonized the leader of a cult. Well, may be it is not hard to believe. The church also let Marcial Maciel lead the LOC for decades and he was a sociopath and pedophile.
We need more people speaking about this. Thank you for speaking up. I know how much work it is to break out of this system.
Thanks for this piece, Max, and particularly for the Bite Model tool that I had never heard of!! Although I've never been Catholic, my husband is / was, my mother was sent to a Catholic boarding school for many years, and my best friend is Catholic, so the topic is always intriguing to me. This piece reminded me of one of Richard Rohr's devotionals about power this week:
"The great temptation of Christianity has always been to think that if we were in control, if we had power, we would “win,” but that’s exactly what Jesus warns us against.
In Matthew’s Gospel Jesus tells us to be salt—not the meat, the potatoes, or even the vegetables—just the invisible but very effective salt. Salt is what gives zing and taste to food and Jesus is calling us to be people who give purpose, meaning, and desire to life. If we look at the history of Christianity, whenever we were “in charge,” that’s when we became the most corrupt.
Christianity operates best in a resistance position, in a position where we can discern and choose how to be salt, how to be light.
Likewise, the metaphor of light as Jesus uses it here is not controlling or forceful. As Alcoholics Anonymous says, it’s not moving forward by self-promotion, but by attraction. Just set the light on the lampstand and if it’s good, and if it’s real, and if it’s beautiful, people will come. This is very different than what we expect. We basically think we can only move the world by being in control. Yet both of the images that Jesus offers here warn us against wanting to be in control.
That is so contrary to our common sense. We think “If only we had the power, if only we had the majority, we could create the kingdom of God,” but it’s never been true. I know from my years of traveling that when Christians are a minority in a country, and they have to choose and decide to be the salt of the earth, to be light on a lampstand, they make a real difference.
Jesus calls us to give the world taste, meaning, purpose, direction, desire. It’s a humble position, isn’t it? We’d much sooner be in charge. But whenever someone or something has all the power, they mostly misuse power. Jesus warns us against power, because very few people can handle it. Most of us use it for our own aggrandizement, our own promotion and advancement in the ways of the world, which usually means more money and more power.
Either we learn how to be the salt of the earth, a true alternative to the normal motivations and actions of society, or as Jesus put it very clearly, we might as well throw it out and trample it underfoot. We have to find our inner authority through Christ in us; we have to find our purpose in our love of God and neighbor, and actions of mercy and justice. Otherwise, we’re not offering anything that the world doesn’t already have or can’t find in other places." Adapted from Richard Rohr, “When Everyone Is a ‘Christian’ No One Is a Christian,” homily, February 5, 2017.