How Jack Wilson's heroic act at West Freeway Church of Christ on December 29, 2019 saved lives, drew praise and reignited the ancient debate about gun laws.

Three gunshots sounded midway through the sacrament prayers in Christ Church on the West Highway in a certain settlement. This is the first service after Christmas 2019. Nearly 250 panicked church members wore sweaters and jackets at the best time of Sunday, hiding behind benches frantically, panting and faint screams filled the air. Within six seconds, hell had collapsed.

The shots happen in rapid succession-almost every two seconds apart by two seconds. The first two shotguns from Keith Thomas Kinnunen killed two parishioners Anton "Tony" Wallace and Richard White. The third shot came from a volunteer security guard and hit the active shooter Kinnunen in the head.

The church regularly broadcasts its services, so footage of the tragedy was quickly reported by the media—uploaded to almost every major news website. After three gunshots, the video showed security guard Jack Wilson pacing slowly behind the shelter, his finger still on the trigger of the pistol, pointing at Jin Nuning's body.

Several other armed worshipers simultaneously drew their weapons and walked quietly down the aisle, slowly approaching Kinnunen, until they confirmed that there was no imminent threat. A man squatted on the floor and peeked at his hand from the bench in the front row. He used to support his hand for shooting.

Wilson quickly kicked the short-barreled shotgun from Kinnunen's bleeding body-Kinnunen still had 10 rounds in front of him.

Church leaders and Wilson are familiar with the perpetrators, and he often asks the church for help. They were always happy to give him food, but Wilson said he was frustrated because they would never give him money. 

Although Kinnunen had been to the church several times and had no problems before, Wilson felt uneasy when he saw an unrecognizable Kinnunen walking past the front door in a striking attire-he was wearing an oversized trench coat. And was wigs and fake beards.

"You know, where you can feel intuition-intuition or something-it doesn't seem to be right," Wilson said.

But the security team was hesitant to approach Kinnunen because they did not recognize him at the time and believed that he might have been hiding embarrassing flaws, such as severe burns or hair loss caused by chemotherapy.

Despite this, they decided to pay close attention to him. Wilson suggested that the church staff fix the security camera on him until the end of the service. 

Facing the front podium, Kinnunen was sitting on the left side of the room, several benches from the back wall. 

Sitting on the bench directly in front of him was 38-year-old church member Isabel Arreola. She told the Fort Worth Star-Telegram that she felt uncomfortable with him a day after the shooting. She also knew that the security team was suspicious, because Wilson propped himself on the back wall and looked at him. And White-with a hidden gun-sat on a few benches behind him.

But before the scene began to fall apart, she and her husband had moved their 7-year-old daughter to the other side of the shelter.

"I should follow my instincts," Areola told The Star Telegraph. "When he was there, I couldn't sing. I couldn't pray. There was something wrong with him. But at the same time, I thought maybe I tried too hard."

Kinnunen sat quietly during most church services, listening attentively, and only once asked for the way to the bathroom. After returning, he approached Wallace, who stood in the back corner after presiding the sacrament to the congregation. The two talked briefly, and Jin Nuning returned to his seat. Wilson said that until today, no one knows their conversation.

After a while, Kinnunen got up from his seat, leaned against Wallace, a few feet between them, and said, "Let it down!" The subject he mentioned was unclear, but Wallace still held it. His communion plate.

Jin Nuning drew the shotgun from under his coat, and White carefully drew his weapon from the holster. Kinnunen seemed to notice White's movements and immediately shot him, then turned his arm to Wallace and shot him from a few feet away.

Wallace was not killed immediately. In the video, he can be seen sitting on a chair holding a part of his stomach staggeringly. His daughter Tiffany Wallace (Tiffany Wallace) saw him from across the room and ran over quickly, bypassing the others, and taking care of him.

The rest of the crowd immediately swooped down, seeking protection among the church benches and floor cushions. 

When the first shots sounded, the person who was reciting the sacrament prayer slowly climbed down the small steps of the carpeted stage. On a wooden altar behind him was engraved: "Do this to commemorate me."

Wilson fired at Kinnunen from a distance of about 15 yards, the only available target was his head. 

As a licensed firearms coach, Wilson later told me that he taught his students to avoid headshots unless you have everything. Several people shuttled among them, time was too late, he only had a headshot. Moreover, Wilson killed Jin Nuning with a single shot.

When I asked Wilson if he thought about this tragedy every day, he replied: "It's just because of Tony and Richard." 

"I don't think I killed people," Wilson said. "I killed an evil. This is how I dealt with this situation that night." 

At some point during the interview, he showed me the gun he used to stop Kinnunen.

Wilson is confident in everything: his family, political views, guns, and the tragedy that happened that morning. As any humble protagonist would expect, he has always denied any label praising him as a hero. 

Instead, he attributed his live thinking and quick movements to decades of training. For Wilson, shooting is second nature. 

Most importantly, Wilson believes in the existence of God.

"Yes, I practice and train, but I also know that when I pull the trigger, God's hand is on me," he said. 

Although his eyes were steady when he spoke, Wilson still seemed to have a sense of alienation, as if he was reminiscing his own story over and over again.

His character is very stern, but if you can make him smile, you will see its authenticity from the change in his eyes.

Wilson and his wife Gemma and their three daughters Jennifer, Jenet, and Julie attended this small Christian church for about 55 years. On the morning of the filming, he could count 16 relatives and dozens of close friends sitting around the sanctuary, including Wallace and White who had been in friendship with him for decades.

But shortly after the tragedy, the couple moved to a church near their home in Hood County, where Wilson began to serve as county governor, and voters elected him to the position in November 2020.

To this day, Wilson says that he doesn't think he is as much as ordinary people.

He lives in the small town of Acton with his high school lover Gemma-the couple met at Brewer High School, where Wilson won the state band drum line competition and graduated in 1967. 

In addition to their three daughters, the couple has 10 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. In the interview, the latest news came out of the hospital, only one week old. 

"Because of my family, I almost always see myself as a protector," Wilson said.

When he grew up, he lived in the small and narrow town of Clover in Texas, once the most popular stop on the popular and now decommissioned Route 66, and then moved to the Whitby settlement when he was a teenager. ——This is necessary for his military family. His leader, his father, served in the Texas Army National Guard for 38 years.

Except for the short time his family lived in Fort Polk, Louisiana, and the brief time he spent in the National Guard, he did not leave the comfort zone of north-central Texas. Stayed in South Carolina for about a year.

His quaint farm is home to many animals, including a donkey, lamb and some chickens-these were brought in when they bought the property years ago-and later heifers they brought. 

His commissioner’s office received a medal from the governor for his cold air conditioning in recognition of his bravery, a few flags and some framed maps of the county. The spacious waiting area was empty, only a few chairs. 

Wilson firmly believed that he was just an ordinary person, in the right place at the right time, and received the right training.

He spent most of his life revolving around guns, preparing for such a scarred incident that he had hoped he would never really face. The memory of his first holding a gun comes from nearly 70 years ago. 

Wilson, who still lived in the panhandle, recalled that during the bird hunting season, he and his father and brother hid in burlap beanbags. They were lying in the stubble field with rifles, waiting to shoot anything above their heads. 

Then, when he was a teenager, he bought a gun as his weapon.

Now, decades later, his entire working life has revolved around guns as a former serviceman of the National Guard and a former reserve deputy sheriff in Hood County. 

He also became a licensed firearms trainer shortly after obtaining a concealed pistol license in 1995. 

He has his own gun shooting range and training facilities, and it is estimated that he trained thousands of locals before retiring a few years ago.

It can be said that Wilson has been training for this moment all his life, which is not far-fetched. He was placed in a position that he was uniquely qualified to deal with. This kind of expertise may have caused him to be indifferent to his flattery. Despite this humility, his heroic behavior has attracted high praise from celebrities and national leaders, including then President Donald Trump.

"It's over in six seconds," Trump said, "thanks to the brave parishioners for taking action to protect 242 believers."

A few weeks later, Texas Governor Greg Abbott awarded the first ever Governor's Medal of Courage, and this admiration continues. 

Albert’s office described it as the highest honor given to civilians by the governor. He established the award for the citizens of Texas. “They risked their own safety to save the lives of others and showed great heroism. ". His office did not specify when the award was invented, but many people believe it was caused by the tragedy of the church.

"Only God knows who lives today because of Jack Wilson," Abbott said at the award ceremony. "What we know is that Jack Wilson's swift action, his calmness under pressure, and most importantly his courage and willingness to risk his life to save others' lives have saved so many lives."

A team of bull riders from Oklahoma-Gene Owen and Bill Hanson-gave the name of their outstanding Bull Wilson as a thank you gift. Like Wilson, the Bull-formerly known as the Punisher-can make definite movements in an instant, with an average fading time of 3.24 seconds.

"I think Jack Wilson is the coolest person right now," Irving told the New York Post when he changed his name. "He killed a villain with a single shot, and within six seconds, he completed the entire transaction."

On December 29, 2019, Keith Thomas Kinnunen (Keith Thomas Kinnunen) opened fire on the residents of the parish on the Western Highway in the settlement of White.

One day after the shooting, dozens of faithful and community members gathered on the grass outside the church to hold a candlelight vigil. They held hands and hugged each other. They take turns sharing stories of their favorite friends.

Many people who know these two fallen people have told stories of the enlightening benevolence shown by the "god." 

White served on the church’s security team, and when he noticed that the perpetrator was carrying a weapon, he tried to stop the perpetrator. After the shooting, his family made a statement on Facebook, calling him a hero.

At the time of his death, he was the sales manager of Tankheads, Inc., where he worked for more than 20 years. He is also the husband and father of five children, and the grandfather of 11 children. 

His family also described him as an avid fan of outdoor activities. 

They wrote: "Richard always puts others first, he is always smiling and helpful."

According to his obituary, White was born in Western Texas and always wears jeans and boots, so his family jokingly called him "John Wayne" because of his iconic Western wardrobe.

"Everyone who knows him will miss his presence on this earth," his obituary read.

It ends with a passage from John 13:15: "No one loves more than this...he lay down his life for his friends."

Wallace is a 64-year-old nurse manager in the hemodialysis department at Texas Health Harris Methodist Hospital in downtown Fort Worth. He is also a church deacon and welcomes everyone who enters their door, including Kinnunen that morning.

He was born into a 10-member military family-consisting of his parents, four daughters and four sons, including himself-and moved around the world until they finally settled in the mineral well, where he moved from the local Graduated from high school.

"Tony's love for people and his commitment to providing the best and most compassionate medical services made him an excellent nurse," his obituary said. "Tony has three loves in his life: God, family, and care. He is a loyal servant of God and has been serving in his hometown church-Sixth Avenue Christ Church [in] Mineral Wells for many years, and recently at West Freeway Church of Christ. 

"Anyone who knows Tony knows his firm beliefs and knows that he is not only talking, but also taking a walk every day," the obituary continued.

He is the husband and father of two daughters and the grandfather of four daughters.

Just two years ago, a similar scene appeared in a small church in an unincorporated town called Sutherland Springs in central Texas. A gunman killed 26 congregations and wounded 20 people during a church service.

National leaders lifted restrictions on the carrying of guns in religious sites, the 2017 tragedy and new state law allowed all churches to have armed voluntary security forces, and required all places of worship to notify in advance of any gun bans in their facilities.

When Wilson heard about the Sutherland Springs shooting-and considering the new location of Christ Church on the West Freeway on the Las Vegas Trail, this street had a high crime rate in the suburbs of Fort Worth. Famous-He desperately wants to create a safer environment inside the building.

He said he trained church security, and they participated in nearly 300 hours of firearms courses and practiced on multiple moving targets.

After receiving the Medal of Courage from the governor, Wilson said: "There is no safe haven, whether it is a school or a church." "You must be prepared for things that will appear in front of you at any time."

The church also purchased security systems, surveillance cameras and other technologies for the facility. The secretary of the church Darla Gladden (Darla Gladden) trained with Wilson and was there during the filming. He said Wilson was a great mentor.

The two practiced shooting from all angles, including sitting in a chair, because Wilson wanted to make sure that Gladden was trained to protect himself at all times.

"He considered many aspects and was very concerned," Gladden said. "When I was a secretary, he wanted to make sure I felt comfortable and capable when needed."

Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton and Lieutenant Governor Dan Patrick attributed Wilson’s life saved to the team’s efforts to prepare for such a tragedy. 

"Today's heroism is unparalleled," Patrick said at a press conference. "This team reacted quickly, and within a few seconds, the shooting was over."

Many other state government officials and gun rights advocates use shootings to take advantage of their stance on accessible guns.

About two months after the tragedy, when Lieutenant Colonel Allen West and Wilson met at the Texas Rifle Association, Lieutenant Colonel Allen West wrote in a Facebook post: "A shot, 15 yards, hits the head, and reacts in less than 3 seconds." "This is what a well-trained, law-abiding, legally owned gun calls gun control."

But on the other side of the political pendulum, gun reformers, including a journalist in the Republic of Arizona, opposed the lax rules that they believed were the cause of the tragedy.

A review article by Elvia Diaz-met with strong opposition from many-criticized gun advocates for using Wilson's "momentary heroism" as what she described as a "public relations tool" .

"The reality of Wilson's heroism is much more complicated," she wrote. "He is not just an ordinary parish resident, gun advocates may want you to believe it. The church's volunteer safety team member is a firearms instructor, gun range owner and former reserve deputy of the local sheriff's department. In other words, he It’s the kind of person with a gun that you want. But we don’t know anything about at least six other parishioners who seem to have drawn their pistols at Christ Church on the West Highway in a settlement in White, Texas.

"This is terrible," she continued.

Other anti-gun advocates oppose the fact that Kinnunen, who has a history of drug use and mental illness, can easily obtain guns from the start. 

Court documents show that Kinnunen had a long-term conflict with law enforcement agencies. A few years ago, in 2012, he was arrested in Oklahoma, where he was accused of igniting a cotton field by soaking tampons in lamp oil and lighting them. In the same year, his ex-wife Cindy Glasgow-Voegle (Cindy Glasgow-Voegle) sought a protection order against him. 

The court document stated that she told the state official Kinnunen that she had no money or car when she came, but wanted to see their son. She claimed that the son was afraid of his father. She reported that he was violent and "paranoid." He even went on a hunger strike because he thought he was poisoned to death during his detention and attacked other prisoners.

Kinnunen's disturbing history, with criminal records in several states, shows that it is illegal for him to own—or even own—guns.

"No one should worry about gun violence, especially in churches - but because our gun laws are weak, we have to worry about it," said Catherine Vargas, a volunteer at the Texas Chapter of Mother Needs Action.

In an interview, Wilson shared his conversation with law enforcement on the day of the shooting. He said they had considered how Kinnunen's past record was so easy to obtain a gun.

"I told them,'Well, let me explain something to you, sir. I can walk out the front door and follow the Las Vegas Trail under Interstate 30. I will take at least one with me in an hour. Bring the gun back,'" Wilson recalled the conversation. "I said,'There is no gun shop over there. But if I want to get a gun, I can get it. There are always gun problems there.'"

The nearest gun shop-then called Elk Castle, but now called Fearless Shooting Sport-is less than half a mile from the church on the I-30 service road. 

But since the tragedy, state gun laws have less and less restrictions. 

In the most recent legislative session, Texas state legislators passed several open and non-carrying laws.

"Regardless of our legislators recklessly passing the dangerous undocumented carrying bill in past meetings, every responsible gun owner still needs to ensure that they receive proper training, because more guns will be in the hands of untrained Put us all in danger," said Vargas, an advocate of gun reform.

A lot of things have happened in the two years since the Christian church shooting on the West Highway. 

Only a few months after the incident-while the church, friends and family are still mourning the deaths of Wallace and White-COVID-19 will spread throughout the United States. In a few months, ethnic turmoil will follow one after another, and economic turmoil seems to persist. 

If there is a test of faith, the members of the West Highway Christian Church have undoubtedly accepted it. 

Despite a series of disturbing circumstances, many people will return after months of separation and find their memory-filled shelter again at the end of last summer. 

The new carpet was laid on the stage and became a familiar image across the country. The new blue upholstered benches replaced those tainted by tragedy. The reconfigured walls and lowered ceilings conceal the deep harm felt by the entire community.

The congregation will see that the sanctuary where they were once associated with evil is now adorned with power. 

They would hold hands and sing an ancient hymn together during the early candlelight vigil of mourning.

They will remember the message of their minister, Britt Farmer, hours after the tragedy: "Sometimes evil triumphs over good, but we will not let evil prevail."  

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