First United Methodist Church
Birmingham, Michigan
Scriptures: Proverbs 3:11-12, Galatians 6:1-5, Ephesians 4:15-16
Let me begin by confessing that I once lost my sole on the golf course. Fortunately, my shoe manufacturer gave me a full refund.
Having just returned from Scotland, many of you have asked about my golf game. In fact, many of you asked about my golf game before I went to Scotland. As your final words to me, at least 50 of you said: “Hit ‘em straight.”
Actually, I did play twice….which, given the raindrops, was no small achievement. Both courses were links courses (meaning that they are laid out along the sea). Both courses were historic courses, meaning that I was taking divots from hallowed ground. No, I didn’t get on the old course at St. Andrews. But I did get on the old courses at Prestwick and Crail. And I would have played the queen’s course at Balmoral, had not the rain turned it into a quagmire.
Golf is a hobby for many, a sport for some, and an addiction for a few. Into the latter category falls a man I heard about recently. It seems he teed his ball on the sixth hole of his favorite course, hooked his drive terribly, and ended up in an unplayable position. Between where his ball landed and the green began was a barn….a rather large barn. But his wife, playing with him, assessed his predicament and then suggested:
Look, why don’t you go for it? You’ll never hit it over the barn, but you might be able to hit through it. I’ll open the barn’s front door. Then I’ll walk through and open the barn’s back door. When I wave, you take out a two iron, smack it hard, keep it low, and you may luck out.
So she proceeded to open the barn’s front door, walked through and opened the barn’s rear door, and then gave a wave, indicating that the time had come to hit. Seeing the signal, he took out a two iron, rocketed a shot through the barn doors, and hit his wife upside the head, killing her instantly.
Three years later, while playing with a friend, he hooked the same drive on the same hole, landing in virtually the same spot. Upon surveying the predicament, his friend said:
Look, why don’t you go for it? This barn has two doors. I’ll open the front. Then I’ll walk through and open the back. When you see me wave, take out a two iron and whack it with everything you’ve got.
“No way,” said the golfer. “The last time I tried that on this hole, I took a six.”
Someday, someone will explain to me why so many stories about golf are also stories about death. I can think of at least three classic jokes that combine the two. Rather than tell them, I’ll simply call them to mind by reciting the punch lines:
The good news is that there are great golf courses in heaven. The bad news is that you have a tee time on Monday morning.
Why wouldn’t I interrupt my round to pay my last respects? After all, she gave me the best 30 years of my life.
(And who can forget the immortal:) “I’ll tell you why it took me eight hours to play 18 holes. I had to hit the ball and drag Fred….hit the ball and drag Fred.”
Humor has a way of illuminating a lot of things, not the least of which is the way we tend to get our priorities all screwed up, playing away at “life’s little games” while life’s most significant relationships take it in the head. Such is not my primary point this morning. But if it happens to fit your particular situation, feel free to use it as you like.
Instead, I want you to note that this story could never have been told, had not the golfer strayed from the fairway. But being aware of the fact that there are a few non-golfers among us, I suppose a brief definition of a“fairway” might be in order. When you hit a golf ball, the fairway is where you want your ball to land. The grass is shorter there. The ground is smoother there. And the route to the hole is less encumbered there. Should your ball stray outside the fairway, I suppose it could be said that you have found the “foulway.” And while there is no such word as “foulway” (at least until now), it pretty well sums up the problem. In golfing’s lexicon, straying from the fairway (interesting choice of verb….“straying”) lands you in the “rough,” which (on more difficult courses) is often described as being “unforgiving.” And upon reaching the rough, three ponderables come into play….all of them bad. You may not be able to find your ball. You may find it, but not be able to hit it. Or you may be forced to take a penalty.
Sometimes even worse things happen. I once hit a shot through some lady’s kitchen window at 7:30 in the morning. She was nice enough to bring the ball out to me….in her nightgown. And seeing that she was already out in the yard returning my ball, she struck up a conversation so as to learn a little more about me….such as my address, my phone number, and the name of my insurance agent.
As I have suggested on other occasions, I believe that God created people who can hit the ball a long way, and people who can hit the ball a straight way. Alas, those are seldom the same people. Which turns “fairways” into “foreign countries” for those who have the strength to put plenty of postage on the ball, but can never seem to guide it to the right address.
That very problem once caught up with me at Wabeek Country Club, when (playing as somebody’s guest) I lofted a five iron majestically into the heavens, whereupon it cleared the green….cleared the fringe….cleared the rough….and landed in somebody’s back yard. That somebody was named “Lou Whitaker.” And having heard for years that the term “Sweet Lou” was coined to describe his agility around second base rather than his disposition around strangers, I tiptoed into his yard….picked up my ball….and tiptoed out. Even though I had a shot. I mean, I really did.
By now you have probably surmised that I am playing with the word “fairway” as something of a moral metaphor for lives that do not stray into the rough or land out of bounds. But in life, as in golf, such is easier said than done….and maybe unaccomplishable, apart from a little help from one’s friends.
This is best illustrated by one last golf story, this one concerning a great golfer (Arnold Palmer) playing in an even greater golf tournament (the Masters at Augusta National). How sweet it would be to find myself in Augusta some April, as was a ministerial colleague of mine a few years ago. And it is his account that I share with you now. It seems that he chose to follow Palmer, joining the gallery that was known, in those days, as “Arnie’s Army.” On the 13th hole, Palmer shanked one down along the edge of the creek bed. Let my friend tell it from here:
When I saw where Arnie’s ball landed, I said to myself: “No way will he be able to recover for par.” So turning to the person next to me, I decided to play strategist: “What Arnie needs to do,” I said, “is to play it safe, chip out to the fairway and settle for a bogey. Because if he tries a long iron out of that lie, either he won’t get it out, or he’ll hit it flat and wind up out-of-bounds on the other side.” This observation caused the guy standing next to me to say: “That just shows how much you know. This must be your first trip to the Masters.” Then he went on to add: “What Palmer is really going to do is hit the ball as hard as he can. And he won’t go out of bounds, because he’s going to hit the ball straight at the gallery.”
Which is exactly what Palmer did. He slashed the ball straight at the crowd, where somebody who loved him a whole lot more than I did got in front of the ball and let it hit him. There followed a bit of kicking and scuffling. And when the ball stopped, it was right back on the fairway. Whereupon the person standing next to me turned and said: “As long as there’s a crowd at Augusta National, Arnold Palmer will never hit if out of bounds at the Masters.”
What a wonderful story. It makes me wish I could play with a gallery like that. Heck, it makes me wish I could live with a gallery like that….a gallery filled with people who would love me enough so that they would do everything in their power to keep my life from going out of bounds. Lots of lives do….go out of bounds, that is. And few there are who seem to notice or care.
Harvard theologian Harvey Cox often talks about the demise of what was formerly known as “town morality.” Let’s say you were a kid growing up in a small town where people shopped at your dad’s store, got their hair done in your Aunt Flo’s salon, or sang in the Presbyterian church choir where your mom was the organist. Townspeople knew your people. And they knew you. They knew your face. They knew your voice. They especially knew your car. If you drove it a little too fast, somebody knew that. And if you parked it on a lookout over town (to the point of steaming up the windshield), somebody knew that, too. And if you pushed the limits of propriety a bit too far….and a bit too often….somebody would hear about it. Which means that sooner or later, you’d hear about it. So you kind of watched things, because you knew (in the back of your mind) that you were being watched.
Which is not all bad. And, to the degree that such social networks no longer operate like they used to, that’s not all good. Consider preachers’ kids. Everybody knows who they are….which can be stressful. But everybody also cares who they are….which can be helpful. Why must we always assume that living “under scrutiny” is a terrible thing?
Today, “town morality” is largely dead. People move around. People live more privately. People live in multiple circles which seldom intersect. People seek anonymity. Therefore, nobody watches them. But the flip side is that nobody watches out for them. Morality has become privatized. The business of staying “in bounds” is largely a personal business….which makes it harder.
The other day, in a cluster of male friends, the conversation turned to a particular group of establishments across the river in Windsor. These establishments are widely known for the fact that there are more women who dance on the tables than there are who wait on them. In the middle of the conversation, someone turned to me andsaid: “Have you ever been over to one of those joints?” And I said: “Just as soon as I’d walk in the door, I’d run into a bunch of my parishioners at a table in the corner.” Which was an interesting response on my part. For while there are a whole lot of other reasons….and better reasons….as to why I’m not a “regular” at Jason’s, it is interesting that I cited you (my parishioners) as being an important component in my decision-making process. For your opinions matter to me….as do your expectations. And while I don’t necessarily feel bound by them, my natural inclination is to pay close attention to them.
This is why people seek anonymity whenever they feel inclined to deviate from the norm. “I’ll go where nobody knows me.” After all, the prodigal didn’t take his share of the money and split for a “far country” just because the rate of monetary exchange would be more favorable, once he crossed the border. To the contrary, the words “far country” constitute a biblical euphemism for a place where ordinary constraints that govern human behavior no longer apply.
Isn’t this why most school districts have distanced themselves from those exotic trips….such as Caribbean cruises….taken by high school seniors? There’s a reason school administrators have soured on such ventures. As one superintendent once said to me (very much off the record): “Some of what we’ve learned is pretty awful.” Which is not meant to indict any specific kid, or any cluster of kids. But it is to acknowledge that one of the reasons 17-year-olds like to sail beyond the three-mile limit is that open water feels (for all the world) like a moral twilight zone….where everything that matters….and everyone who matters….can be temporarily put on hold.
I was on one of those four day cruises, four years ago. It was about the time that several seniors were celebrating “spring break.” Many of them did not even see dinner on the first night. Which was the direct result of too many rum punches between shoving off from shore at 1:00 and sitting down to supper at 7:00.
Comedian Billy Crystal pointed to the same “suspension of responsibility” in his marvelous film on male bonding known as City Slickers. In one especially poignant scene he put the question to several friends: “If the opportunity ever presented itself, and you could be 100 percent certain (absolutely guaranteed) that nobody would ever find out, would you consider cheating on your wife?” And I suspect that every single man, at one time or another, has at least pondered that question.
Part of what supports us in our moral decision-making is that others will find out….and we value what they think. What’s more, we count on their thinking to help us frame and fashion our decisions. We have always found it hard to be “good” in a vacuum. It is abundantly clear to me that whenever the church has been most true to its New Testament calling, it has been the kind of community that helps keep its members from slipping out of bounds. “Gently reprove one another,” Paul said to the Galatians. “Speak the truth to one another in love,” he urged the Ephesians. “Accept discipline as reflective of God’s love,” the people were told in the letter to the Hebrews.
Which was probably as hard to do then as it is now. For we are afraid to intrude upon another’s space. We are afraid to violate another’s freedom. We are afraid of appearing intolerant in an overly-indulgent age. All of which are valid fears. But if we constantly act as if the things people do don’t matter, people will begin to get the idea that they don’t matter. “The Lord reproves those he loves,” says Proverbs 3:11, followed by: “The Lord admonishes those in whom he delights.” I remember an athletically inclined friend of mine saying: “The worst day of my football career was the day I realized that the coach was no longer chewing my tail. Because that’s the day I realized I was pretty much superfluous to the team, and that there were no further plans to play me in any game that mattered.” Do you think that Weight Watchers has mastered the art of addressing people in a manner that "speaks the truth in love?” You betcha. Alcoholics Anonymous? You better believe it. And what do you think a teenager is doing when that teen quietly takes the car keys away from a friend? Or when an adult, without great fanfare, raises a truth that everyone else is about to trample?
I promised myself that I would not wallow in the reams of material recently released by the grand jury in Washington, concerning who touched who, where, in the intimate recesses of the White House. And, for the most part, I have kept that promise. But all of us are forced to swim in a river of information that has exceeded its banks and permeated the neighborhoods. Which means that there is no avoiding the particulars. And one of the particulars that concerns me is the number of people who knew about the President’s behavior, but said nothing to the President. One might have hoped for a critical question or two….a raised issue or two….a pointed conversation or two (initiated out of a concern for the man, the marriage, the office or the intern). But it seems that such never happened. Which is understandable, I suppose. But sad….so incredibly sad.
How do we help each other stay in-bounds? That question haunts me more and more as boundaries seem to matter less and less. As questions go, I’ll lay it on your hearts as I close with a story of one of the angriest ladies I ever met. She was a minister’s wife, well known to many of us. What was also known to many of us was the fact that her husband (who had been our colleague and friend for 20 years) was openly involved with another woman….herself, a church professional. Their affair had been going on for a number of years. People had seen them. People had talked to them. People had talked about them. And the body of talk had reached the highest levels of the church.
Finally, it all broke open. And the wife (having known nothing previously) found out. What she also found out was how long everybody else had been in on the secret. Which made her feel like a fool, in addition to feeling like a victim.
To virtually anybody and everybody, her anger boiled over in the form of three questions.
1. If you knew, why didn’t you talk to the Bishop?
(And the answer was, “Because we didn’t want the responsibility of his career on our hands.”)
2. If you knew, why didn’t you talk to me?
(And the answer was, “Because we didn’t want to hurt you.”)
Which inevitably led to question three:
3. If you knew, why didn’t you talk to him?
(And, sad to say, for that question, none of us had an answer.)
