Golf Clubs, Mistakes, and Sins

I do not claim to know anything about golf, given the fact that I only play putt-putt and that not very well. I gave real golf a try a few times back in high school and college, but I quickly discovered that I had to make a choice between it and religion. No, I don't mean I grew to love golf so much that it was competing with my faith. To the contrary. I was terrible at the game, and it brought out the worst in me. Close to 50 years later, I'm still embarrassed by my behavior.

In fairness, I did have a lot to be frustrated about. I was forever snatching my head up to watch the ball take flight, only to find that it was bouncing erratically down the fairway in what my buddies referred to as a "worm burner." On the rare occasions I did hit a shot into the air, you could safely bet it was headed for the trees on either side of the fairway. Take your pick. You had an equal chance of being right.

Tallying my score was an exercise in complex Math. Par for 18 holes is usually 72. I was happy to score 72 on the first nine holes, the "front nine," as golf afficianados refer to it. A calculator would have been more useful than a putter for me.

My moment of truth came in Athens early in my time at the University of Georgia. A typically horrendous day led me to the 13th or 14th hole, meaning I'd had plenty of opportunities to get my blood pressure up. Teeing up the ball, I scanned the length of the fairway to the flag flapping on the green, just like the pros did, before getting lined up for my drive. I gave it a mighty swing and off went the ball, hopping down the fairway and skittering off toward the high grass at the treeline. Fortunately, I'd hit it so bad the evil white orb barely made it into the woods.

The words that came out of my mouth shall not be repeated here, given that I am now a pastor and this is a blog I hope my grandchildren will one day read. The gush of profanity provided little relief, nor did smacking my club several times on the ground. I rared back and, with all my strength, threw the stupid thing. Unlike my golf ball, it did take flight, spinning and whirring like a propeller, soaring to great heights and zooming toward the distant green.

When it came to rest on the emerald green, my buddy wryly noted, "Maybe you should just throw your club. It went further and straighter than your ball did." Two year olds practice more self-control than did I in that moment. I will leave it to your imagination, but I decided then and there that golf was neither fun nor a tool for my spiritual growth. I was done with it, though I do check out the pros and their tournaments from time to time.

That's the backstory for my thoughts on the recent dust-up at The Open Championship (which was the British Open when I was a kid, but they changed the name for some reason). An American golfer named Bryson DeChambeau was in the thick of the competition for the lead, right up until they assessed him a two-stroke penalty. It seems that Mr. DeChambeau ran afoul of golf's Rule 8.1 which prohibits a player from improving his "lie." Tournament officials ruled that while looking for his ball in high grass, he stomped down said grass behind the ball, thus making it easier for him to hit it. That's a violation of the rules, they said, and so they tacked two extra strokes to his total for the day, after he completed his round, that is.

Mr. DeChambeau was not a happy camper. He protested, even taking the officials back out to the course to argue his point. He supposedly threatened to withdraw from the tournament and several British media sources claim that he further threatened to ask President Trump to intervene. A lot of golf types were not pleased with his response. Ultimately, the penalty stood and Mr. DeChambeau continued to play, albeit unhappily.

I clearly am not in any position to lecture anyone on their behavior on a golf course. But I am available if Mr. DeChambeau, or any other golfer for that matter, wants any lessons on throwing clubs. That I can do with the best of them.

It is important to note that the officials did not accuse Mr. DeChambeau of "cheating," which would indicate an intention to bend or break the rules. His advantage was gained, they contended, as an inadvertent consequence of his walking in search of his lost ball. He made a mistake.

Intention is really important, isn't it? In baseball, it's one thing when a pitcher has a ball "get away from him" and it strikes the batter. It's an altogether different matter when he tries to bean the guy in the head. That will clear the benches. In football, you sometimes see a tackler whose hand gets on the opponent's facemask by mistake. He gets a penalty for that, but if he grabs the mask and twists the other guy's head, he'll get a bigger penalty and likely start a fight. Intention.

Intention is an idicator of character and morals. The person who callously cuts you off in traffic is a different breed than one who misjudges and pulls out in front of you. Both may cause a wreck, even injuries, but the first is selfish and uncaring, the second simply careless or distracted.

Intention, then, spells the difference between a mistake and a sin. Cheating on a spouse is committing a sin. One may get caught by making a mistake, say by letting the spouse see a number on the phone or by coming home smelling like cologne or perfume. Throwing the golf club, punching someone who makes us mad, harrassing or haranguing a clerk or restaurant server, these are not mere mistakes. They come from inside and they point to something off-kilter within us.

So, we all make mistakes and, sadly, we all commit sins. It's part and parcel of being human. Consequences and penalties often come with both. The key is to own them, make amends when and where possible, seek forgiveness, and then try to avoid repeating the same mistake or sin again. And most of all, to lean into God's grace expressed by and through Jesus Christ. That can cover a multitude of shortcomings, even being a foul-mouthed, petulant, golf club throwing toddler masquerading as a college student.