Volunteer relief workers listen to a service held by the First Baptist Church Sunday.
Charlie Riedel/Associated Press
Churchgoers huddle to pray after a service held by the First Baptist Church in a field Sunday, four days after an explosion at a fertilizer plant in West, Texas. The congregation could not gather in its building because it was in a damage zone after the explosion at the West Fertilizer Co. Wednesday night that killed 14 people and injured more than 160.
By Rick Rojas Los Angeles Times
WEST, Texas -- The selection from the Gospel of John is read during Mass in Roman Catholic churches far and wide, chosen to celebrate the Easter season. But in the red-brick church in a small Texas town ravaged by an explosion, the words resonated as though they had been picked just for them:
"I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish. No one can take them out of my hand."
It had been four days since the fire and explosion at a fertilizer plant on the outskirts of West killed 14 people, injured scores of others and damaged or destroyed neighborhoods, with half the city still cordoned off. Residents of just a few blocks of that area were allowed brief visits their homes to collect possessions and check on their property.
On Sunday, residents filled the town's churches. People have been wearing "God Bless West" T-shirts and rubber bracelets, made since the blast, proclaiming "God is Big Enough."
"If this town didn't have faith," said Kelly Nelson, 29, "it wouldn't have anything."
"You know everyone's name, you know everyone's family," she said. "It's going to be very difficult moving forward, but we're going to do it because of faith."
The pews at Assumption Catholic Church were full as the Knights of Columbus -- dressed in full regalia, with feathered hats, capes and swords -- led a procession and a choir sang a worship song that had also been heard at a vigil days before: "Call me, guide me, lead me, walk beside me / I give my life to the potter's hand."
"There are many people who are hurting, many people who are suffering," said Bishop Joe Vasquez of the Diocese of Austin, who led the Mass. West, he said, endured something that was "like a dream, like a nightmare -- something that has come and gone, but you haven't been able to take it in."
He urged worshippers to allow themselves and others time and space to grieve.
The Mass in some ways resembled a typical Sunday service: Families came together, congregants welcomed each other as they found their seats and patted friends on the shoulder as they passed their pews.
Yet there were also small signs of what they were going through. One woman teared up as a lector read from Revelations: "The one who sits on the throne will shelter them. They will not hunger or thirst anymore, nor will the sun or the heat strike them. ... God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."
When the time came for congregants to offer signs of peace to those around them in church, they lingered: They stretched to shake the hands of people farther away, crossed aisles and pulled others into embraces. In the Communion line, many had red eyes and puffy faces and were sniffling after crying. Some just looked worn out.
At the end of the Mass, West's mayor, Tommy Muska, updated the congregation on more streets that would be opened for residents to briefly return home, and he told them about how shocked federal emergency officials were when he showed them the devastation. They were surprised, he said, that more lives weren't lost.