Monster.
Evil.
Demonic.

Even people who don’t consciously practice religion slip into it.

And listen — the words make sense. The harm is real. The rage is justified.

Why?

But I’ve been asking myself:
What are we doing psychologically when we use language like that?

When we call someone a monster, we push them outside the category of “human.” We turn them into something mythic, almost supernatural. And on some level, that gives us relief.

Because if they are demons, then they are not us.
If they are monsters, then they are anomalies.
If they are evil incarnate, then the system is fine — it just had a few possessed players.

It creates distance.

Religiously, calling someone demonic is one of the oldest psychological maneuvers we have. It externalizes evil. It casts harm as a spiritual infection rather than a human pattern. It turns systemic corruption into cosmic warfare.

Religious language does something powerful for the psyche. It gives chaos a container.

If someone is a demon, then they are possessed by something otherworldly. If they are evil incarnate, then harm is metaphysical. If they are monsters, then they are not us.

This is one of the oldest psychological defense mechanisms in human history: externalization.

In religious frameworks, evil is often portrayed as a force that invades from outside — Satan, demons, corruption, temptation. That framework is emotionally relieving. It allows us to locate danger “out there.”

But psychologically, what are we doing?

We are protecting our sense of innocence.
We are protecting our group identity.
We are protecting our belief that the system we belong to is fundamentally good.

When we call someone demonic, we move them outside the human family. And once they are outside, we don’t have to examine the ecosystem that nurtured them.

But they weren’t demons.
They were human.

Some were men. Some were women. All were capable of choices, complicity, and harm.

Some were shaped by entitlement.
Some were protected by power.
Some were enabled by silence.
Some were rewarded by systems that still exist.

Religious language can become a form of scapegoating. René Girard wrote about this — how communities project collective anxiety and guilt onto a single figure, label them corrupt or evil, and expel them. The scapegoat absorbs the group’s shadow. Once expelled, the community feels purified.

We see this pattern everywhere.

If we can say, “They were monsters,” then we don’t have to ask:

• Why did so many people stay silent?

• Why did institutions protect them?

• Why do we reward charisma over character?

• Why does power shield certain perpetrators again and again?

Calling them demonic simplifies the story.

But human evil is rarely simple.

Carl Jung would say what we refuse to see in ourselves gets projected outward. The “shadow” is everything we don’t want to believe we’re capable of — greed, dominance, exploitation, indifference. When we label someone pure evil, we risk pushing our collective shadow entirely onto them.

That doesn’t mean we are equivalent to them. It means we live in the same psychological field.

And here is the uncomfortable spiritual truth: If harm is always caused by demons, then we never have to confront how ordinary human beings — under certain incentives — can participate in extraordinary damage.

Religious cultures especially struggle with this. In high-control systems, sin is often framed as individual moral failure, not structural corruption. Evil is personalized. Systems remain sacred.

So we punish the “fallen” and preserve the hierarchy that made them powerful.

That is not transformation. That is containment.

And here’s where it gets personal.

If I say I don’t want to be energetically anywhere near that — if I refuse that philosophy — I cannot stop at moral outrage.

I have to examine where the same subtle beliefs live in me.
Where have I equated power with dominance?
Where have I confused image with integrity?
Where have I stayed quiet because proximity to power felt safer than truth?
Where have I dehumanized people I disagree with?
Where have I benefited from structures I critique?

Not because I am them.
But because I am human.

And if we are going to talk about religion honestly, then we have to admit this: The doctrine of “sin” was never meant to be a weapon for scapegoating. It was meant to point to the universal human capacity for distortion. Distortion means our human tendency to rationalize harm, act selfishly, misuse power, or stay silent when we should act. The teaching of sin is meant to be reflective — to help everyone look at their own capacity to go off-course, rather than just labeling one person as “evil.”

The problem is not that we are possessed by demons.
The problem is that we are capable of rationalizing harm when it benefits us.

Calling someone demonic may feel spiritually righteous.
But acknowledging they are human forces us to reckon with culture, incentives, silence, and complicity.

Demons cannot be reformed.
Systems can.
Monsters cannot be dismantled.
Structures can.

And if I truly want to refuse that energy, I don’t just condemn it outwardly.

I refuse to replicate even its smallest philosophies:

• domination over mutuality

• hierarchy over humanity

• silence over truth

• protection of power over protection of people

Religious language can either deepen our accountability — or allow us to escape it.

I’m no longer interested in escape.
They weren’t demons.
They were human.

We don’t know if history will repeat itself.
But we do know this: we will not spiritualize their violence to make ourselves more comfortable.

We will call it what it was.

Because survivors — and all who were harmed — deserve that much.

Let’s answer their prayers by seeing this for what it truly is.

Not a cosmic battle between angels and demons.

But human beings abusing power inside systems that allowed it.

Ultimately, before we demand justice or lecture on consequences, we must pause and listen. What do survivors actually want to see happen? How can their voices guide the systems we’re trying to fix?