The Master's Weekend
Recalling a comeback of cosmic proportions
It appeared as though there would be no green jacket for the Master this time.
No green palm fronds either (for that matter).
By now they were brittle and brown, crumpled on Jerusalem's cobblestone streets.
Had the previous Sunday parade been merely a charade?
One couldn't help but wonder.
The customary fairway had given way to rough
treatment that was totally out of character and totally out of bounds.
The Master's scratch handicap had been replaced
by scars and stripes inflicted by those whose sinful nature he willingly embraced.
As the gallery watched, the Master stumbled through his round.
His stance betrayed his discomfort.
Noticeably off balance, he swung
the shaft of the cross.
Awkwardly grazing the ground, it fell (as did he).
A bystander was pressed into service quite unexpectedly.
The inexperienced caddy carried the Master's wood
while he limped in a forward direction
wedged between a twosome of condemned players
who had not survived the cut.
The Master, in obvious pain, found a smile for his few followers
while grimacing at the leaders.
Ignoring the marshals' calls to be quiet,
the large disappointed crowd desecrated the silence with rude remarks.
The Master bent low trying to read the break he'd been denied.
What had been a "gimmie" before had become a "why me?"
Feeling forsaken, the Master scanned the sky (eagle eyed)
hoping (in vain) for divine intervention.
But none was forthcoming.
Having given it his best shot,
he'd reached the end of his round (fully spent).
He finished his course and he'd kept the faith.
In the process, however, he'd humbled himself.
The Master (humiliated) hung his head motionlessly.
Removed from the viewing area by his handlers,
he was written off as a failure.
His reputation was immediately buried
by analysts and pundits who attested to his demise.
But, those who claimed to know it all
didn't seem to know the Master's weekend was far from over.
After all, Sunday's final round was yet to be played.
The last day of the event began without fanfare.
By the dawn's early light the arrogant leaders enjoyed a leisurely breakfast,
grateful the Master was no longer a contender.
With premature pride they proceeded to retrieve their sticks
(and stones) with which they had humbled the crowd favorite earlier in the weekend.
But as the mist evaporated and the fog lifted, something was amiss.
The course was significantly different from what the leaders had anticipated.
The Master (given up for dead the day before) was back.
Furthermore, he was unstoppable.
His recognizable form left little doubt why he would not be beaten.
With obvious wounds in his ungloved hand,
the Master waved to those who surrounded the hole
from which the flag (and the stone) had been removed.
Yes, it was a comeback of cosmic proportions.
The Master reclaimed his green jacket after all.
In a blaze of glory, wearing his coveted blazer of righteousness,
Jesus inscribed his name in the history book, defeating death once and for all.
The score had been settled.
His signed card had been verified.
Christ is risen!
He is risen, indeed!
by Greg Asimakoupoulos (@ 2012)
* The Master's Weekend is dedicated to Pastor Glen D. Cole who died unexpectedly on February 14, 2012 in Sacramento. Glen was my friend and mentor. He loved golf almost as much as he loved his Savior and his family.
Comments