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cannabinoid receptors in the brain, magnifying
sensory perception, altering thoughts and feelings, and
affecting levels of neurotransmitters such as dopamine
and norepinephrine, which can lead to sensations of
pleasure and euphoria (and sometimes anxiety). Spiri-
tual traditions ranging from Hinduism to Rastafarian-
ism have used it; some believe it’s even endorsed in the
Bible (“kaneh-bosm”, a key ingredient in Jesus’ anoint-
ing oil, may have been an early term for cannabis).
Today’s pot parishioners can already be found all
over the US, at the Coachella Valley Church in San
Jose, the First Cannabis Church of
Florida, the First Cannabis Church
of Logic and Reason in Michigan,
Greenfaith Ministry in Nunn,
Colorado and the First Church of
Cannabis in Indianapolis. Many of
these groups meet online or on
private property, not in actual
churches, since they’re limited by
local laws about public consumption.
The International Church of Cannabis is the rare
one where you can actually smoke in the church itself,
provided you’re at least 21, show ID at the door, and
have completed the aforementioned online question-
naire. (Becoming a “member” is what makes con-
sumption here legal, since the church is a private
space.) And you can’t buy or sell on the premises; this
is a strictly BYOC situation.
Predictably, on this Friday night in Colorado, I
spy a few tourists at the service, and some bros who
probably just want the thrill of getting high in a church
(Berke says the organisation has more than 7500
official members, and about 40 show up regularly).
But most seem to be legitimately searching for a sense
of community and acceptance that might have been
missing from the congregations they grew up in.
During the service, people come and go freely, close
their eyes and rest, and carry on conversations. Plenty
of them approach me to introduce themselves; I can’t
tell if they’re proselytising or just being friendly (or
have heard I’m a reporter).
S
amantha, 30, a fair-skinned redhead who
owns a crochet business called Mile High
Stitches, tells me that she moved to Denver
from East Texas, “where you’re either Chris-
tian or going to hell”. She first visited the
church more than a year ago and keeps coming back.
“It makes me feel like I’m not alone or lost,” she says.
“That there’s a divine purpose to keep pushing for-
ward.” A vivacious white-haired woman named Beth
Ann, the self-described “church grandmother”, taps
me on the shoulder to inform me that cannabis helped
with her Parkinson’s after she moved here from a Flor-
ida retirement community (it also saved her marriage,
she intimates, motioning towards her husband).
An hour in, the vibe at the church is trending
k ind of sauna-ish. The AC is on the blink, so paper fans
wave furiously. One woman reclines sideways on her
A psychedelic mural
adorns the interior
of the International
Church of Cannabis,
where members call
themselves “Elevationists”.
“AS I INHALE
HOT, SKUNKY AIR,
EVERYTHING FADES
TO A SOOTHING
BACKDROP, FRAGRANT
AND SAFE”
sharon
(sharon)
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