Defeating the devil: why exorcism in Australia is on the rise

Via smh.com.au

The official exorcist for Sin City sits in a comfortable chair with his legs crossed, under a framed picture of Saint Mary MacKillop. He has bushy white eyebrows, a severe side part and eyes the colour of a cloudy day. He offers me a biscuit with my tea.

We are seated in a small, chilly room next to his Sydney suburban church, by a table covered in books on yoga and t'ai chi, and prayers sledging Satan as the bringer of death, root of all evil, accursed dragon, seducer of man and father of lies.

"We have a little chapel a few suburbs away we can use for exorcisms," the exorcist says, touching the tips of his fingers together as if in prayer. "I have holy water. I have a crucifix. I have a Bible. And I go through a variety of prayers, some to the Almighty himself, some to Satan or the satanic entity, demanding the demons leave. By the time you do all that, the best part of an hour has gone by."

So you have talked to the Devil, I say.

"Yes," he says. "But I have never heard a reply."

The exorcist is my entry point into the dark world of demon- chasing. It's where I'll meet an office assistant who was delivered of 43 devils and a young man who screams and spews into a bin while being freed of foul spirits. Some exorcists say they've never been busier combating modern-day evils; one recently met a 20-something who claimed to have sold his soul to Satan for fame.

Pope Francis's fixation with expunging the Devil - whom he believes is a real person - has helped raise the prominence of the practice. Last June, the Vatican formally recognised the International Association of Exorcists, a group of 250 priests in 30 countries co-founded by Italian priest Gabriele Amorth, who claims to have personally rid the world of 160,000 demons.

A spokesman for the association warned in October of an "extraordinary increase in demonic activity", citing the apparent growth in Satanic groups and occult practices.

The elderly priest I meet for tea was appointed the official exorcist for the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Sydney in 2010 by Cardinal George Pell after attending a four-day seminar on casting out demons. He juggles the work with his other priestly duties.

It is little known that many Catholic dioceses have an official exorcist. "It is not a perfect world. We are trying to make it a little bit more perfect," the exorcist says, between biscuits.

He asks that I don't identify him, for fear of being "besieged by calls all day and all night" from the possessed. Many troubled souls are afflicted by mental illness, not demons, he says, and are more in need of a counsellor than religious cleansing.

Conducting an exorcism is a remarkably efficient process. Priests report possible cases of spiritual oppression or possession to the archdiocese head office, which then emails the exorcist the details. He refers each case to a psychologist for a preliminary assessment. Those cases that remain unexplained might warrant an exorcism, for which there is a set process and prayers to follow.

We move to the exorcist's office, so I might photocopy the pages of his Rite of Major Exorcism. The Rite requests the exorcist be "appropriately robed" in a white tunic and purple stole. He kneels if possible and lays his hands on the head of the afflicted. He shows them a crucifix and, "if appropriate", breathes on their face, bidding the Lord to drive out all evil "by the breath of your mouth". "It's a very deadpan kind of ceremony," the exorcist says.

He seems determined to make exorcisms sound really dull. "I was called to a house one Sunday night and this woman was sitting in an armchair with her husband sitting on her, to keep her there, and she was making a kind of growling sound," he says. Yes, I say, getting excited. "But it turned out to be a case of hysteria. She was under great pressure at work."

The exorcist says the closest he's come to the Devil was when exorcising a young woman who was "somewhat comatose" after dabbling in reiki, a therapy based around energy flows. "The Devil was there in some form," he says. "Most likely not Lucifer himself but one or other of those fallen angels."

The Catholic Church warns that the popularity of practices such as reiki, t'ai chi and even yoga has opened a channel to more evil spirits than before. Consulting Ouija boards or psychics might also cause spiritual torment, the Church says, along with watching Harry Potter or Twilight films.


The apparent determination of the Devil surprises me. "Behind the material world is a whole world within, a world that so many are not aware of or pretend is not there," Melbourne Bishop Peter Elliott assures me later. "I know of a case of a woman who claimed she had an angel guiding her and she used to talk to this angel ... but it finally showed its true face and revealed it was a liar. It wanted control, power over her. She was on the way to possession; I'd say she was halfway there. But she got spiritual help and is now happy."

Elliott says he does "consultancy work" in the field of exorcisms: assessing people complaining of spiritual affliction and, on occasion, referring them to an exorcist for "specialist" help. "One friend of mine was doing an exorcism and he was thrown right across the sanctuary of the church and nearly broke his back on the altar's marble rail. In another case in a town where there was an exorcism going on, at the point where the entity was sent back where it belongs - into the abyss - the electrical system of the town blew up.

"But these are rare cases ... When I was a young priest people would send a few cases to me. One boy was schizophrenic; that taught me to be very careful here."

There is within every human being "a propensity to do wrong", Elliott adds, while sitting at home in Ormond with his Burmese cat "Lord" Justin on his lap. Catholics believe God has already defeated the Devil but that the threat from dark spirits lingers on. "The war is won but the spiritual combat within human beings still continues, because we are imperfect and live in an imperfect world," Elliott says. "The great battle is won. But the conflict continues."

The small church sits in Blacktown, western Sydney, on a suburban street of red-brick homes and blinds drawn shut at dusk. A man in shorts and thongs waters his lawn. A pram lies abandoned on the nature strip. Screaming and wailing sounds come from within the church as I approach the front door at 7.30pm. Pastor Gerald James ushers me in. "We have already started," he says.

Inside is a large, plain white room, with lines of blue chairs facing a stage filled with musical instruments. A young Korean man wearing a crumpled white T-shirt and dirty blue jeans sits in the front row, shaking his shoulders and growling through gritted teeth and spitting great globs of muck into a bin.

Ben Bockarie, James' assistant of sorts, thrusts his hands into the man's face and rails against the demons of insanity, suicide, murder and torment. "You are coming out!" he says. "Out! Out! Out!"

The young man screams and throws himself to the floor. He growls and shakes his leg like a dog being scratched, then vomits creamy white phlegm. He reaches for a roll of toilet paper to wipe his mouth. James dispatches him to the toilet to wash his face.

"We have been dealing with him for about a month," he tells me. The man is possessed by an unknown number of demons, he says. "He contacted us because he was being troubled by things that were tormenting his mind. He was seeing things, hearing voices."

James invited me along tonight to witness a "deliverance service" - which is essentially the same as an exorcism but sounds nicer. The young man returns from the loo looking dazed and confused and a little sad. He has thick black hair and the slightly slobby look of a computer programmer. "Who are you?" Bockarie says. "I'm the king. I'm the killer," he replies, in halting English. "Who do you want to kill?" The man points with a shaking finger to his own face.

For about four hours, I watch spiritual warfare rage. The battle is in turns shocking, silly and simply gross. At one point, the young man grips his stomach and vomits reddish bile into the bin. The spew is a demon being expunged from his body, James says. Each mucky drop represents a victory in Jesus's name.

James is smartly dressed in dark slacks and a pressed shirt, with a slight paunch and triumphant hair. He sits next to the young man and speaks in a low voice.

"Have you eaten dog?" he asks.

"Once, in a restaurant," the young man says.

"Did you eat a pig's head?"

"I might have."

"You bowed down and then you ate it?"

"I guess so, yes, it is possible."

James later tells me there are many ways demons might possess people, such as idolatry. His deliverance services are free, he says, but his ministry takes donations and business is good - in the past fortnight he has dealt with six cases of possession.

I am struck by the fact that we are in the suburbs of modern Australia, surrounded by brick homes and bare front lawns, and there is a man shrieking like a crazed clown while a religious figure struts about him, shouting: "Burn! Burn! Burn!"

But then it's strange how even the most bizarre thing can seem mundane after a while. It grows late and Bockarie's voice is hoarse. The young man is on the floor in the foetal position. I silently wish he would stop growling, so we can all go home.

James checks his watch.

"Have a wash," he says. The man mops up some muck from the carpet and walks to the bathroom. It is close to midnight.

I found Gerald James on the internet, where he promises that his Hope Ministries will set followers free "from the evil powers and torment of the Devil or demons". Also online is Brisbane-based Jewish exorcist Alex Telman, who tells me "demonic entities don't discriminate between religions".

In Perth, I speak to "freelance exorcist" Father Barry May, a retired Anglican priest who claims to have performed dozens of exorcisms over four decades. "I've been spat at, yelled at, grabbed at, sworn at, had people try to rip the crucifix off my throat, gouge my eyes out," he says. "The Exorcist was very Hollywood but at the same time there is a lot of truth in it."

I speak to one of his clients, a carpenter who's flown over from Sydney complaining of being tormented by spirits that cause pain all over his body. The problem started after he played with an ouija board, he says.

"I would like to think I am a normal, rational guy," says the carpenter. "I love the football and the cricket and a couple of beers after work. I live with my partner. I pay my taxes. But at times I feel like an energy is surging through my body that is not my own."

May says he is often "the last gasp" for people who find no respite from doctors or psychologists. "I'm a spook chaser," he says. "This is my speciality."

Specialist spook-chasing is on the rise around the world. In Italy alone, more than 500,000 people see an exorcist each year, according to Matt Baglio's book The Rite: The Making of a Modern Exorcist.

Exorcists believe the Devil comes in many guises: a whispering voice in the ear; an oppressive force feeding addictions to gambling, pornography or sex. In rare cases, the book says, the Devil takes temporary possession of a person's body and manifests in various ways: bodily contortions; unnatural strength; funny voices; an aversion to saying the name of Jesus or Mary.

The Rite says the demand for exorcisms is growing, citing cases of women vomiting huge quantities of human sperm or long black nails or live animals, such as crabs or scorpions (the possessed, the book says, are almost always female).

Associate professor Sarah Ferber, an expert in the history of exorcism at the University of Wollongong, says the emergence of a contemporary "cult of exorcism" is concerning. Exorcisms have been linked to 30 deaths in the past three decades, she says, including two in Australia in the 1990s, and the majority of victims were unwilling participants. "When the human body is seen as a cosmic battleground, women and children, in particular, are vulnerable."

In other cases, people might undergo an exorcism to rid themselves of bad habits or perceived character flaws. "For a lot of people it is a self-help thing - help me stop smoking, help me lose weight, help me stop being homosexual," Ferber says. "I fully accept people sometimes feel better afterwards and that's often pointed to as evidence of the reality of demons. But that doesn't prove God defeated the Devil. It might say something about that person's theology but it doesn't prove anything about whether God or the Devil exist."

Some people believe there is a demon lurking in every doorway: in every illness, mild discomfort and inconvenience. There is a lot of "junk" in the soul, Reverend Peter Hobson tells me later. "You just don't remove one unclean spirit from a person, you remove the whole kingdom of darkness and you keep going until you've got the lot."

He commands these spirits to go from a community centre in Crows Nest, Sydney, where his congregation has gathered for Sunday service. His roll call of demonic ailments takes about 10 minutes. "All pain and stiffness, arthritis, rheumatoid arthritis, osteoarthritis, we rebuke in Jesus's name. Bad cholesterol is to be gone in Jesus's name." He rebukes the demons of vertigo, diabetes, carpal tunnel syndrome and pinched nerve endings. Hernias, flu, coughs, cysts, asthma and emphysema are "to be healed in Jesus's name".

Is cancer also a demon, I ask? "It is an attack on God's design," he says.

Is homosexuality a demon? "Homosexuals have an unclean spirit that's distorted God's creation plan."

Is mental illness a demon? "Yeah, yeah," he says. "The enemy uses it to invade the mind. And the mind is a huge battleground."

The Australian Medical Association says treating mental illness as a demon that can be cast out is unscientific and potentially harmful. "When people suffering mental illnesses are seeking these sorts of spiritual remedies, in the vast majority of those cases they don't get better," says psychiatrist Choong-Siew Yong, a former president of the NSW branch of the AMA.

Peter Hobson's congregation gathers on Sunday afternoons for healing and deliverance. I arrive to find 40 people sitting in chairs or lying on the floor covered in bedsheets. Hobson, an Anglican priest with thinning grey hair and ragged teeth, says they are undergoing "spiritual surgery". Scattered about the room are ice-cream buckets, into which people keep coughing up phlegm. Others yawn loudly, which Hobson says is also a sign of a demon being expunged.

There are nibbles after the service. I chat to Elsa Bocxe, a deacon in Hobson's Full Salvation Fellowship, over cocktail frankfurts. "It's amazing how many demons are in our life," she says. "I've been delivered from lots and lots. But like a plant, it can grow big roots."

We meet again a fortnight later at Bocxe's apartment in Belmore, in south-west Sydney. Vases of silk flowers are on every surface. By her big-screen TV are three copies of the book Prayers That Rout Demons and Break Curses: Preparing to Engage the Enemy.

Bocxe started attending deliverance services almost 30 years ago to rid herself of bad thoughts about her then mother-in-law. "She was horrible to me," she says. "I experienced hate in my heart. I wanted her to die. I started dreaming about killing her."

In your dreams, I ask, how did you kill her? "Slowly," she says, laughing.

She is short and round and smiles often. She tells me the Lord has also delivered her from back pain and bad hay fever. Everything bad comes from Satan, she says. Trip on a crack in the footpath? "The enemy put an obstacle in front of you to hurt you," she says. Bus running late? "Hindrance spirit," she says. But couldn't the bus just be late? "Yes, it's possible," she says.

Something has troubled me since the Sunday service, I tell her. If cancer is a demon and someone dies of cancer, does that mean they were spiritually weak? "Maybe they have got angry with God because they were in pain," Bocxe says.

What about a sick baby. Are they to blame for their illness? "That's a typical unbeliever's question," she says.

She admits to feeling doubt at times, but blames that on the Devil, too. "You have to have faith. Unbelief is a horrible, disgusting demon."

I doubt anything but faith could instil such certainty. Today is Bocxe's 73rd birthday, so we walk towards the nearby leagues club, where she will celebrate alone over a Chinese lunch. I watch for cracks in the footpath on the way. We pass a taxi rank and there is one there waiting for me. "Look at that. You are blessed," Bocxe says. "Be good," she calls, as the taxi drives away.

Father Ken Barker, an authority on exorcisms, cautions against blaming the Devil for all that ails us. "You can sort of overplay the activity of evil and see everything as evil spirits at work. You don't want in any way to exonerate people by blaming Satan."

We meet on a quiet Monday in Canberra, at the headquarters of the Catholic Missionaries of God's Love. Barker is lean with bushy grey eyebrows, wearing a white shirt with a paper clip on his cuff to hold it in place. He says while ministering abroad recently, he met an 18-year-old man who claimed to have traded his soul with Satan in exchange for becoming famous.

"Within each of us there is a proneness towards and fascination with evil," Barker says. "One image I have for Satan is a dog on a chain. It has a perimeter it can run around. And if you are crazy enough to get inside the perimeter, then you get mauled."

"We see a world in turmoil. We live in a world full of deception, lies and corruption," reads a newsletter in the foyer of Catch the Fire Ministries, situated in an industrial area in Melbourne's outer south-east. Pastor Daniel Nalliah invites me up to his office to see a DVD. The big screen in the corner shows his deliverance of a woman he says came to him for help after fleeing a satanic cult. She looks like she is in her 50s but is probably younger. Nalliah says he doesn't know where she is now.

We watch her barking and screaming and thrashing about for 50 minutes. Five people hold her down on a plaid couch in a plain room with blue curtains. Nalliah squashes an open Bible against her face. A man in a green shirt, Nalliah's personal assistant, screams in her ear: "Out! Out! Go! Right now! LOOSE HER!"

The woman is wearing faded blue jeans and a fluorescent yellow T-shirt with the name of American rapper Eminem across it. "Certain music activates the demonic spirits," Nalliah tells me. I ask him if only Eminem is evil, or all rappers. "Not only rap music," he says. "There is AC/DC, too."

Nalliah says his senior minister in Sri Lanka nicknamed him "Triple D", for "Demon Delivering Danny". He lifts his phone to summon Elizabeth Ryan, who works in the office downstairs. She walks in with her husband, Darren, carrying photos of her own deliverance. Ryan, 53, has strawberry-blonde hair, blue eyes and a soft voice. What was it like having the Devil inside you, I ask. "It's not a nice feeling. It's like that depression feeling: sorrowful, sad, angry, all those negative emotions."

The photos show her lying on the floor with four people holding her down. Projected on the screen behind her are the words: "Oh, the blood of Jesus. It washes white as snow." I flick to the last photo: she stands with her face red and hair matted with sweat. She has a beautiful big smile on her face.

On that Wednesday night - July 2, 2008 - she says she was freed of 43 demons that had entered her as a result of emotional trauma, perhaps sparked by the death of her twin sister as a child. She hands me a typed "healing testimony" in which she gushes about her deliverance. At the end of one sentence I count 151 exclamation marks. "I felt like I had been totally washed inside, scrubbed like a new baby," she tells me. She had been depressed after struggling to conceive a child with Darren, and she also had elbow pain. That night, she says, she went home and burnt her antidepressants and threw away her arm braces.

She seems sincere and I can't help but feel happy for her. Life is good, she says. "Yeah, you have your ups and downs - everybody does - but on the whole I feel a whole lot better about everything," she says.

She looks over at Darren. "We still had some issues in our marriage and had to go through some counselling and we're getting to a better place."

They met at a different church, where both played in the band. Darren recalls seeing "this nice-looking blonde girl up on the keyboard". They now live in a three-bedroom brick house with a big backyard and three cats. Later, as they walk me to the door, Ryan asks if she might pray for me. I don't think I have any demons, I say, but then it's hard to tell. "It is," she says. "Even afterwards I thought, 'Do I have them? Do I not?' "

Then she corrects herself. "You know when you have. God will reveal it."

She places her hand on my shoulder, closes her eyes and asks the Lord to touch me and bless me and help me to write this article. I will do my best, I say.

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