Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Robert B. CATELL is the CEO of KeySpan, one of the nation's largest energy providers. He is one of the most highly respected business leaders in New York. KENNY MOORE is a former monk who left the religious life for a successful career in human resources. He is currently Corporate Ombudsman at KeySpan. GLENN RIFKIN is a veteran business journalist who has written extensively for the New York Times and coauthored many groundbreaking business books, including the Wiley title Radical Marketing, The CEO Chronicles, and The Ultimate Entrepreneur.

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In an era in which headlines decry the dishonesty of some corporate leaders, we tend to overlook more inspiring business stories. This is one of those stories.

While some energy companies were playing fast and loose with the new rules of deregulation–cooking the books to inflate the price of their stock–KeySpan maintained the sort of good corporate citizenship that many people thought impossible. And while other energy businesses imploded in a wave of misguided management and dishonest accounting, KeySpan’s leadership was characterized by its steadfast belief in doing the right thing and embracing the very best that its employees and the communities it served had to offer.

The CEO and the Monk describes the unlikely partnership of a savvy CEO and a former monk who led their company to the top even while embracing a higher set of business standards. It examines KeySpan’s success from the perspective of Robert Catell and Kenny Moore, who have formed an unusual but potent relationship that has enabled the company’s rise from a small local utility monopoly to one of the nation’s largest and fastest-growing energy providers. It has done so by adopting the values of the community it serves and espousing a management philosophy that brought caring and a sense of soul into the workplace. The results not only improved the bottom line, but forged a corporate culture with meaning.

Unlike other business books that claim to offer lessons in ethical leadership, The CEO and the Monk goes beyond the theoretical into the real world, where commerce and spirituality rarely intersect. This is a true account of a real business, with real business leaders and tough issues to overcome. Faced with deregulation, traumatic mergers, a slowing economy, the terror of 9/11, and a shifting business landscape, Catell and Moore infused KeySpan with a sense of values–without ever losing sight of the bottom line. Theirs is a story that will resonate with corporate leaders who want to lead as well as inspire their organizations.

Aus dem Klappentext

In an era in which headlines decry the dishonesty of some corporate leaders, we tend to overlook more inspiring business stories. This is one of those stories.

While some energy companies were playing fast and loose with the new rules of deregulation?cooking the books to inflate the price of their stock?KeySpan maintained the sort of good corporate citizenship that many people thought impossible. And while other energy businesses imploded in a wave of misguided management and dishonest accounting, KeySpan?s leadership was characterized by its steadfast belief in doing the right thing and embracing the very best that its employees and the communities it served had to offer.

The CEO and the Monk describes the unlikely partnership of a savvy CEO and a former monk who led their company to the top even while embracing a higher set of business standards. It examines KeySpan?s success from the perspective of Robert Catell and Kenny Moore, who have formed an unusual but potent relationship that has enabled the company?s rise from a small local utility monopoly to one of the nation?s largest and fastest-growing energy providers. It has done so by adopting the values of the community it serves and espousing a management philosophy that brought caring and a sense of soul into the workplace. The results not only improved the bottom line, but forged a corporate culture with meaning.

Unlike other business books that claim to offer lessons in ethical leadership, The CEO and the Monk goes beyond the theoretical into the real world, where commerce and spirituality rarely intersect. This is a true account of a real business, with real business leaders and tough issues to overcome. Faced with deregulation, traumatic mergers, a slowing economy, the terror of 9/11, and a shifting business landscape, Catell and Moore infused KeySpan with a sense of values?without ever losing sight of the bottom line. Theirs is a story that will resonate with corporate leaders who want to lead as well as inspire their organizations.

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The CEO and the Monk

Jossey-Bass

Chapter One

The secret of success in life is for a man to be ready for his opportunity when it comes. -Benjamin Disraeli

One autumn evening in 1994, on the eve of his company's one hundredth birthday, Bob Catell got up from his desk on the twenty-third floor of the company's gleaming new headquarters in downtown Brooklyn and headed to the elevators. As he punched the button for the second floor, Catell felt a twist of anticipation and trepidation. His destination was the corporate auditorium, where he would help preside over the company's funeral.

Brooklyn Union Gas Company had died, at least symbolically. In his three years as president and CEO, Catell had come to understand that a new era was beginning in the energy industry, and in order to compete, Brooklyn Union had to reinvent itself. It had to wade into the rising tide of deregulation, into new, competitive marketplaces, and find a strategic path to growth and profitability. The old comfort zone that characterized this cozy, monopolistic entity was being torn apart, brick by brick, and a century's worth of business identity, capability, and culture was being confronted with a dramatic challenge: Change quickly or become irrelevant. In his three years at the helm, Catell had enjoyed the last vestiges of a long period of sustained growth at Brooklyn Union. Starting in the late 1950s, the natural gas business had blossomed into a sweet spot in the energy market, a clean, plentiful alternative to oil, and Brooklyn Union had taken full advantage in selling to its densely populated marketplace. By the early 1990s, it had saturated its existing territories in Brooklyn, Staten Island, and Queens. With more than one million customers, Brooklyn Union Gas owned 80 percent of the residential market and 50 percent of the commercial market. Sure, it owned the pipes in the ground, and as long as the winter winds and frigid temperatures chilled New York, customers would need to heat their homes and offices. But this annuity had no room for growth and expansion. Catell understood an age-old business tenet: Stagnation generally leads to extinction.

And there was more. The New York Public Service Commission, the watchdog government agency that controlled rates and regulated the state's energy industry, had followed the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission's call for deregulation. In the mid-1980s, interstate gas pipelines, heretofore run as tightly protected monopolies, now had to open up their systems to other transporters. Local distribution companies like Brooklyn Union had always been a captive market, forced to buy from the pipeline company that controlled its territory. Now, they would have a choice. Like deregulation efforts in other industries such as airlines and telecommunications, the notion was that an open market would foster competition, reduce prices, increase service quality, and be good for the consumer.

The distribution companies themselves became the next targets. They, too, would have to open up their pipes so that other sellers could offer gas to local customers. Much like the telephone companies in the late 1990s, the energy distributors were being thrown, like it or not, into a new and chaotic business environment. The rules were being changed almost overnight, and in pure Darwinian fashion, those who adapted best would survive.

Catell, in his short tenure as chief executive, had done a reasonable job as steward of the Brooklyn Union legacy. In his 36 years at the company, he had risen up the ranks, admirably impressing his bosses at every stop with his business instincts and his people skills. He was a quick study, and he had that intangible but alluring characteristic that the company's executives couldn't ignore: He simply loved the gas business. He read every periodical, joined every relevant association, attended seminars, and established relationships in every corner of the global gas network, from South America to Calgary, relationships that would give him not only knowledge but access.

In 1991, he was the natural choice to succeed Elwin Larson as CEO, and in early 1994 he'd been handed the chairmanship of Brooklyn Union as well. It should have been-and was in many ways-the perfect endgame of a textbook business career.

But Catell was discontented. He had never been much interested in being a steward and then sliding nicely into retirement with a fat pension and a stately condo in Florida. About 15 minutes after becoming CEO, he had been asked to describe his vision for Brooklyn Union. "I'd like us to become the premier energy company in the Northeast," he had replied.

With tough competitors like Con Edison and Enron, that had been a bold prognostication. But Catell believed that Brooklyn Union had the kind of solid foundation and strong management force to make that vision real. Now, three years later, he was not so sure. He felt a malaise settling in on the company as the realities of deregulation began to seep into the halls and out in the field. Brooklyn Union was in the early stages of a metamorphosis, and people were dragging their feet, procrastinating, even ignoring the new realities. They had grown to love the Brooklyn Union culture, as had their mothers, fathers, and uncles before them. Change might be flying through the air at them, but they would prefer to duck out of the way rather than reach out to grab it.

Catell understood that he was entering the toughest, most daunting era in Brooklyn Union's long history, and as its ninth CEO he didn't want to be the one to drop the ball. Decisions made on his watch would determine not only the company's future success or failure, but whether it would continue to exist as an independent entity at all.

So as he stepped out of the elevator, Catell felt a clear twinge of that business clich: It is indeed lonely at the top. Kenny Moore, the former monk who had become something of corporate confessor, facilitator, and psychologist rolled into one, awaited Catell outside the conference room. The funeral had been Moore's idea. His reasoning was simple and pious: In order to begin something new, something else must come to an end. One could not embrace the future until the past had been properly and ceremoniously left behind. People held funerals when loved ones died. Why not a similar service when a beloved company passes on?

Though it might have struck most executives as outlandish, Catell was intrigued. He was beginning to believe that outlandish was what he needed to shake things up around here. Catell had called on Kenny Moore more often in recent months. In his work setting up corporate performance reviews and a high-level management by objective program, Moore had brought a unique perspective and insight to Brooklyn Union. There he had been, sitting with senior-level executives, helping them set annual goals on which their performance would be measured and their compensation levels set. Yet he had no business background at all.

Feeling terrified and inadequate, Moore nonetheless had plowed ahead and begun to realize that it wasn't business knowledge that mattered. A good deal of his value lay in the very experiences he had left behind in the ministry. When it became clear to those with whom he was consulting that Moore had no personal agenda, no political aspirations, no particular interest in self-aggrandizement, something amazing happened: They opened up to him as they would a priest in a confessional.

He heard their complaints, their anxieties, their biases, their laments. His years in the service of the Divine and his visceral understanding of the human condition gave him a natural filter for their pain. After working for 15 years with the poor and the hopeless, these issues did not daunt him. If anything, he was energized and recognized that he had something invaluable to bring to his job. Corporate America, it turned out, was a haven for lost souls, and his resume suddenly seemed more relevant than ever.

Moore sensed Catell's anxiety and smiled, offering words of encouragement. He handed Catell a few pages of remarks that the chairman would give to open the proceedings. The gathering had been set up under the auspices of Catell's monthly leadership meetings, regular 90-minute forums in which Catell met with managers and staffers to update them on the company's business issues. The 400 employees waiting inside were chatting and schmoozing, but they all had some sense that this leadership meeting would be unlike previous ones.

As Catell and Moore stepped inside, the room quieted. Catell was still getting used to the effect he had on the corporate population, but he was poised to move ahead. He already knew that there would be plenty of skeptics in the audience that day. He had been mildly skeptical himself when Moore had presented him with the idea, but he had also begun to believe that the path to the future was going to steer well outside the white lines, the comfort zone, of the past three decades. If a funeral could help separate the past and point the way toward the future for his employees, he would gladly deliver the eulogy.

The CEO

How hard was it to effect change in a 100-year-old utility? Well, early in my tenure as CEO, it took three board meetings for me to convince our directors to change the name of the company from Brooklyn Union Gas to Brooklyn Union. Obviously, there was a deep comfort in holding on to the past.

In the early 1990s, I knew we were going to have to become an energy company, not just a gas company. We had to start thinking about new, competitive markets and expanding our products and service offerings. And in order to help the marketplace understand our new mission, I felt we had to change our image, even if it was a subtle change. So I went to the board of directors at our monthly meeting and said, "We're evolving into an energy company, so I think it would be appropriate to change the name from Brooklyn Union Gas to Brooklyn Union." I didn't even suggest Brooklyn Union Energy, just Brooklyn Union. There was dead silence in the room. I said, "Okay. Why don't you just think about it for a little bit, and we'll revisit it later."

For our next meeting, I decided to pull out all the stops and do it right. I had my people make up a slick audiovisual presentation of what the new logo might look like, the signage, the trucks, everything. We would get rid of the gas flame in the logo and use a snazzy new modern logo, blue on a white background. I went back to the board and made my presentation. At the end of my talk, one of the directors said, "You mean, you want to take 'gas' out of the name?"

I thought to myself, "You're going to have the shortest CEO tenure on record. You can't even get a simple name change approved." To the board, I said, "Okay, well, why don't you think about it a little bit longer." At the third meeting, I said, "We've talked about the name change at two meetings. I really believe it's the right thing to do, so unless you have any objections, we're going to get it done." No one objected. The name was changed. But it took three board meetings to do it.

That is a graphic example of how traumatic change can be for a company, especially one with a century's worth of tradition. And that was what I was thinking about as Kenny and I entered the company conference room for the "funeral."

I greeted my senior officers who were milling near the door. I was aware of a palpable skepticism about the event. We'd had discussions about it beforehand, and I had heard the objections. "Isn't this kind of foolish? Won't people think this is a hokey thing to do? And worse, could we risk losing a lot of what was good about the old Brooklyn Union?"

I've always been a voracious reader, and I had read enough to know that the most successful leaders tend to heed their gut instincts. I generally seek input from a variety of people-trusted advisers, colleagues, consultants, and friends. I'm a strong believer in building consensus because it not only gets people on board but it provides me with a set of ideas, thoughts, and opinions that I can process to make my call. In the case of the funeral, I decided to follow Kenny's lead. There was something about his approach that intrigued me. He had a way of thinking about things that I had not encountered either inside or outside the company. He could somehow verbalize what I sensed intuitively about the things that people care about, what makes them feel good about themselves, and how they respond to each other and to their managers and executives.

Kenny's insights weren't drawn simply from years in a monastery. In his role in human resources (HR), he was out among the people, from the very senior-level executives to hourly union workers. He wasn't a missionary or prophet. He was simply making up for lost time. He worried constantly about his lack of business training and understanding of the gas business. If he was going to learn quickly, he had to talk to everyone, suck up knowledge like a sponge, and apply his education to his role within human resources. Along the way, he would share with me what he saw and heard-good, bad, and indifferent.

Much of what he does is accomplished by the way he does it. He is thoughtful, provocative, gentle, and good-natured. He presents things in a useful way that promotes positive action rather than anger and retribution. He doesn't say, "Catell, you've got a problem out there. The troops in Greenpoint are going to revolt." Instead, he offers honesty and insight. And that doesn't mean he sugarcoats things or holds back bad news. He has come and told me many things I wasn't happy to hear about, and he has had the courage to tell it like it is. But he doesn't cross the line from a standpoint of trust and confidence.

And in doing all this, he helped me understand the role that I play as a CEO in a corporation like this: how people look at me, watch me, see me, and how I should interpret and respond to their perceptions rather than just my own. He has pushed hard all along the way for me to get out with people and not sit up in an ivory tower, isolated and out of touch.

When we met to talk about this funeral, we were in the early stages of this relationship. We had never talked explicitly about Kenny's background, though I knew he had been in the priesthood before coming to work here. Being a practicing Catholic, I felt that connection resonating within me. It wasn't something I verbalized to Kenny or anyone else. But it was as if Kenny had arrived at the company with a mission, a mission he couldn't visualize when he first started working but one that formulated itself over the years.

In my 36 years at the company, I had never considered a formal integration of the business and spiritual life. There was always a clear separation of church and state, and my religious life, while strong, was outside the office walls. Or so I thought.

I always believed in people, in treating people with respect and dignity, in doing the right thing. For me, this was as natural as breathing. It was a philosophy that I had lived with as a child and that had been stamped deep within my being. It never occurred to me that there was anything spiritual about my working life. You just did what felt right, and more times than not there would be a positive result.

Yet when I became CEO, I started to think about what made our company different from others in our industry as well as in other industries. Sometimes, when you are too close to something you can't really see it clearly. One could argue that more than 30 years with one company certainly made me very close to my surroundings. And it did. But through diligence or cleverness or just pure luck, I had always been able to see and feel Brooklyn Union from a step back, from enough distance to witness the differences, to understand that our people felt just a bit more connected to their jobs and the company than other workers felt about their companies.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The CEO and the Monkby Robert B. Catell Kenny Moore Glenn Rifkin Copyright © 2004 by Robert B. Catell. Excerpted by permission.
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