The Quiet Gospel of ‘Pop’: Integrity Without a Megaphone

By LONNIE KING

I don’t know what Gregg Popovich believes about God. I don’t know if he goes to church, if he prays, or even if he’d use the word “faith” to describe his worldview.

But I know what I’ve seen.

And what I’ve seen makes me think we need more people like him in the world—not because of his win percentage, but because of his humanity.

Growing up in Houston, as a fan of the Rockets, it was ingrained in me to hate their I-10 rivals, the San Antonio Spurs. So, I did.

But when Popovich came along, even though his Spurs teams manhandled the Houston Rockets more often than not, I couldn’t find a way to dislike the guy.

At first, I liked Pop for the same reason a lot of people do—he’s funny.

The dry, deadpan interviews. The gloriously short press conferences. The sarcastic banter with sideline reporters.

There are entire YouTube compilations devoted to his one-liners and mock impatience. He plays the irascible old man character so well, it’s hard to tell where the act ends and the real person begins.

But that’s just the surface.

What’s always stayed with me is what’s underneath—the quiet integrity, the moral courage. Popovich doesn’t just coach basketball; he models something a lot more important.

He speaks out when others stay silent. He challenges racism, nationalism, and political cowardice—without checking which way the wind is blowing. He seems deeply committed to treating people like they matter. All people.

He jokes like a grumpy uncle, but he shows up like someone who’s done the soul work.

And whether or not it’s rooted in any specific faith tradition, I find myself thinking: That’s the kind of person I want to be.

The Story That Made Me Write This

The truth is, this post wasn’t planned.

It came from a Facebook scroll.

I was just skimming through social media one night when I came across one of those heartwarming, too-good-to-be-true stories—the kind that usually shows up in your feed with a bunch of emojis, no sources, and 100,000 shares.

You know the type. I’ve even written in other posts about how wary I’ve become of those. Viral stories about kindness and character are often wishful fiction, crafted to make us feel better about the world—whether or not they ever happened.

But this one caught my attention, because it was about Popovich.

It said that when Dejounte Murray was a rookie with the Spurs, his mother had been shot in the leg—and that Pop had tried to move her to San Antonio, using his own money, so she could be closer to her son.

The post claimed that Pop didn’t tell the team, didn’t go through channels, and didn’t even tell Murray until later. He called her himself. Just did it. Quietly. Personally.

I’ll be honest—my first reaction was, “This sounds like something he’d do.”

But I didn’t want to repeat it if it wasn’t true.

So, I went looking. And sure enough, the story is real. In a June 2025 podcast appearance, Murray himself told the full version: his mom had been shot during his rookie year. He was still finding his way in the league.

And behind the scenes, Gregg Popovich—who barely knew him at that point—was doing everything he could to take care of him like family. Not just as a player. But as a person.

“That was a man who cared about me. That was a man who wanted me to reach my full potential in life first—then as a basketball player… He called her himself—without me knowing until after the fact. ‘We want to move you here. No—not with his money, with my money.’”

It wasn’t public. It wasn’t performative. It was personal. And it told me everything I needed to know about who Gregg Popovich really is.

The Ones Who Just Live It

It’s rare to see someone with a platform use it this way.

We live in a world where public figures are constantly talking—about their values, their convictions, their personal brand. The volume is turned up high. The substance?  Not always.

A lot of public morality feels like performance. Statements crafted by PR teams. Apologies that sound more like damage control than growth. And when it comes to faith, especially in America, it’s often even worse.

That’s part of why this story resonated.

Because Popovich didn’t post about helping Murray’s mom. He didn’t tell reporters. He didn’t slap a slogan on a T-shirt or ask for credit. He just did it. Because it was the right thing to do.

And honestly, I’m finding more and more that the people who most reflect the kind of life Jesus called people to live aren’t the ones quoting scripture or posting Bible verses online. They’re the ones quietly showing up, standing up, and caring deeply—whether or not anyone’s watching.

That matters to me.

Because I’m still someone who wants to live like Jesus. I still believe in grace and compassion and speaking truth to power. But I don’t want to be associated with the version of religion that shouts about Jesus while ignoring the people he told us to care about.

I’ve seen too much of that. Maybe you have, too.

So when I see someone like Popovich—someone who leads with courage, protects the vulnerable, speaks truth even when it costs him, and shows up with compassion that isn’t performative—I take notice.

He may never use the language of faith. But he lives with a kind of integrity that feels sacred to me.

And honestly? That’s the kind of gospel I’m trying to live, too.

A Life That Leaves a Mark

Gregg Popovich recently stepped away from coaching, not because he stopped caring, but because his health finally caught up with him.

The man who spent decades stalking the sideline with arms crossed and brows furrowed—the same man who built the Spurs into one of the most respected organizations in all of sports—had to listen to his body.

And as much as the stats and trophies tell one version of his Hall of Fame story, his retirement press conference told another—one that is more important.

It wasn’t just the media who showed up. It was former players, assistants, executives—people from all corners of his career.

And when they spoke, it wasn’t about the wins. It wasn’t about the dynasty. It was about him. About who he was as a man. About how he treated people. About how he made them better—not just at basketball, but at being human.

There was warmth. There was laughter. There was real affection. And not the kind you’re obligated to show when someone retires. The kind that comes from having been deeply, genuinely impacted by someone’s presence in your life.

I don’t know what the future holds for Pop. I know he’s still sharp, still fiery, still deeply respected. But I also know he’s navigating a season where his health has changed the way he moves through the world. And so, I find myself praying (yes, I still do that):

• I pray for his health to hold up.
• I pray that his voice will still carry weight, even if he’s no longer pacing a sideline.
• I pray that the legacy he’s lived will ripple out into locker rooms, boardrooms, and dinner tables—wherever people still need to see what quiet integrity and real leadership look like.

But mostly?

I pray that I might be a little bit more like him.

Not loud. Not performative. Just steady. Honest. Courageous.

A person who doesn’t just talk about what’s right—but tries to live it. And, not because I’m trying to earn my ticket to heaven, but because it’s how any of us should want to be on Earth.

Just One More Thought

I didn’t expect to write about Gregg Popovich this week.

But maybe that’s the point. The people who quietly make the world better don’t usually demand the spotlight—they just leave a trail of decency behind them.  And maybe randomly stumbling across a story that reminds you of that decency is the best prompt for a writer.

Either way, Pop’s story reminded me that the kind of faith I want to live doesn’t always come with answers, or creeds, or carefully worded belief statements. Sometimes it just looks like showing up for someone. Speaking up when it counts. Making a phone call that changes a life.

It reminded me that maybe grace doesn’t need a pulpit—and that integrity and love don’t need a megaphone.

And if someone like Gregg Popovich can walk through the world that way, maybe I can, too.

Grace and grit to you!  — LK