Former Psychic Medium Exposes the Spiritual Deception Behind Mediumship
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38-39 ESV).
When I look back on my days as a psychic medium and all the people I met who were grieving because of loss, I feel such shame for playing a part in the devil’s deceptions that led them away from the true source of comfort—God.
Only by His forgiveness and grace can I move past this guilt and pain and use what I’ve learned in my darkest hours to help people who are now suffering such terrible losses. I’m so comforted by David’s words in Psalm 51 when he confesses his terrible sin, admitting to God, “Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight” (Psalm 51:4 ESV) and then praying, “Restore to me the joy of your salvation and uphold me with a willing spirit. Then I will teach transgressors your ways, and sinners will return to you. … my tongue will sing aloud of your righteousness. … and my mouth will declare your praise” (Psalm 51:12-15 ESV). And that’s what I’m doing now. I’m sharing with you my own failings and sufferings so you can be saved from the traps I fell into and know the comfort I found after years of searching.
When we face terrible losses, a brokenness remains that seems irreparable. I’ve felt that grief personally. I’ve lost several children through miscarriage, including a profound and terrible loss of one in the late stage. Holding a child in your arms who will never feel the sun on her skin, hear the song of birds, feel the tenderness of a mother’s kiss, or know the security of a father’s hug, breaks the heart into shattered, jagged pieces that remain beyond human repair. Countless hours were spent weeping for my children with a grief like that of Rachel, who refused to be comforted (Jeremiah 31:15).
I remember one evening when I was at dinner with my husband. I’m sure my eyes were red and swollen, as always during that time. While we were eating, a psychic medium came over to my table and asked about the loss. He said he had received a message—I would see my children again; they would be reincarnated into other children I would have later. But after that, I lost more children, and now I will never have another. The promise of the medium was empty, and even if he didn’t mean to deceive, the devil did. He was playing on my grief, offering false hope, and creating more confusion for someone simply trying to get through the day and make sense of it all.
Grief can be a killer all on its own. It robs you of joy, hope, faith, even sanity. You cry out “Why?” to the sky and drop to your knees, burying your face in your hands, trying to hold back the torrent of tears. You can barely breathe because of the pain of it all, and the tears that once fell freely stick in your throat, burning and leaving you gasping for breath. Your heart literally hurts, and you feel as if you will never be free of it. The days pass, and there is some improvement, but a simple word, a hum of a tune, or a fleeting image calls to mind the loss, and the pain comes sweeping back all over again. Is it any wonder that people seek mediums or spiritual counselors to find some answer to the “why” of it all? Is it a surprise that mothers seek out their child from the other side, wives long to talk to their husbands, or children want one last word with the parent who died too soon? Is it so strange that we want to know we’re not alone in this world in the midst of our grief? At the core, we’re terrified, not only because of our loss but because our time is so very short. We, too, will die. We know, deep down, even when we don’t want to think about it, that we will die alone. No one will truly be with us in that moment; no one can follow us into the dark.
Some people take comfort in the hope of a reincarnated life, that they will live on in another form. Some think they will step into nothingness, so they focus on the here and now, pushing back any thought of the afterlife. Some think they will pass into an ineffable spiritual existence, living in another dimension of reality that they can never comprehend, but it will be good—that’s what they tell themselves. It will all be good. But there’s a nagging feeling that doesn’t provide the comfort they want. What if it’s not good? What if there is nothing? If so, what’s the point of this life? Just to love others as best we can? What if we fail miserably at that—as, honestly, we all do? What is the meaning of it all, and how can we make sense of life and death, joy and suffering, hope and despair, light and darkness? How do we cope when death forces us to look into the cruel face of mortality? Are there answers to be found? In those moments of grief, when we cry out, “Why?” is there a voice that answers us? Is there any real comfort in our pain? Is there any genuine hope amid the fraudulent schemes and empty imitations that offer sweet nothings?
The answer is yes, and it can be found only in the one, true God—the God described in Scripture as the Father of compassion and mercy and the God of all comfort (2 Corinthians 1:3-5). Who is best to comfort a child in pain? It’s the mother and the father. That’s because the child trusts the parent, knows the parent loves them, and believes the parent has the power to help them. God is the “Creator-parent” of all, not as an intimate Father in a redemptive way to all people—the way He is with those adopted into His family through Christ—but as the One who is the Author of all life. He knows us. He made us. He created everything. Any belief system that denies God as the Creator automatically has no answer for those who grieve.
There is no real comfort for the atheist regarding human suffering, because ultimately it is meaningless. But the existence of God eradicates the notion that we’re alone on a senseless hamster wheel of life. If God created us, He did so for a reason. Our life has meaning because an intelligent Being has designed us. Suffering, too, has meaning. An artist doesn’t just slap paint onto a canvas. If he does so, he is not an artist. A true artist has a purpose, and God has declared that He has created all things for a purpose—and that purpose is to love with a holy and perfect love: for Him to love and enjoy us, for us to love and enjoy Him, and for us to love and enjoy one another and the world He created.
When we suffer loss and grief, it’s in the context of a loving purpose, at least for those called into God’s family. If we suffer, it is not meaningless but serves some design orchestrated by a loving God. Suffering came into this world because of our sin, and we deal with it in the context of God’s loving and just purposes. We can’t shake our fists at God as if we’re being unfairly treated. He treats none of us with partiality and injustice. We all suffer because we live in a fallen world. But God doesn’t leave us to suffer without hope. He reaches out to us in love through His Son, Jesus Christ—the one who suffered more than we could ever imagine—and through faith in Him, we find peace, hope, and comfort in our loving Father.
I don’t want to stray too far down an obscure philosophical path, but there are some fundamental points we need to look at to understand comfort amid suffering. In doing this, I want you to know I’m sensitive to how difficult grief is, and I know a chapter about God’s character probably won’t bring you the immediate comfort you need. If you’re someone dealing with loss, I wish I could be with you in person, sitting beside you as you grieve. But my words here will have to do, and I want you to know that death and loss should always lead to tears.
Pastor Alistair Begg once said in a sermon, somewhat out of frustration after ministering at many funerals, “There should be crying at a funeral!” The apostle Paul agrees, saying in Romans 12:15 (ESV), “Weep with those who weep.” People need time to grieve, and we shouldn’t be impatient with that timing or merely fling religious platitudes at them like Job’s insensitive friends who thought they were offering comfort when they really weren’t. We can’t just throw out Bible verses to people and expect them to be magically comforted. I’m not doing that. For one thing, I do understand. I do know what it is to suffer greatly and how it can take a long time to heal. But I also want to lay out a sure foundation to help us get to the point where we are open to receiving that comfort. So, as I walk you along that path, please remember: Nothing I write is cold religion. It is leading to a great, powerful, and passionate truth about the God of all comfort.
