"The Ritual" Got It Wrong—And We Still Do

How We Misuse the Rite of Exorcism

“The real horror of The Ritual isn’t what the demon did. It’s what was done to Emma Schmidt in the name of Jesus. When sacred things hurt the wounded, we have lost the heart of deliverance.”

When I first saw the trailer for The Ritual, my stomach turned. There, on the screen, was a reenactment of Emma Schmidt’s exorcism—a woman, bound to a bed, while a priest stood over her invoking sacred words. The camera lingered on her struggle: body thrashing, voice distorted, sacred objects pressing upon her like instruments of force. The filmmakers call this a tale of triumph over evil. But beneath the surface, another story was being told—one far more disturbing. And tragically, the instincts portrayed on screen — restraint, force, spectacle — still find echoes in how exorcism and deliverance are practiced, misunderstood, and sensationalized today.

Emma Schmidt was a real woman. Long before she was labeled “possessed,” she was a child—abused by her own father, betrayed by an aunt who reportedly practiced witchcraft and poisoned her food. The girl whose body and spirit were violated long before demons ever appeared. Yet what our modern portrayals celebrate as victorious deliverance too often obscures the real tragedy: the isolation, the retraumatization, the loss of dignity for the one already wounded. To tie such a woman to a bed and impose sacramental power upon her—as if her terrified body is the battlefield of choice—is not spiritual warfare. It is spiritual abuse. And in many cases, the public imagination of exorcism encourages precisely this error: mistaking force for faith, domination for deliverance.

But this is not the Gospel. The Church’s Rite of Exorcism, rightly understood, is not a ritual to hold back hell, nor a power struggle to crush the enemy. It is a liturgical homecoming—a declaration of a victory already won, an invitation for a child of God to be restored to the Father’s embrace. When sacred things hurt—when the Eucharist, the Cross, or the priest’s very presence provoke violence—it is not only demons reacting.

Often, it is the wounded parts of the person, still terrified of love, intimacy, and surrender. These parts cry out not in rebellion, but in protection—because for someone whose body has been betrayed, even the nearness of Jesus can feel like danger. We must understand this, or else we will repeat the sins of those who, in Christ’s name, retraumatize the very ones He came to heal.

The Hidden Story Beneath the Spectacle

I write this as a clinical psychologist and someone who has walked closely with many survivors of trauma in the context of deliverance ministry. This is why the first demoniac to manifest in Jesus’ ministry, recorded in Mark 1, speaks volumes about what true authority provokes. The man was not howling in the wilderness, nor chained to the outskirts of town. He was in the synagogue—seated among the faithful—until Jesus began to teach with authority. It was not the presence of a ritual that triggered the demon, but the presence of a Person. And what the man cried out was not merely defiance but fear: “Have you come to destroy us?” (Mk 1:24).

The authority of Jesus confronted not only the spirit within him but the inner division in the man himself—a part that feared surrendering to the reign of God. The demon’s outburst was as much a distraction as a defense—a way to resist the loving authority that had entered the room.

Demons are solution-providers. They offer alternatives when trust has been shattered. They whisper lies that distance us from God: You are unsafe with Him. You cannot surrender. You must retain control. Their power is never ontological; it is always and only suggestive. And they find fertile ground where trauma has fractured the human soul.

That is why their manifestations often increase when true spiritual authority is present—not because the demon’s power is rising, but because the person’s protective parts, long aligned with demonic strategies of self-preservation, are being exposed. To treat this moment as a mere clash of wills—to shout louder, to restrain harder—is to miss the deeper work God is inviting: the healing of the human person, not just the expulsion of an enemy.

Chains, Community, and the Gospel We Forgot

We see this dynamic even more clearly in Mark 5, where Jesus meets the Gerasene demoniac. The man had been isolated, chained, treated by his own people as untouchable. They feared his suffering more than they grieved it. St. Ephraim the Syrian poignantly observed that Jesus’ sending of the man back to his community was a rebuke—not only to the demons, but to a society that cared more for swine than for sons.

The man had been marginalized because his torment reflected the deeper sickness of the community itself. And so often today, in our rush to perform exorcisms and display power, we fail to see that the “possessed” person bears not only their own wounds, but the wounds of the family, the church, or the culture that failed them.

What the Rite of Exorcism Is—and Is Not

This is why understanding the nature of the Rite of Exorcism matters so deeply. The Rite is not designed to be a power contest. It is a liturgical reenactment of the Gospel—a sacramental act through which the Church proclaims over the afflicted person: You are a beloved son. You are a beloved daughter. You belong not to the enemy, but to Christ. The command to the spirit is not the centerpiece of the Rite; it is a consequence of this deeper truth being proclaimed and embodied. Every prayer, every gesture, every use of sacred objects points to this: the Father’s arms are open, the house is His, and every voice of darkness must fall silent before that reality.

But when sacred things are used as weapons, we betray that message. Holy water was never meant to drown demons, but to remind souls of their baptism: You are already marked. You are clean. You belong. The Eucharist is not a battering ram but a nuptial invitation: This is My Body, given for you. The crucifix is not a talisman to force surrender; it is the image of a Love that already triumphed through sacrifice, inviting us to trust the One who gave everything. If we approach these sacred realities as tools to overpower rather than truths to welcome, we risk deepening the wounds we were called to heal.

When Sacred Things Hurt

This is particularly tragic when the person we are ministering to carries the scars of trauma. For someone who has suffered violation—whose body was once made a battleground by abusers—being tied down in the name of deliverance is not protection. It is a reenactment of their worst memories, an erasure of their agency, a violation dressed in sacred language.

The wounded parts of the person cry out not against God, but against the terror of once again losing control. And when the Church allows this to happen—when we celebrate films that depict such acts as victorious—we tell survivors everywhere: you will be forced, not healed.

Jesus' Way: Dignity Over Domination

Jesus never forced. He invited. When the Gerasene demoniac ran to Him, Jesus did not overpower him. He asked, What is your name? He restored voice, agency, identity. When the man was freed, Jesus did not cloak him in secrecy. He sent him home, clothed and in his right mind, to testify and be reintegrated into the very community that had once chained him.

The exorcism was not just about removing evil; it was about restoring dignity. And if we miss this, we have missed the heart of Christ.

Communion, Not Confrontation

Even in Mark 9, when the disciples failed to deliver a child tormented by a mute spirit, Jesus did not shame the child, nor treat him as an object of spiritual battle. He drew out the heart of the father, inviting fragile faith: I believe, help my unbelief. The boy’s healing unfolded as faith was nurtured, not as power was imposed. The failure of the disciples was not a failure of technique—it was a failure of communion. This kind can only come out through prayer, Jesus taught—not prayer as formula, but prayer as alignment, as presence, as relationship with the Father. True authority flows not from force, but from intimacy with God.

And this is precisely where our modern portrayals go so wrong. Films like The Ritual do not depict the exorcist as the father running to embrace his prodigal child. They cast him as a warrior locked in combat—holy objects gripped like weapons, the afflicted reduced to a spectacle of power. But the enemy is not defeated by volume or technique. Demons tremble not at our strength, but at the presence of the One in whom all authority already resides. And they flee most decisively when the person they afflict is led, gently and safely, back into communion with that presence.

The Minister as Living Sacrament

Deliverance, then, is not a confrontation—it is a homecoming. It is not a battle to be won, but a belonging to be restored. The priest in the Rite is called to be a living sacramental—a breathing embodiment of the Father’s. His hands do not grasp the person in force, but extend the blessing: You are seen. You are loved. You are free.

The power of the Rite lies in this proclamation—not in volume, but in truth; not in coercion, but in compassion. And when we lose sight of this, we risk turning the Church’s most tender ministry into a reenactment of spiritual violence.

Discerning What the Soul Is Saying

This is why the reactions we witness in exorcism settings must be discerned with great care. When someone thrashes before the Eucharist, or recoils from the Cross, it is easy to assume that the demon is being tormented. But often, it is not the demon’s hatred of holiness alone that is surfacing. It is the wounded parts of the person—parts terrified of surrender, of intimacy, of trust. As I have written elsewhere, the soul is crying out: I don’t know if I can let Him in. For such a soul, forcing exposure is not healing; it is harm. The minister’s task is not to overpower, but to create safety—a space where love can be received, at a pace the person can bear.

In my own ministry, I have witnessed this countless times. I have sat with survivors of sexual abuse who would tremble and weep before the Blessed Sacrament—not because they rejected Christ, but because the nearness of His Body felt unbearable to bodies once violated. I have seen parts of the soul manifest in fear—not resisting God, but protecting the person in the only way they knew. And I have learned that true deliverance happens not when we force these parts to yield, but when we listen, honor, and invite them into the gentle embrace of a God who is patient and kind.

The Person Is Not the Enemy

If there is one lesson the Church must recover in this age, it is this: the person is not the enemy. The afflicted are not to be chained, silenced, or dominated. They are to be heard, honored, and welcomed home. Our deliverance ministries must become places of safety, not of shame. Our rites must embody the Gospel, not a spectacle of power. And our films, our preaching, our public imagination must cease glorifying the image of the bound demoniac writhing beneath a priest’s command. We must instead proclaim this deeper truth: The Father is running toward the wounded. His arms are open. And no voice of darkness can withstand the embrace of Love.

Emma Schmidt deserved that embrace. So do all who suffer. May we never again call abuse deliverance. May we never again confuse force with faith. May the Church become again what she is meant to be: a place where no one is tied down, but where all are lifted up—restored, clothed, and sent home in peace.

The Greater Power of Love

This is the heart of deliverance: not confrontation, but communion. Not spectacle, but restoration. The enemy traffics in division—diabolic, by nature. But Christ comes to unite, to reconcile, to integrate what trauma and sin have shattered. When we tie someone to a bed, whether physically or metaphorically, we declare that force will save them. But the Gospel declares something better: Love has already saved them.

If we are to serve the wounded well—and they are many—we must recover this vision. We must train ministers not merely in prayers of command, but in the posture of Christ. We must teach exorcists to be living sacraments of the Father’s embrace, not just skilled ritualists. We must disciple the Church to see that freedom flows from safety, that deliverance is about reclaiming the person, not defeating the demon.

And we must stop glorifying images of spiritual violence. The world does not need more films of chained women and shouting priests. It needs the witness of a Church that knows how to say, Come home. You are safe here. You are loved. That is the greater power. That is the deeper authority. That is the Gospel.