The book with the intriguing title, Stealing Jesus, by Bruce Bawer,
was left unread, as my mind wandered off on too many tangents to leave any time beyond a cursory look at the contents.

Every few weeks, e-mails arrive from aggrieved members of Opus Dei and the Legionaries, asking why I persecute them on this site. My answer, while I hope is courteous, proposes nothing beyond what they had already read. If that were not sufficient to convince them that changes in their respective cults would strengthen both their organizations in particular, and the Church in general, there was nothing I could offer further until reading the title of the above book.

A new day had dawned, for Bawer had helped me to discover the basic reason why I abhor both cults: They have stolen the loving, compassionate Jesus of the Gospel, and replaced him with leaders of their organizations, whose less than saintly lifestyles and constitutions have made a mockery of Jesus’ life and message, sowing confusion in the hearts of God’s people.

I know, I know. The e-mails I receive don’t speak of a stolen Jesus. But parents do complain about secrecy, about alienation from families, outlandish restrictions on visiting privileges, about coercion for their sons and daughters to remain in the order, while superiors conjure up futures of eternal damnation for those who leave.

No story of the Prodigal Son here, or the warm, welcoming Father. No love, only threats. People do not thrive well on threats. They shrivel up and are blown every which way as they strive to find a footing in the Never-Never Land of Power and Vindictiveness. Opus Dei and the Legionaries have stolen our Jesus, and they should take steps to bring him back.

Some years ago, I spent a couple of years visiting a nursing home daily, and for an hour or so, when not needed, I would chat with patients, taking a different wing each day. Gradually, they began to trust me, and I came to some over-all conclusions.

First of all, I was humbled and inspired by their courage, patience, forbearance, and faith. Many were not Catholic, but, when invited, would join in a prayer. Most chose the Our Father. Eventually, if it looked as though I were going to leave without praying with them, they would gently remind me. Some were reluctant to have their partners in the room hear them praying, so we adjusted our voices to a whisper.

Among the Catholics, I frequently heard stories of their First Communion Day. Without exception, the memories were happy (to have confessed to a less-than-happy occasion would probably not have happened, no matter the circumstances).

In the telling, the patients seemed to gather trust in a Christ who loved them with a personal love, and who, despite whatever their lives had been, would welcome them to an eternity of love and happiness.

Often, while driving home, I would recall some of my First Communion classes, so full of the children’s faith and joy. and hoped they, too, would find comfort in their memories when difficult times came round, as they do to everyone.

My first class was in a parish where the pastor was convinced his were the smartest and the holiest first graders in the city, and should, therefore, be allowed to receive their First Communion. Personally, I had no argument with that. Jesus certainly didn’t, of that I was convinced.

The only problem was one of logistics, teaching the catechism before the children had learned to read. Across the hall from my room, one of the most experienced primary teachers held sway over fourth graders, for she didn’t possess the energy anymore to keep up with the non-stop demands of the sand-box set.

When I consulted her about the pastor’s proposed plan, and asked for advice about preparing the children for their big day, she replied, Teach them by rote, and love and pray for them. Then, she offered to share the treasures she had kept from the past: teacher’s aids for Bible stories, a toy Mass set, complete with priest, servers, altar, vessels, poems and children’s prayers, etc. There was no doubt which Jesus was her Jesus, and that he was the one I wanted to present to the children.

March came around, and it was time to pass out the brand-new catechism, which I did with a certain amount of trepidation. Would they be able to read them without struggling, and, then, understand according to their age level? Eventually, one youngster, after leafing through the pages, declared for everyone to hear, “This makes sense.” My worries on that score were over.

Year followed year, and First Communion followed First Communion,
until one day, Sister Mary Law replaced the principal, Sister Mary Compassion.
We locked horns on the first day of school when she insisted on inspecting the catechisms, and wasn’t happy when I said they were still boxed up and we wouldn’t be using them until the children learned to read.

We went back and forth, she appealing to power and experience, I appealing to compassion for children to whom reading and First Communion were not to be taken in stride. Eventually, I won that battle, but lost every one following it, and to this day, the memory of the final defeat can threaten a mini-depression.

Eventually, the longed-for day approached, and practice was at hand. The classrooms faced an inner hall, with two-inch oak board flooring. To make the public school children feel comfortable, they were folded into my regular class, and after a couple of practices, usually found their places between the child in front and behind them. In case there should be any confusion, I kept a list, and any difficulty was immediately handled.

However, every once in a while, Sister Law and Order would notice a minor confusion before it had been corrected and would upbraid a child for not knowing the correct board in a sea of boards. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to figure out that frightening children is not the ideal way to keep the kind and gentle Jesus in their view. My job began to take on the aspect of emotional repair work, lest the culprit face the end of the day in tears.

By the time the sixty-some children had marched across the yard to the church for the final rehearsal, Sister Law and Order had made her way to the front of the line to take charge of their practicing extending their tongues to receive the host. They had done so in the classroom, of course, but it was a different matter when kneeling at the Communion railing, where chins barely cleared the cold marble.

All went well until a little boy couldn’t seem to do it right, and after a couple of tries, the principal slapped him across the face. The children gasped. My heart went down to the floor, as I saw the entire year’s preparation in shambles at my feet, for that was one collective wound I knew I would never be able to heal.

Although we were a poor parish, after First Communion Mass, we had always managed to serve orange juice and donuts, coffee and cocoa to the families, and to hire a photographer to take pictures on the church steps, after which the children would skip to the classroom to pick up their certificates, and were later joined by their proud parents.

Poor Sister Law and Order found such frivolity too much like joy for her taste. There would be no pictures. There would be no donuts or juice, coffee or cocoa. There would be no happy talk after receiving certificates. Only silence.

It makes a big difference which Jesus we choose to follow. A big difference for us, personally, and for those whose lives we touch. We need to remember that First Communion Days last a lifetime, right up to the final moments, when love remembered is love possessed.

Also, we want to be aware that when young men and women join Opus Dei or the Legionaries, they will be following a different Jesus from the one their parents presented during nightly prayers. Cults that offer a pseudo-Christ should be disbanded, lest they seriously endanger the spiritual, emotional and physical health of God’s chosen ones.

No one steals our Jesus.

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