They have it clear in the Opus Dei. So clear, that the prelate himself sends letters to leave the encrypted message to his faithful: whatever comes from Rome, they will continue doing whatever they please. Translated into curial language, it sounds more pious: «Nothing changes in the spirit, nor in the norms of piety and family customs». But those who know how to read between the lines understand the message: whatever they do in the Vatican, we will remain the same. And deep down, that amounts to saying that they will do as they see fit.
The irony is that everything happening to them now—the imminent legal mutilation, the loss of internal power, Rome’s indifference—is the price of decades of docility, of misunderstood prudence, of confusing fidelity with submission and faith with comfort. The Opus Dei has unwittingly provided a monumental service to the ecclesial progressives: that of anesthetizing a good part of the faithful Catholics in a soulless obedience, in a bourgeois spirituality, in an institutionalized Christianity, perfectly tamed.
For years, while the Church was burning, they administered smiles, retreats, and spiritual directions like managing a company. They never raised their voice against the liturgical or doctrinal demolition, and when they did, it was in such a low voice that it wasn’t heard outside their own centers. Now that it’s their turn, there’s no one left to defend them. Because they didn’t build fidelity, but dependence; they didn’t form witnesses, but employees.
The Forgotten
I remember Bishop Rogelio Livieres, the first numerary in Paraguay, with whom I had the luck to exchange letters before his death. He was the first martyr of Bergoglio’s cruelty. They took away his diocese, publicly humiliated him, expelled him like a stranger. And what did the Opus Dei do? Nothing. They left him thrown out like a dog. Not a word, not a defense. What’s more, they issued an infamous statement saying that he «received formation from the Opus Dei,» but that he was not a «member.» The man who had given his life for the Work died alone, betrayed by his own. Rome crucified him, and the Work bowed its head.
The same with Vallejo Balda, imprisoned in the Vatican basements by order of the same pontiff whom they canonize in the media today. When he was arrested, the Opus Dei rushed to publish a statement, Ctrl+C; Ctrl+V from the Livieres statement: “He does not belong to the prelature.” Not a gesture of mercy, not a visit. Nothing. Rats fleeing the ship. Lest it stain the house’s reputation.
The Mass That Wasn’t
And what to say about the liturgy. It is well known that Saint Josemaría never celebrated the New Mass. His fidelity to the traditional rite was absolute, even when everyone was rushing to adapt to the spirit of the times. However, his heirs did just the opposite: they accepted without batting an eye the liturgical abuses, the experiments, the emotional groups with guitars and balloons. They allowed projects like Hakuna to flourish in their midst, where the Eucharist is mishandled under the pretext of youth, because it was convenient to keep Francis happy and stay on the «sympathetic» side of the Church.
From «not taking off the cassock except at home» they have gone to the clerical polo shirt and the air of a pastoral executive. From Mass with communion rail and silence they have gone to Emaús. And now they are surprised that Rome stabs them in their moment of greatest weakness, after the loss of the Banco Popular. But it was inevitable. When one renounces being, one ends up ceasing to exist.
The Bill for Obedience
Deep down, this is not a punishment: it is a liquidation. Rome does not pay «traitors,» nor reward lukewarmness. The Holy See is applying to them the same logic that they applied to so many others: silence, distance, formalism, and then, oblivion. The Opus Dei believed that its prudence would win it immunity. But in today’s Church, prudence is suspicious and orthodoxy, an obstacle. They have been paid with the same coin that they helped to mint.
And yet, there is something almost poetic in this fall. Those who for decades taught to obey without thinking, to remain silent before injustice, to «offer» humiliation, now receive their own lesson. They have been obedient to the end. And in the end, they have been obeyed until erasing them.
The Final Act
Ocáriz writes soft letters, full of quotes from Saint Josemaría, exhortations to fidelity, appeals to love. But between the lines sounds the tone of a defeated general who orders to maintain formation, even though the barracks are burning. “Nothing changes in the spirit,” he says. And he is right: what changes is everything else.
Rome, relentless in its paternalism, will let them keep the memories, the devotions, the ways, the smiles, the gatherings, and the coffees with milk. But it will take away what they valued most: power. And when that happens, no one will cry. Neither the progressives, who never wanted them; nor the faithful, who no longer recognize them.
The Opus Dei, for once, will have to learn—like so many others before them—that neutrality, in times of confusion, is not a virtue: it is cowardice disguised as prudence.
The Illusion of Rome
It is worth saying it clearly: Rome should not deceive itself either. If someone in the Curia imagines that by dismantling the Opus Dei they will take over its assets, its works, or its schools, they had better read the fine print. The Opus Dei may have been naive in the spiritual realm, but not in the legal one. And those who have signed off on this process should know that what is dismantled canonically does not imply a transfer of assets. The prelature owns almost nothing: the works, the schools, the centers, the residences, everything is registered in the name of civil associations, foundations, or loyal individuals. When Rome arrives with the key, it will discover that there is no door to open.
It is the same lesson that the Vatican should already have learned with the Sodalicio de Vida Cristiana. There too they thought that an intervention was enough to control its resources and structure, and they found themselves with a labyrinth of autonomous legal persons, impossible to centralize. The same will happen here: the Opus Dei is not a parish, but a network of private works sustained by laypeople. Dismantling the canonical structure does not equate to appropriating the material reality. They may suppress the prelature, but they will not be able to touch its accounts.
The Romans have told themselves the milkmaid’s tale, believing that once the Work is liquidated, there will be a booty of schools, residences, and properties ready for a new «pastoral» management. What awaits them, instead, is a monumental disappointment: they will discover that what they believed to be an institutional treasure is only a mosaic of private entities, each with its own government and its own lawyers. The day after the reform, Rome will find itself with an empty shell.
That is why, if the Vatican thought it could collect in assets what it considers a debt of power, it will soon see that it has miscalculated. The Opus Dei may have lost authority, but not cunning. And when the time comes to execute the new canonical map, Rome will understand—as it already understood with the Sodalicio—that it has dismantled a structure, but has recovered nothing. Neither power, nor obedience, nor patrimony. Only the echo of what was once a living Work, now turned into a legal shadow.