PHOTOGRAPHY BY GETTY IMAGES.
SOCIETY
pew, her legs stretched across her boyfriend’s lap like
she’s at an outdoor music festival. As I inhale hot,
slightly skunky air, everything fades to a soothing
backdrop, warm and hazy as well as fragrant and safe.
I’m beginning to see the allure of all this: the mix of
learning and activism, the inclusive, participatory feel
of a house party. The extreme, pervasive chill. Some
people listen. Others appear to zone out in their pews,
deep in their own transformative experience.
Lili, 21, an ethereal blonde who grew up in Fin-
land and one of Berke’s interns, tells me later that her
first time at the church was almost like a baptism. “I
remember sitting on one of the benches alone, after
hours, looking around in awe just thinking, ‘I can’t
believe I’m here,’” she says. Raised atheist, she didn’t
know this kind of feeling was possible inside a reli-
gious institution. “I’ve always tried to smoke joints in
really beautiful places,” she says. “But it’s interesting
that you can get that same experience in the city, in a
building. It puts things into perspective. Where you
are right now, how amazing this is.”
Berke’s co-founder, Lee Molloy, says the church
currently breaks even by fundraising, renting out its
space for events, and selling swag at a gift shop on the
ground floor. There, amid life-sized Teenage Mutant
Ninja Turtles, visitors shop for stuffed toys, souvenirs
and “High Priestess” T-shirts. At the service, a collec-
tions bowl circulates, just like in any other church,
and parishioners toss in a buck or two to contribute
to the new air conditioner.“IN A WAY,
RELIGION HAS
ALWAYS BEEN A
TRIP. THIS VERSION
JUST OWNS IT”CLOCKWISE FROM ABOVE LEFT
Kimm Miller lights a pipe for Andrea
Camp; Spanish painter Okuda San
Miguel created the church’s interior;
a member of the International Church
of Cannabis wears a themed T-shirt.There’s a reflexive self-consciousness here, like
they know how this looks, a bunch of mostly white
seekers colonising old churches with their weed. “It’s
not like we’re worshipping the plant,” clarifies
Samantha. “It’s a tool.” The religious vibe actually
encourages people to take their hash habits more
seriously. “The spirit of cannabis is a master healer,”
explains Elizabeth, 38, the church’s volunteer and
events coordinator. “It has the power to bring positive
change. But if you abuse it and use it unconsciously, it
can take your life force” (not to mention make you
mow through a bag of Doritos). “A lot of people per-
ceive the name and mission as a kind of joke, but it’s
not,” says Lili. “I believe it’s the perfect addition to your
physical and mental wellbeing.”
By this time, the speakers have wrapped up, and
two twentysomething guys with
guitars are strumming out the first few
bars of “About a Girl”, which reverber-
ates through the chapel (those church
acoustics, though). Behold, tonight’s
musical accompaniment: a Nirvana
cover band. A couple of young women
rush the stage like they’re seeing Kurt
Cobain in the flesh. Beth Ann comes dancing down
the aisle, earrings bouncing. A bunch of us stand up
and sway awkwardly in the pews.
It all feels a little bit strange, but it’s really no
weirder than a Catholic funeral I recently attended,
with its ringing bells, chanting, incense and robes. In
a way, religion has always been a trip. This version
just owns it, and doesn’t ask you to buy into anyone’s
story but your own. When the Nirvana set ends, with
“All Apologies”, the crowd cheers wildly and demands
an encore. It could be the weed, but I realise that I’m
grinning from ear to ear.