Long division

CLEVELAND & PHILADELPHIA—In the middle of the bustling Public Square in downtown Cleveland, James Lefeber wore a camouflage hat with the slogan “Make America Great Again” and a visible leg holster with a 9 mm handgun. A friend stood nearby with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

The pair drew attention.

Both men have permits to carry guns in Ohio, and their actions weren’t illegal, even if they carried openly in a crowd of hundreds a half-mile away from the site of the Republican National Convention.

But talk to Lefeber, and he’s more interested in discussing the dangers of raising the minimum wage than the importance of protecting gun ownership. “My parents told me that if I worked hard and got a job I would have what I need,” he says. “But I’m paycheck to paycheck.” Lefeber, 33, has never voted. This fall, the maintenance worker plans to vote for GOP nominee Donald Trump.

Most of the crowd flooded the opposite end of the park, booing five men spewing offensive insults. (One man’s sign read: “Allah is Satan.”) Another man passed by riding a bicycle in a hotdog suit, while a cheerful woman in a red-white-and-blue-sequenced dance costume hoisted an anti-Trump sign: “Make America Hate Again.”

If it sounds like a three-ring circus, it’s one of two that come to select towns every four years.

The presidential nominating conventions for both parties unfolded over two weeks in Cleveland and Philadelphia in late July, and the off-camera moments offered glimpses into the months ahead before the general election.

A major takeaway: Each side believes it has a vital cause, and each side knows it has a vexing candidate. Navigating those waters poses huge challenges for parties with plenty of members still unwilling to get on either boat.

THE AIR-CONDITIONED DINING ROOM of the Hyde Park Prime Steakhouse offered a welcome respite from the hot streets of downtown Cleveland midway through the Republican National Convention.

Glasses clinked and plates brimmed with catered food, but this pro-life celebration was a subdued affair: The crowd clapped politely, and the enthusiasm often seemed tepid.

It wasn’t the cause itself: Marjorie Dannenfelser of the Susan B. Anthony List rehearsed a string of legislative victories in states across the country, and she hailed what she called the most pro-life GOP platform ever.

Another speaker, David Daleiden of The Center for Medical Progress (CMP) talked about his extraordinary year releasing a series of devastating videos showing Planned Parenthood’s trade of aborted baby parts—perhaps one of the most galvanizing pro-life developments in years.

So why the dampened mood?

Dannenfelser’s opening remarks offered a hint at the tension: “We have a pro-life candidate who has selected a great man in Mike Pence.”

It was the first of many references to Trump’s running mate, Indiana Gov. Mike Pence, and the first of many moments when speakers at the podium avoided using Trump’s name.

Tony Perkins of the Family Research Council acknowledged the Trump tension: “We may not be exactly sure what kind of president he will be, but you can be darn sure he’ll be a better president than the alternative.”

It seemed like the heart of the dilemma for many pro-life activists devoting real hours to a real effort that could affect real unborn children: How do they balance their vital cause with a vexing candidate?

Near the back of the room, Daleiden lingered in his trademark trim suit and skinny tie. He won’t endorse a candidate, but he does warn about the Democratic choice: “We know very clearly that Hillary Clinton is the most pro-Planned Parenthood, pro-abortion candidate that we’ve ever seen.”

He underscores how the pendulum could swing if the White House changes hands: “There’s only one thing standing between Planned Parenthood and total defunding right now. And that’s the veto of President Obama.”

For Daleiden, this isn’t armchair politics. The activist spent nearly three years investigating Planned Parenthood and assembling the CMP videos that created a firestorm. He’s spent the last year facing a federal lawsuit from the abortion behemoth and fighting criminal charges in a Texas court related to the videos. (A Texas judge dismissed all charges against Daleiden in late July.)

It’s hard for him to contemplate the movement losing ground: “I think the future of how we treat unborn children and the future of Planned Parenthood as the biggest killer of unborn children—all of that is on the line in this election.”

Dannenfelser agrees. During the primary season, she signed a letter with other pro-life women, urging voters to “support anyone but Donald Trump,” and calling his treatment of women disgusting.

Now that Trump’s the nominee, Dannenfelser says pro-life voters should back him. She says his pledges on Supreme Court nominations helped, and his pick of the pro-life Mike Pence solidified her support. Still, she knows it’s a hard choice for others.

“But I think it presumes upon the future to think that we can disengage now,” she said after the event. “I think it assumes that future generations will somehow bring the [Supreme] Court back in ways that we can’t possibly know. … We have to do the best we can do. … I think that’s where we are.”

That’s not where everyone is at the moment.

From an aging office building in downtown Cleveland, Kendal Unruh mounted an effort to unbind delegates at the convention and offer the opportunity to choose a nominee other than Trump.

The Colorado delegate teaches high-school civics at Jim Elliot Christian School in Englewood, and said she knew months ago she couldn’t support Trump if he became the party’s nominee.

Unruh says Trump’s positions aren’t conservative, but her tipping point came when the nominee publicly mocked a reporter with a physical disability. Unruh’s 6-year-old autistic son died of a heart defect in 1998, and she saw Trump’s insult as an assault on the dignity of life: “It wasn’t just a juvenile tactic to me.”

She worked with another group seeking to unbind delegates, but the effort suffered defeat in a rules committee meeting where Trump staffers and Republican Party officials squashed the momentum. Unruh noted the irony: The Republican establishment Trump once derided helped him silence outside dissent.

Another opportunity at a series of rules changes came to the convention floor on Monday afternoon, but the moderator ruled a voice vote went against those seeking changes. The voice vote wasn’t clear, but when the moderator returned to the floor, he announced that a handful of states that had joined the petition for changes suddenly had withdrawn.

Gary Emineth, a Trump finance committee member, resigned his position over the episode. Though he’s a Trump supporter, Emineth said he stepped down “in protest of the bullying tactics employed by the RNC to silence the voice of delegates.”

Drama continued later in the week, as Sen. Ted Cruz, R-Texas, refused to endorse Trump during a prime-time speech. Instead, he asked Americans to “vote your conscience.” The remark brought a hailstorm of boos from the New York delegation, though others in the arena cheered.

The mini-melee revealed divisions already apparent in the party, and it wasn’t clear Trump’s acceptance speech on Thursday night eased concerns: The system is broken, he said, “and I alone can fix it.”

NEARLY 500 MILES EAST, ANOTHER group of activists discussed strategy of their own.

Members of the gay activist group Equality Forum met in Philadelphia to overlap with the Democratic National Convention. The mood inside the National Museum of American Jewish History was celebratory.

Attendees lined up to meet James Obergefell, the plaintiff in the Supreme Court decision that forced states to recognize gay marriage. Inside the museum across the street from Independence Hall, panels of activists, attorneys, and politicians made their own declaration: Gay rights trump religious freedom.

There’s no room for even a narrow conscience clause if a Christian merchant asks not to participate in a gay wedding. Gautam Raghavan of the advocacy group Gill Foundation put it plainly: “I want to be careful that we don’t say there is a kind of balance between equality and religious freedom.”

Indeed, the panelists spoke about many other fronts: transgender bathroom laws, taking Title IX funding from religious schools that cite exemptions, bringing gay sex education into public schools, and banning so-called “conversion therapy”—a broad prohibition that could ensnare state-licensed Christian counselors helping young persons with unwanted same-sex attractions.

Many of the activists seemed confident Clinton would advance their goals as president, noting she did such work as secretary of state. But Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump didn’t provide much comfort for the other side.

While he promised to appoint conservative Supreme Court justices, Trump hasn’t acknowledged the serious concerns of evangelical merchants and some religious groups who say a legal requirement to participate in gay weddings or provide abortifacient or birth control drugs violates their consciences.

Instead, Trump spoke of easing federal laws so that churches with tax-exempt status could formally endorse candidates—a proposal that doesn’t address the true threats to religious liberty.

Meanwhile, Democrats grappled with divisions of their own: As news broke that hacked emails showed the Democratic Party had apparently worked against Sen. Bernie Sanders, I-Vt., in his primary bid against Clinton, supporters of the socialist senator filled the streets and demanded some form of justice.

Their angst was deep, and many told me they wouldn’t vote for either Clinton or Trump. Scott Bennett, a casino dealer from Las Vegas, flew to Philadelphia to march and support Sanders. He brought a backpack, a hat, and a tent for a week in scorching temperatures.

Bennett fought back tears as he talked about Sanders’ loss. “He’s an actual honest politician,” he said. “It seems like we’re always choosing between the lesser of two evils.”

Even some supporters of Clinton acknowledged that her own email scandal and her reckless mishandling of classified information present a challenge in convincing voters she’s trustworthy.

While Democrats met in the massive Wells Fargo Center, activists of all stripes found a temporary home at Arch Street United Methodist Church across the street from City Hall.

The Gothic cathedral has become a hub for gay rights and left-wing demonstrators over the years. This week, it became headquarters for demonstrators angry at the Democratic Party, angry at police, angry at the political system, or angry about having any kind of formal system at all.

Shannon Gittens, a Long Island resident, identified herself as an anarchist, and described her ideal system: “I think some combination of anarchy and socialism would work best.” She admitted she wasn’t sure how those opposite ideas would work together.

In the church basement, scattered air mattresses and crumpled sleeping bags littered the floor where protesters bedded down with small piles of belongings. In a nearby kitchen, women made meals. A handmade sign in one section advertised the “anarchy corner.”

Upstairs in the church’s 150-year-old sanctuary, members of a group called Democracy Spring practiced techniques for binding themselves together during sit-ins and other protests designed to invite arrest.

On the platform near the front of the sanctuary, the pulpit was hidden behind a blown-up poster of a Time magazine cover with the person of the year: The Protester.

Many of the sometimes-disparate activists seemed to have at least one thing in common: a longing for identity and community.

Though they want to define those terms for themselves, and they often come to deeply unbiblical conclusions, it was striking to see many grasping for meaning in a church that presumably once preached a gospel message of identity in Christ and community in the church.

These days a church bulletin board quotes the verse from Genesis that says God made man “in his own image.” And then it asks, “What do you like most about yourself?”

LESS THAN 5 MILES NORTH, the reality of lawless lives is on display.

On Kensington Avenue, Philly’s toughest neighborhood, men and women line the streets zombielike, visibly high on drugs. A young man rides a bicycle down the road, calling out drugs for sale: “Xanax, Xanax,” he says. Trash litters the streets, heroin deals abound, and prostitutes stand on corners. A storefront on the main drag advertises “XXX.”

Convention attendees wouldn’t see these spots, but Buddy Osborn sees them every day. Osborn grew up in the neighborhood, became a middleweight boxing champion, but eventually spent eight years in jail. He became a Christian and now serves on these streets through Rock Ministries, where he teaches kids how to box and how to follow Christ. (The ministry is also home to a church for dozens from the neighborhood.)

Two doors down, the ministry has rehabbed a former crack house into a home for women who are drug addicts. A similar home will soon open for homeless young men. On a walk through the neighborhood, Osborn sees potential everywhere: “This could be beautiful!” he says about dilapidated buildings.

On the first floor of the women’s home, the ministry has opened a coffee shop with hardwood floors and comfortable chairs. On Tuesday nights, only women are allowed. The space sometimes fills up with prostitutes, who can find Christian kindness and refuge from terrible realities, even if it’s just for a little while.

Osborn doesn’t talk much about political solutions, even during the convention week—a good reminder that while politics are important, they aren’t ultimate. He says until hearts change, lives stay the same. And he says that kind of work lasts more than a week:

“I think when people march—you don’t march for a day. You march for 365 days. Without the cameras. You march because you’re convicted and you believe in something and you love people. You want to be like Christ.”