I am not superhuman

Opus Dei member Olivia Darby stresses that members of Opus Dei are just like everybody else. She gi

If you have learned about Opus Dei from the media and Da Vinci Code, it is easy to believe that it is a shadowy sect, governed by some sinister Dr No type figure, high on power and attempting world domination.

I am a member of Opus Dei. I take the bus with you. I walk past you in the street. I might be behind you in the supermarket queue, and you might buy me a drink at a bar. I am 23, I work for a charity, I love cooking, reading, and walks along the Thames. I struggle to get up every morning and I find it impossible to be tidy. Superhuman – I don't think so. When my brother asks me whether I've been brainwashed, I can only sigh, "I wish!” Maybe Opus Dei could wave a magic wand and help me keep my room tidy!

I am in the middle of the world – your world – but you probably wouldn't notice me amongst the hundreds of other people you pass on your way to work. I'm not a nun. I do not live in a dungeon, nor an ivory tower. Members of Opus Dei live their lives side by side with everyone else.

I guess this can lead to the other fear – the infiltration of society by a group of people who you don't quite understand. There are two good reasons to laugh at this. Firstly, I am free. Contrary to popular expectations, I have never been instructed to kill any infidels. I joined Opus Dei four years ago. I think I may have got an inkling of this if it were the case, and if someone did ask me I would a) say no, and b) make them an appointment with their doctor. Secondly, there are about 500 members of Opus Dei in the UK, out of sixty million people. None of us has super powers!

But hold on, I may have missed the key point: the vocation to Opus Dei is a vocation to be saints in our daily lives. Saints have to emulate Jesus. They have to love people. Saints are people who try every day (even though they might not always succeed) to love God a little bit more, and consequently make the lives of those around them easier.

What does this mean to me? I work with around 180 disadvantaged children a week. I chose this work because I hope I can have a positive impact on their lives. But perhaps more importantly, I try to see each child as an individual, as a child of God, just like me, regardless of their religious background. With so many children, there is the temptation to see them as numbers, and just look at the statistics (x number passed their exams, no one got pregnant this year). But the real point is to develop the personality of each child, to help them to learn about themselves, to pass their exams so that they can give something back to society. Too see the joy on a girl's face when she realises that she is worth something after she has helped a younger child achieve something.

My vocation means looking after my friends. Not to be a fair weather friend, but to be there through thick and thin. My vocation means that of course I want my friends to come closer to God, because I believe that fulfilment comes through loving Him. But this does not mean that I would pressure them into it. My boyfriend is not a Catholic. I would love him to share my faith, but faith is a gift –it cannot be forced on someone. I love him just the same.

My vocation means trying to build a deeper relationship with God, through daily Mass, prayer and sacrifice. People get a bit worried about the sacrifice bit. But really, we all make sacrifices for the people we love. You don't know that someone loves you until they give you their last rolo. And we make so many sacrifices for much less important reasons- stilettos, leg waxing, nails so long that you're almost disabled (vanity, vanity). What is forgoing salt or getting up on time for love of God compared to blisters from too-tight shoes?

I chose to join Opus Dei. No one even suggested it to me before I said that I wanted to. And ever since I have been a firm believer in St Augustine's "our hearts our restless until they rest in You alone, O Lord". Accepting my vocation, which crept up on me and was never in my life-plan as a teenager, has given me a great peace. I couldn't have said no, not because anyone forced me, but because saying no to God, when he has called you, does not make one happy. Trust me - as a nineteen year old it wasn't what I had thought I wanted - but I was also quite sure it was the right thing to do. I'd be lying if I told you it was always easy - as I said before, I'm not superhuman - but it is always worth it.

Olivia Darby joined Opus Dei at age 19. She is now 23 years old and works for an educational charity helps disadvantaged children in London.
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Commons confidential: The nuclear option

Hunt's six day week, Cameron's missing tweet and growing tensions within Labour.

It’s UN blue helmet time for the deputy leader Tom Watson as he struggles to keep the peace between Labour’s warring factions.

The burly veteran of the uprising that toppled Tony Blair is brokering an armed truce. His strategy, I’m told, is to persuade both sides to hold fire. Rebels remain in the bunker and Corbynistas are moving to change party rules. Either pulling a trigger would send the other nuclear.

Tensions between the Corbyn and McDonnell camps fuel rumours the veggie Jeremy may later step aside for carnivorous John. Watson, says my snout, believes Labour would be ungovernable if MPs locked the left out of any contest.

John Mann, caught glancing to check whether cameras were rolling ahead of his Brawl in the Hall with Red Ken, has posturing form. The Bassetlaw bruiser and his former colleague Denis MacShane earned blistering rebukes for “glib evidence” and “appearing supremely confident of the rightness of their positions” three years ago as witnesses at a failed employment tribunal that attempted to find “institutional anti-Semitism” in a University and College Union-backed Israel boycott.

The 45-page judgment noted: “When it came to anti-Semitism in the context of debate about the Middle East, [Mann] announced: ‘It’s clear to me where the line is . . .’ but unfortunately eschewed the opportunity to locate it for us. Both parliamentarians clearly enjoyed making speeches. Neither seemed at ease with the idea of being required to answer a question not to his liking.”

Gobby Mann and Shoot-From-the-Lip Livingstone were made for each other.

Many thanks to the reader with a long memory who reminded me this column noted in June 2009 how Jeremy Hunt was a six-day weeker, after his Surrey office informed Haslemere Rugby Club he didn’t work Sundays. Now he’s Health Secretary, screaming about a seven-day NHS in England, I’d be happy to update his availability should Hunt wish to get in touch. Emails and calls are answered all weekend.

Labour holds no monopoly on anti-Semitism. A former Labour MP recalled asking an esteemed Tory grandee, still an MP, over dinner whether Livingstone should have apologised for likening a Jewish reporter on the London Evening Standard to a concentration camp guard. “Oh no,” sneered the prominent Con, “the Hebs are getting above themselves.” The term “Hebs” is, apparently, posh for Hebrews. You learn something nasty every day.

Imagine the tweet the experts at No 10 could have prevented the football-crazy Cameron from sending: “As a keen Aston Ham fan I congratulate Leicester Town on winning the FA Cup.”

Kevin Maguire is the associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror

Kevin Maguire is Associate Editor (Politics) on the Daily Mirror and author of our Commons Confidential column on the high politics and low life in Westminster. An award-winning journalist, he is in frequent demand on television and radio and co-authored a book on great parliamentary scandals. He was formerly Chief Reporter on the Guardian and Labour Correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred