Chapter 10 The Green Suit

 

At the age of five, I remember putting milk and cookies out for Santa Claus during Christmas time. I don’t recall who told me to do that, but I did, believing that leaving a snack for Saint Nick would earn me more toys. My dad saw this and sat me down. We both still remember this conversation to this very day:

“Listen, boy. There ain’t no Santa Claus. I’ll be damned if I let you believe that some fat white man in a freaky red pimp suit loves you more on one day than I’ve loved you on the other 364 days this year. I’ll tell you this: if a man ever comes down that chimney, he’s not leaving the same way. I don’t care what color he is or what he’s wearing. He may come down the chimney, but he’s going out the front door. On a stretcher. In a body bag. When you wake up tomorrow morning and see those gifts, know your mom and dad bought and wrapped them because we love you. And when you see that empty saucer and glass, know your dad ate your milk and cookies.”

That’s when I learned the myth of Santa Claus—but I also learned the mythology of my own father. I know every kid wants to say their dad was the toughest, but my dad was empirically, the toughest. He possessed that aura, not just with his family, but in every room he entered.

When our family met Steve Spurrier, my brother’s coach, when he played for the Florida Gators, my dad dominated the conversation. “The Mouth of the South,” was a legend for trash-talking (Tremayne still quotes Spurrier’s insults about my precious Vols to hurt me). But with my dad, he just stood there and listened as if dad was coaching him on what offense to run in the upcoming game.

Everyone was scared of my dad. I was twenty-five years old before I met someone who wasn’t—and ironically, she has been with him for over twenty-five years. At six-foot-seven, with dark mocha skin and the muscular build of a defensive end, he could beat up any other dad, anywhere, at any time. Even in my youth, I saw how everyone cowered before him. Other dads, my coaches, my teachers, members of the family of whom I may be dating; all looked at him like you would when swimming near a shark.

It didn’t matter what title they gave him on a sports team; everyone knew who the head coach really was. I grew up knowing—and still know to this day—that the most powerful man I’ve ever known gave me life, raised me, and shares the same blood coursing through my veins.

Maybe that’s why, at the age of six, I can vividly remember him in his blue robe, on his knees, receiving prayer from a young white man with a Bible in his hands. I remember it like it happened yesterday.

During that time, a young man named Rick would knock on doors on Saturdays, asking parents if he could take their kids to church (would never happen today). If they agreed, he would drive his blue bus on Sundays to pick them up. I remember getting dressed and waiting on the porch every Sunday for that blue bus. We’d go to the church’s cafeteria/auditorium/gymnasium, where Brother Rick told us Bible stories and gave us candy and snacks on the way home.

After every sermon, puppet show, or play, Brother Rick would invite kids to the back room to “receive Jesus as their Savior.” I noticed that when kids went back there, they returned with extra toys and candy. So, I went, and I received Jesus—and my salvation bounty. From then on, I tried to convince whoever sat next to me to go to the back room and receive Jesus (and candy). I preached, “It’s like Christmas during the summer.”

I convinced so many kids to go back there that Brother Rick called me a “fisherman of men” and gave me a fishhook pendant, which I wore proudly. Encouraged, at six, I began preaching to my dad and his friends, which they thought was cute.

I remember telling one of my dad’s friends, Willie—a short, round, light-skinned man with a manicured beard and beady eyes—that if he didn’t change his ways where he would end up. 😆 This went on for a while until one Saturday, Brother Rick came to our house, and my dad answered the door. I don’t know what they said to each other, but at some point, my dad got on his knees, and Brother Rick prayed for him.

Later that week, my dad put on a shiny green suit with wide lapels and a handkerchief in his coat pocket that matched his tie. He told the family to dress in our best, and we went to church on a Sunday night. I remember my dad walking down the aisle in that green suit (it was the seventies) and kneeling at the altar with my mom.

When we came home, Dad went to his customized brick bar in the living room, which he designed and built himself (I don’t know how that gene passed over me), and gathered all his alcohol and placed it in a box.

At the time, my dad was the head chef at one of the richest country clubs in the city. They served the best alcohol money could buy, and Dad proudly showed off bottles that might now cost $150 a shot. It wouldn’t surprise me if he owned that collection today, he could auction it off for over $25,000. (I didn’t know that then, but I definitely know it now.)

He took the box to our neighbor, gave him the alcohol, and shared his testimony about what happened to him. Dad told his friend Jesus was coming for him next. Only one entity could make my dad submit to anything: Jesus Christ.

As I went through Steps Three and Seven of the Twelve Steps, I needed to ponder where my insane passion for God began.

I remember watching a television show where a man explained why he became a reporter. He said that as he grew up, his dad would start his day reading the newspaper. Everyone knew to be quiet at the breakfast table as he read. The man wanted to become a reporter because he wanted to become what could captivate his dad so much that it took him to another world.

I surmised that is why I want to be Moses, Paul, or David so badly that it almost killed me. Because my dad, the most powerful person in my world, humbled himself before whatever this Jesus was. I loved, revered, and respected my dad. What he loved, revered, and respected must also be worthy of my love, reverence, and respect too.

I may be the only man alive to consistently win arguments with Aubrey Allen. That’s right, I am the world champion. At a recovery meeting, when I spoke, I shared one of the many stories of my dad from my youth. A woman messaged me afterward and asked to speak with me after the meeting. When we connected, she asked if my dad read Plato as a basis for how he raised me. I told her my educated guess would be no. She went on to explain how my story aligned with the *Allegory of the Cave* in *The Republic*.

After the phone call, I read the *Allegory of the Cave*, and my mouth hit the floor. On her advice, I looked up other lessons my dad taught me and discovered that his methods shared the DNA of some of history’s greatest thinkers and achievers: Caesar, John Locke, Viktor Frankl, Nick Saban (🤮), Paul of Tarsus. God blessed him with the ability to analyze everyday experiences and determine the right strategic approach. If he has all the facts, ninety percent of the time, he is never wrong. And he knows it.

But I inherited that gift from him too, along with my height and my rugged good looks. My gift for analysis, however, applies to hermeneutics. I love to study and interpret the meaning of almost anything that interests me. I’ve spent hours analyzing the last episode of The Sopranos to determine whether Tony died at the end (he did). I’ve also poured hours into dissecting Kendrick Lamar’s halftime show (which was an allegory about race relations in America, not an insult to President Trump. K-dot started rehearsing for the Super Bowl in October; no one knew Trump would attend until the week of the event, marking the first time in history a president attended). My entire life, I analyzed music, poetry, and movies, but my favorite subject is the Bible.

My dad could elucidate the most brilliant tenets of his position with unparalleled articulation and passion, but when I quoted scripture, he would submit. He didn’t have a choice. He loved God. It drove him crazy. If I could prove Jesus said it, he would tap out of the argument.

I believe his frustration with this power I held fueled his passion for devouring the Bible (along with, of course, his love for God and truth 😆). He couldn’t bear losing to me—but he doesn’t anymore. Just recently, he shared a theological revelation with me:

“Boy, do you know why Jesus said it’s harder for a rich man to go through the eye of a needle then it is to get into heaven?”

He began to teach me about this parable like he taught me how to get in a three-point stance. He talked about a gate all Jews knew called the "Eye of the Needle," where a camel couldn’t pass through without unburdening everything it carried—including its passengers. The camel would also need to kneel to get under the gate. He concluded, “That’s why this is the best version of you I’ve ever seen. The Lord has humbled you to make you what He wants you to become.”

In ten minutes, he delivered one of the greatest sermons I’ve ever heard.

To change my perspective on life, my sponsor told me to write down the greatest moments of my life that produced the most pleasure and legacy. Of course, I wrote the obvious: hearing Jacob play the guitar and sing Dave Matthews on the beach; watching Seth win the talent show at his school singing and playing Ed Sheeran; becoming Vice President of the second-largest on-campus ministry in the country; hitting the game-winning shot in front of tens of thousands at Vanderbilt in college; speaking in front of hundreds of people and making them laugh like Chris Rock.; falling in love.

But I became fascinated by how many of these joyful events featured my dad as the catalyst. After writing down fifteen moments where my dad illuminated like a star amidst a moonless evening, I felt confused. I knew my parents loved me equally, but I could only recall one occasion that featured my mom.

After contemplating this for months, I finally understood. I hugged my mom a million times. Yet, I don’t remember any of those hugs. She says she loves me so much that I barely hear it anymore. But I remember every hug my dad gave me in my childhood. When I tell him I love him on the phone now, he says, “I love you more.” When I hang up, those words seem to echo in my room for hours.

We all know the story about Jesus washing His disciples' feet. At the Last Supper, before His arrest and eventual death, Jesus took out a basin and towel and began to wash the feet of His brothers. Horror came over the disciples' faces as Jesus knelt on His hands and knees. Peter refused to allow Jesus to do it. Jesus said that unless He did this, Peter could not have Him. Unless Peter allowed Jesus to serve him in this manner, Peter understood that all the love, power, and promise of a future beyond his imagination would dissipate like smoke. Everything Peter had left his home and followed Jesus for, would disappear and condemnation would occur as the result. Peter wanted Jesus so vehemently that he requested Jesus wash his head and hands as well. The disciples all wanted Jesus so badly and they were willing to do whatever it took to possess all of Him.

Over my decades of existing in Christian culture, I’ve heard preachers speak about this and then move on to the main act of the Passion events. But for me, this event encompasses everything anyone needs to know about God. What you don’t hear often is what Jesus scrubbed off the feet of the disciples. During that time, Jews wore sandals as they traveled through fields and on roads. Horses, sheep, goats, and camels roamed these paths. The animals didn’t turn to their owners and ask to go to a porta potty when they had to go—they just went, all over the roads and in the fields. Pedestrians had to navigate these roads like minefields, and often, stepping in piles of dung was expected, if not inevitable. No Jew ever entered a home without someone washing their feet first, and that task went to the person who held the lowest position in the household.

Jesus got on His hands and knees and scraped away what Paul refers to as “skubalon” off the disciples' toes, ankles, and heels with His bare hands. One pastor said the English translation of “skubalon” consists of a compound word with “bull” serving as the first syllable. I’ll let you guess the second word.

The Bible identifies Jesus as God hundreds of times. That means every time you read the Old Testament, you could correctly replace every verse containing God with Jesus. For example, God spoke to Job in Job 38 about His qualities. By replacing God with Jesus, the passage looks like this:

"Jesus proclaimed His knowledge of the mysteries beyond human reach. Jesus alone has given orders to the morning and shown the dawn its place so that it might take the earth by the edges and shake the wicked out of it. Jesus has journeyed to the springs of the sea and walked in the recesses of the deep. Jesus comprehends the vast expanses of the earth and possesses all knowledge." (Job 12-14)

Or this:

"In the beginning, Jesus created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of Jesus was hovering over the waters. And Jesus said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. Jesus saw that the light was good, and Jesus separated the light from the darkness." (Genesis 1:1-3)

Now imagine the person in these two passages, weeping over His children. Receiving any sinner, regardless of who they slept with or who they murdered. Touching anyone unclean to heal them. Allowing the beings He created to strike Him, whip Him, insult Him, and spit on Him. Allowing His children to execute Him. Imagine the God who created all existence… on His knees, taking His bare hands and washing the animal feces off the feet of sinners, including Judas, hours before his betrayal.

My dad, in a million years, would not wash my feet. He would say, “Boy, how in the world did you step in dog crap. I taught you better than that. You got always be on your toes!” But when I graduated college and started my career as a mortgage banker, he bought me suits and ties and taught me how to dress as a professional. I would visit him at work to show off how well I implemented his lessons. Dad, at the time, dominated his work environment with about fifty guys there with some of them working under his managerial control. They held him in such high regard, they even looked at me in veneration as his son. Typically, he would inspect me up and down, nodding with approval, until he got to my shoes. “Boy, were you stomping in a mud puddle before you walked in here?”. Then he’d make me take off my shoes, pull out a shoe-shining kit from his desk in his office, and I’d sit there and watch him shine my shoes. In front of his entire company, he would clean, shine, and buff my shoes until I could see my reflection, not caring what his subordinates or colleagues thought. Honestly, it didn’t matter what my shoes looked like. It was his way of showing he loved me and was proud of me.

I’ve been a “Christian” since the age of five. I’ve experienced relationships in some form with hundreds of Christians, whether by listening to sermons or reading books or befriending them or doing ministry together. Out of all of them, I’d say the most Christlike person I’ve ever met is my dad. Not because of his knowledge of theology, his moral stance, or his missionary work, but because he is the most powerful man I know. And there has never been a time when I truly needed him, that he wouldn’t lay down that power and do whatever it took to help me.

If the church could understand that this is what Jesus did when He gave up His glory, power, and immortality to help us, to rescue us, to love us—nothing would stop us from crying out to God, “Not just my feet, but my hands and head as well.” We would do whatever it took to possess all of Him.

The God who made all things with a command and who can hold the universe in his hands got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.

He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “The God who made all things with a command and who can hold the universe in his hands, are you going to wash my feet?”

The God who made all things with a command and who can hold the universe in his hands replied, “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

“No,” said Peter, “you shall never wash my feet.”

The God who made all things with a command and who can hold the universe in his hands answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”

“Then, God who made all things with a command and who can hold the universe in his hands,” Simon Peter replied, “not just my feet but my hands and my head as well!”

John 14:4-9