April 20, 2026
A president who thinks he’s Jesus. A defense secretary who doesn’t know the difference between the actual Bible and the Book of Samuel (L. Jackson) in “Pulp Fiction.” Although I’m no longer a person of faith, I’m grateful that I grew up with real Christian values.
From first grade through high school, I attended Sunday school and the Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF) at a fine old church in my hometown. Like Pope Leo, our senior minister was a tireless advocate for equality and justice. In his 1997 obituary, a church member said of the Rev. Dr. James Wright, “He always had a love for people who were down and out. He lived the Gospel.” A big man with a natural pulpit voice, he delivered his message loud and clear in sermons that aired on local radio for those who couldn’t be there in person. My mother used to say, “He makes you feel like he’s talking directly to you.”
It’s a safe bet that he and all the ministers at that church would be appalled by Trump’s blasphemy. And lest you think Dr. Wright was some radical young ’60s preacher, he came by his principles the hard way as a member of the Greatest Generation and a chaplain in World War II. He earned a Bronze Star while serving in Europe, including the hellish Battle of the Bulge and the liberation of the Nazi death camp at Buchenwald.
Some people griped that he talked too much about social issues. He was undeterred: “With the vision God gives, a better world is possible. Our place is not on the sidelines sighing over the woes of the world or the failings of our fellow men. We are not called to be spectators. As Christians, we are called to be participants.”
In the early 1970s, he spoke out for the LGBTQ people who were beginning to organize and fight for fundamental rights. Some church members were probably shocked when the word “homosexual” came out of the radio on a Sunday morning, but Dr. Wright believed we’re all God’s children and all have a place at the table. Our youth minister Doug Vernon followed his lead, bringing members of a gay group to speak at an MYF meeting. That summer, we became the participants we were called on to be, taking a mission trip to Kentucky to help the needy fix up their homes.
Sadly, one of the kids on that trip followed a dark path that led him to the J6 mob. A girl I met at church camp had her life cut short in a mass shooting. I drifted away from religion in my college years and never went back. But right now, this rule from Methodism’s founder John Wesley feels more true, more essential than ever.
“Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can.”