Be gone ye, Satan

INGLIS, Fla. — It truly was an ambitious undertaking: But Carolyn Risher, mayor of this coastal hamlet of shrimp fishermen and God-fearing folk, believed that the hour had come to cleanse her town of the giver of evil — Satan himself.His grip on the community, she had noticed, had become disturbingly apparent: A father had molested a child, teens were dressing in black and powdering their faces white, marijuana and crystal-meth use was on the rise.

So she sat at her kitchen table on Halloween night two years ago and drafted a proclamation. The words flowed from her pen almost, she recalled later, as though God had been guiding her hand.

“Be it known from this day forward,” she began, “that Satan, ruler of darkness, giver of evil, destroyer of what is good and just, is not now, nor ever again will be, a part of this town of Inglis. … In the past, Satan has caused division, animosity, hate, confusion, ungodly acts on our youth, and discord among our friends and loved ones. No longer!”

And finally:

“We exercise our authority over the devil in Jesus’ name. By that authority, and through His Blessed Name, we command all satanic and demonic forces to cease their activities and depart the town of Inglis.”

The mayor printed her proclamation on official stationery. She stamped it with a gold seal. She signed it and, with town clerk Sally McCranie, made copies and stuffed them into four hollowed-out wooden posts on which were painted “repent,” “request,” “resist.”

Then, with a local pastor, a town commissioner and the chief of police, the mayor went to each of Inglis’ four entrances and, in the name of the town’s 1,421 residents, fixed those messages of banishment into the ground.

“My main goal was to wake Inglis up,” said Mrs. Risher, 62. “If the proclamation could get people to wake up and realize that they needed God, then it would be a success — then Inglis would be saved.”

Would it, though? Would banning the Prince of Darkness from the town’s three square miles deliver Inglis from drugs, thieves and drunken drivers? Would it ease the fears of a small, isolated community and attract an angel of light?

Inglis is bounded by timberland to the north and east, an intracoastal waterway to the south and the Gulf of Mexico to the west. There is not a lot going on here economically: a towing business or two, a couple of real estate agencies, a few fruit stands, some bait-and tackle shops, a couple of no-tell motels and a handful of pawnshops, pubs and grills.

If you had been able to get a degree in engineering or nuclear physics, you might have landed a well-paying job at the nuclear plant a few miles south. If you hadn’t, you probably would be a struggling shrimp fisherman. Shrimping has fallen on hard times since big buyers began importing cheap shrimp from Asia — “outsourcing of fishermen,” as the locals put it.

Mrs. Risher is known to drive a wrecker for her husband’s towing business when she is not busy dispatching city business.

The memorabilia that fight for space on her office walls hint of values the community holds dear: a print of “The Last Supper,” a New York Police Department cap worn by an officer at the World Trade Center September 11 attack site, and her original, now-yellowing proclamation.

There also is a map of the United States, chocked with multicolored pins. Each locates a newspaper, TV or radio station that sent a correspondent to Inglis to write about her anti-Satan campaign. “We got the world’s attention,” Mrs. Risher said.

And how.

No fewer than 217 news organizations from as far as Sydney, Australia, descended on Inglis in the months after the mayor’s act, as did members of the American Civil Liberties Union, whose Florida chief described the proclamation as “the most extreme intrusion into religion by a public official that I have ever seen in my 27 years as a director of the ACLU.”

Soon, Mrs. Risher was fielding calls from Dan Rather, Florida Gov. Jeb Bush, “Saturday Night Live” and the New York Times and squinting under the lighting of CNN, NBC and British Broadcasting Corp. cameras. “It was like wildfire,” the mayor recalls. “You couldn’t put it out.”

Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show” sent a correspondent from New York, dressed him in a red devil’s costume, and had him stand in front of the Lil’ Champ’s convenience store and slip passers-by $20 bills to chase him out of town for the camera.

There were loads of pranksters. “Carolyn?” a deep, gravely voice said on the phone one day when Mrs. Risher answered. “This is Satan. I want you, baby.”

Not everyone found the proclamation funny. Mrs. Risher filled five binders with letters from Christians worldwide, all in support of her stand against Satan. Ian and Jeanne Schodder wrote to tell her they had been so inspired that they were selling their home in Canada and relocating to Inglis.

“We are purchasing and closing on 2 parcels of land on Lee Terrace that we have already walked on, dedicated, consecrated and sanctified by the blood of the Lamb,” they wrote. “We salute you and join you.”

Then, the unthinkable: Someone stole one of the posts and the messages rolled up inside.

All four were replaced, this time sunk into the ground with reinforced concrete. For good measure, metal caps were installed and a local Pentecostal pastor anointed the posts with oil and a blessing.

Shortly thereafter, a town hall meeting was held. Things got heated. Several citizens shouted that ACLU lawyers were unfairly pushing around their community. One non-Christian woman who was critical of the mayor’s actions got shouted down. The posts were staying.

The majority of residents agreed to move them onto private property. Mrs. Risher also agreed to reimburse Inglis in the amount of $13 for the stationery, copying and telephone calls related to the proclamation.

In the end, the ACLU dropped its lawsuit. Town commissioners said the proclamation was not an official act because it had not been formally approved by a commission vote.

The flood of reporters, lawyers, comedians and religious advocates gradually receded. That was just fine with townsfolk. They had had their fill of the church-versus-state politics, and quite enough of the media spotlight.

Steve Morris, a captain on the five-member Inglis police force, says drug dealing and burglary are sharply down since the proclamation.

“Significantly,” Capt. Morris said, glancing upward. “And the Big Man upstairs is the reason.”