Psychedelic churches in U.S. pushing boundaries

HILDALE, Utah — The tea tasted bitter and earthy, but Lorenzo Gonzales drank it anyway. On that frigid night in remote Utah, he was hoping for a life-changing experience, which is how he found himself inside a tent with two dozen others waiting for the psychedelic brew known as ayahuasca to kick in.

Soon, the gentle sounds of a guitar were drowned out by people vomiting — a common downside of the drug. Some gagged; several threw up in buckets next to them.

Gonzales started howling, sobbing, laughing and repeatedly babbling “wah, wah” like a child. Facilitators from Hummingbird Church placed him face down on the grass, calming him momentarily before he started laughing and crawling on all fours. “I seen these dark veins come up in this big red light, and then I seen this image of the devil,” Gonzales said later. He had quieted only when his wife, Flor, put her hand on his shoulder and prayed. His journey to this small town along the Arizona-Utah border is part of a growing global trend of people turning to ayahuasca in search of spiritual enlightenment and an experience they say brings them closer to God than traditional religious services. Many hope the psychedelic tea will heal physical and mental afflictions after conventional medications and therapy failed. Their problems include eating disorders, depression, substance use disorders and PTSD.

The rising demand for ayahuasca has led to hundreds of churches like this one, which advocates say are protected from prosecution by a 2006 U.S. Supreme Court ruling. In that case, a New Mexico branch of a Brazilian-based ayahuasca church won the right to use the drug as a sacrament — even though its active ingredient remains illegal under U.S. federal law. A subsequent lower court decision ruled Oregon branches of a different ayahuasca church could use it.

“In every major city in the United States, every weekend, there’s multiple ayahuasca ceremonies. It’s not just a twice-a-year thing,” said Sean McAllister, who represents an Arizona church in a lawsuit against the federal government after its ayahuasca from Peru was seized at the port of Los Angeles.

But with the growth of pro-psychedelics movements has come increased scrutiny. In addition to ayahuasca shipments from South America being seized, some churches stopped operating over fears of prosecution. There are also concerns these unregulated ceremonies might pose a danger for some participants and that the benefits of ayahuasca haven’t been well studied.

“Our knowledge is kind of limited,” said Anthony Back, a professor at the University of Washington School of Medicine in Seattle. “There is not as much information about safety as the regular other medical treatments that you might get if you went to a regular doctor in the United States.”

It was dark as the Hummingbird ceremony began on a Friday night in October, except for flickering candles and the orange glow of heaters. Psychedelic art hung from the walls; statues of the Virgin Mary and Mother Earth were positioned near a makeshift altar.

A mix of military veterans, corporate executives, thrill seekers, ex-members of a polygamous Mormon sect and a man who supposedly struck it rich on a game show had converged for the $900 weekend. Many appeared apprehensive yet giddy to begin the first of three ceremonies. They sat silently, awaiting the arrival of Taita Pedro Davila, the Colombian shaman and traditional healer who oversaw the ceremony.

The brew contains an Amazon rainforest shrub with the active ingredient N, N-Dimethyltryptamine, or DMT, and a vine containing harmala alkaloids that prevent the drug from breaking down in the body. Those who drink ayahuasca report seeing shapes and colors and going on wild, sometimes terrifying journeys that can last hours. In this dreamlike state, some say they encounter dead relatives — one woman saw family members who had died in a car accident — as well as friends and spirits who talk to them.

“When you were invited here, you were invited for a weekend of healing,” Davila told the group in Spanish through a translator, before people lined up for shot glasssized-doses of the thick, dark tea in plastic cups.

Davila, wearing a fedora, a boar-tooth necklace and beaded chest plate with a jaguar image, locked eyes with each participant, uttered a prayer over the cup, blew on it with a whistling sound and handed it over. After everyone drank and was settled on mattresses, Davila strolled through the tent as the drugs took hold, shaking a bundle of leaves and playing a mournful tune on the harmonica.

“Every process is an individual one and completely different for every one of us,” he said. “We are going to turn off our minds and open our hearts. If you feel like you are dying, die. This is going to allow you to be reborn.”

Gonzales and his wife, Flor, were among several ayahuasca newcomers. They had driven from California, hoping for relief for Gonzales. He’d battled drug addiction for much of his 50 years, was suffering the effects of COVID-19 and had been diagnosed with early-stage dementia — likely a result of concussions over the years, one from a motorcycle crash and another from an industrial accident. He doesn’t drive due to memory loss, rarely sleeps and is prone to angry outbursts.

Flor Gonzales, 48, had grown weary of doctors and the pills they prescribed. None of it worked and she feared losing Lorenzo. So the born-again Christian who favors natural medicine researched ayahuasca and figured it was worth trying. The roots of ayahuasca go back hundreds of years to use by Indigenous groups in the Amazon. In the past century, churches sprouted up in South America where ayahuasca is legal. Some Brazilian churches are a mix of Christian, African and Indigenous influences.

The movement found a foothold in the United States in the 1980s and interest has intensified more recently as celebrities like NFL quarterback Aaron Rodgers, Hollywood star Will Smith and Britain’s Prince Harry talked about using it.

Some people spend thousands of dollars taking ayahuasca at five-star retreats in the Amazon. In the U.S., the movement remains largely underground, promoted by social media and word of mouth. Some ceremonies occur at supporters’ homes, Airbnb rentals and remote areas to avoid law enforcement scrutiny.

Like many of these, Hummingbird won’t be mistaken for a traditional Western church. It has no written text and relies primarily on Davila’s prayers, chants and songs, in Spanish and the language of the Kamëntsá people, to guide participants. Davila follows traditions he learned from his grandfather in Colombia, spending several days preparing the ayahuasca.

Before serving the tea, Davila conducts cleansing rituals — like blowing tobacco snuff up some participant’s noses to heighten its effects.

Courtney Close, Hummingbird’s founder who credits ayahuasca with helping her overcome cocaine addiction and post-partum depression, believes the designation as a church helps show that participants are “doing this for religious reasons.” But when it comes to defining it as a religion, Close stresses much depends on individual participants’ experience.

“We just try to create a spiritual experience without any dogma and just let people experience God for themselves,” said the 42-year-old, who participated in about 200 ceremonies and had a vision to start the church at one of them.