My Experience with a Pseudo-Catholic Cult
(Originally written in 2016. By
Margaret Mary Myers)
Introduction:
This is the story of
my experience in the early 1970's, in going to what I call a
"pseudo-Catholic cult". In calling it that, I'm not saying or
implying that all the individuals involved were not Catholic, but rather that
the charismatic, dogmatic leader claimed to be leading all that was left of the
Catholic Church, while the Catholic Church did not recognize the organization
as being legitimate. But my story is simply for the purpose of sharing my own
experiences, and it is in no way meant as an indictment of any of the generous
people who I met along the way.
In telling my story,
I avoid giving names except those of leaders, most of which are readily
available in a simple search. My avoidance of names may make for awkward
reading on occasion, and a little repetition, but please bear with me.
This is my own account, based on the facts as I saw them, written from my
personal memory and understanding. I do not want to misrepresent anyone, should
I remember something a little bit wrong, and I don't want to hurt anyone or
their families, many of whom have already been hurt in so many ways.
Part 1:
As I said to a
friend, decades later, "I came in to the Catholic Church through the back
door," to which she replied with a smile, "You came in through the
bathroom window." Allegories aside, I grew up as a Protestant - as
we called ourselves in those days - in the 1950's and '60's in Vancouver,
Washington (a small town across the Columbia River from Portland, Oregon).
Through a childhood
friend, I became acquainted with some of the rich culture of the Catholic
Church at an early age. I enjoyed hearing the stories of the saints; but I was
also very content with my own church, where I had encouragement in my prayer
life, and support for my daily life, first from my Sunday school and later from
my youth group and church camp.
But one weekday
afternoon I went with my Catholic friend to St. James Cathedral for a
visit. There, among the statues and candles, I was filled with a deep
sense of peace. Although it wasn't an instant conversion, it was the sense of
Presence, I think, more than anything, which gradually drew me to the Catholic
Church. In my senior year of high school I decided to become a Catholic. Little
did I know what a rocky road stretched ahead of me!
My girlfriend's
mother was very upset about Vatican II and the changes in the Church,
especially the changes in the Mass. So I went with them to a traditional Latin
Mass at St. Birgitta's Catholic Church in Portland. Later, we drove ourselves.
Of course, it was an adventure for us Vancouver kids to be driving to Portland
for church.
I learned that - because it was a Croatian mission church - the priest answered directly to Rome rather than to the local bishop; consequently, he was able to offer the Latin Mass in an era when it was often not allowed in the churches.
I told the pastor, Fr. Milan Mikulich, that I would like to become a Catholic. He told me he was going on an extended trip to Europe and would begin instructing me after he returned. I was disappointed by the delay, but in the meantime, I read Catholic books, including Chats with Converts (by Fr. M.D. Forrest); The Autobiography of St. Therese; and Fr. Smith Instructs Jackson by Archbishop John Francis Noll.
I also read a book
by a traditionalist, Patrick Henry Omlor, which was called, Questioning
the Validity of the Masses using the New All English Canon. The author
posited the theory that the "new Mass" was not valid, based on the
changes in wording. What was a young prospective Catholic to think? The same as
her friend and her friend's mother, and some of the people with whom we had
donuts and coffee after Mass, or the young people we met with for "cell
meetings" with the Fatima Crusade, an organization founded and directed by
a man called Brother Francis, who had formerly held an active role in the Blue
Army of Our Lady of Fatima.
One weekend in the
summer of 1971, after I graduated from high school, Brother Francis, with his
right hand man Brother Denis, and a lay missionary sister, called Maria, came
to our little town. We went to listen to them speak at the lecture hall of the PUD
(the Public Utilities Department). They were quite charming, really.
After the talk, my
friend and I drove Maria to where she was spending the night. On the way, she
told us enthusiastically about a 10-day summer seminar which was coming up in
August in a camp in Idaho. She was very sweet and charming, and I had always loved
going to my church summer camps; so it was easy for her to talk me into going.
My only concern was getting time off from work, but I did, and my friend and I
both headed to Idaho.
Part 2:
Someone from
Portland offered to give us a ride from Vancouver to the camp in Idaho…a
gentleman whose daughter was a sister with the group. I have no recollection
why we accepted the offer instead of driving ourselves in my car; perhaps it
was to save money since I had recently rented an apartment and things were a
little tight for me. We didn't know the man, but my friend's mother's friend
passed on the offer and suggested we go up with him. These were adult women in
our lives whom we trusted.
When we checked in
to the seminar, they took our watches. 'But wait. I've had my watch since I was
in third grade. No one told me I was signing up for this.' I don't know
if I said it or only thought it, but they reassured us that they would give them
back at the end of the 10-days. (Of course we didn't have cell phones in those
days.).
And so began ten
days filled with hours and hours of torturous lectures by Francis Schuckardt,
all about the many terrible things that were "wrong" in the Church
and in the world. I have no idea how many hours he actually lectured
since we were not allowed our watches; but I know we had a little time for
Mass, which was offered by an elderly retired priest. We had a little time for
sleep and meals. We were expected to practice silence always, except during
recreation, when we had a little time to play volleyball or go to the chapel to
pray privately. Even though I'm normally a talkative person, one of the first
days I chose to go to the chapel to be alone, because I wanted to try to sort
out my thoughts. But thinking for myself had become increasingly difficult as
the days wore on; and I gave up.
Finally, the long
ordeal was over. At this point, you might think we would have run, not walked,
to get out of there. But there were two problems with that. First of all, the
person from Portland who drove us up there was nowhere to be found. Secondly, how
could we go back to "the world"? There was nothing for us out
there. Francis had told us about the "humanoids" and "possessed
persons" who wandered the streets, who lived among us in the worlds we
came from. He had also told us that, "All of the bishops are apostates!
And anyone who follows an apostate bishop is ipso facto excommunicated!"
("ipso facto" means it happens without anyone having to proclaim or
decide it). Apparently, there was nothing for us in the churches we came
from...or so we now thought.
Pretty much, as we
saw it, if we didn't want to go to hell, we better stay. There is little that
is as powerful as threatening people with the loss of their souls.
I would like to
share a free verse poem that I wrote a few years ago about going to that
seminar, and then I will share the next chapter in the journey.
Ten Day Seminar, by
Margaret Mary Myers
Our watches gone,
Time dragging on.
“The wicked world is dangerous!
Be safe with us.”
Endless listening to
Endless ranting.
Free time – one
time.
Time alone, with God.
“What should I do?”
“Keep My commandments.”
Moment of connection.
Moment of sanity.
Cling to the
connection.
Cling to the sanity.
Our watches gone,
Time dragging on.
“The wicked world is dangerous!
Be safe with us.”
Endless listening to
Endless ranting.
Connection fading.
Sanity sliding.
Endless time ending.
Watches returned, intact,
But broken to our needs;
Our spirits broken, like their usefulness.
Time to go home,
Yet not home, to the world,
Where dangers lurk
And devils dwell.
Part 3:
So, there we
were…without a car, without a phone, without the desire to go home. We might
have gone to "The Center" to phone home to our parents ('the center'
was where they sold books and gifts, and had a phone); or we might have written
a letter. I can't remember which it was after all this time. I do remember I
wrote a letter to my landlady and offered her my furniture in exchange for the
month's rent I couldn't pay. And then, finally, the man who had driven us to
Idaho returned from wherever he had gone and offered to drive us back.
We went home, said
our good-byes to our puzzled, and probably heart-broken, parents. We gathered a
few of our things; and we headed back up in my car.
We were told we
could stay as guests in the convent. They generously shared their meager food
with us, one or two cubes of bouillon to a huge pot of water, and fruit and
bread from dumpster diving at the nearby grocery store, but also good eggs and
milk from farmers in the community. I don't remember where my childhood friend
slept (if I even knew at the time), but I remember sleeping under the table in
the dining room; of course I still had my sleeping bag from the camp. I also
remember, later, sleeping upstairs on a bedroom floor, hoping that the
missionary sister - the one who had come to Vancouver way back in what seemed
like another lifetime –would not step on me in the dark when she came in from
the home of some family in the group, whom she had gone to visit.
The sisters I lived
with came to call Maria, the lay missionary sister, my "guardian
angel", as she was assigned to prepare me for reception into the Church
and we spent a lot of time together, poring over books and talking. As it
turned out, she taught me the same things I had read in Catholic books in past
months. But some of the things we talked about seemed different from some of
the things that Brother Francis was teaching. She came to trust me, and she
told me confidentially of her concerns about some of the things he had been
saying publicly and privately. We had to talk about this in the basement or
while taking a walk because the cardinal rule and atmosphere was that no one
must ever question Francis or anything he said.
But soon it was time
for my Baptism at the big church in the country. A retired missionary priest,
Fr. Ernest Speckhart, who had served in South America and was now living in Los
Angeles, came up to help out at a weekend conference, and Sister arranged for
him to be the one to baptize me. I felt sorry for the people who had to wait
through the Confession, conditional Baptism, and First Holy Communion before
they could attend the long Mass. But there was a bit of a spirit of festivity
after it was all over, and people congratulated me.
At that same weekend
conference - part of which was held in the little town - I came out after the
evening talks one night and my car wouldn't start. A couple of the young men
(teenagers, perhaps) tried to jump-start it for me, but someone said they accidentally
jump-started it backwards. So there it sat, parked along the curb, and it got
impounded. Someone else drove me and my friend back to the convent, and there
sat my car in the impound lot. Of course I didn't have any money for repairs or
impound fees; although I don't know where I would have gotten money for more
gas, anyway. Now I truly had given up almost everything. Now I was even more
completely dependent…I who had been so responsible from an early age.
After a few days or
weeks (who knows which it was), I wrote Brother Francis a letter telling him
that I had decided I didn't want to become a sister; I would rather be a lay
missionary. He had someone take me to the center so I could call him; and he
told me, hurtfully, that was a Protestant idea (in spite of the fact that was
what Maria called herself). But, he went on to say, since you feel that way,
you should leave the convent, and there is a woman who works a job and who has
two school children boarding with her. You can go live with her and help take
care of the children, he said. And so I did.
The woman I lived
with seemed like a reasonable person, and the little girls were sweet, but it
might have been the first afternoon I was there that a neighbor woman came over
to scold us that the girls, for heaven's sake, should not be playing in pants.
They must wear only long skirts always, not just for church and school but for
play too. I guess my hostess hadn't understood the rules. Also, girls and women
must cover their heads with a mantilla or a scarf at all times, this neighbor
told us.
Then one day someone
came to drive me to the center again, because Brother Francis wanted to talk to
me once more. He was all sweetness and charm this time. He said, since I wanted
to be a lay missionary, he had an opportunity for me. I could go to Phoenix
with a couple who were returning to their home there. I could help at their
center. And the lay missionary sister would be going too, and we could help
with this couple's little girl, also. Francis said he would pay to have my car
repaired, so that we could all drive down there in it.
And so, I left my
childhood friend behind, just as I had previously left behind my family, my
extended family, my other friends, my job, and my apartment. And I set off on
another adventure.
In spite of those
sorrows of loss, as we drove further and further south, I felt a deep sense of
relief at leaving the place in Idaho behind.
Within a day or two
of arriving in Phoenix, the couple left for Chicago where they were going to
meet Brother Francis. We would stay behind to care for their small daughter.
Before they left, our host said to us, "Feel free to help yourselves to
any of the books in the library while we are gone!" We thanked him and
said good-bye to the two of them.
My missionary
sister, Maria, was delighted to see the books, because she was concerned and
wanted to check some things out. The day before they left on this trip, the
other woman had told her she was picking up something for an ordination. I
think she hadn't meant to share that and let it slip out.
Well, Francis had
recently told Maria about a bishop he had been in touch with in Chicago, a
Bishop Daniel Q. Brown, a bishop of the "Old Roman Catholic"
Church. And here we were with a Catholic Dictionary and a whole set of
Catholic Encyclopedias at our disposal. And so, in between taking care of the
little girl, we went to work on research. We learned that the Old Roman
Catholic Church had broken with the Catholic Church at least as early as the
1800's. I have learned, more recently, that Daniel Q. Brown had been a Catholic
layman, and had left the Church in the 1960's due to the changes brought about
by Vatican II, joining the Old Roman Catholics, where he was ordained and
consecrated. At some point, I read, he rejected the Old Roman Catholic Church.
However, he took full advantage of his orders to pass them along.
My missionary sister
and I felt we could not stay, knowing what we did about how Brother Francis was
getting ordained. We packed my car, filled it with gas, and parked it, facing
out, and where they could not inadvertently block it when they came home. We
were ready to go as soon as the couple returned from Chicago.
We fully expected
the couple to return to Phoenix and tell us that Francis had become a priest,
but both they and we were in for a shock! Their shock was that we were not
delighted…and that we were leaving. Our shock came when they told us that
Francis Schuckardt had not only been ordained a priest, but had also been
consecrated a bishop the very next day. This was very irregular, to say the
least. Of course, they were not happy that we were leaving! But away we went,
driving through the night to Los Angeles, where Sister had friends, including
Fr. Speckhart, the priest who had baptized me.
We arrived at a home
in Los Angeles in time for Sunday Mass. People warmly welcomed us with open
arms. In the coming days, Maaria found a chance to talk to Fr. Speckhart
privately, and she told him what she knew about the ordination and consecration
of Francis. He then did his own research. At the next week's Mass, Fr.
Speckhart explained it to the people during his sermon, telling what was wrong
with what Francis had done. Fr. Speckhart's talk was not well received, as the
loyalty was not to him but to their distant charismatic leader, Francis
Schuckardt.
Later that week, a
friend showed us a letter that had gone out immediately, to all the followers
in the L.A. area, as soon as someone had phoned up to Idaho with news of Father
Speckart's talk. The letter came directly from Francis Schuckardt. In it, he named
the three of us…my missionary sister friend Maria, Fr. Speckhart, and me. In
the letter, Francis said that the three of us had chosen to become
"enemies of Our Lady's community". No one was to have anything to do
with us! And all the way down in Los Angeles, the people obeyed completely, it
seemed, all except for the one family, the ones who showed us the letter. But
to get to or from their house, we had to park far away on another street and
walk in, hoping against hope, for their sake, that no one would drive by and
see us walking. This family still had children in the boarding school in Idaho,
and we didn't want to endanger them in any way.
Soon, this couple
decided to drive to Idaho to bring their children home. They invited us to go
along, as we had left some of our belongings behind when we drove to Phoenix.
They told no one in the community or at the school that they were coming. When
we got close to the town in Idaho, the two of us crouched on the floor in the
back of the car, concerned, for their sake, that someone might see us with them
before they reached their children. They drove us to the home of friends who
had already left Francis's group previously, who graciously welcomed us to stay
in their home for a few days, and even generously lent us the use of their car.
Our Los Angeles
friends were going to pick up their children and head home, while the two of us
were going to stay behind for a few days, and then take the train back. Our
first stop was the center, where my friend stuck her foot in the door and they
quickly slammed it, but too late. She was wearing a very solid boot of mine and
she took advantage of being stuck there, telling them that Francis was ordained
and consecrated by someone who was not Catholic, while they tried to talk over
her, saying over and over, "Sister Maria, go away!" so that they
would not be listening. Finally, she said, "I will, if you'll let me get
my foot out of the door." And they did.
The next day we went
to the convent to pick up our things, but of course they wouldn't open the door
to us. After the previous day's adventure, they were probably well prepared for
us to arrive. We went to the police and asked the police officer to speak to
them. The police officer did talk to them, and he called to tell us to come to
the convent the next day. We did, and there were our things, not on the porch,
as we had guessed they would be, but in the middle of the yard in the
snow. At least we were able to get them back.
We must have shipped
the belongings we retrieved, since we were taking the train. Some details are
hard to remember after so many years. Some other things are easier to remember
because they were so impressive or because we retold them so many times.
We stopped by
Vancouver and had a nice visit with my parents. And then we went on to the home
of my missionary friend's family in Central California and stayed with her
mother. We made frequent trips to Los Angeles where we spent time with
families who had left the group or who had only had a brief encounter with the
group. We attended the Latin Mass of retired priests or priests who had special
permission to offer it. Sometimes we attended an Eastern rite Catholic Mass,
which had remained essentially unchanged.
Eventually, we both
got jobs in Central California. I saved up some money and bought a car (mine
had seen better days long before), and I took a few classes. Three years after
that fateful summer of '71, I packed everything into my old VW Beetle and moved,
by myself, to Los Angeles.
At some point, I
came to believe that the English Mass was definitely valid, but I preferred the
Latin Mass or the Catholic Eastern rite Liturgy. It was at a Catholic Eastern
rite church that I met the man who would become my husband – a great guy -
and the rest is another history, but not part of this history.
I have told this
story from my own viewpoint, as accurately as I can remember. There were many
other stories and many details that I have left out because it is painful to
re-live that period of time. Also, there were many other happenings and details
that I learned about from others, later on, but those involve other people's
journeys, and they are neither my explanations to give nor my stories to tell.
I believe that we each have our own life journey and I don't tell my story to criticize anyone else's journey, but simply to share mine.
Today, forty-five
years later, I sometimes attend the Latin Mass in a historic church downtown
that is part of our local Catholic archdiocese, where my husband sings in the
choir; and I also attend the mainstream Mass at my vibrant local Catholic
church.
I have come full
circle back to why, when I was a teenager, I wanted to become a Catholic. It is
still about the beauty and the fullness, and the Presence. Whenever I hear
someone complain about the way things are done at a Mass in some parish or
another, I like to say, "Is Jesus there? Then I'm there...as long as it is
in union with Rome."
