By D. Lorne Coyle
"Father Coyle, can you help me?" asked the middle-aged stranger in the receiving line at the church door. With 20 other parishioners waiting, I asked her to step aside and remain until the line ended.
"How can I help you?" I asked her later. I remembered that I had seen her come in toward the end of the service and that she had received communion but seemed not to know exactly how.
"Well," she started, eyes brimming with tears, "We are new in Vero and are looking for a church. We love your church. Right now, I need help. My 4-year-old daughter needs emergency surgery. We were in an auto accident a year ago. She hurt her head. She seemed fine so I didn't think twice about sending her last week to visit my sister in Maryland. But while she was there, she had a seizure. Now they say she has to have an immediate brain operation. I want to be there for her and I have no money to get there. Can you help? It'll be about $450."
I said, "I'm really sorry to hear that. I'm willing to work with you on this but our normal policy is never to give out cash. Are you alone? Is there someone to work with you?"
"Yes, I have a husband, but he works on an offshore dredge and can't be reached right now," she said. "He will repay you when he gets back to shore in two days. But I need to go right now."
"OK, I'm not worried about being repaid," I responded. "But I will need the name of the hospital where she is being treated."
"What for? Don't you believe me?" she said, her voice rising, parishioners starting to notice.
"You have to understand that I don't know you and that to be responsible I need to verify your account," I said. "So give me the hospital name and the doctor's name and I will call while you wait."
"Who are you to check up on me?" she blurted. "Who do you think you are? God Almighty? What is the bishop's name in this place?" she fairly screamed at me. (Now the parishioners were really interested.)
"John W. Howe," I said. "Would you like his address?"
"Never mind!" she yelled as she stormed off to her car.
The above is an actual account. I'm sure all of the clergy and many of the laity, especially those in city parishes, can tell stories like this as well.
Con artists love Christians. We are their preferred targets. Churches make great places for a hustler to find a buck. Especially on Sunday morning. The con man knows that the priest is busy with a million things on his mind, that there are lots of parishioners whom the con man can hustle unless the priest pays him off quickly, that the priest doesn't want a bum hanging around the door when folks arrive.
These people are creative. They have variations on the theme. Actually, some of them would make extremely capable fund-raisers if they could just go straight. They know how to make a compelling case, they know how to get the mark alone for a one-on-one ask, they have the stuff to make the ask, and they persevere. But the variations are infinite: My child needs food, I need a bus ticket to get home, I need food so I can work, my car broke down and I need gas money, etc.
Check this one: A guy calls on the phone. Says he needs to speak with not just "the rector," that's too easy to screen out but "Father Lorne." Linda, my capable assistant, knows now that's she's got to buzz me on the intercom and tell me about the call. She gets me and announces a "Rick Dorsey" and asks me if I know anyone by that name. I say no. She replies, "Well, he asked for you by name." Ah, heck, I think, what is this? This is what follows:
Me: "This is Fr. Coyle. How can I help you?"
Rick: "Hi, Father, this is Rick Dorsey. You may not remember me but my family and I have been attending your church. We're new to town and really like Trinity. I need some help."
Me: "You say you've been attending. Which service?"
Rick: "'Well, we've come to the 9 a.m. service. We really like the music."
Me: "What about it do you like?"
Rick: "We just like singing the old favorites."
Me: "Oh . . . do you have children?"
Rick: "Yes, my wife and I have two kids. That's part of our need. You see, she's an alcoholic and she's now in a 28-day rehab program. She normally works but can't right now because of the rehab and we're behind in the rent. The landlord is all over me, saying he's going to have to throw us out."
Me: "I'm sorry, Rick. That sounds real serious. I want to talk with you further but I have an appointment waiting here for me. Give me your number and I will call you back. But first I want to pray with you."
Rick: "Sorry, Lorne, I can't do that. I'm a private duty nurse and I'm not allowed to receive calls while working like I am now."
Me: "No problem, I will call you tonight. Give me your home phone."
Rick: "Gee, I don't know when I'll be home because I'm working a 12-hour shift. I'll call you back. When would be a good time?"
He did call back. Meanwhile, I was unable to pin down any record of him or his family within our parish: not on the prospect list, not on the newcomer list, not on the nursery or Sunday school lists, not on the Friendship Forms, and no priest recalled him. We serve a big parish, but it's not so big that a young family would escape notice for very long. Rick continued to pursue my paying his rent, which was $600. He gave me a name and an address in Tampa, which he said was his landlord. I called the phone number for the landlord and spoke to a man who said he was the landlord. When I asked him why he wouldn't cut Rick Dorsey a break and carry him for one month's rent, the "landlord" said it was his policy not to do so.
I also pursued the county licensing avenue, asking if anyone had a registered nurse or any kind of nurse by the name of Rick Dorsey. No one did. Rick got more and more aggressive in his calls until finally I told him I had called the police here and in Tampa and that I would not help him.
"Rick" apparently lived in Tampa and had driven down the east coast of Florida looking for big churches, jotting down from their signboards information like telephone numbers, rectors’ names, and service times. He figured that big parishes would make better suckers. He was almost right.
The toughest part is this: Once in a while you run across a genuine need. Because of all that hard stuff Jesus tells us about who our neighbor is, and feeding the hungry, I can't harden my heart and run off every supplicant who darkens the door. Jesus makes us listen to all of them. When I discover a genuine one, I am grateful for a Holy Spirit who reminds me that but for the grace of God, there go I.
General rules for dealing with Con Artists
1. Never make a commitment over the phone.
2. Tell the solicitor you will be happy to help but not with cash.
3. Don't be afraid to ask for details.
4. Talk to the solicitor in public; don't let him get you alone.
5. Don't be lazy. Do your homework. Check out the story.
6. Offer to pray with the person. God may do some sifting for you.