Some of them were journalists, some documentary film makers, plenty were ordinary members of the public.
What they had in common was that they had read – and later watched – The Da Vinci Code, the blockbuster novel by Dan Brown, and made into a movie starring Tom Hanks.
It depicted Opus Dei as a secretive religious organisation, wielding power within the Roman Catholic Church, and whose members apparently liked to indulge in mortification of the flesh – usually with a bit of flagellation.
But, as Valero says, “All publicity is good publicity”, for The Da Vinci Code meant that millions around the world heard about Opus Dei for the first time.
Valero admits that, before Brown’s novel, Opus had been loath to talk much about what went on inside it: “The publicity forced us to be more open,” he says. The Opus Dei organisation began to talk about itself more; members more readily said that they belonged to it and that it shaped their lives.
But the controversies didn’t completely go away, with the word “cult” often attached to it, and many Catholics still thinking it too powerful and secretive.
Then, three years ago, Pope Francis intervened, ordering Opus to rewrite its statutes, demanding that its prelate (or superior) should no longer be a bishop, stripping it of power to operate separately from local dioceses while giving the Vatican power to intervene.
Now with another pope at the helm – Pope Leo XIV, elected in May – there seems to be something of a shift happening in the Catholic Church, not least regarding the future of Opus Dei. Leo has been spending his first months as Pope meeting people from across the Church and among them was the prelate (leader) of Opus Dei.
Now, it looks as if the organisation’s revised statutes are on the brink of finally being sorted out, with revisions to how its authority is exercised.
As the first American pope and one who also served as a bishop in Peru, Leo (previously known as Robert Prevost) will be well aware of the power and influence of Opus Dei.
Austen Ivereigh, a Vatican expert and biographer of Pope Francis, says: “When Pope Francis chose Robert Prevost as bishop of Chiclayo [in Peru], it had previously been run for 30 years by bishops who were members of Opus Dei. It had many priests formed by Opus Dei. He was on the front line of Opus influence”.
It later turned out that these years of dealing with Opus Dei on the ground as Bishop Prevost of Chiclayo – encouraging members to be less exclusive and more involved in the life of the whole Catholic community – would be helpful to the future Pope Leo’s understanding of the organisation.
Founded by Josemaría Escrivá in 1928, Opus Dei (meaning the work of God) now has 90,000 members, most of whom live in Europe (especially Spain, where the organisation was founded), and Latin America.
While The Da Vinci Code featured a strange albino monk called Silas who belonged to Opus Dei, it is not a religious order.
About three quarters of its members live in their homes and are usually married, while the rest, known as numeraries, live together in communities, divided on strict gender lines, and are celibate.
Ask Opus Dei members what draws them to belong to the organisation and they mention the importance always given to ordinary men and women – although Opus Dei does have priest members, too.
“It gives you strong purpose, joy, a sense of justice, a strong deep piety” says Eileen Cole, who has been involved with Opus for 50 years, and lives in a women’s Opus Dei community. Now 66, she first came across the group when she was 16. “I did not want to join Opus Dei, or join anything, but it helped me fall in love with the Catholic faith”, she says.
In this country, as elsewhere, Opus Dei and its 900 British members have a strong focus on young people – all the members I have spoken to joined when young, as did former Labour cabinet member Ruth Kelly, who was recruited when she was at Oxford. In fact, it runs several student residences, plus a school.
One reason for its continuing notoriety is its lingering image of being secretive. During the 1970s, for example, the Opus Dei used a study centre it created in west London to recruit sixth formers without the organisers explicitly explaining who they were.
And it took the former Labour politician Ruth Kelly more than a decade after she left the Cabinet to talk openly about her membership, revealing to The Telegraph that even then Prime Minister Tony Blair – later a Catholic convert himself – linked it to The Da Vinci Code image. “Tony used to joke: ‘Are you going to put poison in my tea?’,” she said.
This, despite Kelly emphasising that: “My faith goes to the core of me. Being a member of Opus gives me inspiration and support in combining my daily activities with my personal relationship with God – and I find that invaluable.”
It is in the majority of Catholic countries and in the United States (where Opus has a growing presence through its 3,000 members, around 60 centres or residences and half a dozen high schools) that the organisation has muscle. “Its members in those places are rich and influential,” says Ivereigh.
“In those countries it tends to be linked to the upper middle classes, and to culture wars too”, he commented, referring to splits in both the Catholic Church and wider society over issues such as family, abortion and gay people.
In his highly critical account, Opus, author Gareth Gore depicts the organisation as having backroom channels to American politicians, including President Donald Trump via one of Washington’s most adept political operatives, Leonard Leo, who Gore says is a significant financial contributor to Opus Dei. He follows in the footsteps of other rich donors to Opus, who appear to find its traditional values – and its global influence – deeply attractive.
But it is in Latin America that Opus Dei has most recently been linked to scandal. In Argentina, more than 40 women have claimed that they were forced to join Opus as unpaid servants for its numeraries and live lives of servitude.
After a two-year investigation, federal prosecutors are now waiting to hear whether a judge believes the case against leaders of Opus Dei will go to trial.
Opus Dei rejects the allegations and, in July, said that “legal proceedings are being used to promote a false narrative”.
Meanwhile, in Peru, Cardinal Juan Luis Cipriani Thorne, a member of Opus Dei, was accused of sexually abusing a boy during his confession.
Pope Francis imposed sanctions on him, including banning him from Peru, but he defied him and returned before later appearing in Rome, shocking observers by attending meetings with other cardinals in advance of the conclave.
It all seems a far cry from the devout Catholics in Britain who take on the extra commitments required by Opus Dei to live out their faith: attending Mass as often as possible, frequent Gospel readings and other spiritual literature.
Like Jack Valero and Eileen Cole, Ciro Candia and his wife Caroline were drawn to Opus Dei at a young age, soon after graduating, and have been members for more than 30 years. Eventually Ciro became head of Opus Dei’s primary school, Oakwood, in Purley, south London.
“It is about the sanctification of ordinary life,” he says. “It gives us spiritual formation, that is key.”
The couple have seven children – an unusually large number for Catholics nowadays. It is, they say, because they follow Church teaching about being open to life, rather than being instructed to do so by Opus.
But Ciro admits people assume following Opus makes them go in for weird practices. Such as using whips? “I’ve never been asked to flagellate myself”, he says, laughing.
Yet for Candia, Cole and Valero – however far away they are from the scandals linked to Opus – what happens to the role of Opus in the Church will profoundly affect them.
Its future, and so their futures, now lies in the hands of Pope Leo.