part0007

n the port side of the J.J. Sister , Father Josemaría Escrivá and a very young law professor, José Orlandis, a member of Opus Dei, were leaning on the rails breathing in the sea air. They looked at each other and smiled. A passenger nearby commented, “After the storm comes the calm.” The platitude described the situation perfectly. They had just been through twenty hours of terrible storm; the little mail steamship had been buffeted by a violent gale from the Gulf of Lyon. The J.J. Sister , notorious for pitching and tossing, kept its course despite wind and tide, although the dining room china and glassware were shattered, the waves swept the deck, and the furniture slid up and down. All the passengers and the crew, from the captain to the cabin boy, were seasick. At the height of the storm Father Escrivá quipped, “Do you know what? If we go down and get eaten by fish … Perico Casciaro will never eat fish again as long as he lives!” 1 (Father Pedro Casciaro, one of the very early members of Opus Dei, was well known for etiquette.) Soon afterward he referred to the reason behind this hair-raising voyage. “How the devil dipped his tail in the Gulf of Lyon! It’s very clear that he’s not exactly happy about our arrival in Rome!” 2

It was 5 p.m. on a warm day, Saturday, June 22, 1946. The sun beat down, but the breeze on the high seas made being on deck very pleasant. The J.J. Sister was sailing eastward from Barcelona to Genoa. Suddenly the sea surged again. There was a moment of anxiety among the passengers.

The captain was still looking through his binoculars when he saw the menacing metal bulk of an enormous mine floating near the bows. World War II had ended less than a year earlier and it was not unusual to find this type of ‘souvenir.’ The boat veered to starboard to avoid it. After that everything seemed to calm down. Father Escrivá and Orlandis ran their gaze along the tenuous line of the horizon. Far away they could see the French coast, misty in the distance, beautiful. They stood in silence, entranced.

Three years earlier Alvaro del Portillo, another young member of Opus Dei, had traveled the same route, but by air, while the war was still raging. His fellow travelers were some friendly, excitable Italian actors. During the flight several fighter aircraft had flown overhead and opened fire on a ship uncomfortably close to them. The terrified actors started shouting, Mamma mia, c’è molto pericolo! Affoghiamo tutti! —“This is really dangerous! We’ll all be drowned!” Del Portillo, however, did not bat an eyelid. “I was quite sure nothing would happen. I was carrying all the papers.” 3 He had with him all the documents he was to present to the Holy See to obtain the nihil obstat , the green light for setting up Opus Dei, or the Work, in different dioceses. At the time Opus Dei had just one limited approval: a kind of pass granted by Monsignor Eijo y Garay, bishop of Madrid-Alcalá, to allow it to develop as a “Pious Union.” From every point of view this was insufficient for the universal scope its nature demanded.

On the day in June 1943 when Pope Pius XII granted him an audience, Alvaro del Portillo had not yet been ordained a priest. He appeared at the Portone di Bronzo, the entrance to the Vatican, wearing the full dress uniform of a civil engineer, which was adorned with so much gold braid and trimmings that the Swiss Guard jumped to attention and presented arms. Obviously they took him for a field marshal or an admiral—though an astonishingly young one.

The project of Opus Dei, its apostolate of holiness through professional work, with its desire to expand to all points of the compass, was welcomed by the Holy See not just formally but “enthusiastically.” A few months later, on October 11, the Church declared that there was nothing in its spirituality that could not be blessed or encouraged by the Pope. This was the nihil obstat , the go-ahead they had sought. It was an important step, but only one in the long, steep, wearisome climb on the canonical path that cost the founder of Opus Dei and all its members so much prayer, work, negotiation, efforts, and suffering.

Every century produces outstanding movements, and each has its own intrepid figure who leads the way. Father Josemaría Escrivá was one of the greatest of the twentieth century. In the certainty that he was fulfilling God’s desires, he was encouraged to found the revolutionary innovation which was Opus Dei.

Like all genuine revolutions, Opus Dei goes back to the origins. It links the men and women of today with the citizens of the early Christian period who achieved holiness in their work and secular state in the world. Opus Dei did not invent anything: it rediscovered, in a way as simple as it was radical, that Christianity is a leaven which has to impregnate and transform civil society from the inside, setting a course toward God for all human activities, as long as they are clean and honest. But it needed to be established and activated, and lived out in the middle of the world, with no limits other than those of freedom itself. It was as simple and sublime as that; but not that easy.

Opus Dei exists to serve the Church “as the Church wishes to be served.” To do this, it was essential from the start that its specific spirituality should obtain canonical recognition only the Church could give. But this canonical confirmation should not distort its secular nature or clip its wings. It was within this difficult balance that Father Josemaría Escrivá had to work to the end of his life, as a faithful son of the Church and a faithful instrument for founding the Work.

Efforts to attain an appropriate canonical formula took Alvaro del Portillo to Rome a second time in February 1946. By then he was a priest. He brought to the Vatican dozens of letters of recommendation from bishops who backed the request for a Decretum Laudis —a “decree of praise”—for the Work. However, when it came to setting up a suitable canonical framework for something new in the Church, the project met with rigid resistance on the part of canon lawyers. In the Holy See they told Father del Portillo Opus Dei had been born too soon.

Later on, Father Escrivá would write: “Both to the world and to the Church the Work seemed a great novelty. The canonical solution that I was seeking seemed impossible to attain. But, my daughters and sons, I could not wait for things to be possible. A high-ranking member of the Roman Curia told us, ‘You have come a century too soon.’ Nevertheless we had to attempt the impossible. I was urged on by the thought of the thousands of souls who had dedicated themselves to God in the Work, with full commitment, in order to do apostolate in the middle of the world.” 4

The gates of the Vatican were shut because the caller had come too early. But God’s work can’t wait. Father del Portillo did not waste a second. Besides negotiations with the Vatican, he made visits and calls to ask for more letters of recommendation from cardinals soon to leave Rome for posts in Palermo, Argentina, Mozambique, and Cologne. He got new letters supporting the request for the Decretum Laudis from Cardinals Ruffini, Caggiano, Gouvcia, and Frings.

Even though he had mailed a letter to Father Escrivá, he distrusted the chaotic postwar postal service and gave another to a Spanish diplomat returning to Madrid to be delivered by hand. In both letters he related the response of the Holy See and added: “I can’t do any more. It’s your turn now.” 5 Although Father Escrivá was suffering from severe diabetes, he considered it necessary for him to come to Rome.

As soon as Father Escrivá received Father del Portillo’s two letters, he called a meeting of the general council of the Work at a center of Opus Dei in Villanueva Street in Madrid. He read the letters to them, and told them bluntly that his doctors had reacted unfavorably to the idea of his making such a trip; Doctor Rof Carballo had told him, “I won’t be answerable for your life.” Father Escrivá then went on, “The doctors say I may die at any moment. When I go to bed I am not sure if I will get up again. When I get up in the morning I don’t know if I will make it to the end of the day.” 6

The governing body of the Work was made up of young men, but they had the maturity which comes from living an interior life. Against their personal feelings, they gave priority to the needs of a mission greater than all of them. They agreed unhesitatingly to what they felt Father Escrivá wanted to do and encouraged him to set sail as soon as possible.

This took place on Monday, June 17, 1946. The tickets and visas were arranged in a few hours. On Wednesday, June 19, at 3:30 p.m. Father Escrivá left Madrid for Saragossa. From there he went to Barcelona to board the J.J. Sister for Genoa, and from there to Rome. Nowadays the trip is one short flight from Barajas Airport in Madrid to Fiumicino Airport in Rome. In those days, with the Second World War just over, there were no commercial flights between Spain and Italy, the French border was closed, and one could only make the trip this way.

Father Escrivá broke his journey at three shrines dedicated to the Mother of God. First, Our Lady of the Pillar in Saragossa, then Montserrat, and the last stop was in Barcelona, the shrine of Our Lady of Ransom. He sought from his Mother, whom he called “all-powerful in her petition,” all the recommendations, strength, and guidance he would need.

In Barcelona, early in the morning of Friday, June 21, Father Escrivá met a small group of his sons in the oratory of an apartment in Muntaner Street. They did their prayer together. With his eyes fixed on the tabernacle, Father Escrivá appealed in words Christ had heard before: Ecce nos reliquimus omnia, et secuti sumus te: quid ergo erit nobis? “Here we are, having left everything to follow you: What is to become of us?” 8

It was the same question St. Peter had asked as spokesman for the misgivings and anxieties of the Twelve. Father Escrivá paused. There seemed no light at the end of the tunnel but a foreboding of disaster. With the confidence born of love, he continued in a hushed, impassioned voice, “Lord, have you allowed me, in good faith, to deceive so many souls? I’ve done everything for your glory, knowing it is your Holy Will! Is it possible that the Holy See can say that we have come a century too soon? Ecce nos reliquimus omnia, et secuti sumus te! I’ve never wished to deceive anyone. I’ve only wanted to serve you. Will I turn out to be a fraud?” 9

Everyone present knew perfectly well what it meant to “leave everything” and pay for it with their reputation. In Barcelona certain good people had set in motion a ruthless campaign of insults and calumnies against Opus Dei, provoking discord among the families of members and their friends, and warning parents against letting their sons “be snared in the nets of this new heresy.” However, Father Escrivá’s words were not a reproach, nor was he demanding a reward. They were a plea, uttered almost on the verge of tears by one whose only foothold on earth was heaven.

The J.J. Sister arrived in Genoa very late the night of June 22. Father Alvaro del Portillo and Salvador Canals were waiting, walking up and down the quayside. Father Escrivá greeted each with a big hug, then, looking at Father del Portillo over the rim of his glasses, addressed him: “Rascal! Here I am! You got your own way!” 10

By the time they got to the hotel it was so late that there was no way of getting a meal. All Father Escrivá had had since leaving Barcelona thirty-two hours earlier was a coffee and some biscuits. Father del Portillo had kept a small piece of Parmesan cheese from his dinner, thinking Father Escrivá would like it. It was all he got to eat that night.