The Undercover Paganism of Online Exorcists

Bloodline curses, blast-radius prayers, and the God who looks more like Zeus than Christ.

“I contemplated suicide,” someone confided to me in an Instagram message.

“I dedicated my entire life to the Church, and now I was being told constantly that I should fear demons, that everything was a portal. I thought, why bother being Catholic if all my efforts were in vain? If God isn’t protecting me—why bother being here at all?”

Another parent shared the story of her normally happy teenage daughter who suddenly began crying and having panic attacks before Mass. Eventually, the truth came out. She had been watching the spiritual warfare videos that circulate endlessly online. She became obsessed with demonic ties, terrified she wasn’t “clean enough” to receive the Eucharist, convinced that one wrong step meant immediate affliction.

My inbox is filled with stories like these.

People told that Mary turns away from them when they sin, leaving them exposed to God’s wrath, as if she were a shield from an angry deity rather than a mother leading us to her Son. Others write of converting to Catholicism from evangelicalism to escape the constant demon talk, only to find it seeping into Catholic spaces too.

I return to these stories often. They haunt me. They force me to ask: what kind of God is being preached here? What vision of the Gospel leaves Catholics on the edge of despair, terrified of Mass, convinced they are one misstep away from damnation?

Scripture tells us to judge ministries by their fruits, and the fruit here is plain: fear, scrupulosity, despair. Many online celebrity exorcists are not strengthening faith. They are distorting it. Twisting the image of God until, frankly, He no longer even looks Catholic.

He looks pagan.

And this is why I write. Because what’s being passed off as Catholicism in these circles isn’t always doctrine. It’s opinion, speculation, and at times little more than spooky stories disguised as homilies.

And it is hurting people.

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Of course, here comes the silly disclaimer, offered almost begrudgingly…

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No, not all exorcists. But enough to write an essay about it.

Neither am I saying we shouldn’t ever talk about spiritual warfare. We must. But it is how we talk about it that matters.

Because often, the teachings are just vague enough to skirt heresy, and just sensational enough to sound foreign and appealing. They are presented with authority, dressed in the language of tradition, but underneath they distort the face of God, and lead to spiritual harm.

And they tend to distort Him in three ways.

The Three False Gods of Pop Demonology

First, God becomes a trickster. He is portrayed as setting traps, handing demons “legal rights,” letting them afflict us for small missteps. This is not the God of Augustine or Aquinas. It is closer to the gods of pagan mythology, who lay snares and delight in punishing mortals.

Second, God becomes a bureaucrat. In this view, demons have contracts and covenants that bind us more tightly than baptism binds us to Christ. Sin makes it easier to belong to Satan than to God, as if the devil’s paperwork outweighs the Cross. Again, this is not Catholicism. It is a pagan ledger, a cosmic legalism where grace takes the back seat.

Third, God becomes distant and wrathful. Mary is recast as a shield from His anger, rather than a mother who magnifies His mercy. Demons are made hyperactive, while angels and God Himself seem passive, only stirred by exact formulas and permissions. This is not the Gospel. It is the old pagan vision of gods who must be appeased before they strike.

This is why I speak out. Because even when it is never said outright, the image of God being preached in this “pop demonology” is not the Catholic God. It is something older, something foreign.

It is the god of the pagans.

• The god who sets traps for mortals and delights when they fall.

• The god whose wrath must be shielded or appeased by offerings and intermediaries.
  

• The god who hides behind laws and rituals, as if He were bound by contracts more than by mercy.

And it is insane that no one has called it out. We have let these ideas pass as Catholic teaching, when in truth they smuggle back in the very paganism Christ came to free us from.

The Gospel reveals a God who is Father, Bridegroom, Lover.

Not a trickster, not a bureaucrat, not a volcano waiting to erupt.

If the God you are being shown looks more like Zeus or Molech than like Christ crucified, then it is not Catholicism at all.

Common Claims and Their Harm

Let us now turn to some of the actual teachings circulating in this “spiritual warfare” movement. It is important to be clear about what we are doing here. These exorcists are not simply handing on Catholic doctrine. More often than not, they are teaching their own theological opinions. Sometimes those opinions overlap with the mainstream. Other times they drift far from it — just vague enough to skirt heresy, just sensational enough to gain attention.

And when pressed, some even defend their more outlandish claims by saying, “Well, I heard it from a demon during exorcism.” Which is a remarkably convenient defense, isn’t it? As if the Church teaches doctrine based on the testimony of liars. Either way, let’s be clear: this is not always the teaching of the Church. It is usually opinion, and in many cases, it is opinion drifting further and further from Catholic thought.

But far more concerning than the theological vagueness is this: these teachings are spiritually harmful and pastorally neglectful. I cannot emphasize this enough. We are not talking about harmless speculation. We are talking about ideas that wound souls, breed despair, and distort the image of God. Instead of leading people to the Father who loves them, they present Him as a pagan trickster, quick to punish, waiting to hand you over, holding back His mercy unless you get everything exactly right.

This is not Catholicism. This is not the Gospel.

So let us take a few of the most common claims, examine what the Church actually teaches, and show why these distortions do such damage to the faithful.

1. Bloodline Curses

Well, to nip this one in the bud right away: the International Association of Exorcists itself has spoken clearly that the idea of “bloodline curses” is not in line with Catholic thought. The Church teaches that we inherit Original Sin, not demonic contracts, and that baptism frees us from every bond of Satan. “The son shall not bear the guilt of the father” (Ezekiel 18:20).

Now, some people use the phrase “bloodline curse” loosely to describe the very real socioeconomic conditions, or even genetic burdens, passed down through families because of the sins of our ancestors. If you want to call generational poverty or addiction a kind of “curse,” that is at least understandable. But two things: first, why are we calling such things a “curse” at all when they can be explained by natural or social realities? And second, this is not what many of the exorcists online are teaching.

Instead, we hear of demons supposedly “attached to your DNA,” passed down like spiritual pathogens from one generation to another. An actual spirit inhabiting the bloodstream, waiting to torment you for something your great-grandfather did. Which, again… what?

Not only is this absent from Catholic tradition, it is a distortion of the Gospel. It paints God as unjust, punishing children for sins they never chose. It suggests that baptism is not enough, that Christ’s victory is partial, fragile, easily overturned by ancestral baggage.

And here is the deeper trend: in pop demonology, the sacraments are rarely presented as sufficient. Baptism frees you from sin, but apparently it doesn’t break the curse. Confession restores you to grace, but you still need a deliverance ritual to cover your bases. The Eucharist nourishes you, but only if it’s combined with exorcised salt, blessed oil, and a list of binding prayers. It is sacrament plus something else. Always more. Always another layer.

And we need to see how corrosive this is. Because once you start believing the sacraments are not enough, you are already living outside Catholic faith. You are already treating Christ’s Cross as insufficient, as if the devil’s supposed “contracts” carry more weight than the waters of baptism or the blood of Christ poured out in the chalice. That is not Catholicism. That is paganism. Pagan religion always piles ritual upon ritual to keep the gods at bay.

Catholicism proclaims one sacrifice, once for all.

2. Confession as a “Legal Loophole”

Another popular idea comes from a statement by Fr. Chad Ripperger: “Confession is actually more efficacious than solemn exorcism… because the legal hold the demon has on them is broken.”

At first glance, this sounds solid enough, almost pious. Of course confession is more powerful than exorcism, of course sacramental grace surpasses ritual. Who could argue with that?

But then you start to notice the logic. What exactly does it mean to say that confession breaks the “legal hold” of a demon? Are we really meant to imagine sin as a kind of contract we unwittingly sign with Satan — a loophole that binds us to him until confession acts like a legal dissolution? Suddenly, what began as a confident-sounding Catholic statement starts to look much less Catholic.

The Church herself describes confession differently. The Catechism says it reconciles us with God and His Church, restores us to grace, and strengthens us against future sin (CCC 1422–1498). Augustine calls it the “second plank after shipwreck.” Aquinas describes it as the mercy of Christ cleansing the soul. Not once is it spoken of in the language of contracts or legal rights.

It is likely Ripperger is paraphrasing Aquinas, who sometimes spoke of sin placing us under the “dominion” of the devil by our own consent. But Aquinas was careful: he never meant that demons gain true legal authority or ownership over us. He was describing a spiritual likeness, not a legal reality.

We imitate the devil’s rebellion when we sin, and so we resemble his disobedience. But we never leave the dominion of God. Ripperger may also be speaking metaphorically here, but the problem is that he presents it in juridical, literal terms. The language of “legal rights” and “strongholds” is not Catholic language.

It is Protestant deliverance language that has crept into Catholic spaces.

And this is not just a matter of style. It is spiritually dangerous. Because if sin is a legal contract with Satan, then it is easier to belong to Satan than to God. It suggests that the devil’s paperwork is more binding than God’s grace. It casts God as a bureaucrat, respecting demonic contracts more than He rushes to embrace His prodigal children.

This is not the God of the Gospel. It is the God of paganism — the god of contracts and trickery, the god who ensnares mortals in legal webs.

This is why words matter. Perhaps Fr. Ripperger intended it as metaphor. Perhaps he wanted to stress the power of confession in a dramatic way. But when Catholics, especially the scrupulous, hear phrases like “legal hold” and “contracts with demons,” they do not walk away trusting God’s mercy more deeply. They walk away believing it is easier to lose God than to gain Him.

They walk away afraid.

3. Hyperactive Demons, Passive Angels

Not every distortion comes in the form of a single quote. Sometimes it is a tone, an attitude, a general way of talking about the spiritual life. One of the most common threads in pop demonology is the way demons are portrayed as hyperactive and omnipresent, while angels, and even God Himself, are depicted as strangely passive.

Scroll through these videos and you will hear endless talk of how demons are prowling, afflicting, attaching, binding, slipping in through objects and gestures. The devil and his minions are presented as constantly on the move, always strategizing, always quick to act. But when it comes to God? Or the angels? The implication is that they are distant, watching from the sidelines until we say the right words, use the right formula, or summon them with the right ritual.

The result is subtle but corrosive. It makes us think we must always be doing more, always stacking on more prayers, more invocations, more rituals — just to stay afloat. Demons are everywhere, but an angel? Supposedly you have to invoke one, and invoke it perfectly, before they will act. God Himself? Only stirred when you perform the formula correctly.

Suddenly the Christian life is not about trust, but about performance.

And this is precisely the shape of paganism. In pagan religion, the spirits are restless and dangerous, while the gods are aloof. Protection depends on getting the rites exactly right, saying the incantation in the proper form, stacking up rituals upon rituals to hold evil at bay. This is the opposite of the Gospel, where God runs to meet His children, where grace comes first, where angels are at our side always, not waiting for a summons.

If your spirituality leaves you feeling that demons are fast and God is slow, that you must perform perfectly to stay safe, then what you are practicing is not Catholicism. It is paganism with holy water sprinkled on top.

Because the truth is this: God is very easy to summon. The Holy Spirit already dwells in your heart. Your guardian angel is already at your side. It is not a ritual, not a formula, not a complicated invocation. Sometimes it is as simple as a prayer whispered in weakness, a sigh when we cannot find words, a silent moment with our head in our hands as we weep. In those moments, God is already near — and He draws nearer still.

….But that doesn’t sell as many spiritual warfare books, does it?

4. The “Blast Radius” St. Michael Prayer

One of the stranger ideas floating around is the claim that lay people should not pray the long version of the St. Michael the Archangel prayer, the one written by Pope Leo XIII. Why? Because, as some exorcists teach, when you pray it as a layperson it sends out a “blast radius” into the cosmos, like a spiritual bomb, which agitates demons, attracts them, and draws retaliation on you and your family. In other words, the prayer itself becomes a kind of demon magnet.

Let’s pause. A prayer to St. Michael, written by a pope, somehow stirs up demons and puts you in danger? And this is being taught in the name of the Catholic Church?

The Catechism, of course, never warns against praying to St. Michael. It only exhorts us to pray constantly, with confidence, trusting that God delivers us from the evil one (CCC 2846–2854). Pope Leo himself gave this prayer to the faithful as a protection, not as a trap. The Church has never once suggested that a prayer to an archangel would provoke more danger than it relieves.

And this is not just bad theology, it is pastorally devastating. Because it turns prayer itself into something unsafe. Instead of teaching the faithful to call confidently on heaven’s help, it tells them they might accidentally “blow up” the spiritual realm if they use the wrong words. God once again looks like a trickster — a God who leaves His children vulnerable for praying too boldly, a God who sends demons after you if you get the ritual wrong.

Again. This is not Catholicism. This is paganism. In paganism, prayers and rituals were risky, unpredictable, sometimes backfiring if you didn’t say the incantation exactly right. The gods were moody, the spirits easily provoked.

Catholicism, by contrast, teaches us that prayer is always safe. It is always heard. Sometimes unanswered, sometimes answered in ways we don’t expect, but never dangerous in itself. To suggest otherwise is to erode the very foundation of trust in God, replacing confidence with suspicion.

So let’s be blunt: the God who punishes His children for praying too fervently is not the God of the Gospel. That is the god of the pagans.

5. Mary’s Gaze: “You’re Toast Without It”

In one talk, Fr. Ripperger referred to Mary as the “nuclear bomb of heaven.” So far, so good, strong language, but it emphasizes her power in spiritual warfare. But then came this line: “If her eyes are upon you, your salvation is assured. Now think about what that means. It means if she turns her gaze from you, you’re toast.”

This might sound like high Marian devotion, but listen carefully. What does it actually imply? That the only thing standing between us and God’s wrath is Mary’s gaze. That if she looks away, we are finished. In other words, Mary is cast not as a mother pointing us to her Son, but as a shield deflecting the anger of a God eager to punish.

This is not Catholicism. This is paganism. In pagan religion, the gods are violent and dangerous, appeased only if some higher spirit or sacrifice intervenes. You keep one deity’s anger at bay by clinging to another. But the God of Catholicism is not Zeus waiting to hurl lightning bolts unless His daughter restrains Him. He is the Father who runs to meet the prodigal. He is Christ crucified, pouring out His mercy without condition.

Mary’s true role is magnificent — not as a barrier from God’s wrath, but as the mirror of His mercy. She is the New Eve who says yes to God’s love, the mother who magnifies the Lord, the intercessor who brings us to her Son. To twist this into “you’re toast without her” distorts both Mary and God.

It leads souls into fear, not love; into appeasement, not trust.

And pastorally, the fruit is obvious: people live in terror that Mary might look away, that her love is conditional, that their salvation hangs on her mood.

This is not devotion. This is despair.

The God of Catholicism does not hide behind Mary. He gave her to us as mother, not as shield from His supposed violence. To preach otherwise is to give Catholics not the Gospel, but again, the gods of the pagans.

6. The Dark Night vs. Demons

Another harm in this pop demonology is how it interprets every spiritual dryness, every interior darkness, as demonic affliction. If you feel abandoned by God? Must be a demon. If prayer feels empty? A demon is blocking it. If your soul is restless or dry? Deliverance prayers are needed.

But this entirely misses one of the most profound truths of Catholic mysticism: sometimes the darkness is not from the devil, it is from God. The saints call it the dark night of the soul. John of the Cross, Teresa of Ávila, Catherine of Siena — all speak of seasons when God withdraws consolations, not to harm, but to deepen. In those nights, He forces us to seek Him for Himself, not for the feelings He gives. He teaches us to love Him, not His gifts.

To label every darkness demonic is not just sloppy theology, it is spiritually ruinous. It convinces people that silence is an attack, that God’s absence is evidence of danger rather than invitation. It leaves no room for the classic Catholic insight that God purifies, stretches, and matures us through seasons of hiddenness.

And notice again the pattern: God is cast as passive, while demons are hyperactive. God is not guiding you into deeper union, He is just letting demons win. Grace is not mysterious, it is fragile. In this view, you must always reach for another deliverance ritual, another minor exorcism, another layer of protection. The sacraments alone? Apparently not enough.

But the Church teaches otherwise. The Eucharist is enough. Confession is enough. The silence of God is not demonic neglect but divine pedagogy. John of the Cross reminds us: “The endurance of darkness is the preparation for great light.” To mislabel that preparation as demonic is to rob Catholics of the very path the saints walked.

This obsession with demons in every shadow reduces Catholicism to paganism once again — a world where silence is suspicious, darkness is cursed, and the only answer is more ritual.

But the Gospel insists that sometimes the very silence of God is His most intimate call.

Thus, do not be so busy yelling at the devil, when perhaps, you should be listening for God.

But let’s shift gears….

There are many more claims we could sift through, many more distortions we could pick apart. But the point, I hope, is clear by now. Again and again, these teachings lead to the same place: a distorted image of God, one that looks more like the fickle gods of paganism than the Father revealed in Christ.

So let us shift gears. If God is not this trickster, not the bureaucrat of cosmic contracts, not the wrathful deity waiting for Mary to shield us, not the passive king who watches while demons run circles around us — then who is He?

This is the question at the heart of everything. Who is the God we proclaim? What face does the Gospel reveal? What vision has the Church, from the Fathers to the Catechism, handed on to us?

Because if we do not clear away the pagan caricatures, we risk leaving Catholics with a God they cannot love.

So let us turn to the truth: God as He really is, God as the Church has always proclaimed Him, God as the Bridegroom who comes rushing toward His beloved.

Who Is God, If Not the Trickster? The Bridegroom God

If God is not the trickster deity presented in pop demonology, then who is He? The Church has always been clear: He is the Father, the Lover, the Bridegroom who comes rushing toward His beloved.

The Catechism puts it simply: “The whole of Christian life bears the mark of the spousal love of Christ and the Church” (CCC 1617). God does not lurk in the shadows waiting for us to slip. He comes out to meet us, like the Father running to embrace the prodigal son (Luke 15:20).

Augustine insists that God is nearer to us than we are to ourselves (Confessions III.6). The devil may tempt, but he is a chained dog. Grace is always primary. God is not distant, but intimate. He does not withdraw unless we invoke Him correctly; He abides in our hearts by the Holy Spirit.

Thomas Aquinas, so often misquoted in these exorcist circles, called mercy the greatest of God’s works (ST II-II, q.30, a.4). It is mercy, not contracts. Love, not legal loopholes. God is not bound by the devil’s paperwork. He binds Himself only by His own covenant of love.

Bernard of Clairvaux, the great doctor of love, calls Christ the Bridegroom of the soul, wooing us with tenderness: “He seeks the affection of His bride, and in return for love He gives love.” The saints never feared that God was out to trick them. They knew Him as the One who pursues, who burns, who draws near in both light and darkness.

This is the God Catholicism gives us. Not a bureaucrat, not a trickster, not a pagan deity hidden behind angry moods and fragile rituals. He is the Bridegroom who desires union with His Bride.

He is the Father who never ceases to love His children. He is the Spirit already dwelling in our hearts.

If the God you are being shown looks more like Zeus or Molech than like Christ crucified, then it is not Catholicism at all. The Gospel proclaims a God who loves more than He damns, who is always rushing toward us, who is infinitely easier to gain than to lose.

Why Do We Prefer the Trickster God?

But why? Why do so many of us feel more at ease with this trickster god than with the true Bridegroom? Why are we drawn to a spirituality of fear rather than trust, of rituals rather than grace?

Part of it is control. A trickster god may be terrifying, but at least he can be managed. If you stack up the right rituals, say the right prayers, and avoid the right dangers, then you feel as though you have power over him. Mystery is harder. Silence is harder. It is far more difficult to sit in God’s love than it is to keep checking for traps.

Part of it is fear of love itself. To believe God truly loves us — wildly, freely, with no conditions — is frightening. It feels safer to imagine Him as exacting, even angry. That way we do not have to let ourselves be fully seen, fully embraced. Fear is easier than intimacy.

And part of it is what psychologists might call spiritual bypassing. It is easier to shout at demons than to confront our own wounds, our own complicity, our own need for conversion. If every darkness is demonic, we never have to ask how God might be calling us to change, or how much our own hearts need healing.

But there is something darker here, too. When we fixate on demons, we begin to project them onto others.

It is easier to call the people we dislike demonic than to recognize their dignity.

The “woke liberal.” The “MAGA conservative.” The rival in our parish. The enemy in our family. If we see them as demonic, then hatred feels justified. In the end, we mirror what we gaze upon.

And this is the deepest danger of all. We become what we behold.

If we spend our lives looking out for demons, we will start to reflect them: suspicion, rage, division, despair.

But if we behold God, the Father who runs to us, the Bridegroom who longs for us, the Spirit who dwells in us, then we will begin to reflect Him instead: Love, mercy, peace, joy.

The more we look out for demons, the less we look out for God. The more we stare into the abyss, the more we risk mirroring it. But the more we look to Christ, the more we become like Him.

And that is the whole point of the Gospel: not to fear the darkness, but to become light.