Church’s new building begins ‘to feel like home’ after message
Sutherland Springs dedication was ‘costly’ to members but showed ‘evil never wins’
SUTHERLAND SPRINGS — Karla Holcombe used to walk methodically through a weedy plot of land neighboring the old First Baptist Church building and pray it would one day be used.
“I pray for our little church. I ask you to deliver the empty lot next door into the hands of your church,” she wrote in neat, cursive writing three years before she died.
Sarah Slavin, her daughter, found those writings in a spiral notebook on her mom’s nightstand months after Holcombe, 58, died in the Nov. 5, 2017, mass shooting at the Sutherland Springs church that took 26 lives, including that of an unborn child.
On Sunday, her late mother’s wishes came true when the church opened a $3 million building on that very lot, feet away from the old sanctuary that was converted into a memorial for the people who died. The new church was donated to the congregation by the North American Mission Board and designed for free by Myrick, Gurosky & Associates. Visible off Highway 87, it’s now the tallest building in the 600-population town.
Texas religious leaders and
Sen. John Cornyn and Gov. Greg Abbott attended Sunday’s public dedication, held after the congregation’s private services for their tight-knit community.
“It’s like a new beginning. It’s fulfilling my mom’s prayers,” said John Holcombe, Karla Holcombe’s son. In addition to losing his mother, he also lost three children and his pregnant wife in the 2017 shooting. “And it honors those that went ahead of us beautifully.”
Entering the clean, offwhite church with long windows that stretch to the ceiling, there’s a wooden cross to the left, draped in a piece of white silk. It had been hanging behind the altar at the original church on the day of the shooting.
To the right is the memorial room, with its wall filled with plaques and photos representing the 26 victims. In the corner, there’s a bouquet of gold-dipped roses — all colored red except for one small pink one for Carlin Brite “Billy Bob” Holcombe, the unborn child. Also in the room is a large framed photo of the old church with a rainbow arcing from the sky to its roof.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Deborah Braden, whose husband was killed in the shooting, said in the memorial room before morning services.
A crane lifted a large American flag into the air as the ceremonies began. Evelyn Hill, John Holcombe’s energetic 8-year-old daughter, abandoned her pink rain boots and played on the seats.
In the private morning ceremony before the main event, Pastor Frank Pomeroy spoke about the joys of having a new building and the price they had to pay for it.
“The dedication has been costly to may of us — physically, mentally, emotionally. And for 26 of our precious friends and family, it cost them everything,” Pomeroy said.
He said the building is “just brick, stone, wood, glass” and the real church is “the people, the heart of the people.”
“I have been blessed as a pastor to be amongst a bunch of people who chose not to look to into themselves but to look beyond themselves to others,” Pomeroy said at the pulpit.
Sherri Pomeroy, his wife, spoke about Karla Holcombe, who was also her best friend. She recounted how Karla Holcombe would walk the tall weeds of the empty lot and pray to God that one day it be theirs.
“We’re not sure, but maybe the very last day she prayed for this land was on Nov. 5th,” Sherri Pomeroy said. “Maybe God then said to her: ‘Are you ready Karla?’”
On Friday and Saturday, the church’s security team practiced active shooter training in the church. They learned how to use flashlights to disarm attackers and developed defense tactics based on the shape and structure of the new building.
The team, made up of volunteer congregants, was formed after the mass shooting.
In addition to the security team, the new building was designed to prevent another shooting, with security features such as additional cameras and keyed access.
But the new sanctuary was off-putting to some of the members.
Julie Workman, a survivor of the shooting, said it felt too different. She said she mourned for the old church on Saturday.
“We’ve made no memories in here. It’s very stark. And until we start having memories, it’s not going to feel like our church,” she said.
“In the old building, we always felt comfortable putting duct tape on the walls, nailing holes in the ceiling, decorating it however we felt. But in this building, I don’t have that comfort yet,” Workman said.
The service was somber but lighthearted, too. At one point, Pomeroy remembered to put on his glasses and exclaimed, “Hey! I can see now! Hey, there’s people here!” evoking a chuckle from the congregation. At another point, he sneezed and remarked as the audience shouted “bless you”: “I don’t think I’ve ever sneezed at the pulpit. I don’t even know where I was at now — Oh, the Gospel!”
As the hour hand of the beige-and-blue wall clock — the words “Love Never Fails” below it — struck 11, the survivors and victim’s family members were joined by hundreds of others, who poured into the church sanctuary for the public dedication.
“It’s overwhelming,” said Neil Johnson, who lost both of his parents in the massacre and now sings in the choir. “I liked the first service because it was just us, but now all the big-wigs are here, and I’m nervous.”
Between the two ceremonies, coffee with a dove crafted in the white, frothy milk and over 1,000 doughnuts were served.
“There’s lots of faces I don’t know,” Julie Workman said. “And after what happened … that makes me nervous.”
The worship team’s first song during the dedication was “It Is Well With My Soul.” As the music reverberated in the high-ceilinged sanctuary, parishioners rose their hands in praise, sang and dabbed their eyes with tissues or their sleeves.
Mark Collins, the church’s associate pastor, listed the names of those who died one by one, each with a toll from the bell in the tower.
Farida Brown, a survivor who moved to Houston after the shooting, had returned for the ceremony and sobbed into her friend’s arms. Jennifer Holcombe broke down when the names of her husband and 1-year-old daughter were called.
Family members of the dead stood up from their seats as their loved one’s name was called, vulnerable and resilient.
“Let us stand,” said Collins. “As love never fails and evil never wins.”
The morning services echoed louder in the large sanctuary than they had in the small, clapboard church. But its larger size allows it to seat over 250 people, allowing room for a congregation has more than doubled since Nov. 5, 2017.
“Yesterday, it was a building,” Johnson said. “But today, with all of us here, it’s starting to feel like home.”