Demon buster
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By Barry M. Horstman, Post staff reporter
Bob Larson, a self-styled ''spiritual warrior'' and veteran of hundreds of purported exorcisms, paced the stage at The Church in College Hill and prepared to again do battle with an old, familiar foe: the devil.
It wasn't going to be easy or pleasant, he warned the nearly 500 faithful in the audience - though not because of any images Hollywood may have planted in their minds. ''No heads are going to spin around, and no one's going to spit up pea soup,'' he said.
But the standing-room-only crowd saw plenty of other demonic action Wednesday night.
A 15-year-old Mason girl who said she was molested when she was 5 growled, kicked and screamed while Larson, flourishing a Bible in one hand and a microphone in the other, went toe-to-toe with a supposed demon that spoke through her in a guttural voice.
''Demon, what's your name?'' Larson snarled, inches from the contorted face of the girl, who by then was shaking violently and being restrained by a half dozen ''prayer advisers.''
''You can't make me tell you,'' the deep, raspy voice tauntingly replied.
''But God can!'' Larson roared while pointing skyward, as the crowd went wild. It would take more than an hour, but the name-that-demon battle would finally be won - with help from former Republican Cincinnati City Council Member Charlie Winburn.
Winburn, a senior elder of the College Hill church who himself conducts workshops on how to combat demons and curses, identified the strange name finally blurted out by the girl - one that seemingly confused Larson and everyone else - as Malakos, the ''ancient spirit of female sexual perversion.'' Within minutes, he also had a photocopied bio sheet on Malakos available to prove that ''demons can't trick us by speaking Greek.''
''I speak a little Greek,'' Winburn said.
Later, a middle-aged woman regressed to when she was molested at 8 by her grandfather, wailing uncontrollably as Larson exhorted her to ''go back to the pain.''
A man sobbed while seeking salvation from sexual addiction, and a woman confessed that a troubled marriage had led to a separation during which she was date-raped twice and her husband fathered a child.
Dozens of others dropped to their knees or beseechingly extended their arms in often-teary supplications for a long list of sins and pains of the soul.
''I have a message for the devil,'' Larson said amid the litany of woes. ''Satan, listen up. I've had enough of what you've done to God's people. . . Get out!''
Across the nation, Larson's demon-chasing message is an increasingly common one these days.
Whether spawned by end-of-the-world fears heightened by the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, an intrigue stoked by occult films or a force attributable to other biblical or psychological sources, exorcism - the ancient ritual of casting out Satan and his demons from the souls of the possessed - is thriving in America.
''Exorcism Making a Spirited Comeback in U.S.'' said a headline in the New York Times last December. Over the past decade, the American Catholic Church has quietly doubled its number of appointed exorcists to nearly 20. Two years ago, the Chicago Archdiocese drew international head lines by confirming that, for the first time in its 160-year history, it had named a full-time exorcist to ''cleanse those afflicted by the Evil one.'' (The last official exorcism in the Archdiocese of Cincinnati occurred several decades ago, spokesman Dan Andriacco said.)
The real growth in exorcism, though, has been in charismatic and evangelical Protestantism, where Larson's Colorado-based operation today is one of hundreds of exorcism ministries, some with Ghostbusteresque names like Demon Stompers.
''Exorcism is more readily available today in the United States than perhaps ever before,'' said Fordham University sociologist Michael Cuneo, author of a new book titled ''American Exorcism.''
Larson, one of the better-known practitioniers thanks to frequent appearances on TV shows ranging from ''60 Minutes II'' to ''Oprah,'' realizes that not everyone who attends his nearly weekly rallies leaves a true believer.
The author of more than two dozen books on demons and the supernatural and the host of a weekly TV series broadcast on more than 500 stations worldwide, Larson made two appearances here this week at Winburn's invitation.
''Doubt is a challenge every minister faces,'' said Larson, whose extensive series of videotapes for sale posit, among other things, that dinosaurs were on Noah's Ark and that UFOs pose a spiritual threat.
To some skeptics, it's all an act, replete with Vegas lounge showmanship and plants in the crowd.
Others, he conceded, suspect his audiences' histrionics have more to do with psychiatric problems than Satan, or reflect the theatrical excess of people genuinely suffering and desperate for any answers.
The 57-year-old Larson insists, though, his exorcisms are the ''real deal,'' and pointedly told the crowd: ''This is not Miss Cleo. This is not Jon athan Edwards crossing over.''
From the beginning of the three-hour rally, it was clear Larson had the audience with him.
No one balked when he asked them to play act as if they were getting dressed for a spiritual battlefield by donning ''the girdle of truth,'' a ''breastplate of righteousness'' and the ''helmet of salvation.''
They also responded on cue when asked to raise their Bibles as ''swords of the spirit'' and listened raptly as Larson told them what to expect.
To free people from ''the bondage'' tormenting them, Larson explained, he would have to take them back to the most horrible moments in their lives.
''I'm a little different than most preachers,'' Larson said. ''I'm here to bring out the worst in people. . . Some of you came here with ugly tonight. I don't want you to go home with ugly.''
With a stand-up's timing, he punctuated the last line by adding he wasn't talking about a woman's husband in the second row.
Within seconds of Larson urging anyone who had been privately struggling with demons to come forward, a young girl was screeching inconsolably and a woman was hunched over, choking back sobs that filled the church's large assembly hall.
Conveniently, both were seated in the front rows - at least until the girl flung herself on the floor.
One of the first to draw Larson's ministrations was Kim Centers, 38, who said that between the ages of 8 and 11, she had been molested by a now-dead grandfather who also had abused her younger sister.
Her inability to cope with the lasting shame, she said, had contributed to a failed marriage and drug usage that cost her custody of her two daughters.
After anointing the woman with oil, Larson led her through a series of self-affirmations: ''A terrible thing happened to me. My grandfather incested me. . . . It wasn't my fault. I don't have to be ashamed. . .T. I don't have to hate myself. . . . I deserve to be loved.''< p> Instructing Centers to think back to when she was 8, Larson told her to ''put that anger on me'' and talk to him as if he were her grandfather. ''Why are you doing this to me?'' Centers screamed. ''I hate you. I want you off the Earth.''
Larson responded by placing his Bible to Centers's head and sternly saying: ''Satan, you' re going to let this woman go.''
Instantly, her anguished expression was replaced with a beatific smile, drawing shouts of ''Thank you, Jesus.''
Larson then moved on to 15-year-old Jeanette, whose cries were becoming ever louder.
The girl said that she, too, had been an incest victim, as was her sister. Their mother, on stage with them, said she had been unaware of the incest, but worried that having been abused herself by lesbi ans when she was 7 perhaps had brought a curse on her family. (Winburn, saying he plans to alert authorities to the case, asked that the girl's last name not be used.)
The teen would be Larson's most spectacular struggle of the night, producing a protracted war of wills with the demon he said had gained a foothold that allowed it to manifest itself by taking over the girl's personality and voice.
Again and again, Larson demanded that the demon identify itself. ''Who are you? Answer me!'' he shouted repeatedly, only to be met most times with deep-throated growls and fierce, wild-eyed looks from the girl.
Finally, the sounds gelled into words and the dramatic scene slowly built toward a climax.
With the girl prostrate on the stage, her head dangling over the edge, Larson pleaded: ''Push him out, Jeanette! The last little bit!''
A deep, rumbling voice replied: ''I am, I am, I am - I am Malakos!'' It was left to Winburn to explain who Malakos is as the girl smiled and said she ''felt light.''
To the crowd, it was an entirely believable triumph of divine good over satanic evil.
''I'm sure it's 100 percent legitimate,'' said 19-year-old Aaron Nelson. ''Demons can have a hold on communities as well as people. He helped those people get rid of demons tonight.''
Asked whether he had ever witnessed an exorcism before, Nelson said: ''One happened here a couple of years ago, but I was out in the car and missed it.''
With the evening winding down, Winburn urged the crowd to ''make an offering for Bob'' in envelopes distributed for that purpose. As people began stuffing dollar bills and checks in the envelopes, Larson leaned over to Winburn and whispered something.
''They can take Visa,'' Winburn told the audience.
The devil never had a chance.
