Attacks shatter sense of sanctuary

Houses of worship hit by violence struggle with psychological and spiritual wounds

By William Wan The Washington Post

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WASHINGTON � The youth choir belted out "O Happy Day" as folks trickled in through the church doors. Few noticed the accountant sitting in the back pew, his eyes flickering over each latecomer.

In one hand, he held a Bible. In the other, tucked inside his coat pocket, he gripped a .38 caliber revolver.

He had come to People's Community Baptist Church in Silver Spring, Md., looking for his estranged wife. And once she arrived and began arguing with him outside, the Bible would be forgotten. The gun would be raised. And in a matter of seconds, the congregation's sense of sanctuary would be shattered.

What happened that Sunday morning at People's Church was just one in a string of fatal shootings at houses of worship across the country. The most high-profile incidents � a Kansas abortion doctor gunned down in May, an Illinois pastor shot midsermon in March, a Tennessee church attacked during a children's play in 2008 � have begun to alter the way many churches operate.

Sanctuaries that once left their doors open all day now employ armed guards, off-duty police officers, surveillance cameras and even undercover plainclothes guards who mingle with the congregation.

A small cottage industry of faith-specialized security firms has sprung up almost overnight, offering nervous churches, synagogues and mosques vulnerability assessments, security systems and emergency planning. Many already were on alert for the kind of crimes that have plagued religious institutions for years: churches being burned, synagogues and mosques being desecrated.

People's Church had a security plan in place for its 3,000-member congregation that included off-duty officers hired for traffic and protection. But none of it stopped Kevin Kelly from killing Patricia Ann Simmons Kelly on Feb. 22. And now, like other places of worship shaken by violence, its members are grappling with deep wounds � psychological and spiritual � that have lingered long after the police cars and ambulances pulled away.

Nathaniel Fuller sees the shooting today as clearly as he did seven months ago.

At the time, it seemed like fate that Fuller, a doctor with emergency room experience, had arrived late to church. From across the parking lot, he saw Patricia Kelly talking to her husband, who had just moved out of their Rockville, Md., home.

Tight finances had strained their marriage of nine years, court testimony later revealed, and Kevin Kelly, 53, suspected there was another man, something Patricia's family adamantly denies. All of it led to their argument in the parking lot � and then gunshots.

In the seconds that followed, an off-duty police officer subdued Kevin while Fuller ran to help Patricia. Months later � long after the ambulance rushed her to a hospital, long after the 52-year-old legal secretary was pronounced dead � Fuller found himself constantly replaying this scene in his head. He had lost patients before, but this was different.

He had known this woman, exchanged greetings with her at services for years before her blood came to be smeared on his hands, mouth and suit. Plagued by the vision, Fuller asked to God to restore peace at his church and in his heart. But just as peace seemed within grasp, Kelly's murder trial and conviction last month and his sentencing Friday � life in prison without possibility of parole � have stirred everything back up.

The doctor still doesn't understand why God let Patricia die, why he had placed Fuller so nearby if not to save her.

"I've prayed and asked," Fuller said. "I haven't received an answer yet. I don't know if I ever will."