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BUTLER, Pa. - It's early on Sunday morning and the Rev. Alyce Weaver-Dunn is offering a prayer as parishioners bow their heads at this town's one-story brick church.

Her message at Christ Community United Methodist Church addresses what has dominated everyone's thoughts since the night before.

“We pray for our nation in this time of division and even hatred that draws its lines across political parties,” Weaver-Dunn says. She prays that “hearts that have been hardened can be softened. And that we can once again learn how to live with one another, despite our differences.”

It's here in a blue-collar city of 13,500 that a bullet from a rifle-toting sniper grazed former President Donald Trump's ear at a Saturday rally, setting off a chain reaction of screams and horror among a crowd being filmed on national television.

Many residents awoke Sunday to find gnawing new worries about what one of America’s darkest political days will mean for the election, the country and their hometown. More than a dozen attacks have been recorded on American presidents, presidents-elect, or presidential candidates in U.S. history; for instance, President Ronald Reagan was shot in 1981 in Washington, D.C.

Now, Butler is in the history books for its own day of infamy.

The townspeople throughout the day shared stories at breakfast spots, sports bars, the local Walmart and along a main street lined with American flags. Many had similar comments about the sniper shooting: This isn’t supposed to happen. This can’t happen. This isn’t America.

At the Butler Farm Show rally site, police cars blocked what had become a crime scene. Some residents spoke to TV cameras, some expressing anger and disbelief. A truck drove by with an electronic billboard sign reading, "Democrats Attempted Assassination.” Elsewhere, several motorcycles flew Trump flags and a Trump T-shirt stand in town did a brisk business. 

Other residents checked on relatives who’d attended the rally, debated why the shooter wasn’t spotted sooner by law enforcement, or followed the emerging picture of the gunman, a 20-year-old who lived about an hour away.

Butler Mayor Bob Dandoy said the question he’s repeatedly faced – “How did this happen?” – is both a push for more practical answers about security and also an existential lament.

But as worries over the potential fallout of what happened sunk in on Sunday in and around Butler, many said they hoped the shooting would shock people – enough to help turn down the temperature on America’s boiling politics.

“I was in shock yesterday. Today I'm just kind of angry that it’s come to a point in our county where an assassin's bullet could decide our election,” James Sweetland, who attended the rally, told USA TODAY.

Shooting fuels calls for middle ground

On Sunday morning, Sweetland ate a bowl of Cheerios at his home in DuBois, east of Bulter, as he was preparing for church after a mostly sleepless night.

The 70-year-old retired emergency room physician was still reeling from his experience giving CPR to a rally attendee, a man whose identity he didn’t know, who had been hit in the head with a bullet.

Sweetland was at his first Trump rally with his wife, he said, who he said is a Trump fan like many in an area known historically for its steel mills and blue-collar work. “Trump is very well-liked in Western Pennsylvania,” he said. 

As the rally began on Saturday, Sweetland said he didn’t notice anyone climbing onto a nearby building. He only first heard sounds as Trump was showing a slide about immigration. 

“I heard three pops: Pop pop pop. At first, I thought, ‘They're firecrackers.’” he said. After a few seconds, several more shots rang out. He watched Trump hit the stage and be carried away by security. People were crying and scared, he said. 

The gunman was shot and killed by Secret Service agents. 

He then heard a woman in his bleachers crying out, ‘He's been shot, he's down!” apparently referring to an attendee. His ER instincts kicked in. He ran to help as people applied pressure to what he said was a shot in the head near the ear. The man was bleeding badly and was limp.

Sweetland administered CPR both breathing and chest compressions on him before state police took over. At the time, he wasn't sure who he was or what happened to him. He now believes it was Corey Comperatore, a firefighter from Sarver, Pennsylvania, who had two daughters and was an avid Trump supporter. Comperatore died of his injuries.

But one moment has been burned into his memory. 

“I looked up and saw what I assumed to be his wife and his daughter standing there. And the look on their faces just said it all,” he said.

He hopes it’s a wake-up call. 

“The temperature of our national discord needs to come down,” he said, including demonizing political opponents. He cited people equating Trump to Hitler as an example. “We can’t let a bullet decide an election.”

Around the time Sweetland spoke, Rick Vinroe stood outside the First Methodist Church in downtown Butler on Sunday, disheartened by the shooting and still stunned that an apparent assassination attempt happened in his city.

“Butler, Pennsylvania. I mean, who would think that?” he said. 

Vinroe and his wife were out at dinner Saturday, watching Trump’s rally on the restaurant’s muted TV, when he saw Trump hit the floor. He figured he fainted in the heat. Then he saw blood trickling down his face as Secret Service agents hauled him to safety. 

Vinroe briefly taught high school social studies years ago. He said the U.S. needs healing and compromise, not vitriol and violence. 

“I'm not a big follower of Trump, and I'm not really a big follower of Biden either. But I just think that the parties need to get together and try to work something out,” he said. “This is not working the way that I think the forefathers had in mind.”

Will fallout impact Butler?

As the dinner crowd started shuffling into the Hardwood Cafe late Sunday afternoon, a sports bar and restaurant south of Bulter, patrons and bar staff tried piecing together for themselves what exactly went wrong with the security detail at Trump’s rally.

Some studied aerial photos of the Butler Farm Show Grounds to see where the shooter was located. Others debated the reliability of rumors they’d heard. Many simply expressed shock.

Further south of town, on a winding suburban street in Bethel Park, FBI-led investigators continued to seek a motive for the suspected shooter. The FBI identified him as Thomas Matthew Crooks.

Crooks, 20, worked as a dietary aid, a job that generally involves food preparation, at Bethel Park Skilled Nursing and Rehabilitation, less than a mile from his home. He was a registered Republican, he’d given donations to a progressive group. 

Crooks appears to have acted as a lone wolf using an AR-style rifle that was purchased by his father, according to FBI officials.

Butler Mayor Bob Dandoy on Sunday said he was glad it wasn’t a local person.

“This was not somebody from this town. It wasn't one of ours,” he said. 

Dandoy was at home, exhausted after fielding phone calls, and talking with media as far away as Australia. He also took a call from Biden, who he said offered help and sympathy.

The mayor said there's much on the line for his city, which has seen big population declines over the years and faced financial struggles despite the presence of a steel mill that still operates. He worries the stigma from the shooting may hurt recent efforts to boost populations and the economy.

But many in the city have their heart in the right place and are trying to focus on what matters.

Just before 9 p.m. on Sunday, an electronic billboard on Main Street lit the twilight. It read, “Pray for Peace” and “God Bless America.”

Contributing: Sheridan Hendrix