As a child, she was dunked into a baptismal basin and then paraded like a princess up the aisle in a white dress and white patent leather shoes. She was married at the church, and she said goodbye to her parents there, too.
And so she felt like a piece of her was missing when she set eyes upon the charred remains of Greater Union, one of three predominantly black churches in St. Landry Parish, Louisiana, that law enforcement authorities said were set ablaze and destroyed over the stretch of 10 days.
“Seeing the church in the condition it is now,” Harris, 57, said of the tan brick sanctuary where her parents raised their 12 children and celebrated dozens of weddings and funerals, and attended Bible studies, “it’s almost like losing a family member.”
It was still not known Monday whether the fires were intentionally set or whether they were motivated by racism. Still, they have drawn the attention of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives and the FBI, which are assisting the Louisiana state fire marshal. Officials said Monday they were vetting new information every hour and that an ATF crane had arrived at one of the churches to help process the scene.
Rep. Clay Higgins, R-La., who represents the area, said Monday that based on information from the investigators and his own observations of the crime scenes, “the method of each burn is notably the same,” suggesting that the fires were related.
A day earlier, Higgins, who left his job as a captain in the local sheriff’s office after he referred to alleged gang members who were black as “animals,” posted a video to Facebook on Sunday that he directed at whoever burned down the churches.
“Your only path to freedom is through jail,” he told the camera as he stood before a pile of charred bricks and rubble that was St. Mary Baptist Church in nearby Port Barre. “Turn yourself in because you’re going to jail, one way or the other.”
Over the weekend, as officials worked to sort out what happened, black residents gathered for services with a mix of befuddlement, concern and defiance.
“They burned down a building,” the Rev. Harry Richard of Greater Union preached at a makeshift gathering Sunday in Opelousas. “They didn’t burn down our spirit.”
Two of the fires were in Opelousas — at Greater Union and Mount Pleasant Baptist — and the third was at St. Mary Baptist in Port Barre. Officials reported a fourth, smaller fire that was “intentionally set” at a predominantly white church in Caddo Parish, about three hours north.
The blazes have evoked uneasy recollections of racist attacks on black churches across the country. But parishioners and residents said they would also let the investigation unfold before making any judgments about what the fires might say about their community, which is just north of Lafayette.
With a black population — nearly 42 percent — that is larger than many of the surrounding areas, St. Landry Parish is a place where an eccentric black Republican politician and lawyer has defended Klansmen in court, and where a nondenominational Christian congregation has attracted a diverse crowd and grown so much that it recently broke ground on a new $12 million, 43,000-square-foot building.
“We are a very close-knit society here in St. Landry Parish,” said Elbert Guillory, 75, a former Republican state senator from Opelousas who defended the Klansmen. “There are good relationships within the black community and there are very good relationships interracially. And so you’d have to wonder, where does this come from? Who’s doing it, and for what reason?”
Tamiko Chatman, 48, who is black and who was born and raised in Opelousas, said it has never been a place where black and white residents seemed to clash. But people did not interact much across racial lines when she was growing up, she said.
In high school, mostly black students attended the prom that was organized by the school, she said, while white students held their own prom elsewhere.
Still, she said, some divisions can be found in the town of more than 16,000 residents, three-quarters of whom are black. It has a strong ecumenical church community, but events tend to draw either mostly white people or mostly black people, depending on which congregation is hosting.
And some community members still have problems with interracial relationships, said Clayre Savage, 19, who is white and who said her grandparents discouraged her from dating outside of her race. There were uneasy feelings, too, among some classmates when black students started being bused to their mostly white middle school campus because of a desegregation program that had stemmed from a court case.
Still, Savage said she had a difficult time believing that racism would be behind the church burnings because she had not personally witnessed that sort of behavior in her community.
Greater Union members, too said they were puzzled. They said they had not experienced open racial hostilities in St. Landry Parish, a predominantly agricultural community with a deep pride in Francophone heritage that has spawned rich culinary and cultural traditions, like boudin and zydeco, and where 1 in 4 residents live in poverty.
“I can’t comprehend that at all,” Harris said. “There was really nothing per se that led up to it.”
While church burnings might seem like a vestige from the country’s Jim Crow past, there have been notable instances in recent memory.
In 1996, three black churches burned on the same night in Baton Rouge, and authorities determined that the fires were a hate crime committed by a group of young adults. Shortly after convicted white supremacist Dylann Roof killed nine black churchgoers in Charleston, South Carolina, in 2015, several black churches were set ablaze in Southern states, though it was unclear whether the fires were racially motivated.
“For decades, African-American churches have served as the epicenter of survival and a symbol of hope for many in the African-American community,” NAACP President Derrick Johnson said in a statement released Monday. “As a consequence, these houses of faith have historically been the targets of violence.”
Many of the 100 or so congregants at Greater Union are related. The church sits on land with a cemetery where many of its former members are buried, including Harris’ parents, Joseph and Hilda Guidry, who died two months apart in 20158.
Preaching from a white, windowless room in the low-slung Masonic Lodge in Opelousas, Richard said he wanted to deliver a message to whoever was behind the fires. He had an usher place an empty chair next to his brown lectern, a seat for someone he called “Mr. Firestarter.”
“We forgive you Mr. Firestarter,” Richard said, his voice rising and straining with each sentence. “We love you Mr. Firestarter. We thank you because you didn’t burn up our children. Our prayer for you Mr. Firestarter is that you meet our savior.”
This article originally appeared in The New York Times.