It was 1999. The air in Fort Worth was still clinging to that late-summer Texas heat. Inside Wedgwood Baptist Church, hundreds of teenagers were shouting lyrics, laughing, and generally being kids. They were celebrating "See You at the Pole," a national day of student prayer.
Then the doors swung open.
A man named Larry Gene Ashbrook walked in. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a jacket he didn't need in that weather. He was carrying a cigarette, which seems like a small detail until you realize he was walking into a Baptist sanctuary. When Jeff Laster, the church's facilities manager, politely asked him to step outside to smoke, Ashbrook didn't argue. He didn't turn around.
He pulled out a 9mm handgun and shot Laster in the stomach.
That was the start of the Wedgwood Baptist Church shooting. For those inside, the next ten minutes were a blur of smoke, screaming, and a confusion so thick it felt like a dream. Many of the kids actually thought it was a skit. They figured it was some high-production drama about persecution.
They were wrong.
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The Chaos Inside the Sanctuary
Ashbrook didn't just have guns; he had pipe bombs. He rolled one down the aisle of the sanctuary. It exploded, sending shrapnel into the pews and filling the room with a localized, terrifying thunder.
Imagine being fourteen years old. You’re at a concert with your friends. Suddenly, a man is pacing the back of the room, yelling that your religion is "bullshit." He’s reloading magazines. He’s firing into the crowd.
The Victims of the Night
Seven people died that night before Ashbrook sat in a back pew and ended his own life. The names of those lost have become a permanent part of the Fort Worth community:
- Kristi Beckel, 14
- Joey Ennis, 14
- Cassie Griffin, 14
- Justin Ray, 17
- Shawn Brown, 23
- Kim Jones, 23
- Sydney Browning, 36
Most of them were just children. Justin Ray was actually filming the event when he was targeted. Sydney Browning was a beloved choir member and staffer who was often the first face people saw when they walked in.
The shooter had no real connection to the church. He had driven past several other churches to get to Wedgwood. Why? Nobody really knows. Investigators later found his home in a state of absolute ruin—he had bashed holes in the walls and poured concrete down the toilets. He was a man consumed by a cocktail of paranoia and deep-seated rage.
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Why the Wedgwood Baptist Church Shooting Still Echoes
If you talk to survivors today, they don’t just talk about the blood. They talk about the "new normal." Stephanie Jones, who lost her daughter Kim, once famously said that time doesn't exactly heal a wound like this—it’s more like losing a limb. You learn to walk again, but you never forget what’s missing.
Honestly, the Wedgwood Baptist Church shooting changed how churches in America look at security. Before 1999, the idea of "church security teams" or "active shooter protocols" in a house of worship felt paranoid. After Wedgwood, and later Sutherland Springs, it became a necessity.
But there’s a nuance here that often gets missed in the headlines.
The church didn't turn into a fortress of fear.
Just days after the massacre, the congregation held a service in that same sanctuary. They didn't wait months. They scrubbed the blood out of the carpet, patched the bullet holes, and sat back down. Pastor Al Meredith told the world they weren't going to "give an inch to the darkness."
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A Legacy of "Martyrdom"
In many evangelical circles, the victims are referred to as martyrs. This isn't just a fancy religious word; it's how the community processed the fact that they were targeted specifically for their faith. Ashbrook’s journals were filled with anti-religious rants. He reportedly mutilated a Bible before the attack.
The Mental Health Angle
We have to talk about Larry Ashbrook’s mental state because it’s a huge part of the "why." He was 47, chronically unemployed, and suffering from what many believe was untreated schizophrenia. He had mailed letters to newspapers claiming he was being framed for murders and watched by the CIA.
This led to the creation of Mental Health Connections in Tarrant County. The city's mayor at the time, Kenneth Barr, pushed for better access to mental health services because it was clear that Ashbrook had fallen through every possible crack in the system.
Actionable Steps for Understanding and Commemoration
If you want to truly understand the impact of this event beyond a Wikipedia summary, there are a few things you can do:
- Visit the Memorial: There is a permanent memorial plaza at the church in Fort Worth. It’s a quiet place, meant for reflection rather than spectacle.
- Watch "Going Home": Kim Jones’ parents released a video of a talk she gave just months before she died. It’s a raw look at the faith that the victims held.
- Research Tarrant County Mental Health Resources: If you’re a local, look into how the tragedy spurred the development of the Family Resource Centers. It’s a tangible way the community tried to prevent a repeat.
- Read "The Light Shines On": Jay Fannin, the youth minister who was in the balcony that night, wrote about the healing process. It’s a better source for the "human" side than any news report.
The Wedgwood Baptist Church shooting remains a heavy chapter in Texas history. It wasn't just a crime; it was a cultural shift. It forced a conversation about safety, faith under fire, and the desperate need for mental health intervention in a way that hadn't happened before.
Today, the church is still there. The people are still there. They’ve grown, they’ve aged, and they’ve welcomed thousands of new members who weren't even alive in 1999. But the memory of that Wednesday night stays—a reminder of both the fragility of life and a community's refusal to be defined by a single act of violence.
To truly honor the history of Wedgwood, one should look at the legislative and social changes regarding church safety and mental health funding that followed the 1999 event. Understanding the timeline of the "See You at the Pole" movement also provides context for why so many youth from different congregations were gathered in one place that night. Locally, the Tarrant County archives hold extensive records of the community response, which remains a benchmark for crisis management in religious settings. Through these resources, the story of Wedgwood moves from a tragedy of the past to a lesson in resilience for the future.