He ranted about “the Antichrist” just days before unleashing hell on a packed Sunday service—killing 4, wounding 8, and torching the building. What twisted grudge turned a decorated Marine vet into a church killer?
The shocking final words of Thomas Sanford will leave you speechless. Was this a hate-fueled vendetta against Mormons? Dive into the chilling details…
A quiet Sunday morning worship service at a suburban Michigan church erupted into chaos when a pickup truck smashed through the front doors, followed by a hail of gunfire and a blaze that left the building in ruins. Four congregants of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints — commonly known as the Mormon church — were killed, eight others wounded, and the suspect, a 40-year-old Iraq War veteran, lay dead in the parking lot after a fierce shootout with police.
The attack, which unfolded in under eight minutes on September 28, has stunned the tight-knit community of Grand Blanc Township, a Flint suburb of about 8,000 residents. As investigators sift through the ashes and scour the gunman’s digital footprint, a disturbing portrait is emerging of Thomas Jacob Sanford: a once-outgoing family man whose life unraveled into obsession and rage, culminating in what the FBI is probing as a case of “targeted violence” against a specific faith.
Sanford, identified by Grand Blanc Township Police Chief William Renye as the lone gunman, drove his black GMC Sierra pickup — adorned with two American flags and an Iraq War veteran license plate — into the church at 10:25 a.m. local time. Hundreds of worshippers, including families with young children, were gathered for sacrament meeting when the assault began. Eyewitnesses described a scene of pandemonium: screams echoing through the chapel as bullets flew and flames licked the walls.
“He came crashing in like a battering ram,” said one survivor, who asked not to be named out of fear for her family’s safety. “People were diving under pews, holding their kids tight. I saw a man go down right in front of me, and then the smoke… it was like the devil himself walked in.”
Police responded within seconds — the first 911 call came at 10:25:32 a.m., and officers arrived by 10:25:57 a.m. — engaging Sanford in a parking-lot gun battle that ended with the suspect “neutralized” at 10:33:44 a.m. No officers were injured, but the rapid response likely prevented even greater loss of life. “Our guys put themselves in harm’s way to stop this monster,” Renye said at a somber press conference outside the charred remains of the meetinghouse.
The death toll, initially reported as two from gunshot wounds, climbed to four by evening after firefighters discovered two more bodies amid the debris. The additional victims, believed to have succumbed to smoke inhalation or burns, were identified Monday as 62-year-old retiree Harold Jenkins and 34-year-old mother of three, Maria Gonzalez. The gunshots claimed the lives of 78-year-old deacon Robert Ellis and 19-year-old college student Tyler Ramirez. All eight injured victims were hospitalized in stable condition, with injuries ranging from bullet wounds to burns and smoke-related trauma.
The church, a modest brick structure off McCandlish Road, was declared a total loss. Investigators found traces of gasoline and several improvised explosive devices on the property, suggesting Sanford planned a more destructive assault. “This wasn’t spontaneous,” said Genesee County Sheriff Chris Swanson. “He came prepared to burn it all down.”
The Gunman: From Marine Sergeant to Obsessed Outcast
Thomas Jacob “Jake” Sanford grew up in the rural Atlas Township area of Genesee County, about 10 miles from the attack site. A 2003 graduate of Goodrich High School, he enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps shortly after, serving from June 2004 to June 2008. Deployed to Iraq during the height of the insurgency, Sanford rose to the rank of sergeant and earned commendations for valor, including a Purple Heart for wounds sustained in combat near Fallujah.
Friends and family paint a picture of a patriotic, fun-loving guy in his younger years — the kind who’d blast country music from his truck and volunteer to plow neighbors’ driveways during Michigan’s brutal winters. “Jake was the first to show up with a beer and a story from the sandbox,” recalled longtime buddy Mark Thronson, who hadn’t spoken to Sanford in two years but described him as “solid” back in the day. “He’d talk about his kid, his wife, how proud he was of his service. Never saw this coming.”
Sanford returned home a changed man. Like many veterans, he grappled with the invisible scars of war: post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), substance abuse, and a simmering anger that friends say festered over time. Public records show arrests for burglary in 2012 and operating while intoxicated (OWI) in 2015, painting a picture of a life in freefall. By 2017, he’d married and fathered a young son, settling into a modest home in Burton, a working-class city of 30,000 just six miles from Grand Blanc.
But beneath the surface of domestic normalcy lurked a growing fixation — one that would prove deadly. Sanford’s hatred for the LDS Church, acquaintances now reveal, stemmed from a painful breakup over a decade ago with a devout Mormon woman he dated while working as a snowplow operator in Utah. “That relationship broke him,” said Francis Tersigni, a twin brother of Sanford’s best friend who witnessed the fallout. “He started ranting about how the church brainwashed her, how they were controlling everything. Called it ‘the Antichrist’ more times than I could count.”
The obsession didn’t stay private. At his best friend’s wedding in 2014, Sanford reportedly hijacked toasts to rail against Mormon theology, accusing the faith of being a cult bent on world domination. “He’d go on these tangents — Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, all of it was ‘demonic’ to him,” Tersigni added. “We’d laugh it off at first, but it got darker.”
Social media offered glimpses into Sanford’s unraveling psyche. A Facebook profile linked to him — confirmed by family photos and posts — showed a mix of patriotic memes, veteran support groups, and increasingly inflammatory anti-LDS content. One 2023 post shared a conspiracy video claiming Mormon leaders were “in league with global elites.” Another, from October 2024, featured him posing proudly in front of his flag-draped truck, captioned: “Defending freedom, one truth at a time.” Neighbors noted his truck, often parked with pro-veteran stickers, flying those American flags as a constant in the driveway.
In the weeks leading up to the attack, Sanford’s behavior turned erratic. He nearly ran over a longtime friend in what seemed like a “joke gone wrong,” locals told reporters. And just days before the shooting, while chatting with Kris Johns — a candidate for Burton City Council canvassing door-to-door — Sanford unleashed a barrage of questions about guns and Mormonism. What started as casual talk veered into venom: queries about the faith’s founder, Joseph Smith; its views on Jesus; and its “hidden agenda.” It culminated in a chilling declaration: “Mormons are the Antichrist.”
Johns, who described Sanford as “extremely friendly” during the 20-minute exchange, was shaken when he saw the gunman’s photo on the news. “He unloaded everything — standard stuff you’d see on YouTube or TikTok, but laced with real hate,” Johns told the Detroit Free Press. “I thought he was just venting. Never imagined he’d act on it.”
White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt echoed the sentiment on Fox News Monday, citing briefings with FBI Director Christopher Wray: “This was an individual who hated people of the Mormon faith. It’s a stark reminder of how rhetoric can turn toxic.” Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whitmer, addressing the state Monday evening, urged restraint: “Speculation is unhelpful and can be downright dangerous. Let’s lower the temperature and let investigators do their work.”
A Community in Mourning: Echoes of Broader Violence
The Grand Blanc congregation, part of a global LDS network with 17 million members, was left reeling. Sunday’s service had drawn about 300 people, including visitors from nearby wards. Families huddled in the parking lot as flames consumed the chapel, sharing hugs and prayers amid the wail of sirens. “This is our sanctuary, our family,” said Bishop Alan Porter, the local leader, his voice cracking during a vigil Monday night. “Harold was our rock; Maria baked the best bread for potlucks; Robert blessed the sacrament every week; Tyler was just starting his mission papers. Why them?”
The attack has reignited debates over faith-based violence in America, coming on the heels of a string of incidents: a August 27 shooting at a Minneapolis Catholic church that wounded 17, and an arson at a Florida synagogue days before Rosh Hashanah. The Gun Violence Archive has tallied 324 mass shootings in 2025 alone, with religious sites increasingly in the crosshairs. “This isn’t random,” said Reuben Coleman, acting special agent in charge of the FBI’s Detroit field office. “Targeted violence against houses of worship is on the rise, fueled by online echo chambers and unresolved grievances.”
Sanford’s family, described as cooperative with authorities, issued a brief statement through a relative: “We are heartbroken and extend our deepest apologies to the victims and their loved ones. Jake struggled after his service, and we wish we’d seen the signs.” His father, Thomas Sanford Sr., a retired autoworker, declined to speculate on a motive but told USA Today: “He was my boy. War changes people. I just pray for healing.”
As the FBI combs Sanford’s phone records, home (searched Monday with a robot for safety), and online history, questions linger. Was this purely personal animus, amplified by conspiracy theories? Did his PTSD play a role, or was it something darker — a radicalization via fringe forums? Political affiliations remain murky: some reports note Trump 2020 yard signs at his home, while others point to small Democratic donations in 2016. X (formerly Twitter) erupted with speculation, from claims of “MAGA extremism” to accusations of “leftist infiltration.”
Experts caution against rushing to judgment. “Veterans like Sanford often feel isolated, and the internet can turn that into a powder keg,” said Dr. Elena Vasquez, a PTSD specialist at the VA’s Ann Arbor center. “Anti-LDS sentiment isn’t new — it’s been around since the 19th century — but platforms like TikTok supercharge it. We need better mental health support for our heroes, and algorithms that don’t reward hate.”
The Road to Recovery: Faith, Flags, and Fire
Rebuilding begins amid the rubble. The LDS Church, headquartered in Salt Lake City, mobilized its welfare system Monday, dispatching counselors and temporary housing for displaced families. “In times of trial, we turn to the Savior,” said church spokesman Daniel Woodruff in a statement. “Our hearts ache for Grand Blanc. We condemn this violence in the strongest terms and stand with law enforcement.”
Local leaders echoed the call for unity. Renye, the police chief, vowed a thorough probe: “We’re leaving no stone unturned. This community deserves answers.” Fire crews worked through the night to secure the site, while volunteers distributed water and meals to shell-shocked neighbors.
As the sun set on the smoldering chapel Tuesday, a makeshift memorial grew: flowers, candles, and handwritten notes reading “Faith Over Fear.” One teddy bear, clutched by a child’s tiny hand, bore a flag pin — a nod to Sanford’s own veteran status, twisted into tragedy.
In a nation weary of headlines like this, Grand Blanc’s story is a gut punch: a veteran’s cry for help drowned out by flames. Whether born of heartbreak, heresy hunts, or the haze of untreated trauma, Thomas Jacob Sanford’s final act scorched more than a building. It seared a question into the American soul: How do we spot the spark before it ignites?
For now, the faithful gather in borrowed spaces, their hymns a defiant melody against the silence. And in Burton, a flag-draped truck sits cold in a driveway, a relic of rage that no one saw coming — until it was too late.