Andrew Henry doesn't just ask if psychedelics feel religious; he argues that for millennia, humans have intentionally used them to generate the divine within, a concept so profound it demands a new vocabulary. While modern science often dismisses these experiences as mere chemical glitches, Henry marshals archaeological evidence and clinical data to suggest that the "mystical" label isn't a metaphor—it's a precise descriptor of a neurochemical event that mirrors the deepest threads of human spirituality. This is not a story about getting high; it is a rigorous investigation into why the human brain, under specific chemical influence, consistently reports encountering God.
The Ancient Architecture of the Sacred
Henry begins by dismantling the modern stigma surrounding these substances, tracing their lineage back to the Marsh Chapel experiment of 1962. He highlights the experience of Houston Smith, a renowned scholar who, despite a lifetime of belief, claimed the psilocybin session provided his first direct encounter with the divine. "Smith said he had already believed in God for as long as I can remember. But until the Good Friday experiment, I had no direct personal encounter with God," Henry writes, noting that Smith described it as the "most powerful cosmic homecoming I have ever experienced."
This anecdote is not merely a historical curiosity; it serves as the pivot point for Henry's broader argument that these substances are not modern inventions of the counterculture but ancient tools of ritual. He points out that the term "psychedelic" carries negative baggage, which is why scholars coined "entheogen" to describe them. "The term enthogen derives from Greek, literally meaning something like to become divine within or generating God within," Henry explains. This linguistic shift is crucial because it reframes the substance from a hallucinogen to a sacrament, aligning with how indigenous cultures have viewed them for thousands of years.
"Enthogens are psychedelics by another name, one that emphasizes their religious properties."
The author then pivots to hard archaeological evidence, moving beyond anecdote to material history. He details the discovery of a 1,000-year-old ritual bundle in Bolivia containing psilocybin and DMT, belonging to a pre-Inca specialist, and the 5,000-year-old evidence of peyote use in Mesoamerica. "Archaeological evidence for the use of a cactus containing mescaline called peyote dates back 5,000 years in Meso America and using psychedelic mushrooms in religious ceremonies was also widespread," Henry notes. This historical continuity suggests that the "religious" feeling isn't a side effect; it is the primary function of these substances in human culture.
Critics might argue that equating ancient ritual use with modern recreational or therapeutic use ignores the critical role of set and setting. Henry acknowledges this implicitly by distinguishing between the raw chemical and the cultural container, such as the Native American Church, where peyote is viewed as a "parent-like presence" rather than just a drug.
The Neuroscience of the Divine
Having established the historical precedent, Henry dives into the biochemistry, explaining how these molecules hijack the brain's serotonin system to produce these effects. He clarifies that while mescaline and LSD are active immediately, others like psilocybin and DMT require metabolic conversion or specific chemical partners to work. "For DMT, when ingested on its own, it's quickly broken down by enzymes in the stomach, leading to a very short-lived psychedelic experience," he writes, before explaining how the ayahuasca brew uses MAOIs to prevent this breakdown, allowing the DMT to last long enough to induce profound states.
The core of Henry's scientific argument rests on the 5HT2A receptor. When these molecules bind to this receptor, they trigger a cascade of neural activity that results in what scientists call "mystical type experiences." However, Henry is quick to critique the term itself. "Personally, I think mystical is a weird term for scientists to use," he admits, noting that it is a loaded term that scholars of religion find difficult to define objectively. Yet, he concedes that scientists use it because the subjective reports are uncannily similar to religious texts.
To illustrate this, Henry quotes psychologist Bill Richards, who described his own trip as a flood of "awe, glory, and gratitude." Henry uses this to bridge the gap between neurochemistry and theology. The brain is generating a feeling of "oceanic boundlessness," a concept Henry traces back to a debate between Freud and Romain Rolland. "The study ultimately found that in 20 patients with treatment resistant depression, a psilocybin induced experience of oceanic boundlessness predicted positive clinical outcomes," Henry reports. This is a powerful synthesis: the very feeling that Freud dismissed as an illusion is now being measured as a predictor of mental health recovery.
"I was everybody, unity, one life with six billion faces. I was the one asking for love and giving love. I was swimming in the sea and the sea was me."
This quote, drawn from a patient in a clinical trial, perfectly encapsulates the "unitive experience" Henry describes. It is not just a hallucination; it is a restructuring of the self. The patient's description of zooming out like "Google Earth" to see their connection to the universe mirrors the theological concept of panpsychism or divine omnipresence. Henry argues that this is why these experiences feel religious: they literally dissolve the boundaries of the ego, creating a sensation of oneness that religious traditions have described for centuries.
The Shift in Belief
The final piece of Henry's puzzle is the long-term impact on metaphysical beliefs. He cites a study by Christopher Timmerman involving over 800 participants, which tracked how their views on reality changed after a psychedelic experience. The results were stark: participants moved away from strict materialism—the idea that only physical matter exists—toward a belief in non-physical realms and a unifying principle.
"The researchers found that psychedelic experiences tended to shift the participants belief away from strict materialism," Henry writes, adding that these changes persisted for up to six months. This is perhaps the most controversial claim in the piece. If a chemical can alter a person's fundamental philosophy of reality, then the line between "drug-induced delusion" and "spiritual revelation" becomes incredibly thin. Henry notes that the effect was particularly strong for first-timers, suggesting that the initial encounter is the most transformative.
A counterargument worth considering is whether these shifts represent a genuine insight into the nature of reality or simply a temporary suspension of critical thinking faculties. Henry doesn't fully resolve this, but he does highlight that the experience often includes a mix of "amazement and fear," similar to the awe described in the Book of Revelation. "That's not to say these visions are reporting on an actual psychedelic experience... But the similar themes may explain why scientists have been so quick to label these psychedelic experiences as mystical," he concludes, maintaining a careful balance between scientific skepticism and phenomenological respect.
Bottom Line
Andrew Henry's coverage is strongest when it refuses to choose between the neurochemical and the spiritual, instead showing how the former reliably produces the latter. His greatest vulnerability lies in the inherent difficulty of proving that these experiences reveal an objective truth rather than a subjective, albeit profound, illusion. For the busy reader, the takeaway is clear: the feeling of the divine may be a biological feature of the human brain, waiting for the right chemical key to unlock it. This is not a call to abandon reason, but a challenge to expand our definition of what constitutes a valid human experience.