Holing Out
Spirituality
Golf In The Real Kingdom
A Spiritual Metaphor For Life In The Modern World
Object:
The time of my departure has come.
-- 2 Timothy 4:6b
My dad holed the second ace of his half-century golf career on November 10, 1998.
He became a low single digit handicapper not too long after picking up the game as an Army drill sergeant at New Jersey's Fort Dix just after World War II.
Knowing perfectionist Ben Hogan had only one ace in his entire competitive career, a hole-in-one requires good providence -- luck in the secular mind. But as my dad always counseled me about every sport, "The harder you work, the luckier you get."
Of course, I recall the apocryphal account of Moses playing with our Lord. Moses steps up to the first tee, blasts his drive right down the middle about 380 yards, and the ball rolls to the apron of the green. Our Lord steps up to the first tee, hits a worm-burner that rolls about 125 yards, a squirrel comes out of a tree just off the fairway and starts running with the ball in its mouth, an eagle swoops down and grabs the squirrel, lightning strikes the eagle as it begins to fly away, the eagle drops the squirrel on the green, and then the ball pops out of the squirrel's mouth and into the hole. Moses turns to Jesus and asks, "Did you come here to play golf or God?"
Anyway, my dad was a great athlete (football, baseball, swimming, etc., etc., etc.!) and remains a top amateur for his age in northeastern Pennsylvania. So I was really happy but not surprised at all when I got the news from my mom about the older man.
I haven't had a hole-in-one yet. I'm not that jealous or anything. It doesn't bother me that much that four members of the church have had aces in the last year. But I am thinking of stealing -- in a Christian kind of way -- James Dodson's (Final Rounds, 1996) idea and starting a Hole-in-None Society. I'm about to order a pub sign from the latest golf catalogue of useless accessories: "I have never shot a hole-in-one and anxiously await the day I can give this sign to someone else."
Getting back to my dad: I used to hate losing to him, especially after I began to take the game seriously about halfway to octogenarian. We've had these grudge matches once or twice a year for a decade now. And I was obsessed with beating him.
I know that sounds rather odd for a non-competitive guy like me!
Unfortunately, I've turned the corner in the last few years. While I'm sure reading this will fire him up for future battles, I've got the edge now because I'm playing a little smarter and he's getting a little older.
That's why I say my victories are unfortunate. It means my dad is inching toward the final hole.
I'll never be ready for it.
My dad is the best man that I've ever met. He's always been faithful to God, wife, family, friends, country, and job. He doesn't understand the decline of faith and morality in church and society. He doesn't understand why our country increasingly sacrifices principles at the altar of a strong economy. He doesn't understand why people settle for less than their very best in all things at all times. He doesn't understand people who wait for other people to do what they should have done already. He doesn't understand egocentric people (i.e., my rights, my needs, my concerns, my feelings). He doesn't understand people who don't pray regularly, give generously, work hard, play harder, and love lavishly.
Eric Felack, a golf buddy who helped me lose to my dad and sister on many occasions, once commented after a bitter defeat that prompted some venting on my part, "You know, Bob, I'd give anything to play one more round with my dad. Enjoy him while you've got him!"
Aside from recognizing my sin and accepting Jesus into my heart as Lord and Savior, it remains the most sobering moment in my life.
Now I really don't care if I win or lose.
Okay, I'd rather win.
But I'm just happy to be playing with my dad.
I'm glad Eric woke me up before being forced to grieve with Mike and the Mechanics, "It's too late when we die to admit we don't see eye to eye."
And I'm glad you're reading this. Maybe you'll get it before it's too late. Just in case you've missed the point, here it is: "Love 'em while you've got 'em!" Someday everybody will return from the cemetery but you or me or them.
Before that final hole is played, take a cue from the Beatles: "Life is very short and there's no time for cursing and fighting."
God knows it will help the next time that you tee it up.
Everybody wants to hole out on a positive note. Everybody wants to finish well. It means a birdie or par or bogey or less than a snowman for golfers.
Holing out well for Christians is being able to say with Paul (2 Timothy 4:6b-8):
The time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.
I've reached the age when the days left aren't as many as the days spent. Maybe you know how I feel. Maybe you've reached the same conclusions about holing out:
1. Time runs out!
We don't have forever to live, learn, love, and get our jobs done.
We don't have forever to realize potential. We need to remind ourselves that the clock is ticking and we don't have forever to fulfill God's intentions for our lives.
2. Be the best that you can be in the time allotted to you!
God help any of us who say before holing out, "If I had my life to live over again, I'd ..." Doesn't that sound pathetic? Because you're reading it, you can avoid saying it!
Mother Teresa has some good advice on how to avoid such a tragedy:
At the end of life we will not be judged by
how many diplomas we have received
how much money we have made
how many great things we have done.
We will be judged by
"I was hungry and you gave me to eat
I was naked and you clothed me
I was homeless and you took me in."
Hungry not only for bread
-- but hungry for love
Naked not only for clothing
-- but naked of human dignity and respect
Homeless not only for want of a room of bricks
-- but homeless because of rejection.
This is Christ in distressing disguise.
Becky Boyer, Center's Minister of Christian Education, likes to say, "One hundred years from now, it will not matter what kind of house I lived in, the kind of car I drove, or what my bank account was ... but that the world may be different because I made a difference in the life of a child."
Simply, don't be a coulda, shoulda, or woulda kind of Christian. Be the best that you can be in the time allotted to you! You'll be glad you did! The world will be better because of you! And you'll hole out with a smile on your soul!
3. You're going to live a lot longer with Jesus than anybody else!
You may have heard about the Unitarian minister in Michigan who set a record for preaching the longest sermon -- 22 hours! Apparently, several folks stayed through the whole thing. According to the story, somebody yelled out at the end, "So what's the point of the sermon?"
So what's the point of living?
The Westminster Divines answered that years ago in The Shorter Catechism of 1647 (Question 1), "Our chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever."
In other words, love Him and live it up in Him!
Paul E. Swedlund was one of my two closest friends in seminary along with Paul G. Watermulder. He fell off a mountain in Colorado on August 17, 1994, and went home to God.
Parenthetically -- I always told him to play golf.
As Paul Watermulder and I went over our notes before Paul's memorial service at the McDonald's closest to Kansas City's Colonial Presbyterian Church, we said simultaneously, "I wonder who will do the next service?" I said, "I hope I go before you so somebody is around to say some nice things about me."
I'm old enough to know I'm not that important to too many people. Some folks pretend I matter. That's nice. But I know it's a short list of people who will lose sleep when the roll is called up yonder for me. I've often said if I were to die after preaching, there would be ham and cole slaw in fellowship hall on Wednesday and a congregational meeting to elect the next pulpit committee the following Sunday.
That's why I like these lines from Nicholas Sparks' The Notebook (1996):
My life? It isn't easy to explain. It has not been the rip-roaring spectacular I fancied it would be, but neither have I burrowed around with the gophers. I suppose it has most resembled a blue-chip stock: fairly stable, more ups than downs, and gradually trending upward over time. A good buy, a lucky buy, and I've learned that not everyone can say this about his life. But do not be misled. I am nothing special; of this I am sure. I am a common man with common thoughts, and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.
So when I die, I want people to say: "Bob Kopp loved Jesus. He loved his life and wife and boys and anybody who let him. And he loved people enough to point them to Jesus."
If that's true when I hole out, then I'll have done my best in the time allotted to me. I'll hole out with a smile on my soul.
Frank Dodson's Final Rounds is the recollection of a father and son's love for golf and each other that touches the deepest recesses of heart, soul, and mind. Specifically, it's about the final rounds of a father and son after learning the father had two months to live. So just like the preceding pages, it's not really about golf. It's about things that really matter.
The book ends with the son playing the Old Course at St. Andrews in Scotland where he had played a final round with his dad:
As we approached the Road Hole bunker on the seventeenth hole, I pulled a small blue velvet satchel out of my golf bag and began undoing the silken cords. The others watched solemnly ... I told them my old man had said golf is a game that made you smile ...
As they smiled, I slowly scattered my father's cremated ashes around the Road Hole bunker and dumped some into the sand itself ...
I walked slowly up the Scores, with a mind that was remarkably at ease for the first time in a very long time. Then I decided to walk back and just look at the Old Course in the darkness.
Halfway down the hill, a boy passed headed the other way, a fellow late finisher. He was maybe eleven or twelve, hurrying home to dinner with his head bent and his bag on his back. He looked up as we passed, his clubs softly clicking. I thought of myself headed home from Green Valley. I thought of Jack maybe someday playing here with his old man.
"Did you shoot a good one?" I asked.
"Not so good, sir," he admitted. "Me driver's a wee bit off."
"That's okay," I said. "Enjoy it. The game ends too soon, you know."
"Right. Thanks."
He walked on and I walked, and then I stopped. That's when I realized I'd heard it -- my father's voice.
I smiled.
My Father's voice.
May all of us hear it and know Him before holing out.
-- 2 Timothy 4:6b
My dad holed the second ace of his half-century golf career on November 10, 1998.
He became a low single digit handicapper not too long after picking up the game as an Army drill sergeant at New Jersey's Fort Dix just after World War II.
Knowing perfectionist Ben Hogan had only one ace in his entire competitive career, a hole-in-one requires good providence -- luck in the secular mind. But as my dad always counseled me about every sport, "The harder you work, the luckier you get."
Of course, I recall the apocryphal account of Moses playing with our Lord. Moses steps up to the first tee, blasts his drive right down the middle about 380 yards, and the ball rolls to the apron of the green. Our Lord steps up to the first tee, hits a worm-burner that rolls about 125 yards, a squirrel comes out of a tree just off the fairway and starts running with the ball in its mouth, an eagle swoops down and grabs the squirrel, lightning strikes the eagle as it begins to fly away, the eagle drops the squirrel on the green, and then the ball pops out of the squirrel's mouth and into the hole. Moses turns to Jesus and asks, "Did you come here to play golf or God?"
Anyway, my dad was a great athlete (football, baseball, swimming, etc., etc., etc.!) and remains a top amateur for his age in northeastern Pennsylvania. So I was really happy but not surprised at all when I got the news from my mom about the older man.
I haven't had a hole-in-one yet. I'm not that jealous or anything. It doesn't bother me that much that four members of the church have had aces in the last year. But I am thinking of stealing -- in a Christian kind of way -- James Dodson's (Final Rounds, 1996) idea and starting a Hole-in-None Society. I'm about to order a pub sign from the latest golf catalogue of useless accessories: "I have never shot a hole-in-one and anxiously await the day I can give this sign to someone else."
Getting back to my dad: I used to hate losing to him, especially after I began to take the game seriously about halfway to octogenarian. We've had these grudge matches once or twice a year for a decade now. And I was obsessed with beating him.
I know that sounds rather odd for a non-competitive guy like me!
Unfortunately, I've turned the corner in the last few years. While I'm sure reading this will fire him up for future battles, I've got the edge now because I'm playing a little smarter and he's getting a little older.
That's why I say my victories are unfortunate. It means my dad is inching toward the final hole.
I'll never be ready for it.
My dad is the best man that I've ever met. He's always been faithful to God, wife, family, friends, country, and job. He doesn't understand the decline of faith and morality in church and society. He doesn't understand why our country increasingly sacrifices principles at the altar of a strong economy. He doesn't understand why people settle for less than their very best in all things at all times. He doesn't understand people who wait for other people to do what they should have done already. He doesn't understand egocentric people (i.e., my rights, my needs, my concerns, my feelings). He doesn't understand people who don't pray regularly, give generously, work hard, play harder, and love lavishly.
Eric Felack, a golf buddy who helped me lose to my dad and sister on many occasions, once commented after a bitter defeat that prompted some venting on my part, "You know, Bob, I'd give anything to play one more round with my dad. Enjoy him while you've got him!"
Aside from recognizing my sin and accepting Jesus into my heart as Lord and Savior, it remains the most sobering moment in my life.
Now I really don't care if I win or lose.
Okay, I'd rather win.
But I'm just happy to be playing with my dad.
I'm glad Eric woke me up before being forced to grieve with Mike and the Mechanics, "It's too late when we die to admit we don't see eye to eye."
And I'm glad you're reading this. Maybe you'll get it before it's too late. Just in case you've missed the point, here it is: "Love 'em while you've got 'em!" Someday everybody will return from the cemetery but you or me or them.
Before that final hole is played, take a cue from the Beatles: "Life is very short and there's no time for cursing and fighting."
God knows it will help the next time that you tee it up.
Everybody wants to hole out on a positive note. Everybody wants to finish well. It means a birdie or par or bogey or less than a snowman for golfers.
Holing out well for Christians is being able to say with Paul (2 Timothy 4:6b-8):
The time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.
I've reached the age when the days left aren't as many as the days spent. Maybe you know how I feel. Maybe you've reached the same conclusions about holing out:
1. Time runs out!
We don't have forever to live, learn, love, and get our jobs done.
We don't have forever to realize potential. We need to remind ourselves that the clock is ticking and we don't have forever to fulfill God's intentions for our lives.
2. Be the best that you can be in the time allotted to you!
God help any of us who say before holing out, "If I had my life to live over again, I'd ..." Doesn't that sound pathetic? Because you're reading it, you can avoid saying it!
Mother Teresa has some good advice on how to avoid such a tragedy:
At the end of life we will not be judged by
how many diplomas we have received
how much money we have made
how many great things we have done.
We will be judged by
"I was hungry and you gave me to eat
I was naked and you clothed me
I was homeless and you took me in."
Hungry not only for bread
-- but hungry for love
Naked not only for clothing
-- but naked of human dignity and respect
Homeless not only for want of a room of bricks
-- but homeless because of rejection.
This is Christ in distressing disguise.
Becky Boyer, Center's Minister of Christian Education, likes to say, "One hundred years from now, it will not matter what kind of house I lived in, the kind of car I drove, or what my bank account was ... but that the world may be different because I made a difference in the life of a child."
Simply, don't be a coulda, shoulda, or woulda kind of Christian. Be the best that you can be in the time allotted to you! You'll be glad you did! The world will be better because of you! And you'll hole out with a smile on your soul!
3. You're going to live a lot longer with Jesus than anybody else!
You may have heard about the Unitarian minister in Michigan who set a record for preaching the longest sermon -- 22 hours! Apparently, several folks stayed through the whole thing. According to the story, somebody yelled out at the end, "So what's the point of the sermon?"
So what's the point of living?
The Westminster Divines answered that years ago in The Shorter Catechism of 1647 (Question 1), "Our chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever."
In other words, love Him and live it up in Him!
Paul E. Swedlund was one of my two closest friends in seminary along with Paul G. Watermulder. He fell off a mountain in Colorado on August 17, 1994, and went home to God.
Parenthetically -- I always told him to play golf.
As Paul Watermulder and I went over our notes before Paul's memorial service at the McDonald's closest to Kansas City's Colonial Presbyterian Church, we said simultaneously, "I wonder who will do the next service?" I said, "I hope I go before you so somebody is around to say some nice things about me."
I'm old enough to know I'm not that important to too many people. Some folks pretend I matter. That's nice. But I know it's a short list of people who will lose sleep when the roll is called up yonder for me. I've often said if I were to die after preaching, there would be ham and cole slaw in fellowship hall on Wednesday and a congregational meeting to elect the next pulpit committee the following Sunday.
That's why I like these lines from Nicholas Sparks' The Notebook (1996):
My life? It isn't easy to explain. It has not been the rip-roaring spectacular I fancied it would be, but neither have I burrowed around with the gophers. I suppose it has most resembled a blue-chip stock: fairly stable, more ups than downs, and gradually trending upward over time. A good buy, a lucky buy, and I've learned that not everyone can say this about his life. But do not be misled. I am nothing special; of this I am sure. I am a common man with common thoughts, and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.
So when I die, I want people to say: "Bob Kopp loved Jesus. He loved his life and wife and boys and anybody who let him. And he loved people enough to point them to Jesus."
If that's true when I hole out, then I'll have done my best in the time allotted to me. I'll hole out with a smile on my soul.
Frank Dodson's Final Rounds is the recollection of a father and son's love for golf and each other that touches the deepest recesses of heart, soul, and mind. Specifically, it's about the final rounds of a father and son after learning the father had two months to live. So just like the preceding pages, it's not really about golf. It's about things that really matter.
The book ends with the son playing the Old Course at St. Andrews in Scotland where he had played a final round with his dad:
As we approached the Road Hole bunker on the seventeenth hole, I pulled a small blue velvet satchel out of my golf bag and began undoing the silken cords. The others watched solemnly ... I told them my old man had said golf is a game that made you smile ...
As they smiled, I slowly scattered my father's cremated ashes around the Road Hole bunker and dumped some into the sand itself ...
I walked slowly up the Scores, with a mind that was remarkably at ease for the first time in a very long time. Then I decided to walk back and just look at the Old Course in the darkness.
Halfway down the hill, a boy passed headed the other way, a fellow late finisher. He was maybe eleven or twelve, hurrying home to dinner with his head bent and his bag on his back. He looked up as we passed, his clubs softly clicking. I thought of myself headed home from Green Valley. I thought of Jack maybe someday playing here with his old man.
"Did you shoot a good one?" I asked.
"Not so good, sir," he admitted. "Me driver's a wee bit off."
"That's okay," I said. "Enjoy it. The game ends too soon, you know."
"Right. Thanks."
He walked on and I walked, and then I stopped. That's when I realized I'd heard it -- my father's voice.
I smiled.
My Father's voice.
May all of us hear it and know Him before holing out.
