On a brisk October afternoon in Port Moody, British Columbia, a group of men, women, and children gathered outside St. Joseph’s Church, holding pro-life placards as part of the annual Life Chain event. For an hour, they stood in silent, prayerful witness, their cardboard signs fluttering in the autumn breeze. The event, held on October 4, 2025, was meant to be a peaceful demonstration of faith and conviction. Yet, it unfolded against a backdrop of rising tension and visible hostility from passersby, a microcosm of the broader debates and divisions shaping religious and political life across North America.
The Life Chain participants, organized by Terry O’Neill—a local advocate and board member of the pro-life nonprofit Life Compass—found themselves the target of angry outbursts from motorists. One black car roared past, the driver shouting, “Garbage. Absolute f---ing garbage.” According to O’Neill, this was not the first insult hurled at the group that afternoon, nor would it be the last. Still, the group maintained its composure, responding only with silence and prayer. O’Neill later reflected, “It occurred to me that every one of the epithet-hurlers was opening a form of dialogue. Our response—silent, peaceful, and prayerful—must have frustrated them. Or maybe it gave them pause to reflect.”
Such moments of confrontation and reflection are hardly unique to Port Moody. Across North America, faith-based activism has become increasingly visible—and increasingly contentious. The debates over abortion, euthanasia, and the intersection of faith and politics have grown sharper, echoing in church parking lots, city streets, and even the halls of power in Washington, D.C. The Life Chain’s experience of hostility and support on the sidewalk is mirrored by a much larger debate within American Christianity itself, one that has come to the fore in recent months.
In October 2025, The Dispatch published an in-depth article examining the concept of so-called “MAGA Christianity”—a term used to describe the blending of conservative evangelical faith with the populist, anti-establishment politics associated with former President Donald Trump and his supporters. The article, written by contributing writer Paul D. Miller, used the recent funeral of conservative activist Charlie Kirk as a lens through which to explore the theological and political rifts dividing American Christians.
Kirk’s September funeral, the article notes, became a stage for two starkly different versions of Christianity. One, as exemplified by Kirk’s widow Erika, was “rooted in the gospel, in forgiveness and love.” The other, embodied by political figures such as Donald Trump and Jack Posobiec, was “rooted in justice, vengeance, and anger.” The contrast was not lost on observers. As Miller wrote, “It was clear to many observers that Charlie Kirk’s funeral last month put on display two versions of Christianity.”
This schism, Miller argues, is not new. It echoes the centuries-old divide between the Magisterial and Radical Reformations—two movements that shaped the landscape of Protestant Christianity. The Magisterial Reformation, led by figures like Martin Luther and John Calvin, was institutional, intellectual, and closely linked to state power. The Radical Reformation, on the other hand, was populist, bottom-up, and often anti-establishment, giving rise to denominations like the Baptists and Mennonites. According to Miller, “MAGA Christianity is merely the latest example: You hear the Radical Reformation every time a MAGA figure rails against ‘elites’ and ‘the establishment.’”
The Dispatch article goes further, warning of the dangers inherent in this populist, emotionally charged strain of Christianity. It points to the risk of political tribalism and the temptation to conflate religious identity with partisan allegiance. Miller cautions, “MAGA Christianity is populist, anti-elitist, bottom-up, and fueled by emotion more than ideas. It is driven by charismatic movements… not the old, established denominations.” Yet, he also notes that both the Magisterial and Radical traditions have their strengths and weaknesses, and that each, when divorced from the other, can go astray. “Neither the Magisterial nor the Radical does well without the other. Neither the Radicals nor the Magisterium are necessarily heretics—but a heretical impulse lies within each.”
Back in Port Moody, the Life Chain event concluded on a note of hope. Near the end of the hour, an elderly man on a mobility scooter approached the group. At first, organizer Terry O’Neill braced for another confrontation. Instead, the man shared his story: he had been raised Baptist and supported the group’s stand against abortion and euthanasia. “If abortion had been legal in England when my mother was pregnant, I surely would not be here today,” he told them. “I’m glad I’m alive. Thank you for what you’re doing.” For O’Neill and the other participants, it was a reminder that their witness—however contested—could have a quiet, lasting impact.
The Life Chain’s experience of both hostility and support speaks to the broader challenge facing faith communities today: how to bear public witness to deeply held beliefs in a society marked by increasing polarization, suspicion, and even anger. The Dispatch’s examination of MAGA Christianity highlights the perils of allowing political identity to overshadow the core tenets of faith—love, forgiveness, and humility. As Miller writes, “If we are to judge them by their fruits, then it is fair game to observe that MAGA Christianity is a movement that shouts, ‘We are on the side of God!’ while joking about hating your enemies.”
Yet, as recent events have shown, acts of forgiveness and compassion can still break through the noise. In the aftermath of violence and loss, communities have come together to support victims and even the families of perpetrators. According to The Dispatch, after a tragic shooting at a Latter-day Saint church, members of the faith raised over $380,000 for the widow and son of the perpetrator—a gesture praised by commentators as a sign that “a nation that produces such acts of such love is a nation that still has life. It’s a nation that still has hope.”
As the hour-long Life Chain ended outside St. Joseph’s Church, O’Neill thanked the participants for their courage and faith. “We may never know what impact our witness had,” he reflected, “but we can be confident that when we put faith into action, good must surely flourish.” Whether on a sidewalk in Port Moody or at a national memorial in Washington, the struggle to reconcile faith, politics, and public life continues. The challenge for religious communities—and indeed, for the nation as a whole—is to find a way forward that honors conviction while fostering genuine dialogue, compassion, and hope.