METROPOLIS, Ill. — The pastor began his sermon with a warning.
Satan was winning territory across America, and now he was coming for their small town on the banks of the Ohio River in southern Illinois.
“Evil is moving and motivated,” Brian Anderson told his congregation at Eastland Life Church on the evening of Jan. 13. “And the church is asleep.”
But there was still time to fight back, Anderson said. He called on the God-fearing people of Metropolis to meet the enemy where Satan was planning his assault: at their town’s library.
A public meeting was scheduled there that Tuesday, and Christians needed to make their voices heard. Otherwise, Anderson said, the library would soon resemble a scene “straight out of Sodom and Gomorrah.”
The pastor’s call to action three months ago helped ignite a bitter fight that some locals have described as “a battle for the soul” of Metropolis.
The dispute has pitted the city’s mayor, a member of Eastland Life Church, against his own library board of trustees. It led to the abrupt dismissal of the library director, who accused the board of punishing her for her faith. And last month, it drew scrutiny from the state’s Democratic secretary of state, who said the events in Metropolis “should frighten and insult all Americans who believe in the freedom of speech and in our democracy.”
Similar conflicts have rocked towns and suburbs across the country, as some conservatives — convinced that Democrats want to sexualize and indoctrinate children — have sought to purge libraries of books featuring LGBTQ characters and storylines. Republican state legislatures have taken up a wave of bills making it easier to remove books and threatening librarians with criminal charges if they allow minors to access titles that include depictions of sex.
To counter this movement, Illinois Democrats last year adopted the first state law in the nation aimed at preventing book bans— which ended up feeding the unrest in Metropolis. Under the law, public libraries can receive state grant funding only if they adhere to the Library Bill of Rights, a set of policies long promoted by the American Library Association to prevent censorship.
Many longtime residents were stunned when these national fissures erupted in Metropolis, a quirky, conservative city of about 6,000 people that has a reputation for welcoming outsiders.
Because of its shared name with the fictional city from DC Comics, Metropolis has for the past half century marketed itself as “Superman's hometown.” Tens of thousands of tourists stop off Interstate 24 each year to pose beneath a 15-foot Superman statue at the center of town, to attend the summertime Superman Celebration, or to browse one of the world’s largest collections of Superman paraphernalia at the Super Museum.
“Where heroes and history meet on the shores of the majestic Ohio River,” the visitor’s bureau beckons, “Metropolis offers the best small-town America has to offer.”
But lately, the pages of the Metropolis Planet — yes, even the masthead of the local newspaper pays homage to Clark Kent — have been filled with strife.
Unlike in comic books and the Bible, the fight in Metropolis doesn’t break along simple ideological lines. Virtually everyone on either side of the conflict identifies as a Christian, and most folks here vote Republican. The real divide is between residents who believe the public library should adhere to their personal religious convictions, and those who argue that it should instead reflect a wide range of ideas and identities.
During his sermon in January and in the months since, Anderson has cast his congregation and their God as righteous defenders of Metropolis — and the Library Bill of Rights and its supporters as forces of evil.
If Christians didn’t take a stand, Anderson warned, there would soon be an entire children’s section at the library “dedicated to sexual immorality and perversion.” And before long, he said, the town would be hosting “story hour with some guy that thinks he’s a girl.”
Anderson, who is also a member of the Metropolis City Council, then asked his followers to confirm that they were ready to join him in the fight for decency.
“Amen?” the pastor said.
The congregation called back in unison: “Amen.”
Three days later, Rhonda James pulled up to the Metropolis Public Library and was surprised to find nearly every parking spot filled.
In her 12 years volunteering on the library’s board of trustees — including seven years as its president — James couldn’t recall more than a few residents attending one of the monthly meetings.
But when she walked inside on the evening of Jan. 16, about 50 people were waiting in the basement meeting room.
“Oh, hi,” James said nervously as she made her way to the front. “I wasn’t expecting you all.”
James, who’d grown up attending a Baptist church and has hosted a Bible study at her home the past 20 years, didn’t know why the crowd had gathered. She suspected it had something to do with the tension that had been quietly building between the nine-member board of trustees — which is appointed by the mayor and charged with overseeing the library’s operations — and the library’s director, Rosemary Baxter.
Baxter, who did not respond to interview requests, had taken the job in 2021 and quickly earned praise in the community for developing fun and engaging children’s programs. But in recent months, the board had been fielding complaints from residents who said Baxter, a devout Christian, was injecting her religious beliefs into the library’s operations.
Baxter had acknowledged praying aloud with children at the library’s after-school program, which she told the board she did with the permission of parents. She’d put up a nativity display on the library lawn for Christmas and invited a man dressed as Santa to read the Bible to children.
Board members had been pressing Baxter for months to produce a list of book removals and purchases after learning that the library had sold or donated about 15,000 books in recent years, shrinking the overall collection by about a third. The children’s section of the library now had eight versions of the Bible, but only a single picture book about Halloween. Explaining the discrepancy at a public meeting, Baxter said she only removed titles that hadn’t been checked out in several years, then cited her belief in Scripture.
“God said he did not give us a spirit of fear,” Baxter said, alluding to the scary themes sometimes found in Halloween books. “Why would I want to instill that on anyone?”
But the people now crammed inside the library weren’t there to talk about Baxter or her book selections. Instead, they said they’d come to oppose the board’s plan to adopt the Library Bill of Rights, which they believed would bring drag queen story hour to Metropolis, as Anderson had warned.
“We are concerned our values may be undermined,” said Jim Duncan, a pastor speaking on behalf of an alliance of local faith leaders.
James glanced around at her fellow trustees, most of whom, she said, looked as confused as she was.
“Drag queens in libraries,” James told the crowd, “has never come before this board.”
The Library Bill of Rights, which includes a pledge to provide reading materials representing “all points of view,” does not deal with library programming. Plus, James explained, the board had already adopted the Library Bill of Rights more than a decade ago, long before the new law that made it a requirement for state grant funding. The vote that night was merely to adopt an updated version of the policy that included an additional clause about protecting patrons’ privacy.
The explanation seemed to appease at least a few residents — but not everyone.
Seated alongside the board, Baxter, the library director, argued against the Library Bill of Rights. The Metropolis Public Library didn’t need state funding, she said. In fact, she’d never applied for any state grants during her tenure.
“There are grants we can get,” Baxter said, “where we don’t have to barter with Satan in order to get the funding.”
Ford Loverin, one of the trustees who’d clashed with Baxter in recent months — and the only openly gay library board member — was stunned. The library, he responded, should be “accepting and tolerant” of everyone’s views.
Loverin, a practicing Lutheran and retired child therapist, had moved from California to Metropolis with his husband five years earlier after falling in love with the town’s eccentric charm.
He especially enjoyed spending time at the small library, housed in a red-brick building constructed in 1915 with seed money from the steel tycoon Andrew Carnegie. These days, the library’s budget runs around $350,000, funded by city taxes and revenue from a local riverfront casino. In past years, Loverin said, the Metropolis library has relied on state grants to close shortfalls or fund capital improvements.
“I don’t think,” he said, “we need to be in a position where we throw public funds away.”
In the end, James and Loverin joined four other members in voting 6-2 to adopt the updated Library Bill of Rights.
As she headed to her car afterward, James held tight to her library binder. Inside, she carried a resignation letter that she’d planned to present to the board that night.
The owner of a local day spa, James had been feeling run down after spending much of her free time that year caring for her elderly mother, who’d entered the final stages of multiple sclerosis. She had decided she no longer had the time or energy to continue serving on the board.
But after seeing the backlash brewing, James decided to keep the resignation letter tucked away. Later, when she told her father about her decision to stay and fight, James said he laughed.
“You’re like Jonah,” he said, referring to the Old Testament Bible story. “You tried to jump ship, and you got swallowed by a whale.”
Anderson, the Eastland pastor and Metropolis city councilman, wasn’t appeased by the board’s assurances on drag performances.
He wrote a scathing op-ed in the Metropolis Planet and preached about the library controversy nearly every weekend, warning that “Satan has made a move in our community” and that “darkness is coming after us.”
On Feb. 18, Anderson taught from the Book of Nehemiah, telling the story of the Jewish prophet who worked to rebuild the walls around Jerusalem in the 5th Century B.C. Metropolis, Anderson said, was also in need of protection. Not physical barriers, he said, but spiritual.
“Do you think we need safety from the powers of darkness?” Anderson asked his congregation. “I don’t know if you realize it, but our enemy hates us.”
Anderson then motioned to some children sitting in the front row. “These children that you see here,” Anderson said, “the enemy hates them. And the enemy wants to kill them.”
Anderson's apocalyptic warnings were motivating more than just his followers.
The county Democrats, a small but vocal group in Metropolis, joined with some moderate conservatives and began staging protests, voicing support for the library board and demanding that it diversify the library’s collection.
As clips of Anderson’s sermons spread, some conservative Christian leaders distanced themselves. Duncan, the Baptist minister who’d come to the board in January to voice concerns about drag queen story hour, said he’d changed his position after learning more.
“I wanted nothing more to do with this situation,” Duncan wrote in an email to NBC News. “I believe the church has no place attempting to privatize a public library. We should not push our own convictions on others.”
Anderson declined to be interviewed.
Glenn Coram, pastor of Immanuel Baptist Church in Metropolis, said he also opposed efforts to portray the library as a site of spiritual warfare.
Coram, like most Baptist ministers, believes that homosexuality is a sin. But he doesn’t think a public library should refuse to carry children’s picture books depicting same-sex couples.
“I’m not one of these people who looks at Harry Potter and thinks that it’s going to make your kids into witches,” Coram said.
And he doesn’t believe Christians should try to impose their views on others, which he called a violation of church-state separation.
“They’re seeing their mission,” Coram said, “as establishing the kingdom of God in Metropolis through the government.”
On Feb. 21, Baxter, the embattled library director, appeared alongside Anderson and another local pastor on the “Greg Dunker Show,” a local conservative talk radio program.
Baxter defended her decision to donate or sell thousands of books, which she said she did to make room for additional children’s programming. Those removals, she said, were not “an attempt to pull any specific thing.” She acknowledged, however, that some parents had complained about children’s picture books with depictions of LGBTQ characters and that she shared their concerns.
“They get to the end, and there’s a surprise ending with same-sex marriages, same-sex parenting,” Baxter said. “And they’re like, ‘I don’t want this.’”
Baxter also elaborated on her refusal to apply for state grants. She had chosen instead, she said, to rely on God to provide.
“We don’t need to live by the regulations and the rules of this state,” Baxter said. “We are here to serve and to honor God.”
By then, some members of the library board had had enough. Richard Kruger, a longtime lawyer and concerned citizen, had advised them that Baxter’s blending of religion and government service was inviting a civil rights lawsuit.
A week later, the board went into a closed session and presented Baxter with an ultimatum: If she wanted to keep her job, she needed to sign a performance improvement plan. It stipulated that she would abide by the Library Bill of Rights, seek state grant funding and discontinue praying aloud with children and other religious activities at the library.
Baxter refused to sign and began to criticize the board. Voices were raised, according to three members.
After a few minutes, James, the board president, slammed her fist on the table.
“This is not up for debate, Rosemary,” she said. “Either sign it, or don’t.”
Baxter stood up and left.
Minutes later, the board came out of closed session.
By a vote of 5-3, they terminated Baxter’s employment.
Baxter’s departure left the library in turmoil. Four employees resigned soon after, and the board got to work picking up the pieces.
They brought on a former library employee to serve as interim director and embarked on top-to-bottom reviews of the library’s catalog and finances.
“Our focus,” James said, “is making sure our library is strong and healthy and there to serve everyone.”
Then, on March 19, the story of Baxter’s firing was picked up by Blaze Media, a national conservative outlet. In a column titled, “A librarian’s faithful service is silenced by a secularist takeover,” conservative talk radio host Steve Deace interviewed Baxter and Anderson and reported that both had come under fire for their Christian beliefs.
Deace presented the local saga as a warning that evil forces were now coming for small-town America and blamed the problems in Metropolis, in part, on “a California transplant who is living with another man,” referring to Loverin, the library board member.
Three days later, Metropolis Mayor Don Canada — who in 2021 had appointed Anderson, his pastor, to an open seat on the City Council — took a stand of his own.
In letters addressed to James and two other board members, Canada announced that he’d “lost faith in the Board in its current state.” As a result, he was removing James and two others who’d voted to terminate Baxter.
Canada declined to be interviewed, writing in an email, “I have no comment on the Library or the Library board.” In an interview with Deace, Canada said he removed the members because “we need a fresh start.”
The mayor’s decision shocked some residents and drew a rebuke from Illinois Secretary of State Alexi Giannoulias, a Democrat who also serves as the state librarian.
“Retaliating against local library trustees, who are dedicated to serving their community and assisting children in learning, is unacceptable,” Giannoulias wrote.
The mayor’s action was not only controversial; it also appeared to be improper.
At a City Council meeting three days later, a local lawyer who previously served as a Metropolis city attorney explained that, under Illinois law, the mayor cannot unilaterally remove political appointees. He is required to level charges against board members he wants removed and seek approval from the City Council.
Heeding that advice, the council voted to table the dismissals. Later, one of the board members targeted for removal resigned, creating a vacancy for the mayor to fill. In an email this week to NBC News, Canada said he planned to put off a decision on whether to replace the other two board members until this summer.
While the members wait to learn their fate, the fighting has some questioning their future in Metropolis.
Loverin said he feels tense when strangers approach him in public, afraid that one of the people who has accused him of pushing an anti-Christian agenda might confront him.
“I love the people here, but I don’t want to be in a place where I feel intimidated,” he said. “But then it’s like, ‘Well, I’m kind of letting them win.’ And I don’t want to do that.”
Leaving has also crossed James’ mind.
She lies awake some nights, worried about what her critics might do to harm her or her family if they truly came to view her as a tool of Satan out to “kill” children. She thinks about the phrase etched in stone at the foot of the Superman statue in the center of town — Truth, Justice, The American Way — and wonders if some of her neighbors have lost sight of what those words really mean.
But through the darkness, she’s also seen good from the people of Metropolis. She’s watched Democrats and Republicans, Christians and nonbelievers, march together in defense of what they describe as free speech and democracy.
Those moments have helped restore her faith, James said.
“There’s hope for this little town.”
