Baptism on the Ninth Hole - Christianity Today

After pastoring a church in California for eleven years, my wife and I sensed God’s call to a congregation near Chicago. As our family prepared to move, we were showered with wonderful gifts: a painting by Thomas Kinkaide, a crystal vase, and a French Psalter from the 1600s to add to my prized collection of hymnbooks.

But the most meaningful gift arrived just a few days before I moved–an invitation to play golf with my friend Marty. Seven years earlier, after much family coercion, Marty reluctantly agreed to accompany his wife and two daughters to church. Marty had been turned off by institutional religion long before–Sunday mornings were best spent on the golf course.

I met the Koll family in the parking lot after worship had begun. They arrived late, and there I was: hiding among the cars in my Middle Eastern robe. I didn’t want to spoil the effect of my first-person sermon by being seen by the congregation prematurely.

Marty’s face said it all: Is that the pastor without shoes and in a bathrobe? What kind of church is this? I’d rather be golfing.

The morning’s worship folder promoted the annual men’s golf tournament the following Saturday. Golf was a language Marty spoke. He signed up for the outing and arrived with a sparkle in his eye. I had no idea he was a ringer.

After Marty won, the organizer of the tournament asked him if he could be in church the next day to receive the trophy. Marty complied. Whether it was the fact I wore a coat and tie and shoes that Sunday, or that Marty and his wife were warmly received by the young adult class, I’ll never know. What matters is they decided to stay.

Within a few months, Marty’s two elementary-school-aged daughters prayed with their Sunday school teachers to make Jesus their Lord. They began to ask their parents questions about their new faith. Mom and Dad realized they needed to make the same commitment as their daughters. At the end of a sermon, I asked those willing to entrust their lives to the Lord to lift their heads and look me in the eye. Marty and Cindy returned my gaze.

GOLF BAPTISM

Marty responded with child-like enthusiasm to the father-like love of God (his father had died before he was born). Within months his tender faith was tested: He watched his mother wither from cancer and die. About that time, I was coming to grips with my father’s nearly fatal heart attack. We found consolation together, followed little white balls around the golf course, and prayed for each other. Our friendship grew.

Marty threw himself into church life; he became our church custodian; he and Cindy led the Sunday school class that welcomed them. But for some reason, known only to Marty, he was never baptized. The years sped by.

Then came the invitation to play golf one last time. The day seemed perfect: the weather was warm, and my game was on. Two friends from church joined us. There was laughter and honest conversation. I swallowed hard, realizing I’d soon be 2,000 miles removed from these men I’d grown to love as brothers.

As we approached the ninth tee, with a meandering brook and a cascading waterfall, Marty surprised me with a question: “Pastor Greg, would you baptize me?”

I thought he was joking and reached for my driver. Marty reached in his golf bag and retrieved the Bible I’d given him the day he became a Christian.

“I’m serious,” he said. He handed me the Bible. “You know I’ve never been baptized. And, well, here’s water. What’s standing in the way?”

My open mouth widened into a smile; my eyes teared up. I remembered the Ethiopian’s request of Philip in Acts 8 and decided there was a precedent for unorthodox baptisms. We removed our shoes and socks, rolled up our slacks, and stepped into the flowing brook. While our friends looked on, I read aloud the Twenty-third Psalm (somehow “green pastures” and “still waters” seemed appropriate). I quizzed Marty about his faith in Christ. I applauded his boldness. I asked God to transform the gurgling stream into a means of grace. Then I baptized him in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

I welcomed my brother with a bear hug as he stepped out of the water.

A circle of four men holding hands and praying God’s blessing on Marty could be seen by the twosome on the green behind us. They smiled their approval, although I’m not sure what they thought was going on.

A water hazard on the ninth hole had become holy ground.

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Greg Asimakoupoulos is pastor of Naperville Covenant Church in Naperville, Illinois.

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