Let’s Speak about Exorcist Films (and God’s Love)

I love exorcism films. Since The Exorcist shocked audiences in 1973, crucifix-wielding priests have been godfathers to the possession genre. Lesser pictures may crank up gore in lieu of genuine chills, but for the most part, we side with the priest and believe that evil can be defeated on human terms. Go ahead and burn your sage. I want an exorcist on speed dial: eccentric Russell Crowe (The Pope’s Exorcist, 2023), perhaps; enigmatic Anthony Hopkins (The Rite, 2011); brooding Stellan Skarsgård (Dominion, 2005); debonair Gabriel Byrne (Stigmata, 1999); or Max von Sydow, sporting his super cool hat in the glow of a streetlight.  

“When it comes to dealing with demons and suchlike, Roman Catholics have the market cornered,” quips Roger Ebert. “What you want at the bedside is a priest who knows his way around an exorcism.” This is reasonably accurate, at least in a dark theater, but after the movie ends, questions of good and evil, the spiritual and the physical, remain to haunt us. 

Since my daughter died in 2015, I have felt a keen awareness of the invisible world. When Jess was alive, I cared little for such things. I won’t bother the other side, I shrugged, and they won’t bother me. Yes, yes, I realize that this attitude set me up as a victim in pretty much every exorcist movie. 

Thoughts of possession are on the rise in pop culture. A 2004 Gallup poll showed that 70 percent of the respondents are convinced that the devil exists. A 2007 Baylor Religious Survey found that 63 percent of us think it is possible to be possessed. Public Policy Polling discovered in 2012 that 63 percent of Americans ages 18-29 think that demons can control a person. One year later, in 2013, YouGov demonstrated that 51 percent of the participants believe in demonic possession. These numbers reflect faith and, for some, hard reality. The Association of Catholic Psychiatrists and Psychologists reported in 2009 that half a million people in Italy submit to exorcisms each year. 

For many of us, exorcist films seem to hold truths within their fanciful stories. “An uncanny effect often arises when the boundary between fantasy and reality is blurred,” writes Sigmund Freud, “when we are faced with the reality of something that we have until now considered imaginary.” Exorcism movies deliver plausible depictions of how possession might take place in the real world.  For a few hours, we believe.

Similar to Reality

Verisimilitude is a vital part of any exorcist film. Most audiences are aware that “inspired by” or “based upon” a true story is tantamount to saying next to or on the same street as actual facts, but sitting in the theater we are often willing to accept that what we’re seeing is possible.  

Ask any summer counselor. Tell campers that a creepy legend is just a story, and they’re bored; inform them in a hushed voice that your cousin was there when it happened, and they listen in wide-eyed astonishment. This is why there was much talk of The Exorcist being inspired by rituals performed for Roland Doe (Ronald Edwin Hunkeler) in 1949. Novelist William Peter Blatty took these events as a template for his fiction, but that’s where the similarity ends.

In like fashion, The Pope’s Exorcist is based on Gabriele Amorth’s real-life experiences; The Rite is inspired by the early years of Father Gary Thomas; and The Conjuring pictures are liberally sprinkled with tidbits about Ed and Lorraine Warren. Each of these films has a disclaimer in the end credits stating that it is a work of fiction, but that hardly matters. We construct the meaning we hope to find. 

These films are empowering in a way, fostering healthy questions about belief and reality. Exorcism might be true, we think. It could be true. It probably is true. “When we experience a story, our default is to accept what it tells us is true,” explains religion scholar Diana Pasulka, a consultant for The Conjuring series and professor of religious studies at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. “We have to do extra work to override that default and question what we are reading.”

Pasulka relates that she was ostensibly hired as a Latin consultant for The Conjuring, but the film’s director, James Wan, publicized her as a demonologist that was lending expertise to the proceedings. This association gives tacit weight and credibility to the picture. It’s an old ballyhoo ploy that for exorcist movies began with director William Friedkin. 

The Exorcist had a few accidents and a fire on set. Friedkin, a secular Jew, invited Jesuit Thomas Bermingham to exorcize the location, listing him as a technical advisor in the film’s credits. And so was born an urban legend that the movie was cursed, accompanied by much promotion from Friedkin and the studio. As the saying goes, you can’t buy that kind of publicity. 

The Conjuring series took it a step further. For the third picture, in 2019, producers hired an eastern Orthodox/western Catholic bishop, Bryan Ouelette, to bless the set before filming began. Marketing materials encouraged audiences to watch Ouelette’s ceremony and read the true story behind the film. 

This kind of exposure blurs the lines between legitimate religion and fiction, crossing from what is into suggestions of what might be. “Diabolical forces are formidable,” reads a real-life quote from Ed Warren at the end of The Conjuring. “The fairy tale is true.” Such snippets of verisimilitude give us pause. How much may or may not be accurate, we ask. Could this happen to me?

Religious traditions certainly speak of possession. This is why producers of The Conjuring partnered with Grace Hill Media, founded by evangelical Christian Jonathan Brock, to market the series to Christian audiences. It was framed as a religious supernatural movie, as screenwriter Carey Hayes puts it. Promoters understood that exorcism films rely on believers’ perceptions of church history or legends, suggests Lynn Schofield Clark, television producer and distinguished professor at the University of Denver, “that may be viewed as equally possible and plausible—or equally fictional.”

Blurring the Lines

The popularity of these films contributes to a self-generating feedback loop, according to Joseph Laycock, religious studies professor with Texas State University, and Eric Harrelson, a specialist in film studies with Miami University of Ohio. They call this “The Exorcist effect”: exorcism movies are based, however loosely, on reality; the stories affect our perceptions of potential experiences; this in turn leads to reporting similar episodes that produce more exorcist pictures. Laycock and Harrelson add that while sociological and religious factors shape real-world belief in the demonic, exorcist movies are important in helping us visualize how events might play out. This is not necessarily a bad thing.  

Pop culture provides a safe space for us to think about where religion and metaphysics intersect, observes Christopher Partridge, professor of religious studies at Lancaster University. Another specialist in memory and movies, Jeffrey Zacks, cognitive scientist with Washington University in St. Louis, explains why we tend to blur the lines between real recollections and film images. Our brains are wired to retain data, regardless of its source. Functioning effectively does not require us to recall where the memory originated. A plausible, seemingly realistic movie produces memories that over time are easily confused with actual experience. 

And therein is the horror.

We are not credulous or unimaginative. Quite the opposite. Many of us tend to be a mix of cynical and hopeful; unconvinced but willing to believe. However, we seem to have a “preference of rationalization over rationality,” as historian William Bernstein puts it. We use our considerable powers of imagination and analysis to shape facts to our emotions, not to our intellects. “Human ‘rationality’ constitutes a fragile lid,” writes Bernstein, “perilously balanced on the bubbling cauldron of artifice.” 

Good stories, skillfully presented on screen, resonate with our emotions. Exorcist films may seem to confirm what we already feel to be true. Melanie Green, a communications expert with the University of Buffalo, found that labeling a film as fact or fiction has little to do with beliefs. Humans are natural storytellers and we enjoy an engrossing tale. The more powerful the imagery and emotional impact of the performance, the less likely we are to analyze its veracity. 

One reason may be our predisposition to kid ourselves. Yes, our. Anyone who thinks we don’t kid ourselves from time to time is, well, kidding herself. We may be good at spotting lies in others, particularly those close to us, but such verbal and physical cues are absent in self-deceit, notes  sociobiologist Bob Trivers. This observation is especially accurate in a darkened theater, or while streaming a thrilling exorcist movie at home. Watching images on a screen does not require us to do much more than enjoy and accept—however briefly—the “truth” of the story we’re being told.

Imagination also plays a role in how a film can influence our perceptions. David Seltzer, author of The Omen, is deeply troubled by the number of viewers who imbue his work with religious meaning. “I do find it horrifying to find how many people actually believe all this silliness,” Seltzer says. He insists that it was a work of fiction and subject to artistic license. For example, when he needed scriptural backing, he had a priest recite poetry from the Book of Revelation. But there is no such verse. Seltzer made it up. Audiences loved it: some believed it; others scoured the Bible to tease out his reference; and most didn’t care.

In the same way, Janice Schuetz with the University of New Mexico detects doubt, conjecture, and terror in exorcist film audiences, leading to significant theological and psychological discussions. This has been true for me. I join millions of bereaved parents in occasionally sensing the presence of my deceased child. So the invisible world is real after all, I muse. The good . . . and the bad.

“Be at peace”

“Much of the world of angels and demons remains a mystery to us,” says real-life exorcist Monsignor Stephen Rossetti. “Despite all the demonic antics and the havoc that Satan can cause, be at peace. Jesus has already won the battle.” But tranquility can be hard to come by. In times of pain and distress, we may be capable of little more than mumbled hymns, prayers, or poetry. 

I am a great believer in liturgy, but not perhaps in the way we expect. Rituals take many forms. Sociologist and licensed funeral director O. Duane Weeks suggests that personal meaning is what gives rituals value. They are not one-size-fits-all.

For example, Simone Weil relates that the power of contemplative repetition lies not in the words themselves, but in their significance to us. Suffering from violent headaches, Weil forced herself to repeat the words of George Herbert’s powerful poem, “Love.” The piece formed her liturgy in times of great need. “I used to think I was merely reciting it as a beautiful poem, but without my knowing it the recitation had the virtue of a prayer,” she writes. On one such occasion, she felt Jesus take possession of her. “Moreover, in this sudden possession of me by Christ, neither my senses nor my imagination had any part; I only felt in the midst of my suffering the presence of a love, like that which one can read in the smile on a beloved face.”

Exorcism films rarely focus on Weil’s form of possession—such powerful solutions would make for a short movie! Instead, screenplays rely on old tropes that echo the real frustrations of many believers. After much incantation and crucifix-waving, Variety writes of The Pope’s Exorcist, we begin to suspect the magic is failing. “The problem with much of this horror subgenre is that Catholic weaponry doesn’t work,” observes Variety. “Until all of a sudden it does.” Perhaps. Films are linear. They have a beginning and an end. We invest in the characters; the story then delivers its promised resolution. Life is seldom so tidy.

Gabriele Amorth, the real Vatican exorcist fictionalized in The Pope’s Exorcist, relates that a single ritual can last for hours. “And it almost never ends with deliverance,” he observes. “It takes years to free a possessed person. Many years.” His short book on the demonic is a revelation of love. The first sixteen pages focus entirely on grace, mercy, and total abandonment to divine will—what he calls God’s prescription in the face of inexplicable torments. He returns to this theme throughout the volume. Not that Amorth was without a sense of irony. He appeared at a 2011 film festival to introduce The Rite and frequently told people that The Exorcist was his favorite movie.

Other exorcists offer similar counsel. Safety from evil lies in opening ourselves to God’s truths, advises Monsignor John C. Hughes in the foreword to a book about his friends Ed and Lorraine Warren. Vincent Lampert, exorcist of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Indianapolis, notes that there are 365 verses in the Bible that tell us be not afraid. “Literally, once for every day of the year,” he adds. “God reminds us that evil is something that we should not fear.” He suggests that our best defense is a growing relationship with the divine. 

This kind of vulnerability has long been a counter-intuitive aspect of faith. Our helplessness is not only obvious, but may also be a source of strength. Psychiatrist Scott Peck agrees. “When I took on the role of exorcist,” he confesses, “I arrogantly thought that I could probably endure their onslaught. I was wrong.” One exorcism succeeded precisely because he was willing to be beaten. The sight of him on his knees touched the victim’s sense of mercy and love—a power greater than that which possessed her. Peck had not planned it that way, he was truly defeated, but considered the result proof of what he calls Paul’s great motto: In weakness, strength. 

My experiences with whatever means us ill have at times been rather disturbing. I realize I can do nothing other than empty my mind and plead for peace. Pope Francis insists that supplication is our most tangible help against the devil: “It is painful, but in the face of prayer, he has no chance!” 

I have a sense that none of these experiences are about me. Directed at me sometimes, yes, but not about me. Often it seems that legitimate spiritual attacks (for lack of a better term) are designed to harm others, or at least to stop us from being of use to those around us. 

I facilitate grief support groups. I also suffer from permanent lung scarring caused by COVID-19. There are days when my health betrays me. I despair that I will have the strength to help fellow mourners. This can lead to unfounded, negative associations: my lungs will never heal; who do I think I am, advising people; I bet no one shows up; and so forth. I think most of us have days like this. It’s human nature. If evil forces are a reality, perhaps they take advantage of such moments, whispering in our minds suggestions that are alien to our usual way of thinking. 

At times like this, my prayer leans toward stubborn resignation: “They’re waiting on me, Lord, and I could sure use a hand.” More often than not, when I arrive at the community center for our group meeting I feel a sense of liberation. My problems don’t disappear, but my desire to be of use to others trumps them. And one more thing. These are inevitably the sessions that prove helpful for all of us, facilitator and participants alike. 

Canon William Lendrum, a respected exorcist with the Church of Ireland, has no doubt that malevolent spirits attempt to exploit our weaknesses: emotional, physical, and spiritual. They play some part in worsening (or sometimes causing) circumstances that depress or trouble us. This is not possession, he adds. These spirits strive to influence us from outside our bodies. But Lendrum warns against living in a state of constant fear: “It is a mistake to believe that evil spirits and demons do not exist at all, and equally so to see demons under every bed.”

Many exorcist movies tap into this disturbing aspect of the demonic. 

William Peter Blatty’s secretary was surprised by the final revelation of The Exorcist novel. “They’re after him, aren’t they?” she asked, referring to a priest. The little girl’s attackers inflicted grotesque horrors on her to achieve a separate objective. “I think the demon’s target is not the possessed; it is us . . . the observers . . . every person in this house,” suggests the character Father Merrin. Their goal is for us to see ourselves as inherently vile, bestial, unworthy, and worthless. But belief in God defies despair. “I think it finally is a matter of love,” Merrin adds, “of accepting the possibility that God could ever love us.” 

Other films take a similar approach. The screenplay for The Pope’s Exorcist reveals that the demon tormented a family in order to enslave Father Amorth. The Rite, too, suggests attacks on a pregnant teenager are meant to harm a novitiate. Now, I love a tight script with a tidy ending as much as anyone. But cinematic magical thinking doesn’t change reality. Ultimately we may feel lost in the throes of virulent spiritual assaults. Can they be resisted, we may ask in the horrid moment. Is there any hope?

Such questions have few legitimate answers. For many of us, glib solutions fall flat when we are faced with grim reality. “People who’ve had any genuine spiritual experience always know they don’t know,” observes Richard Rohr, citing mystery and awe as vital to interactions with the invisible world. “It is a litmus test for authentic God experience, and is—quite sadly—absent from much of our religious conversation today.”

Fair enough. Let’s have that conversation.

Mystery and Grace

Not all experiences with the spiritual world are demonic. For example, a surprising majority of mourners sense their deceased loved ones near them at one time or another: 98.6 percent according to a study of 1,603 bereaved persons conducted in 1995 at the University of Nottingham. In another study, respected grief researcher Ronald Knapp with Clemson University interviewed 300 bereaved couples; 99.3 percent reported experiencing the presence of their dead children often and for many years.

When we grieve, we are desperate for any sign from the invisible world, “a crazy little peek behind the curtain, a dim little whisper of providence from the wings,” as Frederick Buechner puts it. We yearn to feel the presence of our loved ones, to know they are still with us. 

It occurs to me that this desperation may be counter-productive. We naturally focus so much on the object of our heartbroken desire that we may miss what might otherwise be obvious. “[God’s] intervention is also seen in sudden experiences, at times of utter despair,” Swiss physician Paul Tournier tells us, “when all at once the mind is filled with the absolute certainty of God’s love, like an unexpected signpost upon an uncertain road.” 

There is no formula for such assurance. Doubts inevitably return. I find this comforting. I am no worse than Job, King David, Jeremiah, or Peter. They too felt the pain and anguish of uncertainty. In moments of despair, I know that God’s love never wavers. This is a primary theme of the better exorcist films: They. Keep. Praying.

In our worst moments, we may not have the energy to recall set prayers. The old formulas suddenly seem irrelevant. But when we approach the divine in relationship, ah, well, then even our groans are enough.

Abraham Heschel observes that the books of the prophets teach us one thing above all others: God needs us. By choice. I am in awe. Deity, the ground of all being, our creator and redeemer, wants not only to be our friend, but also for us to be his friends.  

And that’s the tricky part. Relationships are tough. They are give and take. They demand more listening than talking, though plain, honest discussion has its place. One of my most frequent prayers, a personal ritual of sorts, is simply this: “What can I do for you today, my friend?” I receive more concrete answers to that inquiry than all others. In any given week, if I ask it seven times, at least twice I get a pretty solid answer. That batting average beats most other prayers by a long shot.

Perhaps relationship prayers are acts of silence: we listen without condition; we hope for nothing more than communion with the divine. Such moments do not fit easily into neat categories. They frequently seem surprising. My personal litmus test regarding spiritual experiences consists of mystery, the unexpected, and grace. 

My wife is a librarian. We rarely lunch together; our schedules don’t accommodate frequent visits. A few years ago, out of the blue, I felt compelled to visit the library a good hour before my wife’s break. I use the word compelled with care. 

During the twenty minute drive, I felt my late daughter’s presence and her pleased smile beside me. About half-way, some foolish thoughts popped into my mind, tumbling one on top of another.

Is there some crazy person at the library?, I wondered. As an old self-defense instructor, I quickly thought this through, knowing that in the event, I am trained to deal with such situations. Is my wife ill? A reasonable concern but I couldn’t drive any faster. Is she flirting with someone? This reaction is based on a common aspect of bereavement: our fear of abandonment. Many of the better grief books dedicate entire chapters to anxieties common to loss. I dismissed this last thought as normal and expected trepidation after losing my daughter and my parents. 

There were other invidious thoughts, equally silly in retrospect. What surprised me was the continuous onslaught of these random suggestions in my mind. They seemed vicious somehow. As soon as I calmly reasoned through one, another reared its unsettling head. Soon I doubted my initial decision to go to the library. For a fleeting moment, I thought to turn around, rather than inflict my worrisome mood on others.

And yet there was Jess. I drove on.

When I arrived in the library parking lot, a man was struggling to get a walker out of the back of his pick-up truck. His name was Thomas, 84 years old, though he looked no more than 70.  I helped and that was that. Or so I thought. 

I went inside. Everything was fine. 

Then in comes Thomas, hobbling on his walker. “I spent two hours on the phone trying to get my vaccine appointment,” he said in an accent that my wife barely understood. I’ve lived in South Carolina longer. This is where my daughter grew up and where she died. “Then I drove to the hospital,” Thomas continued. “They said I had to make the appointment on the computer. I don’t know nothin’ about computers.”

With COVID-19 rampant in our state at the time, the library staff was not permitted to assist patrons with the Internet. They had a sign posted: NO COMPUTER HELP. The employees were stymied and heartsick. They would help if they could.

I was under no such restriction.

Thomas needed an email address (which he lacked) and an account on the hospital system (which, again, he lacked). Only then could he schedule his vaccination appointments. I taught college computer classes for years. “It’s nothing once you get the hang of it,” I assured him. “Like working on your old pick-up out there.” But Thomas was coming to the Internet for the first time. So I settled in and started typing on his behalf. 

“My son drownded,” Thomas said out of nowhere while I sat at the computer. We talked it over. His son, Derrick, was 37 when he died in 1997. I told my new acquaintance about Jess’s overdose. 

Non-bereaved parents might think my selection for his new account password was insensitive—derrick1997. However, Thomas, 84 years old and still alert, merely nodded his head. “I don’t mind. Yep, I won’t ever forget that.”

Driving to see my wife, in my plodding stubborn way, I had resisted a plethora of foolish thoughts. I made a rare appearance at our library in the precise moment that I could be of use to a fellow bereaved parent, and he to me. Thomas and I spoke together, shared our stories, and communed as only mourners may. 

I believe that our children, Jess and Derrick, helped us that day. The events remain a mystery, an unexpected grace. Experiences like this assure me that the moment I ask, “What can I do for you today, my friend?” I open a floodgate of sacred joy. 

Exorcism films do not deal in fact. They speak to our emotions. We feel that there is more in this universe than our senses reveal. If demons do exist, if real exorcists are not crackpots, it may be that we escape to the movies hoping reality might be tamed. We needn’t worry. As the credits roll and we stumble into a brightly-lit street, or flip on lamps in our living room, reality looms larger than any flickering celluloid image: God too exists. And he is waiting for us to be his friends.