A few years ago I went to post a letter in Bogota, Colombia, and was sold a stamp with the image of a robed priest. It was Msgr. Jose Maria Escriva de Balaguer, the founder of the Opus Dei, a secretive and elitist movement within the Roman Catholic Church. Conservative and small -- 73,000 adherents, mostly in Spain and Latin America -- its members include powerful men, high government officials and senior businessmen. In Spain, it supported Franco; throughout Latin America it stands for right-wing dogma in religion and politics. Its critics, including me, believe it is anti-poor, anti-indigenous-people and anti-women. Seeing Escriva on a Colombian stamp was proof of the group's growing popularity and influence.

"Do you have another stamp?" I asked the clerk. "Why?" she answered, surprised. "Are you not Catholic?" Like almost all Colombians, I was raised Catholic. I grew up around women who wore crosses and medallions. They kept pictures of Pope John XXIII, Paul XI and John Paul II on their walls, hanging them like posters of pop stars. They saved, borrowed, played the lottery, did whatever it took to pay for a trip to the Vatican. Going to St. Peter's Square for a Sunday mass and a benediction was a lifelong dream. No one I knew growing up questioned the church's position on women's issues.

As girls, we had two main role models: soap-opera heroines who, if they acted virginal and submissive, landed handsome and rich husbands, and beauty queens whose stock answer to the question "Who do you most admire?" was "El Papa mi papa" -- "the pope and my dad." The message was clear: women were meant to be obedient to God and to men. No one talked about how the church and a male-dominated political culture rendered women powerless.

Somewhere between my First Communion and my first year of college, I began to figure it out. I realized that believing in the ritual of taking the Body of Christ in communion also meant believing that women are good if they are subservient to men; that sex is sinful if it is not intended for procreation, and that, as a good Catholic woman, I would have no control over my body. Objecting to the stamp bearing the likeness of Escriva was a small act of rebellion. I knew that the man our country was commemorating on a postage stamp had said that women "need not be scholars" -- "it's enough for them to be prudent."

Today, in the age of AIDS, that attitude is fatal. Women, who are educated to be docile wives and mothers, exclusively, are testing HIV-positive at alarming rates. "Married, monogamous mothers are at a higher risk than prostitutes," a Colombian epidemiologist told me. While Latin American culture allows an expansive sexual life to men -- one that includes prostitution, bisexuality and transvestism, even after marriage -- women are left in the dark. In Sao Paulo, Brazil, I spoke to a devout Catholic, a mother of three who displays a copy of the Bible in her living room, who has had nine abortions. The methods she used were primitive, dangerous and ridiculous: barbed wire, tree branches and chlorine bleach washed down with calabash tea. Still, she saw no connection and no contradiction between her life and her faith.

The influence of the Catholic Church in Latin America remains strong. Just look at the pope's recent visit to Cuba and his trip to Mexico, countries that have made deliberate efforts to keep the church out of politics. For better and for worse, its involvement in the region will be around for many years to come. For better when it offers solace and support to the needy. For worse when it clings to a position that keeps women dependent, ignorant and vulnerable.