Elizabeth Terlinden hoped it was a case of mistaken identity. Why would the guy she knew to be deeply Christian plot to kill the president? But as she read the accused gunman’s alleged email screed, she recognized her former college classmate’s voice.
“Yeah,” she thought to herself, “that’s Cole.”
His tone — methodical, peppered with what she interpreted as gallows humor — was eerily familiar nine years after they’d lost touch. Terlinden had served as a co-leader of the Caltech Christian Fellowship with Cole Tomas Allen, the 31-year-old man charged with attempted assassination after bolting toward a glitzy press gala where President Donald Trump was set to speak Saturday.
Allen hadn’t been afraid to take a stand as a 20-year-old — though in 2015, by Terlinden’s recollection, he’d shown no appetite for violence. They’d clashed over whether to send their charity dollars to children overseas or a local homeless shelter, and he’d upset her enough with his insistence on shipping toys that she walked out of the room in frustration. Yet back then, Terlinden respected him.
“The idea of doing what he felt to be his duty religiously and morally, regardless of personal consequences — yes, that does seem to be in character,” she said.
Now the onetime STEM major who’d applied his hyper focus to Bible study at the California Institute of Technology was twisting the faith he held dear, she said, “like an engineer optimizing a design problem in terms of targeting people.”
In a note authorities said he’d sent to family members just before trying to storm the White House Correspondents’ Association dinner, armed with a shotgun, handgun and knives, and exchanging fire with Secret Service agents, Allen had apparently referenced Jesus Christ’s Sermon on the Mount.
That message was first reported Sunday by the New York Post. Two law enforcement officials briefed on the investigation later confirmed its authenticity to The Washington Post.
“Objection 1,” the missive read, “as a Christian, you should turn the other cheek.”
The author went on to reject that idea, claiming those he intended to execute were harming others.
“Turning the other cheek when *someone else* is oppressed is not Christian behavior,” the message read. “It is complicity in the oppressor’s crimes.”
In the days after the swiftly thwarted attack, in which one Secret Service agent was injured but no one killed, Allen’s religious background has attracted a national spotlight, with Trump and members of his administration describing the failed assassin as anti-Christian.
“The guy is a sick guy. When you read his manifesto, he hates Christians,” Trump said Sunday on Fox News. “That’s one thing for sure, he hates Christians, a hatred.”
Several of Allen’s former classmates, however, remember him as genuinely devout. In his writings, the alleged gunman thanked his family, “both personal and church,” for loving him. His objection-and-rebuttal format invokes the Gospel in what reads to some religious scholars like an attempt to justify bloodshed.
Allen seemed to embrace Christian teachings while gravely misinterpreting them, said Ed Stetzer, dean of the Talbot School of Theology at Biola University in Southern California.
Jesus’ call to “turn the other cheek” was about de-escalation, Stetzer said. No part of that sermon, he added, rationalizes assassination.
“Jesus was about enemy love,” Stetzer said, while Allen’s screed seemed to center on “enemy elimination.”
Allen’s father was named as an elder at Grace United Reformed Church in his hometown, Torrance, that describes itself online as a “Bible-believing, confessional” church. (It was unclear if Allen still attended services there, and church officials did not respond to interview requests.)
The Post spoke to two more alumni of the Caltech Christian Fellowship, who both spoke on the condition of anonymity because they feared harassment. It was hard to believe the man who tried to shoot Trump could be the same pious undergraduate they once knew, one of the former members said.
“Nine years ago, we were just learning to be disciplined, humble, loving young adults, as guided by our study of the Bible and the example set by Jesus,” she said. “Cole studied the Bible diligently.”
The group, which typically peaked at 20 students, met weekly for Bible study. They shared meals and efforts to brighten the mood on campus, like on the deadline day for class registration, when they distributed free milkshakes.
Members left room for feisty debates, too. In the fall of Allen’s senior year, they convened for an “interesting discussion about creativity, the brain, and artificial intelligence.”
The California Institute of Technology could be a stressful place, with demanding classes. The Christian fellowship offered a chance to spend time with students determined to make space for God.
“As a science and engineering school, Caltech selected for a student body where Christians felt like a minority,” the former member said. “We all had the usual crazy Caltech academic schedule, and each student carved out precious time for what they prioritized.”
One of Allen’s main priorities, she added, was clearly his faith. In addition to attending church every week, he was a regular at the fellowship’s Bible study sessions. The former member recalled him as an enthusiastic participant in group discussions but not domineering. She did not remember Allen ever sharing strong political views.
Allen did mention coming from a Calvinist background. In those days, the group occasionally wrestled with key tenets of that denomination — especially the “election of the church,” or the idea that God chose to condemn some human beings and save others.
Allen attended Pasadena United Reformed Church while he was a student at Caltech, said Movses Janbazian, the pastor there. Janbazian recalled Allen as a “charming young man” who came to their Sunday services throughout his college years and seemed busy with school.
Terlinden, 31, saw Allen as a centrist. In fact, she recalled, he thought she was too focused on worldly politics.
Over their time together, she watched his stances evolve. She knew him to oppose homosexuality and remembered him backing a proposal to ban fellowship leaders from dating members of the same sex. But after hearing pushback, he changed his mind. He knew her to be bisexual, Terlinden said, yet treated her like everyone else.
So he seemed flexible. But flexible enough to eventually turn to murder?
“I could see him dying for his beliefs,” she said. “I just couldn’t see him killing for them.”
Hannah Knowles and N. Kirkpatrick in California, and Michelle Boorstein in Washington contributed to this report.
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