TWO PLUS TWO IS ALWAYS FOUR

Captured right here in the heart of the fashion district—this vibrant place where creativity and ambition meet—we find ourselves driven by energy and focus. And as we soak it all in, the atmosphere is amplified by the soundtrack of the moment, Erbody But Me by Tech N9ne, Bizzy & Krizz Kaliko. This isn’t just background noise; it’s a call to own your individuality, to step up and declare your unique edge to the world. Right here, right now—this is about claiming your power and remembering that success starts with the belief that you are unstoppable.

I've been chewing on this since yesterday afternoon. Didn't even finish my supper. My wife asked what was wrong and I just told her I needed to sit with it a while. So I've been sitting. And now I'm gonna hand it to you men, because I figure that's what we're here for.

Yesterday I took Tanner and his buddy Tyreek out to the course. Good kid, Tyreek. Fourteen, same as my boy. Polite, laughs easy, says "yes sir" and "no sir" without me having to teach him twice. I was glad to have him along.

Now, let me be careful with my words here. I want to be clear about something before I go one step further.

It isn't what Tyreek said. It's what I heard.

Because somewhere around the third hole, that boy got to talking. And he told me — told me and my son, both — that two plus two isn't necessarily four. Said it depends. Said it's whatever a man decides it is. Said for him, two plus two equals five, because life is malleable, and he makes his own reality.

Brothers, I about dropped my nine iron.

Now I found out later this child is not doing his best in math. And that explains a few things. But it does not explain the confidence. Because I have met grown men — bankers, deacons, fellows twice this boy's age — who did not carry themselves with half the certainty that Tyreek carried, standing on a golf course in borrowed spikes, telling me the fundamental order of numbers was his to bend.

And here's where I went wrong. I couldn't leave it be.

I went on a tangent. Fifteen minutes, near as I can figure. My son later told me it was closer to twenty, but my son exaggerates, so I'm splitting the difference. I talked about pride. I talked about respect for your elders. I quoted Proverbs at that child — "Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." I told him a man who thinks he can rewrite arithmetic will one day try to rewrite something that matters a lot more, and it will not go well for him.

I told him about honoring those who came before, about the fear of the Lord being the beginning of wisdom, and how wisdom starts with admitting there are things bigger than you and older than you and truer than your feelings on a Tuesday.

And you know what Tyreek did?

He nodded.

He nodded the whole way through. Kind, patient nods. The kind of nods you give an old man who's decided to preach on a par four. And when I finally ran out of breath, he looked me dead in the eye and said, "That's fair, Mr. Clifford. But it's still five to me."

Men, I have heard some belligerent things in my day. I have argued with my own father until the sun came up. But I don't think I have ever encountered anything as flat-out, cheerful, immovable as a fourteen-year-old convincing himself — and trying to convince me — that two and two make five.

Now here's my confession. Here's the part I've been sitting with.

I don't think my tangent was really about him.

I think I heard that boy bending the truth to fit what he wanted, and it scared me. Because I do it too. We all do. We tell ourselves the money will stretch when it won't. We tell ourselves we're fine when we're not. We tell ourselves the sin is small when we already know it isn't. We look at plain arithmetic — the math of our own lives — and we go, "well, for me, it's five." And we nod at ourselves the same way Tyreek nodded at me. Polite. Certain. Wrong.

Scripture says, "There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death." I preached at a child yesterday. But that verse was written for me.

So here's my word to you, for whatever it's worth.

Watch what you're really correcting. Sometimes the thing that riles you up in somebody else is the thing you haven't dealt with in yourself.

Honor the truth even when it's inconvenient. Two plus two is four. It's four when you're up and it's four when you're down. Some things don't move, and thank the Lord for that, because a man needs something under his feet that doesn't shift.

And be gentle with young men who are still figuring out which things bend and which things don't. Because I was that boy once, certain of nonsense. Somebody was patient with me. I owe that forward.

I don't have this tied up neat. I'm still praying on the right way to talk to Tyreek — and to my own boy, who watched the whole thing. Maybe some of you have raised sons and know what that looks like.

Until then, I'm gonna do the thing I should've done on the third hole.

I'm gonna listen more than I lecture. And I'm gonna let two plus two stay four.

Amen.

-Clifford (as Deck & Mitch)

Epilogue: It’s remarkable how simple truths often uncover the most profound complexities in our lives. Two plus two is four. A statement so universally understood, yet it holds within it the tension between certainty and the human yearning to redefine. Clifford’s story reminds us that life will inevitably challenge the fundamentals we stand on, not to break us, but to refine us. Truth, in its purest form, is unyielding—not to stifle creativity or individuality, but to provide a compass. It’s the solid ground beneath shifting skies.

And yet, there’s another truth here, equally unshakable in its wisdom—patience. Patience with others, patience with ourselves. Growth rarely comes in tidy, linear progressions. Sometimes, it starts with a borrowed set of spikes and a notion about arithmetic that rattles more than reason. But patience teaches us that the seeds of today’s challenge may bloom into tomorrow’s understanding.

We are all, in some way, walking contradictions—clinging to our certainties while wrestling with our doubts. The path of growth demands humility. It calls us to listen more, preach less. To hold steadfastly to what’s immovable, even as we gently guide those who are still learning to discern what bends and what doesn’t.

Two plus two is still four, and thank God for the clarity of that. But perhaps, the greater wisdom lies in how we walk alongside those who are learning to see it for themselves.

Amen.