Golfing with God

by Roland Merullo

Genres: Religious & Inspirational; Sports

Synopsis

Herman "Hank" Fins-Winston was a pro golfer destined for greatness. Now he lives in a condominium on the thirteenth fairway of one of heaven's glorious courses – a fact he finds surprising and amusing, since for one reason or another, a fair percentage of golfers never make it to paradise. Hank is having the time of his afterlife until he's summoned one idyllic morning to play a round with the Almighty. It seems that God is having some trouble with His game. As they play the heavenly courses, both in paradise and back on earth, Hank comes to realize that what began as a golf lesson has become a spiritual journey.

Release date: May 11, 2007

Publisher: Algonquin Books

Print pages: 286

Sample

Praise for Golfing with God

“Amid the laughs and playful banter, Golfing with God is a serious story of self-examination and growth, the hardest games of all.”

—The Washington Post Book World

“Merullo weaves humor and humane theology into his engaging plot.”

—The Boston Globe

“Merullo writes such a graceful, compassionate and fluid prose that you cannot resist the characters’ very real struggles and concerns. His prose is as wonderfully down-to-earth as his tale is heaven-sent.”

—The Providence Sunday Journal

“[A] delightful little book.”

—The Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Golfing with God salts its serious story of growth and self-examination with humor and telling insight. … Amid the lightness of this tale is the deeper story of a man, much like the rest of us, looking to shed his pride and dampen his urges.”

—The Orlando Sentinel

“A tender story and a clean slice of life, full of smart, clean prose.”

—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“Merullo’s patient good humor makes the journey with Hank a surprisingly universal undertaking.”

—The Sunday Seattle Post & Seattle Post-Intelligencer

“Will appeal to fans of Alice Sebold and Mitch Albom. … Highly recommended.”

—Library Journal, starred review

“An uplifting and humorous look at life and faith, a philosophical view of our role in this world and the next.”

—The Southern Pines (NC) Pilot

“Part spiritual, part philosophical and part sports drama. … An enjoyable and inspirational read for anyone, regardless of his or her handicap.”

—Macon Magazine

“Great and memorable golf novels are the rarest of literary treats. In Golfing with God, Roland Merullo has pulled off a small miracle of economy and charm—a beautifully told tale that will have you in its otherworldly grasp from the opening page. … Golfing with God is the best golfing novel I’ve ever read.”

—James Dodson, author of Final Rounds

“Merullo … writes with wit and subtlety rather than trying to pound inspiration into our heads with a titanium driver. And, best of all, he gets the golf right.”

—Booklist



This is the story of some time I spent in heaven, and then on earth, in the company of God. I know that the events described here will seem extraordinary, perhaps even, for some readers, impossible to believe. I know, too, that the ancient game of golf is not as fascinating to everyone as it always has been to me (and as it is to God). But, though golf runs through these pages like, say, the notes of the first violin through a symphony, this is mainly the story of the spiritual education of one soul. An ordinary enough soul, I have to confess, a soul riddled with quirks and urges, old failures and fresh embarrassments.

And yet, one of the lessons I learned during my time with God is that there is really no such thing as an ordinary soul, only souls who have not yet burned away the fog of confusion that surrounds them. That fog might be composed of fear, anger, bitterness, violence, regret, shame, greed, lust, or any combination of the above. It might spring from a pool of self-criticism and apparent unworthiness, cooking in the heat of life’s troubles. Once the fog starts to lift, though—and this usually takes many many lifetimes—once the swirl of habitual thoughts begins to thin, a very different world comes into focus. This process can be compared to the gradual elimination of flaws from a golf swing, the slow improvement of a devoted player, accompanied, as it almost always is, by a growing sense of joy and peace.

So, this tale from my time in heaven is the description of one part of my own spiritual journey. There is still far to go. But at least the fog has lifted, the larger flaws in my game have been addressed, and my purpose on this planet—our purpose—is clearer to me now. It seems to me that ours is a world of mostly well-intentioned souls, and yet we boil in disappointment and pain and this foggy confusion. I was fortunate enough to escape all that for a while during my trip to paradise, and to have the guidance of some of the Great Ones—on the course and off, on earth and in heaven. If the story of this lucky adventure brings a bit of amusement or clarity to one other life, then I’ll be pleased. In any case, the writing of it—such difficult work—is finished now. I’ve done what God asked me to do, part of it at least, and I’m free to get back to the game I love.



There are 8,187 golf courses in heaven, and new ones being built even as I write this. Given the fact that golf has been around for five hundred years, and tens of millions of people played the game while they were on earth, that might seem like a relatively small number. But the fact is—how can I say this politely—for one reason or another, a fair percentage of golfers never make it to paradise.

It is true, though, that some world-class course architects call that place home, and God keeps them busy designing and building new eighteen-hole layouts. This is one of the surprising things I want to tell you about heaven: People bring their skills up there with them. Which doesn’t mean that if you were a secretary or a surgeon on earth—and hated it—God forces you to answer phones or cut out gallbladders to earn your keep. That would be more like hell, if such a place actually existed … but I’ll get into the structure of things more as I go on. For the purposes of this story, the point is that we carry our talents beyond the grave—and most of our quirks and flaws, as well. Heaven isn’t nearly as static as I thought it would be. People change and grow there, too. Even God does, to a certain extent, which is something I still find difficult to understand.

There are 8,187 golf courses in heaven, and, as you’d probably guess, some exceptionally fine players. I’m not allowed to name names. I can tell you, though, that God is one of those players. I almost said “God Himself is one of those players,” but something you often hear in heaven is that God isn’t really a He. That is, according to those longtime residents who claim to know, sometimes He’s a He, and other times He’s a She, and many times God takes a form that cannot be described as either. Until my most recent visit, I had no experience of this myself. I had glimpsed God, once, just as I arrived, but it was a perfunctory greeting. Quick handshake at the gate type of arrangement. After that, I was left pretty much on my own, surrounded more by rumors of God than by any actual presence. But it turns out that rumors are quite accurate in heaven, and the self-proclaimed experts maintain that not only is God neither He nor She, but He can’t be pinned down to any one race or ethnic group. Even His age is a matter of debate: the white-haired patriarch? Matriarch? Beautiful young thing? God likes to play with superficial details like that. After a while, people say, you learn to recognize Him or Her by something else, some aura of grace or sudden gust of power. But God is famous for His sense of humor. He likes to keep you off balance if She can.

So God golfs. That should come as no surprise to golfers. It isn’t true, as some people in heaven like to suggest, that God also bowls, figure skates, and throws darts. God is busy. When He decides to cut Himself some slack He heads out to one of these 8,187 courses, often disguising Himself. He does not play Ping-Pong. He does not watch TV.

As I said, we carry our talents beyond the thin dark curtain of death. If we enjoyed the work we did, God gives us some of that work to do in paradise. For instance, I was a golf professional, a teacher of the game and a fairly good player in my best days. Never quite good enough to make it as a regular on the PGA tour, though I did climb up onto that exalted plateau for four seasons and I did have my moments even there. Nor was I ever famous as a teacher … outside my small home territory. None of my students went on to win major championships, though I like to think they played better after working with me, and enjoyed the game more.

I was devoted to my craft, and loved it, and over the years there were a few hundred people who claimed I had fixed their swing when it seemed beyond repair. In fact, that was sort of my specialty, if you will: rehabilitating golf swings that were once quite good but had been poisoned by some mysterious demon.

There are no secrets in heaven, and I suppose my earthly reputation, such as it was, got around. In any case, one perfect spring morning during my most recent residency in the higher realms, I was sitting out on my perfectly comfortable patio in front of my perfectly comfortable condominium, looking out at the thirteenth green of one of heaven’s more modest layouts, the El Rancho Obispo Country Club, when a middle-aged man came striding across my lawn, walked up and sat opposite me. He had a worried look on his face, something you don’t often see in heaven.

“You’re Herman Fins-Winston, aren’t you?” he said, by way of an introduction.

I had never liked my name during my previous incarnation on earth; in fact, I’d been embarrassed by it. Upon moving to the United States from Great Britain (another long story, that), I’d asked everyone to call me Hank Winston. And, once in heaven, I continued to introduce myself as Hank, so it had been a while since I’d heard the Herman or the Fins-Winston thing. In any case, I winced, nodded, asked my unexpected guest if he wanted a cup of cappuccino (things are rather informal in heaven; there we walk on other people’s lawns; we couple and separate more easily than on earth, though certain relationships persist for very long periods of time indeed).

My guest shook his head impatiently. “Julian Ever,” he said, as if I’d asked. “You’ve heard of me, I imagine.”

“Everyone’s heard of you, but no one seems to know what you actually look like.”

This remark drew a small smile. On that day at least, Julian Ever was an odd-looking fellow, thin, tall, handsome in an offbeat way, with green eyes, a long, elfin nose, and powerful hands.

“‘God’s lieutenant’ is what they call you around the pro shop,” I added.

Julian blinked disingenuously, as if he’d never heard the phrase before, then leaned in a little closer, let the smile fall from his face, and said: “Listen, I don’t have a lot of time.”

I laughed. But Mr. Ever did not seem to be joking.

“You were a golf pro in your last life on earth, isn’t that so?” he asked.

“It is.”

“A famous teacher?”

“No, not famous. In local circles I had something of a reputation, you see, but—”

“Pennsylvania, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, outside of Bethlehem.”

“God wonders why you never moved south.”

“Well, the move from Britain to America was traumatic enough, and, in good years, when my wife and I were still together and happy, we used to go to Miami for a month in winter.”

“But … permanently, as they say. Why didn’t you move there permanently, to a place where you could play more often?”

I shrugged. “British roots, you see. We’re not used to the bright sun.”

“You don’t have some kind of a bias against the South?”

“What?” I said. “No. Not that I—”

“You’re not biased, racially, are you?”

“What are you talking about? Of course not.”

Julian seemed satisfied with this honest answer to his bizarre question, and I had the feeling he had been mainly checking to see if I had, in fact, been born in Great Britain. I’d known other prospective clients to do the same thing. Just being born in the place where the magnificent game of golf had been invented, it seemed, gave one a certain authority.

“Well, I have a teaching opportunity for you, if you’re interested. Very special student.”

I’d heard of other pros being asked to do small jobs now and then. It sometimes happened that a former PGA star would suddenly discover—even in heaven this happens, believe me—that he was pushing all his long irons to the right, or that his putting stroke had turned sour and he couldn’t make an eight-footer to save his soul. What would happen then would be that his angel—yes, such spirits do exist—would go in search of just the right teacher, and the teacher would straighten things out, receive a token payment—some favor to be named later—and get that old satisfaction we remembered from the blue planet, where one had to work for one’s keep. I’d never been approached in such a manner, but so many of my friends had that it wasn’t a terrific surprise. The surprising part was that Julian Ever himself had come to ask me. God’s lieutenant. He could have gotten any teaching pro in heaven to do him any favor he asked.

“Why me?” I couldn’t keep from saying.

“Because you’re the best.”

Flattery, in case you haven’t already noticed, is a big part of heavenly conversations. I dislike it, personally. I’ve always preferred British understatement and modesty. But longtime residents told me you get accustomed to it in time, even come to enjoy the forms it can take, the creative possibilities of exaggeration. It is the closest thing heaven has to outright lying, which, of course, does not exist there.

“Who is the client?”

“I can’t say until I’m sure you’ll commit.”

“But there are no secrets in paradise. You have to say.”

“At my level there are secrets. Are you interested in the job or not? The payment will be that you get to design a course of your own.”

Against my own will I took in a sharp breath. I sat staring at him for a moment, looking for a wink, a quick smile, anything to signal that this was all some kind of a joke being played on me by my friends at the clubhouse. “I know nothing about designing,” I said.

“Right, but it’s been your secret dream for a long time, hasn’t it?”

“It has. Forever.”

Another wry grin. “That’s the payment then, and it’s not something we offer just anybody. Some new land is being created to the west of here—another ocean, with sandy rolling soil nearby. The climate will be rather like Wales—windy and never too hot—but without any rain during the day. So you’ll make a links course there, along the sandy shore, if you want to. A yes or no answer if you’d be so kind, Mr. Fins-Winston.”

I’d always been partial to links courses. I said: “Yes.”

“Fine.” He eyed my cappuccino. “Very good. I can now tell you who the client is.”

“It must be someone very—”

“It’s God,” Julian Ever said, and if I live for a billion years I shall never forget the sound of that syllable echoing around my little patio in the heavenly light.

“God? But God plays perfectly. God invented the golf swing. He—”

“Change into your golf attire,” Julian said. “We leave in four minutes.”



You can imagine my state of mind. Those minutes had a dreamlike quality about them, a sense of unreality that is very unusual in heaven, where events tend to have clear, sharp edges. I changed into chinos and my best striped jersey, and when I went back out onto the patio, Julian had retreated toward the course and was sitting behind the wheel of a gold-trimmed golf cart, gesturing impatiently. I climbed in beside him and he took off as if he’d been a Grand Prix race-car driver in one of his past lives.

“I’ve never seen anyone hurry in heaven,” I said nervously, holding onto the edge of the gilded roof with one hand.

“God is impatient.”

“But that’s impossible.”

Julian turned his eyes to me for so long that he nearly drove off the gravel path. “Listen,” he said, facing forward again and jerking once at the wheel to keep us from careening into a ditch. “If you’re going to work with Him you’re going to have to get rid of all these assumptions. The universes move incredibly slowly to His eye. The suns and planets twirl as if mired in honey. People learn their lessons over thousands of lives, when, in fact, those lessons seem to Him almost absurdly basic, ridiculously simple. In His frustration, He keeps sending saints, saviors, and various kinds of prophets down to speed up the process. People listen for a while, some of them, then keep forgetting what they’ve been taught and start reverting to old habits—hatred, greed, murder, war, and so on. Plus, on top of all that, He’s been playing golf perfectly since the day He invented it. And when I use the word perfectly I mean exactly that. Now, suddenly, as of yesterday morning, something has gone terribly wrong.”

“What?”

“I’ll let Him describe it.”

“So He is a man.”

“Today, yes.”

We rocketed down beside the eighteenth fairway at El Rancho Obispo, took a left past the clubhouse, and raced off along a path I had never seen there before that moment—and, in my seven years in paradise, I’d played at El Rancho thousands of times. The path led through some gorgeous almond-colored hills with snow-topped mountains in the far western background. Newly created land, it seemed to me, though I hadn’t been in paradise long enough to be able to know for sure what was new and what wasn’t. Rocking side to side in our souped-up golf cart, we crested one of these hills and skidded to a stop beside a helicopter, its blades already turning. The redheaded woman in the pilot’s seat was pleased as could be, you could see it on her face. She was flying for God.

We crouched, sprinted, climbed up into the copter like soldiers under fire, and lifted off. On earth, I’d always been afraid of flying, but one of the nice things about heaven is that, though you remember your fears, they no longer have any power over you. There are people there who indulge this freedom. Former agoraphobics who attend every festival, every sporting event, every crowded theater they can find. Men who were afraid of any sort of romantic commitment but now spend three or four hundred years with the same woman, just to see what it feels like. Women who suffered for dozens of lifetimes from a terrible fear of drowning, and now they’re the ones you see taking junkets to new oceans as soon as they’re created, or swimming laps in the various indoor and outdoor Olympic pools. From what I understand, this infatuation with your own fearlessness doesn’t usually last very long—a few centuries at most—and some souls don’t experience it at all.

I enjoyed the helicopter ride, though I was a bit nervous about my assignment, if that’s what it could be called. We flew a long distance, over the snow-topped mountains and into what seemed to me truly ancient land. It was green and gently rolling, fields of grain, orchards with fruit weighing down the limbs. Looking at it you had the sense that souls had been walking the paths and picking from the trees for a very long time indeed. Julian must have noticed my interest. He leaned. . .