Everything was quiet until it wasn't. Inside the sanctuary church surrounded by Louisville police

Reverend Lori Kyle was prepared to feed the hungry and welcome the weary.

But no one at her church could have imagined how literally the word “sanctuary” would be implored on the grounds Thursday night as law enforcement surrounded roughly 250 protesters for about two hours outside the First Unitarian Church at 809 S. Fourth St., just south of downtown Louisville.

Thursday marked 120 consecutive days of protests in Louisville and the second night people had taken to the streets since Kentucky Attorney General Daniel Cameron announced on Wednesday that none of the officers involved in the killing of Breonna Taylor, a Black woman who was shot by police inside her south Louisville apartment in March, would face charges connected to her death.

We were moments away from the 9 p.m. curfew the city had put in place to keep protesters off the streets late into the evening. Churches weren’t included in that declaration, which is how I ended up standing with Brother Tim Duncan on the pavement behind First Unitarian Church watching the helicopters fly overhead while the sound of car horns and chants rippled distantly through the late September night sky.

“It was like this last night, right up until the moment it wasn’t,” he told me.

Minutes later, staring at the police line and standing among an anxious crowd of protesters, it was clear he couldn’t have been more right.

I was there on Thursday night to write a column about some church volunteers who were making mac and cheese and offering a safe space for the protesters after the curfew in a really dark time. 

But you're never going to read that story. What happened Thursday eclipsed everyone's best-laid plans. 

In a matter of seconds, the place of comfort the church had planned to create felt more like a fortress.

We’d heard reports the protesters had been at the Galt House Hotel and then had headed up toward River Road, but as the clock ticked closer to 9 p.m., the helicopters in the sky seemed to say they were coming our way.

About 8:55 p.m., I spotted four bicycles in the distance turn toward the church, and then, in a matter of seconds, seemingly the epicenter of the night’s protest arrived on the pavement in front of me.

By 9:01 p.m. the entire back lot of the church was full.

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Standing along the top ramp of the accessible entrance, Courier Journal photographer Sam Upshaw and I found ourselves right in the middle of the sanctuary. For the past three hours, I’d been at the church, meeting with the volunteers who were waiting to welcome the protesters with a hot meal and a clean bathroom.

It was designed to be a place of rest.

But as law enforcement formed a line on South Third Street, tensions rose. A parking lot separated the protesters from the police, but anxiety mounted as the crowd realized the church was surrounded on all sides. Some people wanted to cross the police line and head back out into the streets in Breonna’s name while others pleaded with them to stay inside.

Moving off church property and crossing the police line to break curfew surely meant spending the night in jail or worse.

“I’m not sleeping here,” someone shouted.

“I want to hear the plan, are we staying overnight here,” someone said.  

“Go into the garden,” one of the leaders shouted, gesturing to the church's fenced-in courtyard. “Move into the garden.”

Then about 9:20 p.m. the rumors started. A Louisville Metro Police Department spokesperson later denied that the police ever had any intention of storming the church, but on the grounds of First Unitarian, that was the fear and the word that was radiating outside of the church.

If the volunteers got everyone inside, then at least they could shut the doors.

If the police came through the doors? That would be a terrible look, Brother Duncan told me.

They hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

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“They’re opening the doors to allow ya’ll to be safe, you all knew the type of risk you were taking when you came out here,” one of the protesters shouted through a megaphone. “You are risking getting shot, you are risking getting arrested, you are risking getting beat, you are risking everything when you come out to protest. If you don’t know that by now you should not have come out. If you want to leave, you may leave.”

But nearly a half-hour after they arrived, only a couple dozen people had trickled inside the gate to where three tables filled with fruit, granola bars and chips were waiting. Even fewer people had wandered into the church where a team of Kyle’s volunteers was planning to cook pasta for anyone in need of a good meal.

This was the second night that First Unitarian Church opened its doors as a resting place for protesters. Wednesday evening following the attorney general’s announcement Kyle, at the request of church member and Representative Lisa Willner, spontaneously welcomed in about 200 protesters, who’d been swept off the street by law enforcement after the curfew.  

“I didn’t do a lot of checking (with the church board) last night … there just wasn’t time and the answer was so clearly ‘yes,’” Kyle had told me Thursday evening before the protesters arrived.

The church has been actively involved in the Black Lives Matter movement this year. Kyle has attended several of the marches and was even arrested once after the Kenosha shooting. The congregation, too, has rented a U-Haul van that has served the cause as a mobile medical unit at marches and medics have been based out of one of the church’s upstairs rooms.

“We’re not a wealthy congregation, don’t let the building fool you,” she told me. “We are just committed to this effort of racial justice.”

So that first night after the grand jury decision, Kyle and a small team of volunteers gathered whatever snacks they could from the medic unit and the pantries. Due to the pandemic, the church hadn’t gathered for in-person services since March 15, but when this need sprung up Wednesday, she let the protesters in and offered what she had.

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They made a couple of industrial-sized pots of bulk mac’ n cheese, but they didn’t have milk or salt to season it. When I got Kyle on the phone early Thursday morning, she was still cleaning up the courtyard where the protesters had taken shelter.

When I met her about 7 p.m. later that evening, she’d come armed with a thermos of milk she’d brought from home, salt and a schedule of volunteers who would rotate in and out every three hours or so. With a whole day to plan and accept donations, on this second night, they were more prepared to keep people safe and comfortable.

But I don’t think anyone was prepared for a standoff.

With COVID-19 in mind, the volunteers intended to gather the exhausted protesters into a spacious courtyard outside.

Instead, at about 9:30 p.m. I watched the volunteers inside push back the partition that divides the First Unitarian’s community space and the church itself. A couple of hours before, I’d seen a handwritten sign on that door that said “no entry,” but that was gone now. They were making as much room as they could.

A few minutes later, I heard a sound so sweet that I thought someone had started playing calming music through the speakers. I smiled when instead I realized one of the protesters had taken a seat at the church’s piano bench and was playing for the small group that had settled inside.

Out in the courtyard, I met James Ray, 22, who’s from Louisville but is currently a student at Purdue University. He and his friend had moved into the courtyard just after the police surrounded the church. It was better to be in here than risk getting arrested outside, he told me. It was his first night as a protester, and he was prepared to sleep at the church if he had to.

Few people in the crowd had taken Ray’s approach.

Back outside, fears had calmed some, but anger had increased. The church received word that the police intended to leave after they tied up an arson investigation across the street at the Louisville Free Public Library, but that had been more than a half-hour ago. It was hard to know what was happening now.

Just after 10 p.m., protesters heard reports that someone was being beaten up on South Fourth Street, and the whole movement took a dramatic turn to the front of the church, bringing the protesters within yards of law enforcement.

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Draped in green light to honor COVID-19 victims, the crowd took to the church lawn and shouted down at the police. 

“No justice, no peace,” they shouted.

“Let us go home,” they screamed.  

“Say her name, Breonna Taylor,” they cried.

And then just as quickly as the crowd formed at the church, it began breaking apart. Word began spreading that a deal had been hashed out that would allow protesters to go back to their cars without being arrested.

The police stepped back. The crowd thinned.

A line of police cars with their lights and sirens off began heading north on South Fourth Street back toward downtown.

“Fourth Street is clear, we can get out, pass the word,” one woman told me just after 11 p.m.

I heard one man ask another if they wanted to “kick it” for a while. His friend shook his head and said no, this was their chance, it was a time to go home.

Upshaw and I headed back into the courtyard where the bulk of the snacks had been cleaned up and only about two dozen people lingered behind. I watched a volunteer try and arrange a ride for two younger-looking protesters, and I saw another start breaking down chairs.

Even with everything that had happened, they were planning to stay open into the night as a refuge space for anyone on the streets who still needed a place to go.

I poked my head into the kitchen where about seven plates of pasta were waiting for anyone who was still hungry. A small team of volunteers had emptied six bulk-sized jars of marinara and filled several empty stomachs while the standoff happened outside.

I couldn’t find Kyle again in the aftermath, and I wondered if that thermos of milk she’d brought had made it from her office to the kitchen in the chaos.

I did find Duncan, though, before Upshaw and I left the church after 11 p.m.

I couldn’t believe it had only been two hours since we’d been staring up at the sky watching those helicopters.

“I never thought I’d see a scene like I saw tonight, where you’re in a church and the police are surrounding you," he told me. "And for a moment I had to really be concerned whether they were going to storm this church, I never thought I’d see that night."

He’d been right.

Everything had been quiet, up until the moment it wasn’t.

Features columnist Maggie Menderski writes about what makes Louisville, Southern Indiana and Kentucky unique, wonderful, and occasionally, a little weird. If you've got something in your family, your town or even your closet that fits that description — she wants to hear from you. Say hello at mmenderski@courier-journal.com or 502-582-7137. Follow along on Instagram and Twitter @MaggieMenderski. Support strong local journalism by subscribing today: courier-journal.com/maggiem.