How a Knoxville church shooting changed my life

Political violence, like the mass shooting at a Knoxville church in 2008, hits differently when you are present for it. (Photo: John Partipilo/Tennessee Lookout)

A conservative activist shot and killed at an Utah college campus. A gunman fatally shoots a Minnesota legislator and her husband, and mortally wounds their beloved dog. Judges and legislators increasingly get threats — and in 2020 a judge’s son was murdered when an assailant came to their door. Roughly 140 law enforcement officers were injured in the Jan.  6, 2021, politically-motivated assault on the U.S. Capitol.

Political violence rightly offends us to the core when we read about it. The lessons are stronger and clearer, however, when it directly comes to your life. This happened to me, my wife, and our church congregation on July 27, 2008. 

That day dawned warm and bright as an unemployed truck driver, Jim David Adkisson, put a modified shotgun into a guitar case and drove to Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville. He also had a bag with 76 shells of #4 shot. He was envisioning a massacre, ending in his death in a police standoff.

The gunman’s home held few books, mostly hate-filled ones penned by talk radio hosts. He had scribbled a note that because he could not kill national liberals and Democrats, he’d kill those who voted for them. He had added some homophobic rants to the notes.

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At the church, a special performance was just beginning — Annie Jr., a condensed version of the musical done almost entirely with a child cast. The one exception was my friend and fellow University of Tennessee professor John Bohstedt, chrome-domed and dressed as Daddy Warbucks, waiting for his entrance.

Adkisson entered the church and reached the back of the sanctuary facing the stage. He removed his gun from the guitar case, pointing it toward the pews stage left and in front of him.  Usher Greg McKendry was near the gunman. Some say he was caught off guard. Others say he stepped toward the shooter. Greg’s broad body took most of the first blast, saving many lives — including, very likely, mine.

Like many, my first indication of the attack was an ear-shattering bang. Instinctively, I dove under the pew. On the way down, I caught a glimpse of the gunman — curly gray hair, silver barrel of a gun in hand, eyes fixed and expressionless — a portrait in the ferocious banality of evil.

Adkisson got off another shot before Bohstedt and several others bravely jumped on and restrained the killer. Our congregation had so many heroes in those moments who kept things from getting worse.

My friend Greg McKendry bled out on the cold floor of the church he loved. Linda Kraeger, a visitor from Westside Unitarian Universalist church and there for the play, also died. Six others were seriously injured.

The short- and long-term aftermath from that day revealed many things. The next few days found the fellowship hall filling with flowers and food, messages from around the globe; counselors were available. Police and prosecutors treated us well, and followed a majority sentiment that Adkisson should be convicted and sentenced to a life term so he never again walks freely among civilized people.

The better angels of our nature were on full display at a nearby church for a special service. Congregations from all over Knoxville were there to uplift us Unitarian Universalist survivors.  Two local UU pastors spoke, as did the president of the Unitarian Universalist Association.

At the conclusion, children from the play walked, unannounced, to the center of the altar, accompanied by the music director. They sang “Tomorrow” from Annie. The crowd joined in: swaying, hugging strangers, shouting the chorus to the rafters. Becky and I left the event to a steady rain. I quoted to Becky some lines from the old blues lyric “The Sky is Crying.”

The congregation grew and reclaimed our space. The fellowship hall now is named after Greg McKendry. The church library is named after Linda Kraeger. Minister Chris Buice cooperated with a University of Tennessee sociologist who interviewed Adkisson to assess whether a restorative justice model and contact would work. That sociologist classified the shooter as someone who would use contact as an opportunity to inflict more harm – in this case psychological.

Tragically, each year many more people have a searing personal experience with political violence. It leaves you with a deep understanding of how hate festers. You catch yourself from referencing opponents as enemies. You reach out, when possible, to find common ground. You try your best to criticize ideas, not people. You realize that political violence has many causes and triggers, but that gun safety laws could have a beneficial effect. They won’t stop every shooting, but could stop some — and have the added benefit of reducing gun tragedies from accidents and suicides.

You find yourself encouraging critical thinking, fighting for truth, and resisting a world view that elevates sides over learning. Perhaps moved by the deep recesses of memory, you hug a bit more closely, express joy more freely, retain your sense of humor and whimsy, and mention your love to those you love.