The late Keith Green called it “Jesus Junk”–the WWJD pencil holders, Bible covers, figurines and platitudes on plaques, the artifacts of an insular subculture that are often found in Christian bookstores. I’ve often heard these trinkets poked fun at for their tackiness and irrelevance in the wider Western culture, but the problem goes way beyond aesthetics to basic justice and morality, as I discovered again today.

I was chatting with some friends working among a people group in Mexico with nearly 100,000 members–only 2 percent of whom are literate. This couple is creating literacy resources and teaching members of this tribe how to read so that they can understand the Bible–as well as get jobs and better provide for their families. This couple has contacted publishers in the US, asking permission to translate or adapt existing English resources, such as graphic Bibles, Christian books, animated videos, etc., to help teach the people to read in their own language. At every turn, they have been told “no.” Copyrights. Royalties. Intellectual property.

As a subset of the Christian “product” industry, the English-language Christian book industry is a multi-billion-dollar industry that makes many people wealthy. Christian bookstores and the religion section at Barnes & Noble are loaded with books–from self-help to Christian romance to niche Bibles like the Chicken Soup for the Soul Bible.

Yet there are still languages with no Bible. There are people who don’t know how to read for lack of resources in their own language. There are pastors in developing nations who lead their entire congregations with a tattered New Testament that is not even in their own language. If the American church thinks for a minute that it will not be judged for this appalling narcissism and hoarding of God’s resources, it has another thing coming.

Today I finished The Reagan Diaries, a compilation of Ronald Reagan’s diaries from his eight years in office, edited by Douglas Brinkley. Reagan is the first political figure I remember, and I remember him well, even though I was very young when he began his first term. Here are a few unexpected things I discovered in his diaries:

Reagan hated war: Although he is often portrayed as a warmonger as a result of his hard statements against communism, his diary reveals a true fear of the potential of war with the USSR and a genuine desire to do everything in his power to avoid it. However, for better or worse, he believed the best defense against Russian aggression (whether real or imagined) was a solid nuclear arsenal, in spite of what he seemed to understand was the obvious consequence if a war ever started: MAD.

Reagan was a persuader: He genuinely believed–whether dealing with Sam Donaldson, Jesse Jackson, Mikhail Gorbachev, House Speaker Tip O’Neill or his own self-described liberal children Ron and Patti–that all he needed to do was get in a room with them and he could make them understand his position. It apparently hurt him when he was accused of being a racist, warmonger or anti-environmentalist, and he would often make personal calls and set up meetings with opponents to hash out differences in a constructive manner.

He had compassion. He frequently describes his deep emotion at meeting with sick children, wounded soldiers or people who had lost family members in disasters or war. Often his efforts in promoting freedom overseas were inextricably intertwined with his frustration at the way individual people were being treated under dictatorships or in other oppressive societies. He also seemed to care for people’s souls. In one interesting account, he expressed deep concern for Nancy’s unbelieving father who was on his deathbed and noted that he was looking for an opportunity to ask him about his eternal condition.

He loved freedom. Like a thread throughout the entire book, Reagan’s core obsession was extending freedom around the world. It was something he believed in–sometimes with a childlike naivete: Not only did he believe in it, but he assumed that it was a shared value of humanity. It informed every interaction he had with communist leaders and it animated his foreign and domestic policy.

Imagine living in a backward, impoverished country run by a tin-horn dictator with a penchant for the billy club and an outright disdain for the rule of law and democracy. Imagine scratching together a life savings, paying the bribes, taxes and airfare to get your family out of said country to the land of opportunity: the United States. Once here, imagine jumping through the bureaucratic hoops of starting a business so that  you could earn an honest living and provide for your family. Anyone who accomplishes this deserves my respect–they’re what make America great.

While on vacation, our family visited Ellis Island, the first American soil millions of immigrants put their feet on during the end of the 19th and early 20th centuries. I was moved by the museum and buildings and marvelled at the prejudice and fear many immigrants faced from people who themselves were only second- or third-generation immigrants. “Thank goodness things have changed,” I thought to myself.

Two hours after leaving the island, we were traveling through Connecticut, when Nathan had to use the restroom. Our window of opportunity for finding him relief before catastrophe is approximately equivalent to his age–a minute for every year of his life. I veered across 4 lanes of traffic on the New England Thruway and braked in a parking lot between two gas stations. One looked too small for a toilet, so we ran to the one next door, run by what appeared to be people of South Asian descent. No luck. No toilet, so I sent him to the bushes behind the stations, only to have the owner of the first station emerge, inquiring gruffly as to Nathan’s activities. I explained sheepishly, in hopes that he had once had a son and would understand.

“You could have used my bathroom,” he said.

“I didn’t think you had one,” I replied. “Sorry.”

“What kind of gas station doesn’t have a bathroom?” he asked.

“The one next door,” I replied.

“They’re a bunch of towelhead Indians,” he spat. “They should be shot.”

Gaping, I shuffled Nathan into the car and drove away, later considering all of the things I should have said to the miserable New England redneck. A week later, we were enjoying a meal in an Indian restaurant in the heart of real redneck country, Charleston, South Carolina, when we struck up a conversation with the waiter, a man from Punjab.

“America is beautiful,” he gushed. “In America, it doesn’t matter what color you are or what social class you come from. If you work hard, nobody looks down on you.”