“Not everyone who calls out to me, ‘Lord! Lord’ will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Only those who actually do the will of my Father in heaven will enter.” Matthew 7:21.

My seatmate for the seven-hour flight from Philadelphia to Edinburgh was in the mood for conversation. I was not. I needed quiet, maybe even sleep. A boring movie would hopefully put me into a deep sleep for the overnight flight. I was fortunate to grab an upgrade to business class with Delta points. It had been many years since I had such a comfortable ride across the ocean.

But no such luck on the solitude and sleep.

My seatmate in 7A was dressed like a ‘golfer’. All the right apparel and logos. He carried the latest version of GOLF magazine. The front cover promised a new swing with a picture of Scottie Scheffler. He noticed that I, too, was dressed like a golfer. My Royal Dornoch pullover gave me away, plus this was a plane headed to the home of golf in mid-summer. His question was predictable. We’ve heard it a million times.

“So, are you a golfer?”

I smiled and nodded with no words, hoping he might get the hint that I needed peace and quiet more than chit-chat across the ocean. But he was not to be stopped. We were still on the runway when he volunteered that he, too, was a golfer. “Golf is the love of my life”, he offered with a twinkle in his eye. “I understand”, I heard myself say. “I have been to Scotland too many times to count, so I must love it too, although I have wanted a divorce on a few occasions.”

My new golf friend, who seemed to be in his mid-forties, smiled and began to answer questions I was not asking. He lived in southern New Jersey. He grew up at Aronimink in Philadelphia. He mentioned all the clubs in Philly, noting that the area was a hotbed for golf enthusiasts. Pine Valley is nearby, he reminded me.

He told me about the day he made a decision to be a “golfer”. He was just twelve, falling in love with Tiger Woods so dramatically that his father nick-named him “Cub”. He told me he had not missed even one second of the four majors on TV since he was twelve years old. He described what he learned in the GOLF magazine, having devoured it the night before. It was something about the ‘take-away’ with short irons.

He had subscriptions to over ten golf magazines. He listened to dozens more podcasts and online web shows which discussed the latest in golf news. He told me he even watched LIV golf when possible. He listened to nothing but golf on his Sirius car radio. His day always started with two hours of watching golf content and reading golf books and magazines.

At age sixteen (16), he had officially joined the club as a junior member. He dove into the world of golf and never looked back.

He had two sets of clubs. Callaways and Taylor Mades. But he had a Titleist driver, which he claimed to love. His garage was filled with over one hundred putters, he said, but his favorite was old Bullseye. He collected antique clubs, hickory and more. His wife thought he was nuts, but loved him anyway and was very understanding about his religious obsession with the game.

He told me he was a member of Trump National in both New Jersey and Scotland, even though he had never been to the one near Aberdeen. This would be his first visit to the Trump Scotland club. He had joined a total of eight clubs so far, including Rosapenna in Ireland, where he made an annual pilgrimage. Pine Valley had not happened yet, but he was pulling strings.

Although he did not say it directly, he was apparently wealthy. He was, of course, a member of the USGA. A donation had even made him an honorary member of the R&A, but he was still hoping someday to be a full-fledged real member of the most honored society in the game. He was still not completely sure how to pull that off, but he was researching it.

As we approached dinner time on the flight, he was talking about the ‘golf school’ he had just attended in northern Michigan. Three days of ‘short game’ stuff with a new guru whose name I did not recognize.

For his 40th birthday, his wife gave him permission to pursue a goal of visiting the top fifty golf clubs in the world. He was halfway there. This trip to Scotland would knock off some of the obvious ones- the Old Course, Royal Dornoch, Turnberry, and Royal Troon.

Finally, dinner was being served on the plane, and this was my only hope that he might be quiet. But no, he talked as he ate.

Cub told me that he had a passion for the history of the great game. He visited the Hall of Fame annually. His collection of antique golf novels and instructional books was allegedly worth $100,000, or so he said.

His own children were now part of his legacy. They were being taught the game as he had been, many hours just hanging around the golf club, never missing a meeting or opportunity to learn more on the range from gurus of the swing. His eight-year-old daughter knew more about the golf swing than most professionals. His twelve-year-old son seemed to be addicted, ready to fall into his father’s large Footjoys. He was a proud papa. His favorite hour was sitting in a comfortable chair under an umbrella on the range watching his children hit balls.

He volunteered that he was the largest single donor in New Jersey to the First Tee each year, wanting to be a financial supporter of the game he loved so much. He also wrote five-figure checks each year to support teaching golf in 3rd world countries. He was well known in Calcutta, where he finally declared that his grandmother still lived. He appeared to have Indian roots, but I had left that subject alone, not wanting to head down another rabbit trail with my new friend. I did not want him to know that I had been at Royal Calcutta in January.

“So, Cub”, I finally asked when he took a deep breath after almost an hour of uninterrupted monologue, “what is your handicap?”

“Oh”, said the golfer calmly, “I have no handicap. I don’t actually play golf on the course. I stay on the range and in the clubhouse. I suppose I am more of a fan than a player.”

This annoying conversation was now just confusing. I turned my head to stare into his eyes. He said he was a golfer. But is he?

He watches golf on TV and platforms like TikTok and Instagram. He wears the right garb. He looks the part. He has wonderful equipment and clubs. All the latest. He is a member of several prestigious clubs, plus his local home club, where he never misses a meeting. He volunteers for every committee.

He has had hundreds of golf lessons, even taking an entire year at one point to move to Bradenton, Florida, for teaching from the greatest pros available. His children are flown to IMG in Bradenton for monthly lessons from the best teachers available. He is a major donor to the USGA and R&A and First Tee and more. His generosity was inspiring. He had endowed a chair at Temple University on how to grow better grass for golf courses, or so he said. He loves to study the history of the game. He has read every golf book available, it seems.

“So… you love golf but never play?”

“I suppose you could say that I am a spectator, not a player”, he said with an odd smile. “I am actually so busy with committee meetings at all of my clubs that time to actually play is difficult.”

I was almost speechless.“I must say that this is a most unusual conversation. Why do you not play golf on the course?” I offered.

His eyes looked up and pondered as if no one had ever asked him before. “That is indeed a good question. I suppose one word explains my hesitancy to actually play the game, which I love so much.”

He paused and actually grabbed my arm so I would listen. It felt like he was confessing sins to a priest.

“Fear. The first tee, with all eyes on me, exposes my weak and putrid game. And it gets no better from there, clunking irons and wedges and missing putts. Or so I imagine.

And frankly, I am so busy with learning and administration and organizing, busy with reporting on the results of all the clubs and organizations that there is precious little time for the four hours required for the golf course.

And then there is the physical nature of the game. Walking six miles minimum, even with a caddie, is not easy. You cannot see it now, but I walk with a limp from a childhood accident. Riding on a cart doesn’t seem right to me. I read somewhere in one of the old books that riding was not ‘real golf’, so I never did it.

Not to mention the phobias that affected me at a young age. The language of the course sounded quite dangerous. The rough, the bunkers, the traps, the hazards. Water that could drown a man. Sand that could bury anyone who missteps. Have you heard about Tom Weiskopf nearly drowning in quicksand at Loch Lomond in Scotland?

He paused to think some more. I heard myself sounding like a psychiatrist, saying, “Tell me more, Cub.”

He continued. “And I must also confess, I love clubhouses. They are like temples- majestic quite often- full of comforts and more that cannot be found at home. The best showers. The best chefs with the finest of food. The fellowship of fellow lovers of a game that provides all the drama one might need for a full life. Many days, I go to the clubhouse at my club and spend the entire day in fellowship with my friends. I spend most weekends at the clubhouse watching the TV golf.”

I agreed with him about the allure of a beautiful clubhouse. Nothing better than just hanging out at the club.

Finally, his dinner wine had slowed him down. His eyes closed for a much-needed airplane nap. I closed my eyes too and wondered to my confused brain.

So, is Cub a golfer or not? Is he a golfer just because he says he is? Can someone who has never been ‘on the course’ claim to be a golfer? Can one be a golfer who stays on the range or in the clubhouse, visiting famous places, reading old books, listening to the Golf Channel on Sirius radio, and watching TV golf? Is he a real golfer, or is he pretending?

Real Golfers— Crenshaw, Rogers, Strange, North, Inkster

Shouldn’t a golfer be hitting real shots on a real course? Keeping score most of the time and other times simply enjoying the shots themselves? Not satisfied to be on the practice ground, but wanting to match wits with your opponents and the golf course itself, even if the course always wins. Always wins. I mean, who has birdied every hole? Eagles only would be perfection, right? But still, we go on.

We play the game. We accept the bad lies and bad shots. We understand that the par designated on the scorecard is not really par for the course we play. We get comfortable with our version of ‘par’, whether that be 78 or 88 or 98 or worse. Real golfers turn in scorecards and have a handicap. Right?

Well, OK. It is time to tell the reader that this ridiculous story is pure fiction. And maybe, if you know me, you already get the point.

Jesus spoke in parables, even to his own disciples. Sometimes he explained them for those with ‘ears to hear’. So, in case you need help, here we go.

The question comes up from time to time. “So, are you a disciple?”

People like Cub are found everywhere in the American church. They are “Christians” as we have come to know that term. They signed up at some point and joined the church. Indeed, twelve seems to be a common age for a story of salvation and baptism.

They become consumers of Christian content, sometimes even exuberant fans of the programs and literature that they happen to like. It includes Sunday mornings but goes beyond that. They attend every opportunity. They often read a lot. They listen to certain podcasts daily. Christian radio is played in the car all day. They have favorite teachers on that radio. They watch Christian media, whether old-fashioned TV or social media stuff on YouTube, Instagram, and more. They are often devoted, both early in the morning and all throughout the day. They have been to seminars and schools galore. Some are even old-timers like me who love ‘camp meetings’, and ‘altar calls’ for people to come forward to be “saved”.

And of course, some even “turn pro”, going three years or more to earn degrees in religion, which qualify them to teach and preach and be paid. They are ‘full-time’. They give up their amateur status to turn professional. They have heard the “call”, leaving behind the less serious ones.

But……………… Jesus ends His famous “Sermon on the Mount”, which may be the closest thing we have to a creed from Jesus, with some interesting words:

“Thus, you will recognize them by their fruits. Not everyone who calls out to me, ‘Lord! Lord!’ will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Only those who actually do the will of my Father in heaven will enter. On judgment day, many will say to me, ‘Lord! Lord! We prophesied in your name and cast out demons in your name and performed many miracles in your name.’ But I will reply, ‘I never knew you. Get away from me, you who break God’s laws.’

Anyone who listens to my teaching and follows it is wise, like a person who builds a house on solid rock. Though the rain comes in torrents and the floodwaters rise and the winds beat against that house, it won’t collapse because it is built on bedrock. But anyone who hears my teaching and doesn’t obey it is foolish, like a person who builds a house on sand. When the rains and floods come, and the winds beat against that house, it will collapse with a mighty crash.” (Matthew 5:21-25).

So maybe the Sermon on the Mount would be a place to start in answering the question- “Are you a disciple?” In golf, we know a golfer by his scorecard. We do not know him by his swing. It is not what happens ‘on the range’. It is what happens on the course.

As my friend Wally Armstrong likes to say, it all happens on “the course less played”. A true follower does not stay on the range, or in the clubhouse..

Jesus made it simple— “Follow Me!” Where? Onto the course.

At the very end, Jesus made a simple statement in the Upper Room, “I am the true grapevine, and my Father is the Gardener. He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more.” (John 15:1-2).

This fruit has a double meaning. First, it means souls who come into eternal salvation through the words we speak and the lives we live. We claim to follow Christ. So, the test may be this. Is anyone following us? Have we borne fruit in the sense of souls coming into the Kingdom of Heaven?

But the second meaning of fruit is from the Apostle Paul. “The Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives--- love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22). What does our fruit look like? Can our neighbors at work and home and play see these fruits of the Spirit in our day-to-day life? And if such fruit is obvious, does God get the Glory? Or does everyone just magically think that I am a ‘good guy’?

Paul warned young Timothy to be careful about some people. "They will act religious, but they will reject the power that could make them godly.” (2 Timothy 3:5, NLT). In my way of thinking, religion happens in the clubhouses/temples. Abundant life happens on the course. This is about Monday more than Sunday.

Okay……… “Are you a disciple?” I am merely asking this question to make us think. Maybe the answer is not as simple as you think.