Dave Cullen - Columbine

Dylan liked order. Each journal entry began with a three-line heading in the right margin: name, date, and title, all written out in half-sized letters. He then repeated the title—or sometimes adapted it—in double-sized characters centered above the main text. Most of the copy was printed, but occasionally he would veer into script. He wrote one entry a month, nearly every month, but hardly ever twice a month. He would fill two complete pages and then stop. If he ran out of ideas or interest, he would fill out the second page with huge lettering or sketches.

His second entry came early: just two weeks after the first. His ideas were beginning to cohere. “The battle between good & bad never ends,” he wrote. Dylan would repeat this idea endlessly for the next two years. Good and evil, love and hate—always wrestling, never resolving. Pick your side, it’s up to you—but you better pray it picks you back. Why would love never choose him?

“I dont know what i do wrong with people,” he wrote, “it’s like they are set out to hate & (insult) me, i never know what to say or do.” He had tried. He had brought in Chips Ahoy cookies to win them over. What exactly would it take?

“My life is still fucked,” he wrote, “in case you care.” He had just lost $45, and before that it was his Zippo lighter and his knife. True, he had gotten the first two back, but still. “Why the fuck is he being such an ASSHOLE??? (god i guess, whoever is the being which controls shit.) He’s fucking me over big time & it pisses me off. Good god i HATE my life, i want to die really bad right now.”

Sunday morning, April 25, the Columbine churches were packed. Afterward, the crowds trekked down to the Bowles Crossing Shopping Center, across from Clement Park. Organizers had planned for up to thirty thousand mourners in the sprawling parking lot. Seventy thousand showed up. Vice President Al Gore was on the platform, along with the governor, most of Colorado’s congressional delegation, and a whole lot of clergy. The TV networks broadcast the ceremony live.

“Put your faith and trust in the living son of God, the Lord Jesus Christ,” Reverend Billy Graham’s son Franklin instructed the crowd. “We must be willing to receive His son Jesus Christ.”

“Genuine lasting comfort comes only through Jesus Christ,” local pastor Jerry Nelson proclaimed. “We, your pastors, urge you: Seek Jesus!”

Jesus Jesus Jesus. There was a whole lot of Him that day. Reverend Graham dominated the ceremony with a long, impassioned appeal for returning prayer to public schools. He invoked the name of his personal savior seven times in a single forty-five-second flurry. “Do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ?” he asked. He called upon God and Jesus nearly fifty times in course of the speech. Cassie had been ready, he said. She’d stood before a gunman who’d transported her immediately into the presence of Almighty God. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Christian pop star Amy Grant sang twice; a drum and bugle corps performed a stirring rendition of “Amazing Grace”; and a succession of thirteen white doves were released as Governor Bill Owens recited the names of the victims. Toward the end, it began to rain. A slow, steady shower. Nobody moved. Thousands of umbrellas went up, but tens of thousands of mourners just got wet.

For many, Cassie Bernall was the heroine of Columbine. Word spread quickly that her killer had held her at gunpoint and asked if she believed in God. “Yes,” she’d answered. She’d professed her faith and had promptly been shot in the head. Vice President Gore recounted her story to the crowd and the cameras. He quoted liberally from Scripture throughout his speech.

“To the families of the victims, may you feel the embrace of the literally hundreds of millions of Americans who grieve with you,” Vice President Gore said. “We hold your agony in the center of our prayers. You are not alone.”

The country was transfixed. In the first ten days, newsmagazines on the four main broadcast networks devoted forty-three pieces to the attack. The shows dominated the ratings that week. CNN and Fox News charted the highest ratings in their history. A week afterward, USA Today was still running ten separate Columbine stories in a single edition. It would be nearly two weeks before the New York Times would print an issue without Columbine on page 1.

And Cassie Bernall’s martyrdom was showing the most legs. “Millions have been touched by a martyr,” Pastor Kirsten proclaimed to his congregation. He shared a vision his youth pastor had received while ministering to the Bernalls: “I saw Cassie, and I saw Jesus, hand in hand. And they had just gotten married. They had just celebrated their marriage ceremony. And Cassie kind of winked over at me, like, ‘I’d like to talk, but I’m so much in love.’ Her greatest prayer was to find the right guy. Don’t you think she did?”

Kirsten consoled his grieving congregation, but he saw opportunity in the tragedy to unabashedly save more souls. “Pack that ark with as many people as possible,” he said.

Down the road at the Foothills Bible Church, Pastor Oudemolen was sharing a similar enthusiasm. “Men and women, open your eyes!” he declared. “The kids are turning to God! They’re going to churches!”

Much of the Denver clergy was appalled. The opportunism at the public service drew an outcry, particularly from mainline Protestant pastors. Reverend Marxhausen, the pastor who’d performed Dylan’s funeral, told the Denver Post he’d felt “hit over the head with Jesus” at the service.

Evangelicals faced a profound moral dilemma: respect for others’ beliefs versus an obligation to stand up for Jesus as the only way, every day. Eric and Dylan had terrorized the country, but they offered an invaluable opportunity as well. Evangelical clergy would answer to God if they wasted it. One thoughtful Evangelical pastor said he approved of using the massacre for recruitment, as long it was truly done for God. He bristled at “spiritual headhunters, just racking up another scalp. The Bible was never meant to be a club,” he said. “If I’m using it as a weapon, that’s really sad.”

Craig Scott was a sophomore, sixteen years old, and exceptionally good looking, like his sister Rachel. He had hidden under a library table with Matthew Kechter and Isaiah Shoels. While he was down there, one of the gunmen yelled, “Get anyone with white hats!” Craig was wearing one. He yanked it off and stuffed it under his shirt. Both killers passed his table several times. They stopped there, eventually, and both of them fired. Matt slumped; so did Isaiah. Craig was spared. The shots were so loud Craig thought his ears were going to bleed. He spent much of his time in the fetal position, with his head down, silently praying for courage and strength. When he looked up to assess the damage, Matt and Isaiah had collapsed leaning against each other and moaning. Their blood had pooled around Scott—he couldn’t tell whose it was that had soaked into his pants. Smoke or steam was rising up from the rupture in Matt’s side.

Then the killers moved into the hallway. “I think they’re gone,” Craig called out. “Let’s get out of here.” Other kids were getting up slowly, heading for a side exit. Craig dropped his white hat on the floor by his table. On his way out, a girl under the computer desk said, “Please help me.” Kacey Ruegsegger had a big hole in her right shoulder. Scott helped her up. He draped her good arm over his shoulder and led her out.