Charleston Church Shooting

A Wednesday Night at Mother Emanuel

Summer in Charleston can feel slow and heavy, the kind of air that lingers into the evening, carrying old stories through the city’s historic streets. Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, known to many simply as Mother Emanuel, sits at 110 Calhoun Street—a sanctuary built on nearly two centuries of faith, struggle, and community resilience. For its congregation, June 17, 2015 started like so many other Wednesdays: open doors, a welcoming spirit, and Bible study in the basement fellowship hall.

There was no sense, as the regulars gathered that evening, that their church—the oldest Black AME congregation in the South, a birthplace of civil rights activism—was about to become the ground zero for a tragedy that would reverberate far beyond Charleston.

The Stranger Among Them

Just after 8 p.m., a thin young man with a bowl haircut and pale complexion slipped into the church. He was not familiar to the group—mostly older women, a few men, and the pastor, Rev. Clementa Pinckney, who wore multiple hats as both spiritual leader and a state senator. The stranger was Dylann Roof, 21, newly arrived but rarely noticed until much later.

He was quiet, unremarkable, almost shy as he took a seat and accepted a Bible from one of the congregants. He listened as they read scripture and spoke about faith and forgiveness. For an hour, he was simply another person in the circle.

But all the while, in Roof’s backpack, a .45-caliber Glock 41 handgun waited. Roof had purchased it legally two months earlier, thanks to a flaw—later called the "Charleston loophole"—in the FBI’s background check system. Unknown to the church that night, he had studied their congregation for weeks, driven by a hatred sharpened by online propaganda and white supremacist ideology.

The Attack

As the study session neared its end, the small group joined hands in prayer. Roof stood with them, head bowed. Then, without warning, he drew his gun and began to shoot.

The horror that unfolded—later described through the eyes of survivors—lasted only minutes but left a permanent mark. Roof reloaded five times, methodically targeting his victims. He spoke between shots, telling them he had to do this, that Black people were “taking over the country.” It was hate, spoken and acted upon in its purest, deadliest form.

Nine people were killed, among them Rev. Pinckney, church staffers, longtime members, and pillars of their families. Felicia Sanders, one of three survivors, watched her 26-year-old son Tywanza—who reportedly tried to shield his aunt—die on the blue-and-beige carpet. Roof paused when he reached Polly Sheppard, telling her he would leave one person alive “to tell the story.”

At 9:11 p.m., 911 calls began pouring in. The shooter was gone, having slipped quietly into the night and driven away.

Shockwaves: A Community and a Nation in Grief

The impact was immediate. Within hours, Charleston’s streets filled with police lights, helicopters, and the quiet wailing of those arriving at the church, desperate for word that their loved ones had survived. For many Black Charlestonians, it was more than a personal loss. Mother Emanuel is a symbol—of hope in the darkest chapters of Southern history, from slavery and the Civil War through civil rights marches and present-day struggles.

Now, the sacred space had been violated by someone who had picked it precisely for what and whom it represented.

The Hunt for a Killer

A manhunt swept across state lines. Roof’s face—expressionless and haunted—appeared on news networks, his car’s license plate scattered across social media. Overnight, authorities traced him to Shelby, North Carolina, where a tip from a local florist led police to pull him over the next morning. He surrendered without resistance.

Inside Roof’s belongings and, soon after, in an online manifesto, investigators found no ambiguity: the killer had stewed in digital hate, obsessed over apartheid South Africa, burning with the ambition of sparking a “race war.” He had specifically targeted Emanuel AME, knowing its history as a bedrock for Black resistance.

Mourning and Resolve

As the nation tried to comprehend the horror, Charleston grieved in public—mourning outside the now crime scene-taped church, holding vigils that blended prayer with protest. The phrase “Charleston Strong” appeared on t-shirts, banners, candlelit posters. Even President Barack Obama—himself no stranger to addressing national tragedies—delivered Rev. Pinckney’s eulogy days later, leading the gathered voices in singing “Amazing Grace.”

Funerals followed, one after another: a heartbreaking procession of loss. The church, after cleaning and preparations, resumed services the next Sunday. Survivors and families, shattered by pain, showed a remarkable if complicated forgiveness—even offering it directly to Roof during his first court hearing.

Searching for Answers—And Accountability

The shock of what happened quickly turned to anger and questions. Why was Roof able to buy a gun, despite a recent drug arrest? The answer pointed to a breakdown in the National Instant Criminal Background Check System, which could not access the right records in time. If the system had worked as intended, the sale would have been denied.

This gap became known as the "Charleston loophole," and calls to close it grew. Lawmakers argued over fixes but, as of 2024, the loophole still exists in many states.

Meanwhile, another symbol came under fierce scrutiny: the Confederate battle flag, which had flown on South Carolina's statehouse grounds for more than half a century. The flag, seen by some as “heritage,” was irreversibly tainted for many by its link to the killer’s white supremacist beliefs. Weeks after the shooting, with the world watching, the flag was removed.

The Long Recovery

The costs of the shooting went far beyond the deaths. The survivors carried wounds both visible and deep inside—nightmares and memories of gunfire echoing beneath stained-glass windows. The church faced the immediate aftermath: security upgrades, counseling, endless donations arriving from around the U.S.

Communities across the South braced for copycats, stepping up police presence at predominantly Black churches. The shooting forced a gutted reckoning about the real threat of homegrown hate—and the soft targets it seeks.

Yet through the pain, there was resilience. Mother Emanuel went on with worship. It stayed open, its doors bearing the indentation of history but its spirit unbroken. Commemorations followed, and Pastor Pinckney’s legacy pushed still more people to register voters, march for justice, and speak out against hate.

Justice and Memory

Dylann Roof was charged with federal hate crimes, nine counts of murder, and other offenses. His trial, held in Charleston, was unrepentant—he showed no remorse, representing himself during the sentencing phase and insisting on his actions’ “necessity.” He was convicted and sentenced to death in January 2017, the first person in U.S. history to be ordered to die for a federal hate crime. As of 2024, he remains on death row.

The families live with the aftermath—empty chairs, unfinished lives, the ache of what was stolen. Each June, they gather at Mother Emanuel, their stories a testimony to both the weight of loss and the decision to keep living, keep loving, and keep building.

What Remains: A Church, a Flag, a Country Changed

Emanuel AME Church stands today, its doors still open. Flowers and notes still appear on the steps, from locals and pilgrims alike. The memories of the nine lost that night—Rev. Pinckney, Cynthia Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, Depayne Middleton-Doctor, Tywanza Sanders, Daniel Simmons Sr., Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, and Myra Thompson—are woven into the city’s fabric.

Their deaths forced a country to confront the persistence of racial hatred, the danger of unchecked weapons, and the wounds left by history. New legislation about gun purchases and hate crimes continues to be debated, inspired in part by the failures and aftermath of that night.

But people still gather each week in the church basement, just as they always have, to read scripture, to pray, and to believe in a future made brighter by remembrance—and by an insistence that this chapter, terrible as it was, will not be the final word.