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LC Opens New High School Seminary in Sacramento, CA

Priesthood prep: A conservative Catholic order teaches boys in Placer County

 

By Laurel Rosen

 

Sacramento Bee
Tuesday, February 3, 2004

 

Surrounded by tall pine trees and gentle mountain slopes, students at a boarding school near Colfax live as few teenagers do.

They do not watch television or movies. They do not listen to the radio, play video games or use the Internet.

When they listen to music, it is only classical. When they talk on the phone, it is only with their families.

Mostly, their days and nights are filled with study and prayer. These boys – who range in age from 12 to 16 – are preparing for the priesthood.

From a really young age, I just felt called to become a priest, said James Kuchar, 14.

As a 4-year-old, Kuchar said, he played make-believe Mass in his Boise, Idaho, home.

I would pretend I was a priest and my brothers and sisters were congregants and altar servers, he said.

Immaculate Conception Camp Del Oro opened last summer to 15 boys interested in becoming priests. It is one of about 10 high school seminaries around the country run by a variety of Catholic orders.

The seventh-through 12th-grade school in Colfax is run by the Legion of Christ, a Catholic order known for its strict observance of religious tradition. It is the order’s first school in the West and draws students from California, Oregon, Washington, Colorado and Idaho. It costs about $7,200 a year to attend.

The Legionaries operate a similar, but much larger, seminary high school in New Hampshire, as well as a graduate school of psychology in Virginia and 10 institutions of higher education in Latin America and Europe.

The order also has been in discussions with Sacramento city and county officials about opening a university here.

Sacramento Bishop William Weigand has welcomed the Legionaries to the region, which is a primary reason they established the apostolic school in Colfax, their spokesman said.

Membership in the order has grown steadily since it was established in Mexico in 1941 by the Rev. Marcial Maciel. Today, Legionary leaders say, about 70,000 people worldwide belong to Regnum Christi, the order’s lay movement; there are about 3,100 Legionary priests and seminarians.

The order, however, is not without its detractors. In the 1990s, several of Maciel’s former students accused him of sexual abuse in the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s. Maciel has denied the allegations, and Legionary officials say a Vatican investigation determined that he did nothing wrong. Maciel, 83, now heads the order from Rome.

While Legionaries say their schools offer outstanding academics and an environment of intense spiritual devotion, critics say the program is too regimented and controlling.

At the school in Colfax, the boys awaken in a communal sleeping room with 15 beds. They dress, taking uniforms from a communal clothes closet. Before breakfast, they go to morning Mass. Before each class and each meal, they say prayers.

Ben McCabe, 14, said he likes the school because it gives him the opportunity to foster a relationship with God.

I think He might be calling me, McCabe said. That’s why I’m here. This school is like a door and I’m here to see if I should go through that door.

In general, students at the Legionary schools said they come from highly observant Catholic families. Many have several siblings and were home-schooled before joining the Legion.

Three of Edward Kuchar’s nine children left Boise to attend the school in Colfax. He says the boys chose the path themselves, and he couldn’t be happier.

God is attracted to us and for some reason our kids are getting evangelized very young, Kuchar said. It’s God working in their life. It’s a stunning thing as a parent.

School leaders say the 240-acre Colfax campus is a work in progress.

A main building holds a kitchen, dining room, sleeping quarters and classrooms. Another building serves as a chapel. Motor homes scattered on the property provide shelter for visiting priests and brothers.

Eventually, officials hope to move the school closer to Sacramento and reserve the Colfax site for religious retreats.

Between prayer, study and hikes in the woods, the students do all the work it takes to keep the facility running, said the Rev. John Curran, who heads the Colfax campus. They sort laundry, set dining tables, wash dishes, mow lawns, clean bathrooms and paint fences. The school day is long and highly structured, and vacations are short – a few days after Christmas and a few weeks over the summer.

Students interviewed in Colfax say they don’t mind.

I’m willing to make the sacrifice for God because we don’t have long on this Earth, said Thomas Cauthorn, 14. I’d rather make the sacrifice and spend eternity with him.

But other students who have left the Legion’s other schools say the sacrifices the school demands of its students are unreasonable.

It’s very regimented, very secretive. As you progress, it becomes more secretive; you can’t criticize your superiors, said Todd Carpunky, 29, a bankruptcy lawyer in New York City.

Carpunky attended Immaculate Conception Apostolic School in Connecticut, went on to further training to become a priest, and then became a Legionary recruiter in Europe.

He described an environment at the schools where strict regulations dictated every aspect of life, including – as part of the training in etiquette – how to eat a banana with a fork and knife.

You can never just pick up a banana and eat it, Carpunky said.

The flow of news from the outside world was censored, Carpunky said, with newspapers arriving with whole entire sections cut out – even in the Catholic newspapers.

Carpunky left the Legion in 1996 after a dispute with Legionary leaders over his desire to seek medical care for a herniated disc in his back.

It was the best thing that ever happened to me, Carpunky said. But I was so scared at the time because they tell you if you leave you’re at risk of eternal damnation.

Training to become a Legionary priest is a demanding task, Curran said, and requires a lifestyle that does not suit everyone. The school teaches table manners and grooming in an effort to prepare the boys for whomever they might meet when they leave, Curran said. Exposure to the media is controlled so that the boys don’t encounter any inappropriate influences, he said, and contact with friends is limited to help the boys foster their friendship with Jesus Christ.

If they’re called to be a priest, they take a vow of obedience, poverty and chastity. We live our vows very strongly, Curran said. If a boy has a problem with that, then it’s a way for him to see that he isn’t called here.

Yet, enough people have found such practices so stifling that they have left the order and share their experiences on Web sites such as http://www.regainnetwork.org or http://www.exlegionaries.com. The Legion of Christ has responded with http://www.legionaryfacts.org to counter its critics’ claims.

One defining characteristic of the Legion of Christ is the strict prohibition of gossip, said Jay Dunlap, the order’s North American spokesman.

People are attracted by our emphasis on charity, even in every word you speak or write. We never use words to slander or attack, he said.

But Andrew Boyd, 20, another former Legionary who attended the apostolic school after it moved to New Hampshire, said the no-gossip rule creates an environment where people can’t fully express themselves.

The Legion’s emphasis on communal living was too much to bear, Boyd said, and he felt manipulated by superiors who read his mail.

If they can control any information that comes to you, nobody is going to come in and convince you to leave that life, Boyd said.

Boyd left after a year, feeling that he had been tricked into a life he did not sign up for.

Of course they don’t tell people straight up, ‘Do you want to come to our seminary? We read your mail.?

Boyd went into a diocesan seminary, where, he said, he was allowed privacy and his mail was not read. He now studies history at the University of Central Florida, where he is involved with the Catholic Campus Ministry and Army ROTC.

Dunlap and Curran said that opening student mail is an ancient practice in many Catholic schools preparing boys for the priesthood. It cultivates the spirit of openness and honesty that’s necessary in a communal religious environment, they said.

Sometimes there could be news in a letter that could really rock a kid, Curran said, adding that it’s important that school leaders know what’s going on at home so they can respond to the child’s needs.

The parents expect it, and want it. They know that’s the way this life is, he said.

Upon hearing about a year ago that the Legion of Christ was planning a university in Sacramento, Boyd said, he wrote to Bishop Weigand to warn him about them. The bishop responded with a note, Boyd said, stating that he had had only good experiences with the order.

That view was supported by the Rev. Charles McDermott, an official with the Sacramento Diocese, who said in an interview that the Legion of Christ is simply a conservative form of Catholicism.

The Catholic Church has broad boundaries, McDermott said. We believe what St. John the Evangelist said that Jesus said: ‘In my father’s house, there are many mansions.’ There is room for people to be more liberal or more conservative, without ceasing to be Catholic.

About the Writer
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The Bee’s Laurel Rosen can be reached at (916) 773-7631 or lrosen@sacbee.com.

 

Catholics scrutinize enigmatic Opus Dei

Chicago Tribune, December 7, 2003
By Ron Grossman, Tribune staff reporter

Depending on the eye of the beholder, the teaching kitchens of Lexington College, bedecked with pots and pans, mark either a place where young people learn an employable skill in a Christian setting, or a clandestine battlefield in an intense struggle for the soul of the Roman Catholic Church.

Lexington College, a school on Chicago’s Near West Side that specializes in food-service management, is run by Opus Dei, a tiny religious movement brought to public attention by the best seller “The Da Vinci Code,” a kind of ecclesiastical mystery novel featuring a Machiavellian Opus Dei operative who takes orders from a sinister, off-stage presence called “The Teacher.”
Earlier, the group briefly made headlines when it was learned that Robert Hanssen, the FBI agent turned Russian spy, sent his children to a Washington-area private school run by Opus Dei–Latin for the “Work of God.” Recently, the group opened a new multistory headquarters in the heart of Manhattan, a sign of its abundant financial resources. All of this has shone a spotlight on a group that has been something of a mystery, even to other U.S. Catholics. Yet it has tentacles of influence stretching all the way to the Holy See, where the pope’s spokesman, Joaquin Navarro-Valls, is a member.

Hanssen’s story set off a brief but intense frenzy of speculation about who else in the nation’s capital might be associated with the group that, in other countries, has been politically cozy with the far right. Speculation has it that its members have risen to the highest levels of the U.S. government, including the Supreme Court and the FBI.

Opus Dei’s policy is to not disclose who is or isn’t a member. But officials say that if public figures belonged to the group, surely that would have been known in a culture where the lives of the famous are open secrets.

The movement’s critics–and some of the most vocal are Catholics–don’t buy that argument. They claim a pledge of secrecy is written into the rules of the group, which some see as an underground conspiracy aimed at capturing power in the church by stealthily boring from within.

“What possible activity could any Catholic group be engaged in that justifies secrecy?” wrote Catharine Henningsen, in SALT, a liberal Catholic journal of which she is the editor.

Opus Dei members respond that they aren’t secretive but simply value privacy. “We just built a 17-story headquarters in New York,” said spokesman Brian Finnerty. “How can you operate a secret society from a skyscraper at 34th and Lexington?”

Indeed, Opus Dei, whose first U.S. outpost was in Chicago, consistently produces diametrically opposite responses–depending on whether a question is being answered from inside or outside the group.

Liberal Catholics say it is theologically antediluvian and decry it for pandering to ultraconservatives unreconciled to more recent changes in the church. Opus Dei supporters claim their founder, St. Josemaria Escriva de Balaguer, was on to the need for updating Catholicism three decades before the reformist Vatican II Council of the 1960s.

Former members claim it is a cult that pressures psychologically vulnerable college students into joining. Group members say Opus Dei has provided a meaning to their lives that they lacked in a secular and materialistic society.

Critics are put off because, as part of their devotional regimen, some Opus Dei members inflict pain on themselves that seems to border on masochism. Supporters respond that mortification of the flesh is an ancient and honorable Christian practice that puts them spiritually in touch with the great saints of the past.

Opus Dei members are furious about the unflattering portrayal in Dan Brown’s novel, “The Da Vinci Code,” where their religious regimen seems to inspire not piety but evildoing. They also point to the novel’s historical inaccuracies.

Some critics alleged that Escriva’s character faults made him ineligible for sainthood. An English priest, and former member, claimed that Opus Dei’s founder told him Adolf Hitler had been “badly treated” because “he could never have killed 6 million Jews. It only could have been 4 million at most.” Supporters say Escriva would not have said such a thing, and they note that a third of all Catholic bishops supported his candidacy for sainthood, which was proclaimed in 2002.

Numbers small

Critics and supporters agree on one thing: The group has stirred up a fuss way beyond its numbers. Of the estimated 1 billion or more Catholics in the world, only about 85,000 belong to Opus Dei.

There are about 3,000 members in the U.S., divided as in other countries into two principal categories: “supernumeraries” (about 70 percent), who live in the secular world and may marry, and “numeraries” (about 30 percent), who live communally in Opus Dei residences, called Centers, and are pledged to celibacy. Revolving around them is a support group, the “cooperators,” who aid the movement with prayers and financial contributions.

Despite the monasticlike existence of the numeraries, Opus Dei members are not, for the most part, clergy. Only about 2 percent are priests and some were lay members for years before being ordained. That makes the movement unusual in the Catholic Church, a hierarchical organization.

It was precisely that top-down approach to religion that inspired leaders of the Protestant Reformation to leave the Catholic Church. Indeed, when Opus Dei members stress their movement’s emphasis on ordinary believers, they sound more like Martin Luther or John Calvin than like the ultraconservative Catholics their critics say they are.

`Era of the laity’

“This is the era of the laity,” said Sharon Hefferan, who runs Metro Achievement Center, an Opus Dei tutoring program for Chicago public school students housed in the same building as Lexington College.

It is a busy place. Young professional women come from their Loop offices to the Center to volunteer, helping girls from Chicago’s less fortunate neighborhoods with homework. Lexington College, named after the West Side street where it began, has been training women for the hotel and restaurant industry since 1977.

“The clergy have a role, and that’s fine,” said Hefferan, who joined the movement in 1988. “But ultimately the church is about lay people.”

Still, if there is a modernist side to Opus Dei, other aspects make its critics say that it seems a throwback to the fire-and-brimstone preachers of the Middle Ages.

Sharon Clasen, who lives in the Washington, D.C., suburbs, was introduced to the group as a Boston College freshman. The dormitories were full, so a friend recommended Bayridge, an off-campus women’s residence hall run by Opus Dei. She moved in, was attracted by the warm and supportive atmosphere and eventually became a member.

“After I joined, they gave me a barbed-wire chain to wear on my leg for two hours a day and a whip to hit my buttocks with,” said Clasen, who has since left the group.

Privation and pain

Rev. Marty Miller, chaplain at Lexington College, said Opus Dei’s use of privation and pain reflects a sinner’s need for physical penance. Because everyone falls into that category, members are expected to sleep on the floor or a board one night a week. The whip, he said, is called a “discipline,” the leg binding is a “cilice.”

“It hurts a bit, but I don’t tighten it too much,” Miller said. “It’s said that our founder would draw it so tight, he drew blood.”

Opus Dei’s founder–and members always capitalize the title and speak of him with reverence–was a Spaniard who entered the priesthood on the eve of his homeland’s civil war of the 1930s. Because the church was identified with the ruling class, many priests were killed, a fate Escriva narrowly escaped by going into hiding. When Gen. Francisco Franco won the war, Escriva allied his movement with Franco’s authoritarian regime, with several Opus Dei members occupying key positions in his government. Opus Dei officials, however, currently downplay Escriva’s actively supporting Franco.

During the subsequent Cold War, Opus Dei expanded to other parts of Western Europe and the Americas, attracting support by projecting itself as a bulwark against the advance of communism. Along the way, it drew to its ranks some financial whiz kids who reportedly made the movement fabulously wealthy. In his book “Their Kingdom Come,” critic Robert Hutchison says Opus Dei has even bailed out a hard-pressed papacy.

Escriva’s insight was to recognize that the task of maintaining a viable Christian presence in an increasingly secular world was too big for the clergy alone.

Elite corps

Opus Dei is based on the idea that lay people can spread the Gospel by going out from their Centers to regular jobs and making workplace contact with others. By Escriva’s design, Opus Dei was to be the shock troops, or the elite corps ready and able to take on church problems wherever they may be–a position traditionally occupied by religious orders, such as the Jesuits.

Pope John Paul II gave the movement a unique status in the church, making it a “personal prelature.” That exempts the group from the jurisdiction of local bishops, a move Opus Dei had long campaigned for and which previous popes resisted. Some observers think the pope, a conservative, saw the movement as a useful ally in the church’s version of the culture wars–the struggles between progressives and traditionalists ongoing since Vatican II.

On the other hand, the late Cardinal Joseph Bernardin, a noted liberal, gave Opus Dei priests control of a Chicago parish, St. Mary of the Angels, on the Near Northwest Side, a privilege the movement enjoys in few other places.

The movement’s success has provoked resentment in other quarters of the church, said James Hitchcock, a history professor at St. Louis University, a Jesuit school.

“In some cases, it’s produced almost a paranoia,” Hitchcock said. “There are Jesuits who hear you express conservative religious views and say: `Are you a covert member of Opus Dei?'”

Recruiting among students

Escriva sought recruits at Spain’s universities, judging that there was a critical mass of alienated students put off by the secular atmosphere of modern education. His movement still follows that approach, proselytizing on college campuses and operating high schools, including two in the Chicago area. Opus Dei also runs charitable programs locally and nationally.

“They appeal to the idealism of youth,” said William Dinges, a professor at Washington’s Catholic University.

Kristina Bucholz first made contact with Opus Dei through an after-school program the movement ran in Puerto Rico. She joined and was sent to a Center near Marquette University in Milwaukee.

“You’re told you are the elite guard of God,” said Bucholz, who says she quit out of resentment for having her life tightly controlled. Ex-members report that they were isolated from their families and their reading was censored. Opus Dei officials deny using coercive methods.

Tammy DiNicola was introduced to the group when a member she met at Boston College brought her to functions at the Opus Dei house. She remembers being idealistic and looking for a way to serve God.

“What I didn’t realize was that I was a target for recruitment,” DiNicola said. “But when I joined, they said you should have 10 to 15 friends that you’re working on. You had to fill out forms each month and have meetings to develop strategies to get them to join.”

Bucholz and DiNicola are bitter when they look back at their experiences, but officials of Opus Dei say others have decided that the life is not for them but remain supporters.

Peg Bruer was a numerary for almost 18 years.

“I stopped being a member when I realized my vocation in life was being married,” said Bruer, who lives in the Los Angeles area.

Notable departure

Still, there have been notable defections from the higher ranks.

Maria del Carmen Tapia was Escriva’s personal secretary and a regional director of Opus Dei in South America. In a memoir, “Beyond the Threshold: A Life in Opus Dei,” she recalls an Escriva far different from the movement’s reverential portrait. The “Founder,” by her experience, was dictatorial and threw temper tantrums.

“I gradually realized that by isolating its members Opus Dei makes them overly dependent, even childish,” Tapia wrote. “Similarly, its lack of ecumenical spirit makes its members inflexible in human relations.”

Yet for former members, no less than loyal members, the experience of Opus Dei has shaped their lives for years afterward. DiNicola and her mother run a support group, the Opus Dei Awareness Network, or ODAN, that helps former members make contact and counsels current members wrestling with the issue of leaving, or their families.

Hefferan, who runs the Chicago tutoring program, said her commitment to Escriva’s principles is as real a presence in her life as it was when she joined 15 years ago. Working with needy kids in Metro Achievement Center and performing Opus Dei’s rituals are part of a seamless spiritual existence, she said.

“It’s a quiet apostolate,” she said. “Opus Dei is our humble effort to live a life in imitation of the life of Christ.”

– – –

Interest persists in Opus Dei

The 85,000-member Opus Dei was founded in Spain in 1928 to give Catholics a vocational path for daily life emphasizing prayer, sacrifice and fidelity to the pope. The first U.S. chapter opened in Chicago in 1949. Today, there are 3,000 members in the U.S.

ORGANIZATION AND ACTIVITIES

Opus Dei operates spiritual retreat centers, a college and several schools, including the Midtown Educational Foundation in Chicago. Members fall into two main categories:

NUMERARIES

About 30% of members

– Live in Opus Dei residences (men and women separately)

– Pledged to celibacy

– Attend daily mass and spiritual readings

– Men can work outside Opus Dei

– They wear a sharp band of wire around the thigh two hours daily and whip them-selves for minutes each week

SUPERNUMERARIES

About 70% of members

– Can be married

– Live with their families

– Volunteer in Opus Dei centers and schools

Supporters of Opus Dei who make financial contributions but are not members are called “cooperators.”

Sources: Prelature of Opus Dei in the U.S., staff reporting
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-0312070395dec07,1,85937.story?coll=chi-news-hed

Maciel case belies church promises to combat abuse

Issue Date:  November 21, 2003

Maciel case belies church promises to combat abuse

Perhaps in some arcane Vatican understanding of things lies the explanation for how Fr. Marcial Maciel cannot only remain a priest in good standing but be heralded by one of the highest authorities in the church for the “great work that you do.”

Maciel is founder of the Legionaries of Christ, a conservative religious order with U.S. headquarters in Connecticut. He received the praise and several embraces from Cardinal Angelo Sodano, the Vatican’s secretary of state ( see story), during a ceremony marking the opening of the academic year at Regina Apostolorum, the university operated by the Legionaries in Rome.

Maciel may be a papal favorite — he has traveled with the pope in the past and has shown up more recently at papal events in Rome — but he is also the target of accusations of sexual abuse by nine former members of the Legionaries of Christ.

We have argued on this page against the zero tolerance policy initially adopted by the bishops last year, and we believe that priests deserve due process and the presumption of innocence. At the same time, the law requires that accusations of sexual abuse be turned over to police, and it is certainly wise to remove from ministry priests who have been credibly accused.

In Maciel’s case, the nature of the allegations and the credibility of the alleged victims would make it an easy call almost anywhere except the Vatican. No U.S. priest superior facing detailed and public accusations by nine former members of an order would last 10 minutes in active ministry.

How bizarre, then, that a head of an international order remains in place even though he would immediately be removed from ministry and turned over to legal authorities if he were living under church norms effective in the United States.

The alleged victims, who first went public with their accusations in 1997, included a retired priest in good standing in Madrid; a psychology professor in New York; a professor at the U.S. Defense Languages School in Monterey, Calif.; and in Mexico, a Harvard-trained scholar of Latin American studies; a lawyer; a rancher; an engineer; a schoolteacher; and another former priest who was a university president and who left a statement of alleged abuse and gave accounts to several witnesses before his death in 1995.

They have repeatedly said they are not seeking money, but justice and the prevention of further abuse.

Their case has been championed by respected theologians and conservative Catholics, who took it to Rome, where it was received by the Vatican’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith but never adjudicated.

In simplest terms, the accusers never got a hearing at the highest levels.

In the Maciel case, the church is sending disturbing mixed signals. What are officials saying, first of all, to victims everywhere who are pressing their own cases? What does it say to other priests who have been sidelined or dismissed from active ministry altogether for accusations far less severe than those made against Maciel? (Details of the accusations can be found in previous stories now available in our archives at www.NCRonline.org ‘keyword Maciel’). And what message is it sending the wider culture, which is deeply skeptical of the ability of church leaders, who remain above accountability, to correct their course?

Vatican officials ought to understand, at the very least, that their promises about combating sexual abuse by priests remain empty until Maciel’s accusers receive a thorough and objective hearing.

Catholic gathering gets mixed reaction Legion of Christ faces its critics

By Joshua S. Howes Tribune staff reporter Published July 17, 2003

Depending on one’s point of view, the Legion of Christ’s visit to Chicago this weekend is either cause for celebration and religious recommitment or an insult to the Roman Catholic community, especially survivors of sexual abuse by the clergy.

The Rome-based order of priests, whose founder has faced allegations of sexual abuse but is said to be a personal friend of Pope John Paul II, will hold a Youth and Family Encounter from Thursday afternoon through Sunday at Navy Pier.

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The agenda includes speeches, masses, apostolic training seminars and a keynote address by Sen. Rick Santorum (R-Pa.). Organizers say they intend to renew participants’ spiritual drive and commitment to the faith, particularly for teenagers who might be confused by “all the negative headlines recently” about the Catholic Church.

But controversy has followed the Legion to Chicago. On Saturday the group announced that its 83-year-old founder, Rev. Marcial Maciel Degollado, will not attend the Navy Pier conference, which requires registration to attend, because of urgent business in Rome.

The Legion’s chorus of critics, led by former priests, say Maciel is ducking out to escape further scrutiny regarding allegations made in 1997 by nine former Legionaries that Maciel molested them when they were teenage seminarians in Italy and Spain in the 1940s, ’50s and ’60s. Maciel also skipped last year’s conference in Baltimore.

A spokesman for the Legion, Jim Fair, dismissed the accusations against Maciel and the organization, saying the Vatican looked into the allegations and found no evidence of abuse.

Critics say the investigation was flawed and incomplete. They allege top Vatican officials protect Maciel because of his fundraising abilities, conservative politics and friendship with the pope.

To the group’s opponents, the Chicago conference is objectionable whether or not Maciel attends.

“To place Maciel, or his organization, as a model for the youth in Chicago or anywhere, my God, that is an aberration,” said Arturo Jurado of Monterey, Calif., a former priest who contends Maciel sexually molested him in 1957.

Others say the Legion’s leaders manipulate priests and seminarians into a cult-like devotion to Maciel. In addition to the traditional vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, Legionaries take a vow never to criticize or question the order.

Former seminarian Todd Carpunky, now a Chicago lawyer, said he worries that the conference’s unstated goal is to recruit teenagers. The archdiocese of Chicago, he says, should warn young Catholics about the Legion’s recruiting and control techniques.

Warning from ex-member

Carpunky said that after he joined a Legion seminary in Connecticut at age 16 in 1991, his superiors censored his mail and reading material, lied to him when other members left the seminary, encouraged him to flagellate himself and for months refused permission to see a doctor when he was suffering from a gall bladder infection that spread to his liver and almost killed him.

“The archdiocese and the church in general know what the Legion does,” he said. “We are their flock, and [the Legion] are the wolves preying on their flock, and they’re doing nothing about it.”

Legion supporters say such accusations are groundless and the product of disgruntled ex-Legionaries.

Fair, the group’s spokesman, said similar charges of abuse were brought against St. Francis of Assisi when he founded the Franciscans and many other founders of religious orders.

“With success and growth comes calumny and slander; it’s an almost consistent pattern across the board,” said Fair.

A spokesman for the Chicago archdiocese said the Legionaries are not within its jurisdiction. “The Catholic Church is a big tent,” said James Dwyer. “A wide variety of Catholic organizations meet in Chicago, and just because they do does not imply endorsement of what they do … nor condemnation.”

Cardinal not attending
Cardinal Francis George does not plan to attend the conference, Dwyer said.

Organizers of the event say more than 6,000 Chicago-area residents have registered to attend, many of them members of the Legion’s international lay movement, Regnum Christi, which they say has more than 60,000 members. The organizations also operate two K-through-12 schools and numerous outreach ministries in the Chicago area.

Scholars said the Legion’s evangelism and continued growth is consistent with the increase in the power and numbers of conservative Catholic organizations under Pope John Paul II.

“The [conservative movement] perceives itself to be under a threat that is growing, and is pushing back,” said Jay Demerath, a professor of sociology specializing in religion at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. “I suspect [the Legion] is trying to send a message to American Catholics that traditions are important and need to be upheld … that all is not moving in a liberal direction.”

Copyright © 2003, Chicago Tribune

Catholics plan Mather university

The Legion of Christ, a Roman Catholic congregation of priests active in 20 countries, plans to create a private Catholic university at two locations in the Sacramento region.

The proposal, which they’d call the University of Sacramento, is the latest of several higher education ventures to target the capital area.

The group plans to open a graduate school of education by 2005, followed by a 250-acre, full-service residential campus in 2007 that would ultimately have 7,000 students plus 800 faculty members and other employees. A feasibility study for a bioethics institute is also under way.

The Legion is talking with Sacramento county and city officials about buying land to build the campus at Mather Field, and leasing at least 55,000 square feet in downtown or midtown Sacramento for a graduate school of education.

The project is so enticing that officials here are mulling special efforts on a real estate deal to land the school.

The first full Legion university slated for the United States, the project could be a $1.2 billion economic bonanza for the area. Construction alone is expected to cost upwards of $350 million, with ripple effects of a large local payroll and spending in the community by faculty, staff and students.

The Legion raises about $20 million a year to cover its programs. It would also seek to raise money locally.

Area is rich in Catholics: “It is a massive project. We’ve been talking to the Legion for some months now and hope they can build the campus at Mather,” said county economic development director Paul Hahn. “It’s a good use the community needs. From an economic standpoint, we lack a private university and the array of talent it attracts.”

The Legion is looking for a break on the land in exchange, Hahn said. “We need to put together the deal points. It’s no mystery the county is very interested and willing to do some things we haven’t done for a while.”

The pitch is one of three private university proposals to surface in recent months.