Psalms 100
Two of his biggest clients died and left their money to children H who bought houses with it, not stocks and bonds. The market was lousy. Nobody was investing. People had their money in CDs, or in their mattresses. And Donald O'Hearn, investment counselor, was hurting.
When his friend, Harris, suggested, "Why don't you talk to Monsignor Fallon, I hear the church has some money to invest," he was skeptical. Dollar bills from the collection basket wasn't his idea of investing, but Don was ready to try anything. He called.
"Donald! The Lord does work in mysterious ways. I'm glad to hear from you. I do need financial advice, and I'd be happy to hear your ideas. Can you come by the rectory for lunch today?"
Monsignor Fallon, a spry man of 85, answered the door himself and led the way into the dining room. Don was a "Christmas-and-Easter" parishioner, but the rectory was exactly what he expected - neat, spotlessly clean and quiet, as if God wouldn't let a loud noise penetrate.
Lunch was a fine roast beef with salad and vegetables grown by the Monsignor himself in a little kitchen garden. Two young priests and a visiting missionary-priest from Africa ate with them. The quiet conversation ranged from the church's mission to the Pope's latest travels. Money was not discussed.
After lunch, they sat in the Monsignor's office and the money talk began. "As you may know, Donald," he began, "we've been raising funds for a new school wing. This is a wealthy parish, and the people have been generous. But we estimate that construction can't begin for at least two years. In the meantime, we want to invest the money wisely."
"Of course," said Don, nodding sagely. "About how much money has the parish raised so far, Monsignor?"
"Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars, it's in CDs now, earning about three percent. Do you think we could do better?"
Don's mouth watered. The old priest said four hundred and fifty thousand dollars without blinking an eye, as if he were talking about a grocery list or the weather. Three percent? He could do better throwing darts at the stock listings.
"I think I can help you there, Monsignor," replied Don, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. "Could I see where the funds are now?" "Father Bob here can help you with that. He keeps track of those things on the computer over there."
"Would you like to take a look, Mr. O'Hearn?" asked the young priest in a soft voice.
"Yes. if I could."
Father Bob booted up the PC and brought the records onto the screen. He then offered the chair to Don, who eagerly sat down and swung his legs under the desk... smashing his kneecap on the point of the metal drawer.
"#@*%#&*| I #*!" Excruciating pain! In a visceral reaction, Don let out a string of obscenities never heard before or since in that quiet rectory.
Five seconds and Don realized what he'd done. The young priests were shocked. The Monsignor stared. The relationship changed.
"Oh, Lord, Monsignor," he stammered. "No! No, I mean...uh... that is...look, Monsignor, I'm very sorry!"
But the damage was done.
"Well now. You can look at those figures any time, Donald," the Mon signor said in a soothing tone. "Right now, I think it's more important to go home and put some ice on that knee before it swells up. We'll talk again soon."
Father Bob ushered Don out, and he never saw the inside of the rectory again. He called the Monsignor several times, and the old priest was always polite but never again invited him to discuss the church's investments.
