I Took a Vow of Poverty and Nailed It

Let me start with a confession that probably should disqualify me from writing a money column. I spent twenty years as a Benedictine monk. I took a vow of poverty, in part, to rebel against my parents. And our monastery went bankrupt, because we took that vow a little too seriously.

We were contemplatives dedicated to service, men who could debate Aquinas before breakfast. What we could not do was manage money. We earned modest salaries as teachers, struggled to save a dime, and viewed the world of finance as something cooked up in the lower regions of Dante's Inferno. Believing the love of money is the root of all evil, we did the opposite and hated it. You can probably guess how that turned out for our balance sheet.

Here is the part that took me years to understand. Our problem was never a math problem, or even an income problem. It was a relationship problem. We had a lousy relationship with money, so we ended up with very little of it. That crippled the very thing we existed to do. You cannot care for the needy with an empty coffer.

It took me a long time to learn that poverty is the source of much of the suffering in the world, and the only cure for poverty is a little bit of wealth.

I went from Marine Corps Officer Candidate School to a monastery, which tells you I have always been drawn to institutions that promise discipline and deliver very little money. Eventually I helped pull our community out of bankruptcy and left to become a financial advisor. It is a strange second act for a man whose retirement plan, for twenty years, was a vow of poverty and the goodwill of the Almighty.

Recently I moved to Pinehurst from Santa Fe, trading the high desert for longleaf pines and green chile for barbecue. I am still learning that around here a golf cart is a legitimate form of transportation and "bless your heart" is not always a blessing. When the folks at The Pilot agreed to let me write a monthly column, I was delighted, because I already love this place and I have something to say that I rarely see in the money section of a newspaper.

Here it is. Most money troubles have almost nothing to do with money.

I learned this twice. Once in the monastery, and once watching my own father. He was the CEO of a chemical company who earned a fortune and died with almost none of it, because he cared more about status symbols than substance. If you are anywhere near retirement, his story is the one that should keep you up at night, and it has nothing to do with the stock market. My monastic brothers ran from money. My father ran after it. They were both running from the same fear. It turns out that worshiping money and rejecting it are two sides of the same dysfunctional coin.

In my practice I see two kinds of behavior: anxious and avoidant. The money-anxious white-knuckle their finances, checking their balance like a pulse, bracing for catastrophe even when they have plenty. The money-avoidant let the bills stack up unopened, because looking at them stirs up shame or dread or plain confusion. Most of us are some of both, anxious in one corner of life and avoidant in another. None of that shows up on a spreadsheet, and yet it quietly drives nearly every financial decision we make.

That is what this column is about. Not hot stocks. Not my prediction for where the market is headed next month, which would be worth roughly what you paid for it. I want to help you build a healthier relationship with money, which is the only thing I have ever seen genuinely change a person's financial life for good. We will cover the practical mechanics: earning, saving, investing, retirement, taxes, and estate planning. But we will also talk about the feelings underneath, because the feelings are usually driving the bus whether we admit it or not.

Let me be upfront about my bias. Money is morally neutral. Not good, not evil. It is a tool, and a tool only ever reveals the hand that holds it. Give a hammer to a builder and you get a house. Give it to someone in a rage and you get a hole in the wall. Money is no different. It does not change you. It magnifies you.

So here is something to carry with you until next month. The next time you face a money decision, do not begin by asking, "What is the smart move?" Begin by asking, "What am I feeling right now, and where did that come from?" Notice the tightness in your chest when the market dips, the flush of shame when the bills arrive, the restless itch that only a purchase seems to scratch.

That feeling is the real subject of this column. The math, I promise you, is the easy part. It is the human holding the calculator who needs the work.

The information contained in this column is for educational purposes only and should not be construed as personalized investment, tax, or legal advice.