By Monsignor John F. McDonough, Rector, Cathedral Parish

I have been asked to write a few words to the priests of the Diocese of Tulsa, Oklahoma, telling them something about Bishop-elect Eusebius Beltran. I am happy to comply and begin with a conversation that took place in a rectory in Atlanta, Georgia, early on Tuesday morning when the news of Monsignor Beltran's appointment to Tulsa was received.

Upon hearing the news of the appointment, the housekeeper asked the pastor, "Does that mean that Monsignor Beltran is now more important than Monsignor Don Kiernan?" (PR Man personified) The learned man paused for a few moments and then replied, "That is a good question."

After all, how many Melkite Archimandrites are there in the Roman Rite? And then all those positions and honors and degrees that he has, and all those policemen and officers he knows all over the country. Yes, there is no doubt about it, Monsignor Kiernan is an important man, but then he never was a member of the Thursday Group and Monsignor Beltran was, and that might make the difference.

My dear Confreres in Tulsa, it would take too much of your time to tell you completely about the Thursday Group, but briefly it is a group of learned and distinguished priests of the Archdiocese of Atlanta whose main addiction is the game of golf. They meet religiously on Thursday, summer, winter, good weather or bad, on a different golf course, in a different rectory each week.

Monsignor Beltran's golf game can charitably be described as determined. But frankly, Georgia is not sending to Tulsa another Bishop Andy McDonald, and Atlanta is not sending another Bobby Jones. So, on the green sward, lay your bets with impunity. But if you are casting a line of the deep or in an inland pond, be careful. Izaak Walton could take lessons from him.

However, when it comes to traveling, Bishop-elect Beltran is another Martin of Tours. He is the Tour Director not only of the Archdiocese but also of the South -- the East -- the West. He and "his girls" have not invaded the North. It probably is a good thing that Monsignor Beltran is leaving town. Our sources tell us that the "High Spirits" and "Carrying-ons" among girls on these trips might suggest a mature chaperone in the future.

Although Monsignor Beltran may not be another Martin of Tours, on a recent trip to New Orleans he received a book, Frenchmen, Desire, Good Children, which had an unusual inscription written by the author. It reads: "To Monsignor Beltran, a sort of Moses who maintained a better schedule -- somewhat. So, fellows, get your groups together; make your reservations. You, too, might be tour directors, fly the ocean in a silver plane, see the jungle when it's wet with rain, etc."

Bishop-elect Beltran's present parish, situated in the oldest part of Atlanta, has many unusual things going for it. A lunchroom project with hot meals served every day by the Go-go girls of the Senior Citizens group. Two collections every Sunday, you can count on it. And, believe it or not, chickens in the backyard with fresh eggs every day. Eusebius with his Spanish blood may not be an Isadore or a Monsignor Regan (he's our veterinary expert), but he does commune with nature, and he should be right at home in the wide-open spaces of Oklahoma.

Last Thursday at the regular meeting of the Thursday Group, after congratulations and the usual pleasantries had been expressed by all, a toast (non-alcoholic for those of us observing the Holy Season of Lent as it should be) was proposed by Monsignor Mike Manning to Bishop-elect Beltran.

In the course of his long and witty remarks, the good Monsignor said, "Many years ago when 'Zeb' was my assistant, it was said by a visiting priest, 'he would go far.' The Holy Father didn't have to send him to Oklahoma to have this prophecy come true." We would have settled for Savannah or Charleston -- no offense, Bishop Lessard, Bishop Unterkoefler.

But the words were true -- Bishop-elect Beltran was Episcopabile all the way, a man for all peoples -- a man for all seasons. If the editor of this paper were writing this piece, he would end it with the words of the old song: "It had to be you, 'Zebby,' wonderful you. It had to be you."