part0024

t was an early afternoon in March 1957. Ten or twelve young men were having coffee and chatting in the Galleria del Fumo with Monsignor Escrivá. They had had lunch and were having a brief get-together before starting work again. Someone had drawn one of the blue canvas curtains to shade the room a little from the brilliant sunlight streaming through the windows, and someone else, or perhaps the same person, had put on a record, a song by Nila Pizzi that had won at the San Remo Festival. It was a lively, catchy number, and Monsignor Escrivá loved it.

When he spoke of his own death, he did not appear to imagine it as something quick that would take him by surprise, but as a long drawn-out process, a difficult ordeal. He imagined death as a violent tearing apart of body and soul, a final combat for which he was always prepared. “It’s all about winning the last battle,” he said.

Sitting in an armchair with his back to the sliding window of the gallery, he listened to the song and now and again joined in, singing in Italian:

He scanned the faces of the people there in the Galleria del Fumo: Don Alvaro, Father Javier Echevarria, Father Joaquin Alonso, Father Julian Herranz, Giuseppe Molteni, Juan Cox, Dick Rieman, Bernardo Fernandez, Father Severino Monzo. And there he stopped. Father Severino was a tall, robust young man, a priest with a doctorate in economics and canon law, and also a very good singer. Monsignor Escrivá gave him a mischievous smile and, like someone making an appointment, said, “You’ll sing it for me—without tears.” 1

He had told his sons more than once that after his death he did not want “so much as a black tie” around. 2 Pizzi’s springtime tune fitted in with his idea of death: the impassioned meeting of two people in love. He once said, “Recently, while I was saying good-bye to a young married couple, some words came to my lips: ‘Pray for me to be a good son of God and to be cheerful until death … though dying, for us, is like getting married.’ We ought not to wish for death, but when we are told ecce sponsus venit, exite obviam ei! —‘Come on out, the Bridegroom’s here for you!’ we will ask Our Lady to intercede for us at that very difficult time when the body is separated from the soul—which is extremely painful, because the soul was made to be united to the body—and we’ll go out joyfully to meet him who has been the love of our life!” 3

Monsignor Escrivá clearly had a nuptial idea of death. He was fond of singing “human love songs with a divine meaning,” and he must have prayed more than once taking these lines as his starting point. They were admittedly trite, but they were astonishingly similar to the greatest love song ever written, the Canticle of Canticles.

In August 1941 Father Escrivá preached a retreat to a group of young women in the oratory of the Diego de Leon students’ residence in Madrid. Encarnita Ortega and Nisa Gonzalez were among them. More than thirty years later Encarnita remembered fragments of a meditation that had surprised her. “Death for a Christian, for a person of Opus Dei, is never sudden,” said Father Escrivá. “Something you don’t expect is sudden, and we are constantly looking for and expecting God. For us, a sudden death is as if our Lord surprised us from behind, and we turned round and fell into his arms.” 4

One day in December 1965 he went with Don Alvaro to see a set of liturgical vestments for Masses for the Dead which Mercedes Angles was embroidering. She had transferred onto a new piece of black silk the multi-colored flowers of an old Manila shawl. Monsignor Escrivá joked about the vestments being “so flowery and festive” despite being for Masses for the dead. Then he added, “It’s very pretty. Besides, it’s right for it to be as joyful as that. For us, death isn’t sad.” 5

When the workmen were still building what was to be the crypt, an oratory with space for several burial niches, Monsignor Escrivá asked to have it decorated “in a cheerful style, with nothing frightening!” He suggested symbols of peace, joy, fertility, and immortality, in soft tones with touches of gold to lighten the atmosphere of the room so that people could pray there happily. He kept repeating, “We Christians don’t die, we just move house.”

One day he went down to the crypt. In the center of the floor was a rectangular space with a cover on it; this was to be his tomb. He came close to it, then gathered up his cassock and started jumping on the cement cover, saying, “You might as well make the most of the opportunity now! Later on when I’m in there, you won’t be allowed to do this! I’ll jump and skip on it too, while I can—after all, I’ll have plenty of time to keep still!” 6

On December 5, 1968 Monsignor Escrivá went to visit Marisa Tordella, a young married Italian woman with two very small children. She was gravely ill, and had asked to be admitted into Opus Dei just a few months previously. Marisa said, “Father, I’m at peace. I trust our Lord to help me right up to the last minute. I think a lot about my children, because they’re so small! But I’ve asked Our Lady to take care of them when I’m gone.”

Those outside could hear the murmur of a lively conversation and even laughter.

Marisa’s husband joined him as soon as he came out. “You must be wondering what your wife and I were talking about to make us laugh so much,” said Monsignor Escrivá. “Shall I tell you? We were talking about death!” 7

Over one of the doors where he worked was an inscription in old Spanish which reminded him of the tension between time and eternity: Oh cuán poco lo de acá. Oh cuán mucho lo de allá —“How little what is here. How great what is there.”

In bed at night he used to say a prayer he had composed. “Lord, how often you’ve forgiven me! Lord, I appeal not to your justice but your mercy. You’ve forgiven me so often! Grant me a happy death: whenever you want, as you want and wherever you want; right now if you like! But, if possible, give me spatium verae poenitentiae , a time for true contrition: may I have a little more time to love you more! Grant that I may get rid of the residue of evil from my life. May I be able to wipe out the last traces of it with more love of God.” 8

“A little more time to love you more.” He often told his children, “It’s uneconomical to die young.”

On October 12, 1968 he was in the Zurbaran Residence in Madrid with about 200 women university students. One of them said passionately, “For people, one must be prepared to do whatever is necessary, to give of oneself completely, to give up one’s life!” On the stage of the auditorium, Monsignor Escrivá turned rapidly in the direction of the voice, then replied, “Give up one’s life? No, indeed! We have to live, and go on living! I don’t agree that death is the answer. I’m quite old but I don’t wish to die—although whenever God wants, I’ll be delighted to go to that encounter: in domum Domini ibimus ! With his mercy we will go to God’s house.”

Then, softening his tone, he went on. “Pray for me to be cheerful, even when I am dying. May those around me see me smile as I have always seen my children smile at the hour of their death, knowing that vita mutatur, non tollitur , life is changed, not taken away; that it’s nothing more than moving house, leaving behind the things of this world to go and meet love: a love which doesn’t ever betray us, which satisfies without cloying, which is light, total harmony, delight, the love of loves.

“You’ll say, ‘Then do you wish to die, Father?’ Absolutely not! That would be against the spirit of Opus Dei. I’ve been preaching for forty years that we don’t desire death. Wishing for death is mere cowardice. We have to desire to live, to work for our Lord and love all souls deeply. In the time of St. Teresa of Avila, people in love— the mystics as well as those who sang about human love—to demonstrate the intensity of their love, used to cry ‘I die because I do not die.’ There’s a famous poem which goes

“I disagree with that way of thinking, and I say the opposite: ‘I live because it is not I who live; it is Christ who lives in me.’ May Christ live in me, my daughters. If you want to do something for me, ask God our Lord that Christ may live in me. Even though I’m so old, I’d want to live for many more years, to be able to love all souls, everyone, and show with deeds that I’ll never bear a grudge against anybody. Living and working! Age doesn’t matter: we’re always young!” 9

In the years 1902–1913, in the peaceful rural backwater of Barbastro and Fonz where Josemaría Escrivá spent his childhood, the norm was for a child to live happily unaware of suffering and sorrow. Yet his three younger sisters died in the space of four years. Rosario on July 11, 1910, aged nine months, when Josemaría was eight, Lolita on July 10, 1912, at the age of five, when Josemaría was ten, and on October 6, 1913, Asuncion, nicknamed Chon, who was eight.

His sisters had died from the youngest upwards, as if death were ascending a ladder. With the logic of children, he told his mother one day, “It’s my turn next.” The conviction did not make him gloomy, but it did make him grow up faster. One afternoon his sister Carmen was playing cards with friends. The game over, they built a tall house of cards. They were keeping very quiet and holding their breaths, when Josemaría walked in. He came up to the table and with a sweep of his hand brought down the house of cards.

“Why did you do that?” the girls exclaimed. Josemaría hesitated a moment, then said, “That’s what God does with people: you build up a castle and when it’s almost finished, God knocks it down.” 10

Did he have an intuition that his end was near? It seems he did. Speaking to his daughters in the Work, he began to make references to his death. “Years ago I did not say these things, but now it pleases God that I speak like this. I have to be ready, so as to hear him when he calls me.” 11

On one occasion he told his sons, “I’m no longer needed. I’ll be able to help you better from heaven. You’ll do things better than I. You don’t need me.” 12

Often he endorsed the person who was to succeed him. “When I die, my children, I want you to love the Father very much, no matter who he is, even though it could pass through your mind that he’s not intelligent enough or holy enough, or a thousand other things that might occur to you and which you have to reject immediately, because they are evil. Love him very much, my children: it’s very hard to carry this burden!” 13 And again, “In this blessed Rome, I sometimes hear that the founder of a particular institution has died and the institution then undergoes a tremendous upheaval. I assure you that in the Work there will be no such thing. Of that I’m certain.” 14

During the last years of his life, Carmen Ramos was central secretary for the women of Opus Dei worldwide, and often discussed matters of governance with Monsignor Escrivá. She regularly took notes of what he said. From October 1974 to June 1975 she recorded his exact words.

Later Carmen realized that in those last nine months he consistently added a few words on a more personal note. He asked for prayers for the Church; he inquired after people, and he said what he never normally said face to face: “I love all of you so much, my daughter!” He felt an urge to “thank you for the way you look after me.” And before hanging up, he would say good-bye in cheerful, warm tones: “God bless you, my daughter!” 15

On January 1, 1975, the year he died, he spent a while with his sons on the general council in the Commissions Room in Villa Tevere. He asked for champagne to be brought in to toast the New Year. “This year which is beginning now, I will be much closer to our Lord than ever,” he said. 16

On January 29, he left for Venezuela to embark on his third catechetical journey in South America. He was exhausted. For some time his sight had been failing, and with his right eye he could barely distinguish shapes and found light very bothersome. Very few people knew because he did not complain. He walked briskly, wore dark glasses in sunny places and around the house, and going up or down stairs made sure that Father Javier was in front and Don Alvaro behind.

As they were about to leave on this third preaching trip to Latin America, word came from the airport that the flight was delayed because of fog. Monsignor Escrivá was in the dining room of Villa Vecchia with Don Alvaro. He asked to see Carmen Ramos and Marlies Kücking, and chatted with them for a while. In a voice that cracked and was faint, he confided, “My daughters, I’m not keen, I have no desire to go on this journey. I’m going to South America again because it is the express will of God that I should go. But I myself don’t have the strength. I’m also going because I love my children, and I make God’s will my own; but if it were not so, I wouldn’t be making this journey.”

He held a glass of water in which a tablet was dissolving. Holding it out to Don Alvaro, he said, “Alvaro, look and see if it’s dissolved yet, I can’t see it.”

“It’s a cloudy day, Father, and quite dark in here … but no, it hasn’t dissolved yet.” 17

The problem was the cataracts diagnosed in Milan by Dr. Romagnoli. Monsignor Escrivá had chosen as a sort of leitmotif for his prayer this year the words of the Gospel: Domine, ut videam ! “Lord, that I may see!” Occasionally in the oratory, gaze fixed on the crucifix on the altar, he would say sadly: “I can’t see you! I can’t see you, my Jesus!” 18 From Psalm 26 he took the words vultum tuum, Domine, requiram —“thy face, Lord, do I seek,” and repeated them constantly, from at least December 1973 on. Sometimes, even during a meal, he would exclaim, “Lord, I want to give you a hug.” 19

“People in love try to see each other,” he said. “They only have eyes for their love. Isn’t it only natural for this to be so? The human heart feels this urge. I cannot honestly deny that I’m moved by a desire to contemplate the face of Christ. Vultum tuum, Domine, requiram . I will seek your face, O Lord. I like to close my eyes and think how the time will come, whenever God wills, when I will be able to see him, not as in a glass darkly … but face to face .” 20

Another time he told some of his sons, “I simply can’t stop learning. I’m dying to see Jesus, to know his face. I hunger to meet my God. Yesterday I wrote down something I’d read, and I recited it over and over again: ostende faciem tuam et salvi erimus —‘show us your face, and we shall be saved.’ Grant me to see your face, and then I’ll be in heaven, I’ll be saved, I’ll be safe!” 21 He once said, “When I’m doing the prayer on my own, I often shout it out, even though I’m doing mental prayer! I hunger to see the face of Jesus Christ! But let it be. The time will come.” 22

Several times during his catechetical tour of Spain and Portugal in 1972 he said he still had “three follies to accomplish.” But he only mentioned two: Cavabianca, the site of the Roman College of the Holy Cross, and the Shrine of Our Lady of Torreciudad near the Pyrenees in Huesca in northern Spain. One day in Portugal a son of his asked, “What’s the third one?”

Monsignor Escrivá smiled broadly. “To die in time!” he answered. “Because the time will come when I will just be a nuisance here.” 23 And one day in 1966 he had said, “I beg of God that I may be able to dress myself right up to the last day. It’s more reasonable, and more in keeping with the spirit of Opus Dei, that I should die peacefully in bed, like a bourgeois. But if I had my way I would like to die with even my shoes on!” 24

And he did. He died in his office, with his shoes on.

He celebrated a Mass in honor of Our Lady in his oratory at 7:53 a.m. The oratory had a beautiful reredos in Carrara marble representing the Holy Trinity. Father Javier Echevarria served the Mass. After his thanksgiving, he had a frugal breakfast with Don Alvaro and Father Javier while looking through the newspaper. He spoke to two of his sons in Opus Dei, Father Francisco Vives and Giuseppe Molteni, and asked them to pay a visit to Dr. Ugo Piazza, Paul VI’s doctor (see Chapter 18). At 9:35, with Don Alvaro and Father Javier, he left for Castelgandolfo; Javier Cotelo was driving. The heat was already oppressive. They said a part of the Rosary, then chatted. Cotelo told about some nephews of his who had visited Rome.

They arrived at Villa delle Rose in Castelgandolfo at 10:30 a.m. Monsignor Escrivá wanted to say good-bye to his daughters in Opus Dei—graduates from all over the world who were doing further studies in the Roman College of Our Lady—because he planned to travel to Asturias in northern Spain in a couple of days. As soon as he met them, he said, “I was very keen to come and see you. We’re spending these last few hours in Rome trying to finish off all the work in hand, so I’m really not at home to anyone except you.”

He spoke about how all the baptized should have “a priestly soul”: taking God to people and people to God. He also insisted on love and loyalty to the Church and the Pope, “no matter who he is.” Then he asked them for news. Several talked about the apostolate of Opus Dei in their countries.

“I always say the same thing,” was his comment. “You have lots of work ahead of you!”

After about twenty minutes, Monsignor Escrivá began to feel unwell. He went down to the priest’s room, a small office, with Don Alvaro and Father Javier, and rested a while; when he felt a little better he got up to leave. They urged him to stay and rest longer, but he refused.

On his way out, he pointed out to Chus de Meer and Elisa Luque some details that could be improved in the priest’s office. Then he went to the oratory for a moment to bid our Lord farewell. Chus, Elisa, Conchita, and Vale went down to the garage to see him off, and he said, “Forgive me, my daughters, for being a nuisance!”

Javier Cotelo drove fast. Monsignor Escrivá had asked to be taken home by the shortest route. He seemed tired but peaceful, and his expression was contented, even cheerful. He said little, and the others conversed sporadically. Most likely he was continuing his thanksgiving for the Mass he had celebrated that morning, as was his custom; from midday on he would begin to prepare for the Mass of the following day.

It was three minutes before twelve when the car stopped in the garage of Villa Tevere. They went directly to greet our Lord in the Blessed Trinity oratory. Monsignor Escrivá genuflected on his right knee in a profound gesture of adoration. He looked at the tabernacle, which was in the shape of a Eucharistic dove.

They went up in the wooden elevator to Don Alvaro’s office, where Monsignor Escrivá worked. As soon as he entered the room he called out, “Javi!” Father Javier Echevarria was out on the landing, closing the door of the elevator. Monsignor Escrivá summoned all his strength to call again: “Javi! … I don’t feel well.” Then he collapsed. The midday sun was pouring in through the windows, and the Angelus bells were ringing.

Don Alvaro, realizing the gravity of the situation, gave him absolution while holding him in his arms. As he made the sign of the cross over him he recalled how exactly thirty-one years before, on June 26, 1944, as a newly ordained priest he had heard Father Escrivá’s confession and given him absolution for the first time. Since then, how often had he made that same gesture, saying ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis —“I absolve you from your sins”!

Soon afterward he administered the Anointing of the Sick. Monsignor Escrivá had often begged him forcefully, “When I’m dying, don’t deprive me of that treasure!” 25 For an hour and a half a titanic struggle took place in Don Alvaro’s office, with cardiac massage, artificial respiration, injections, oxygen, and electrocardiograms. Several of his spiritual sons, Father Dan Cummings, Fernando Valenciano, Umberto Farri, Giuseppe Molteni (Peppino) as well as Doctors José Luis Soria ( Joe) and Juan Manuel Verdaguer took turns applying these remedies as Monsignor Escrivá de Balaguer lay on the floor.

Father Javier Echevarria came in and out bringing medical assistance as needed, then stood back a bit. Catching Don Alvaro’s eye, he burst into inconsolable tears.

Kneeling on the floor beside Monsignor Escrivá’s body, Joe Soria bent down until he was touching his face. He lifted one eyelid and then the other. Monsignor Escrivá’s pupils were completely dilated. There was no contraction, no reaction to the stimulus of light. He whispered, “No pupil reflex.”

He kept on scrutinizing the eyes for some sign of life. “It was like diving into the Father’s interior,” 26 he said later.

As they tried to keep Monsignor Escrivá’s heart beating, Don Alvaro telephoned Carmen Ramos and asked her to get everyone in La Montagnola and Villa Sacchetti to go to the different oratories in the house and pray “for a very urgent intention.” But from a human point of view, there was nothing to be done. Monsignor Escrivá’s heart had stopped.

Now there were other things to do. The Pope was informed via Cardinal Villot, the secretary of state, of Monsignor Escrivá’s death. Others got a board on which to carry Monsignor Escrivá’s body to the oratory of Our Lady of Peace. Don Alvaro removed the relic of the lignum crucis , the True Cross, which Monsignor Escrivá was wearing round his neck. “I will wear this lignum crucis until we elect a successor to the Father,” he told those present.

As he took off Monsignor Escrivá’s shoes, he was unable to hold back his tears.

Father Javier Echevarria emptied the pockets of his cassock: his small pocket diary, crucifix, rosary beads, a handkerchief, and a whistle which a girls’ club had sent him. Father Carlos Cardona, Father Julian Herranz, and Father Javier Echevarria then dressed him in liturgical vestments: the amice, lace alb, cincture, stole, and chasuble. Meanwhile Jesus Alvarez had ordered a coffin, prepared the grave in the crypt for burial, and called a friend who was a sculptor to come and make a death mask of Monsignor Escrivá’s face and hands.

When all these tasks were finished, everyone left except Don Alvaro and Father Javier. Several women came into the oratory and cleaned Monsignor Escrivá’s face, removing the bits of plaster left by the mask, and combed his hair. They used a set of combs and brushes he had been given years before, but which he had given to his daughters with the same excuse as always: “I don’t need them, and what would I be doing with these luxuries?” 27 They decorated the oratory with fresh gladioli and red roses. Monsignor Escrivá’s body was laid out on a white sheet and a funeral pall on the floor, in the style of the nobility who in death refused to be lifted up on a platform or catafalque. At once priests started saying requiem Masses de corpore insepulto (before the burial), one after the other all afternoon, evening, night, and the following day up to the funeral Mass itself.

As soon as Vatican Radio officially announced the death of the founder of Opus Dei, a constant, peaceful flow of people began to pass through Villa Tevere to pray. The news traveled fast by radio, telephone, cable, and telex. Those in France, Germany, and Spain heard quickly, but delays on the telephone lines meant that Ireland, Australia, Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay heard the news several hours later. Since the people of Opus Dei in Spain were the “firstborn” in the Work, the counselor of Opus Dei there, Father Florencio Sanchez Bella, received a call early from Don Alvaro.

From dawn next day Don Alvaro stayed near the body of Monsignor Escrivá as it lay in the chapel, moving only to greet cardinals and bishops who had come to pray. 28 At mid-morning he rose from the side bench, went to the center of the nave, knelt beside Monsignor Escrivá’s head, and bent down as if to kiss him, but he did not: he rested his forehead on the forehead of Monsignor Escrivá. He stayed in that position for several seconds, asking “to be a faithful executor of his wishes” and “that I may be capable of caring for the Work as you would” in this period of mourning and appointing a successor.

Rising, he took three red roses from one of the bouquets and placed them at Monsignor Escrivá’s feet. Words of St. Paul came to his lips—a tribute he could never have expressed in the lifetime of Monsignor Escrivá, because he would not have allowed it: Quam speciosi pedes evangelizantium pacem, evangelizantium bonum ! “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the Gospel of peace, of those who bring glad tidings of good things!” 29

Don Alvaro knelt there beside Monsignor Escrivá’s body, repeating his tribute interiorly. He recalled Psalm 18: et ipse tamquam sponsus procedens de talamo suo , “he comes forth like a bridegroom leaving his chamber.” 30 Death for him meant the culmination of love.

The same psalm goes on: Exsultavit ut gigas ad currendam viam , “like a giant he rejoiced to run his course.” 31 Don Alvaro remembered how Monsignor Escrivá had enjoyed this verse and how vigorously he used to recite it. This was how he had always seen him, as a giant, ut gigas .

He saw him again now, still a giant. Monsignor Escrivá reposed peacefully like a warrior who had bravely fought his last battle. But there was something disconcerting in this stillness. Monsignor Escrivá was not made to lie inert. He was one of those who live and die on their feet, since they have no time for resting.

Don Alvaro raised his eyes, and caught Father Javier’s glance. His eyes were swollen and red from crying. He gave the younger man a faint smile, conveying confidence. “Nothing will happen in the Work. Nothing at all. There will be no disquiet, no orphanhood, no vacuum … because the Father, like the patriarchs of ongoing families, not only ‘engendered sons and daughters’ but engendered sons capable of being Fathers. And so he will always be the Father of all the children and the Father of all the fathers.”