Last night before I went to sleep, I heard the news of a church shooting in Charleston, South Carolina. In my newsfeed, I read the words “multiple victims, multiple fatalities” and my heart sank. I didn’t click any of the links. I couldn’t. Not until this morning when I was more prepared to process what had happened.
Before learning of the massacre, I had just gotten home from midweek Bible class with my own children. Two hours earlier, we had just been sitting in an old church building in separate rooms studying with our respective teachers. Aside from wondering if the boys had remembered to bring their homework, they were far from my thoughts.
Why? We did this every Wednesday. We walk from the parking lot into the halls toward our classes. We say a casual “See you later” mixed with a “Don’t run in this building.” We meet an hour later when classes are dismissed, say a few goodbyes to friends and my parents, catch up with a few other families and we leave. That’s it. That’s our routine and likely the routine of many midweek bible class attendees, including the members of Emanuel AME Church in Charleston.
Last night changed that. Someone had walked into that bible class and opened fire on the members, killing them at random while they worshipped. How was this possible? Who would do that?
I suppose once you decide to murder innocent people choosing which is the appropriate setting in which to commit the crime is beside the point.
But the church? A place whose very existence is built upon the premise of restoration.
The church. Their hallowed ground. Members and their pastor murdered in their church.
That’s the part that I can’t get past.
In their church. The place where come for peace, direction and edification.
Their church. That’s the part that keeps the tears coming.
That and the reminder of all the times I’ve wandered aimlessly round the church building never thinking that danger could be lurking from someone with the worst intentions.
Oh, the anguish of every member when the first shot rang out! What must they have thought as the processed confusion followed by the realization that some evil person was firing at their members, including dear friends and relatives, in another part of their building?
That’s why I didn’t watch the news last night. I couldn’t. It was too much to process. Too close to my own reality. I wanted church massacres to remain an unimaginable thing that was far, far away from my thoughts.
It breaks my heart that houses of worship, like schools, are no longer places where safety can be assumed. Nope. Not anymore.
Now off to watch more this devastating news even though I don’t want to.
Before learning of the massacre, I had just gotten home from midweek Bible class with my own children. Two hours earlier, we had just been sitting in an old church building in separate rooms studying with our respective teachers. Aside from wondering if the boys had remembered to bring their homework, they were far from my thoughts.
Why? We did this every Wednesday. We walk from the parking lot into the halls toward our classes. We say a casual “See you later” mixed with a “Don’t run in this building.” We meet an hour later when classes are dismissed, say a few goodbyes to friends and my parents, catch up with a few other families and we leave. That’s it. That’s our routine and likely the routine of many midweek bible class attendees, including the members of Emanuel AME Church in Charleston.
Last night changed that. Someone had walked into that bible class and opened fire on the members, killing them at random while they worshipped. How was this possible? Who would do that?
I suppose once you decide to murder innocent people choosing which is the appropriate setting in which to commit the crime is beside the point.
But the church? A place whose very existence is built upon the premise of restoration.
The church. Their hallowed ground. Members and their pastor murdered in their church.
That’s the part that I can’t get past.
In their church. The place where come for peace, direction and edification.
Their church. That’s the part that keeps the tears coming.
That and the reminder of all the times I’ve wandered aimlessly round the church building never thinking that danger could be lurking from someone with the worst intentions.
Oh, the anguish of every member when the first shot rang out! What must they have thought as the processed confusion followed by the realization that some evil person was firing at their members, including dear friends and relatives, in another part of their building?
That’s why I didn’t watch the news last night. I couldn’t. It was too much to process. Too close to my own reality. I wanted church massacres to remain an unimaginable thing that was far, far away from my thoughts.
It breaks my heart that houses of worship, like schools, are no longer places where safety can be assumed. Nope. Not anymore.
Now off to watch more this devastating news even though I don’t want to.
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