The good, the sad, and the ugly

In many ways, my year of covering the 2016 presidential elections began in July 2015 on a rutted, dirt road in northern Nigeria.

I was covering Boko Haram’s ravaging of Christian communities in the country’s beleaguered Northeast, and I had spent days walking through the ash heaps of churches burned by extremists and sitting in hospital rooms with crippled widowers who lost limbs and wives because they refused to renounce Christ.

Meanwhile, a quiet question kept surfacing in conversations with Christian leaders in the area: Could this suffering have been lessened if the United States had intervened sooner?

It would become one of the largely ignored themes of the 2016 presidential campaign: Did Hillary Clinton’s State Department delay declaring Boko Haram a terrorist organization because of wealthy Nigerian donors to the Clinton Foundation charity? Did that delay cost Christians and others their lives?

As the sun set over a town recently occupied by Islamist terrorists, I didn’t think about presidential politics as a group of Nigerian Christians held choir practice in the crumbling hull of a torched church. I just listened as believers in brightly colored dresses clapped, swayed, beat drums, and sang praises to the Lord in a literal pile of ashes and destruction.

I realized these often-unseen Christians were teaching a lesson worthy of displaying to the rest of the world and certainly to comfortable believers in the United States: how the joy of the Lord is our strength, even when the days seem darkest.

WHEN THE 2016 PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGN LAUNCHED LAST SUMMER, the days didn’t seem so dark to many conservatives.

The GOP field included an upbeat senator from Florida, a retired neurosurgeon from inner-city Detroit, a Texas senator willing to stare down foes, the former CEO of a Fortune 500 company, and the wonky-but-likable brother of former President George W. Bush. Trump seemed like an anomaly.

But that was his strength.

During a Trump event in Greenville, S.C., in August 2015, I asked a woman in the lobby why she liked Trump: “Because I’m tired of standing in line at Walmart behind Mexicans—and you know they’re illegal.” Another man told me he didn’t know exactly what Trump would do—but he knew he’d get it done.

Other Trump supporters were just weary. Some were small-business owners with too many regulations, veterans with too few services, unemployed citizens with too little work, and retirees worried about staying afloat. They didn’t trust the system anymore.

At the rally, Trump was short on specifics. He asked a bystander to tug his hair to prove it was real. He talked about building a “big, beautiful” border wall, and the kinds of Mexicans he likes. He bragged about his money, his temperament, and his blood pressure.

He painted a worst-case scenario without him: “We’re not going to have a country anymore.” But with Trump: “If I become president you are going to be so proud, and you are going to be the happiest people in the world.”

For some Americans, happiness dimmed a month later, when The Center for Medical Progress released a series of undercover videos showing Planned Parenthood staffers haggling over the price of unborn baby parts and picking through aborted remains in a petri dish.

The videos electrified pro-life proponents and thrust one GOP candidate into the spotlight. At the second GOP primary debate, former Hewlett-Packard CEO Carly Fiorina appeared incensed over the videos. “I dare Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama to watch these tapes,” Fiorina said. “Watch a fully formed fetus on the table, its heart beating, its legs kicking, while someone says, ‘We have to keep it alive to harvest its brain.’”

It was one of the most graphic descriptions of abortion uttered on a political stage in years, and it made pro-life concerns a centerpiece in presidential politics—at least for a few months.

In September, Fiorina visited the Carolina Pregnancy Center in Spartanburg, S.C., and I experienced a campaign-trail first: a live ultrasound. A dozen reporters and Fiorina crammed into a brightly painted exam room, while a doctor moved an ultrasound probe across the bare belly of client Lacey Thomas.

The room fell silent when the doctor turned up the sound of the baby boy’s insistent heartbeat: “THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD.”

It was a shining, worthy moment in a campaign that would grow wearisome in the coming weeks.

Over the course of the year, Trump would use personal insults to belittle GOP opponents and others who crossed him. At a Trump rally in Rock Hill, S.C., in January, the candidate pointed at those of us sitting in the media pen near the stage: “What miserable people.” Some in the crowd hailed down boos, taunts, and profanity.

In February, I traveled to Atlantic City and saw firsthand how Trump and other gambling moguls had succeeded in casino businesses for a while, but then left many local residents (and some local contractors) drained and beleaguered when expensive casinos tanked.

I read and reported on Trump’s statements about his personal life. In crude terms, he bragged about sleeping with “the top women in the world,” whether married or unmarried. And he shared one of the secrets of his success: “I play to people’s fantasies.”

Meanwhile, Democrats were having a contest of their own. Former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton seemed stunned when a 74-year-old independent senator from Vermont captured the devoted enthusiasm of young voters and packed arenas with thousands.

Part of Bernie Sanders’ appeal was his willingness to make his case to anyone. In September 2015, I traveled to Liberty University in Lynchburg, Va., to hear Sanders address the evangelical student body at a convocation service.

It seemed like the most unlikely place for a pro-abortion socialist who identifies as an unobservant Jew to spend valuable campaign time. But Sanders quietly listened as the crowd of 12,000 students energetically sang the Christian creed: “I believe in God our Father, I believe in Christ the Son. …”

When Sanders spoke, a group of supporters from outside the school cheered, but thousands of Christian students sat quietly and calmly as the senator described a vast, socialist vision. No boos. No heckling. No outbursts.

Months later, the school would face division over President Jerry Falwell Jr.’s endorsement of Trump during the primary season, but on this crisp, fall morning, the student body demonstrated how to respond to someone they disagreed with: soberly, respectfully, and without panic.

For some, panic did seem to creep in after Trump and Clinton clinched their parties’ nominations. Clinton’s later-than-expected victory over Sanders came as the FBI investigated her use of a private email server during her time as secretary of state.

FBI Director James Comey concluded her conduct was “extremely careless” but not criminal. Later emails would suggest the State Department pressured the FBI to declassify certain emails in what an FBI official called a quid pro quo.

During the spring, WORLD published its investigation into the Clinton Foundation: Evidence suggested Clinton’s State Department may have delayed declaring Boko Haram a terrorist organization because of wealthy Nigerian donors.

Meanwhile, Clinton launched her bid as the presumptive Democratic nominee at Planned Parenthood and reiterated her call to allow federal funds to pay for millions of abortions for the first time in 40 years.

AS SUMMER BEGAN, an amazing reality set in: America’s two major political parties were about to nominate two profoundly troubling candidates whom many Americans said they didn’t trust. For some Christians, the choice felt like a judgment as much as a dilemma.

Summer brought the usually festive political conventions, but the mood this year seemed more like apprehension than celebration.

The dynamic turned grim days before the Republican National Convention began in Cleveland, Ohio, as a sniper in Dallas slaughtered five police officers patrolling a demonstration over police shootings of black men in a handful of cities. A sniper in Baton Rouge, La., killed three more officers.

Still, police filled the city’s central square to patrol daily protests. A handful of demonstrators calling themselves “Bible Believers” told the crowd Jesus had “a pressure cooker for every dead Muslim.”

As other men screamed—and the crowd screamed back—Carl Breidenich stood quietly across the square next to a sign that read, “How can I pray for you?”

The Dallas resident drove 18 hours to offer prayer and gospel conversations to passersby during the convention. He handed out ice-cold bottles of water on a blistering afternoon, and he prayed for the handful that asked. “I’m not here for any candidate,” said Breidenich. “The only agenda I have is Jesus.”

It was perhaps a simplistic notion in a political environment, but it would become meaningful to Christians struggling with the candidates on the ballot. At a pro-life reception a day later, evangelical leaders barely mentioned Trump as they talked about the importance of the upcoming election.

A few days later, the Democratic National Convention started in Philadelphia with something akin to Biblical plagues: First, there was heat. (The heat index reached 105 degrees.)

Then a torrential rainstorm caught scores in security lines outside the arena and flooded the media tent.

Next came the gridlock. Just as the rain started, traffic screeched to a halt, and police shut down busy subway entrances over security concerns near the arena.

Finally, the blisters came. Mine started in Cleveland, but reached a peak in Philadelphia, where I wrapped my toes each morning and drained them each night. One Bernie Sanders supporter showed me the bottom of her right sandal: It had melted as she stood on the scorching pavement for hours. Her foot was burned.

So was her spirit. Sanders supporters were dismayed over the DNC email leak just before the convention started that showed the Democratic Party actively worked against Sanders in the primary season. The Gothic cathedral of Arch Street United Methodist Church filled with disillusioned citizens talking about their next steps, but knowing they didn’t have many.

In the soaring sanctuary, a group preached a gospel of nonviolent protest, but a true gospel of identity in Christ and community in the church was nowhere to be found.

My experience on the campaign trail showed me afresh that a broken world deeply hungers for the kind of fidelity and fellowship only a vibrant church can provide.

I would come to see this moment and others as an example of the great opportunity for Christ-centered churches, no matter who wins the election: fidelity to the Bible as life-giving truth and faithfulness to the church as a life-sustaining community.

Many people I met on the campaign trail in 2016 seemed to cry out for this at every turn, even if they were unwilling to accept the gospel gift—at least for now.

One Sanders supporter, Scott Bennett, had flown in from Las Vegas to march with Sanders supporters. He looked exhausted.

When he explained his interest in Sanders, he choked up. “He’s an actual honest politician,” Bennett said. Sanders’ defeat was dejecting. “He has empathy for others,” Bennett said as he leaned on his sleeping bag. “It just always feels like we’re choosing between the lesser of two evils.”

VOTERS ON BOTH SIDES had begun to feel that way, including some Christians dismayed by their choices. Other Christians were dismayed by Trump critics, and said supporting the difficult candidate was the only way to mitigate Democratic damage.

I received emails saying I would have abortions on my hands for pointing out problems with Trump and the Republican Party. Another said God condemns my behavior.

On the other side, after I described gay activists’ plans to use the Democratic Party as a vehicle for a far-reaching and disturbing agenda, someone on Twitter told me he hoped there was a hell because people like me would go straight to it.

It was a small taste of the deluge other journalists endured, but when the emails came from fellow Christians, they wove an unsettling thread: We were starting to see the worst in each other, assume the worst about each other, and accuse each other of the worst.

When a new videotape emerged in October showing Trump bragging about not only sexual sin, but a form of sexual assault, WORLD editors decided to say what we thought: We hoped Trump would step aside and give another candidate a chance to represent conservative causes in the fast-approaching election.

We knew it would encourage some, anger others, and dismay many, even though we weren’t declaring how readers should vote. We were essentially saying: Good people disagree on this. Here’s what we think.

It did make me ponder how often well-meaning Christians could come to such a drastically different opinion. In many ways, it’s because the candidates offer such an agonizing choice.

But it also reminded me of Acts Chapter 15, where Paul and Barnabas had a sharp disagreement over a course of ministry. The Bible doesn’t tell us who was right or wrong in that disagreement, but it does commend the ministry and sincerity of both men.

My prayer has become that this disagreement won’t cause Christians to part ways, even though it’s a painful breach. My experience on the campaign trail showed me afresh that a broken world deeply hungers for the kind of fidelity and fellowship only a vibrant church can provide. I hope we stick together.

Thankfully, that depends on Christ and not us because in Him “all things hold together.”

I’m so thankful the believers in northern Nigeria were teaching me that over a year ago when I saw Christians from many different denominations packing churches for prayer meetings and looking for ways to serve their needy communities. Some told me they hadn’t worked together this way before their great suffering, but they were glad they were doing it now.

Sometimes I still sneak a peek at a picture I took of a banner in the makeshift shelter of a church bombed and burned by Boko Haram last year: “We are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.”