For the last several months, I’ve been working on a book: The Son of Man & Its Mystic Awakening. What follows isn’t core to the book, but it’s honest work—an appendix that wanders into territory most pastors and theologians would rather pretend isn’t there. The main book itself is a long walk through the biblical story, from Genesis to Revelation, with stops in Luke and 1 Corinthians, wrestling with eschatology, atonement, embodiment, philosophy, and the actual mechanics of awakening. It’s as much about psychology and neuroscience as it is about scripture—what happens in the mind and body when the old self dies, what the “end” (telos) really means, and how the Gospel collides with nihilism, science, and the modern world.
This appendix takes a narrower, stranger focus: the role of psychedelics in ancient Israelite ritual. We’re not making the case that these substances are central, or even necessary, to spiritual life. They’re part of the created order—like wine, sex, and food. The question is never just about the substance, but about what we do with it, and who we become in the process. Today’s modern dopamine, instant, divisive, addictive, and pharmaceutical culture has plenty to learn about pharmakeia. Our modern world has a problem with substances, production, results, and comfort. We need not reduce this topic or grandize it. If nothing else, it’s a reminder that the sacred and the ordinary have always been tangled up together, and that the boundaries we draw are rarely as sharp as we pretend.
APPENDIX VI: Entheogens in Ancient Israelite Ritual
The possibility that ancient Israelites used psychoactive plants in worship has intrigued scholars. Recent studies note that the Tabernacle’s sacred anointing oil and incense were complex herbal preparations likely designed to facilitate a direct experience of the Israelite God. In other words, the priestly caste may have known how to combine plant substances for visionary effects. This appendix reviews botanical, scriptural, linguistic, and archaeological evidence suggesting entheogens (literally, “to generate god within‘) behind Old Testament texts—from the acacia wood of the Ark and incense recipes to prophetic visions—while acknowledging uncertainties and counterarguments. The deeper aim is not to sensationalize, but to reframe biblical ritual within its full psycho-spiritual and cultural context.
Acacia: Wood of the Ark and Tree of Life
Several plants with psychoactive compounds were native to the ancient Near East. Various Acacia species—particularly Acacia seyal and Acacia nilotica—are rich in DMT, a powerful tryptamine psychedelic and main ingredient in Ayahuasca. The shittim wood of Exodus, used for constructing the construction material, Ark, altars, and lampstand, is identified as one of these trees. Shanon (2008) and Nemu (2019) suggest that brewing local DMT-rich acacia with Syrian rue (Peganum harmala, an MAOI) would produce an ayahuasca-like vision brew. Intriguingly, the Hebrew shittim derives from shotet, meaning “to pierce”—a possible linguistic echo of DMT’s capacity to pierce the veil of ordinary perception. Rabbinic sources even play on the word’s resonance with shtuth (“foolishness” or ecstatic delirium), hinting at altered states. While we can’t be certain which acacia species grew in Sinai, those native to Egypt and the Levant do contain entheogenic alkaloids. Given the amount of lumber required, there would have been a lot of leftover acacia bark to play around with.
It is also worth noting that DMT can be inhaled in vaporized or smoked form, which is pharmacologically active without the need for an MAOI, like Ayahuasca. The burning of acacia in ritual incense, as would have occurred in the Tabernacle and Temple, could have released DMT and related compounds into the air, especially in the enclosed and thickly veiled Holy of Holies. Modern research confirms that DMT is present in the smoke of burning acacia wood and bark, and that inhalation is a viable route of administration for visionary effects. This means that even without sophisticated extraction or brewing, the ritual use of acacia in incense or as fuel for sacrificial fires could have contributed to altered states among priests or worshippers. The possibility that the Ark and Tabernacle were not just symbolic but pharmacologically charged objects is strengthened by the fact that the Israelites, steeped in Egyptian ritual technology, would have been aware of such properties, even if only experientially.
In Egyptian religion, the Tree of Life is often symbolized by the acacia. The Persea and sycamore fig also held symbolic roles, but Acacia nilotica and seyal were uniquely sacred, associated with the goddess Iusaaset and mythically tied to the birth of gods and the afterlife. In Egyptian cosmology, acacia was not just a tree but a cosmic threshold—where death gave way to life, and the divine realm could erupt into the visible. Osiris was said to have emerged from an acacia tree.
Given that Moses was raised in Egypt, that Egypt influenced early Hebrew culture, and that the Ark was a divine throne built from acacia and shrouded in incense, the theological resonance here is more than aesthetic. The Tabernacle itself replicates royal court architecture common to Pharaoh’s inner chambers. But it also mirrors Eden—gold-covered trees, cherubim-guarded thresholds, a Tree-shaped lampstand—all pointing back to the garden of divine encounter. If the acacia used in Tabernacle construction carried even latent entheogenic symbolism, then the structure and materials themselves invoked both Edenic memory and visionary potential.
The connection between acacia and the “piercing” of the veil is further reinforced by the ritual context: the high priest, entering the Most Holy Place once a year, would be enveloped in a dense cloud of incense (Leviticus 16:12-13), a literal and symbolic act of passing through the boundary between worlds. The possibility that the smoke itself was psychoactive adds a new dimension to the experience described in the text—a direct encounter with the divine presence, mediated by the chemistry of sacred plants. This is not to say that every priestly ritual was a psychedelic event, but that the architecture, materials, and liturgy of the Tabernacle were designed to influence people’s mental states, whether through sacrifice, sensory overload, fasting, worship, or the inhalation of psychoactive smoke.
Cannabis, Blue Lotus, and Regional Entheogens
Another central candidate is cannabis. Biblical authors use the obscure term kaneh bosm—translated “fragrant cane” or “aromatic reed”—which some scholars (Sula Benet being the earliest advocate) have associated with hemp. Though this remains disputed, archaeological evidence lends new weight to the hypothesis. In 2020, residue analysis at Tel Arad in Judah revealed two altars—one with frankincense, the other with burnt cannabis and animal fat. The cannabinoids were intact, suggesting the plant was burned deliberately to induce psychoactive effects. One altar was likely for Yahweh worship. That this occurred in a fortress shrine (not a random home) implies a liturgical setting. Each plant was used independently, with cannabis perhaps generating a light trance while frankincense contributed calming or clarifying effects. While the official Jerusalem cult may have suppressed such uses later, this evidence confirms that entheogenic practices were at least present in peripheral or regional sanctuaries.
The Tel Arad discovery is a watershed moment in biblical archaeology. The deliberate, Jewish, burning of cannabis, not as a mere offering but as a psychoactive agent, is now a matter of scientific record. The use of animal fat as a carrier for cannabinoids is consistent with ancient pharmacological practices, maximizing the absorption of active compounds: it was intentional. This not only supports the kaneh bosm hypothesis but also demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of plant chemistry among ancient Israelite priests. The fact that cannabis and frankincense were used on separate altars suggests a nuanced approach to ritual states—different plants for different purposes, possibly corresponding to different phases or types of worship.
Blue Lotus (Nymphaea caerulea), the sacred Egyptian water lily, is another plant worth considering. It contains the aporphine alkaloid nuciferine, known to produce euphoria, dream-like states, and mild psychotropic effects when extracted with alcohol and fat. Egyptians often steeped blue lotus petals in wine and consumed the resulting infusion at feasts and ritual events. This was not simply a recreational pleasure; blue lotus was associated with rebirth, divine intoxication, and the afterlife. Lotus imagery saturates tombs, temples, and the funerary goods of Pharaohs, including Tutankhamun, who was buried with lotus flowers. While direct biblical references to blue lotus are absent, the broader Egyptian environment would have introduced Israelites to its effects. Given the narrative arcs of exodus, conquest, and syncretism—especially during Solomon’s reign—it is possible that such substances were known, if not also adopted. While the Blue Lotus may not have been used, Israel had other its own native options to play with.
The blue lotus was not only a symbol but a pharmacological tool for accessing altered states in Egypt, and its presence in the region’s trade networks makes it highly plausible that the Israelites encountered and perhaps experimented with its effects. The fact that blue lotus was often combined with wine in ritual contexts mirrors the broader ancient Near Eastern pattern of blending psychoactive plants with alcoholic or fatty carriers to enhance absorption and effect. The absence of explicit biblical reference or prohibition may reflect later editorial censorship or the gradual suppression of Egyptian ritual elements as Israelite religion evolved toward monotheism.
Mesopotamian Entheogenic Context: The. Cradle of Consciousness-Altering Rituals
The ancient Near Eastern world surrounding Israel, particularly Mesopotamia (modern Iraq), developed sophisticated entheogenic traditions that predated Hebrew monotheism by millennia. This was the land Abraham hailed from (Genesis 12:1-4). The Sumerians, as early as 3400 BC, cultivated opium poppies (Papaver somniferum), referring to them as hul gil (“joy plant”), and used their psychoactive properties in both medicinal and ritual contexts. By the Babylonian and Assyrian periods (2nd–1st millennia BC), cuneiform medical texts document at least 23 mind-altering plants, including cannabis (qunnabu), mandrake, and Syrian rue (Peganum harmala), employed to treat ailments ranging from depression to spiritual afflictions like the “Evil Eye”. These substances were not merely remedies but tools for divine communion: cannabis residues found in Tel Arad’s Israelite shrine (8th century BC) and opium traces in Canaanite mortuary vessels (14th century BC) confirm their integration into sacred spaces across the Levant.
The scope of their pharmacological knowledge was remarkable, encompassing plants such as ashwadangha, mandrake, cannabis, opium poppy, and black henbane. Babylonian medical sources demonstrate that these substances were not used randomly or recreationally, but according to sophisticated diagnostic and therapeutic protocols that considered both the patient’s physical condition and spiritual state. The integration of these practices into temple medicine meant that healing and divine encounter were understood as interconnected processes, with consciousness-altering plants serving as bridges between the material and spiritual realms.
Archaeological evidence supports the textual records, with excavations revealing specialized vessels, incense burners, and preparation tools consistent with psychoactive plant processing. The Babylonians developed particular expertise in incense preparation, using these aromatic substances not merely for pleasant scents but as vehicles for delivering psychoactive compounds during prayers and divination rituals. This incense tradition, which combined practical pharmacology with spiritual technology, would eventually spread throughout the Mediterranean world, influencing Greek and Roman practices and potentially providing a model for the complex incense formulations prescribed in Hebrew ritual texts.
During the Babylonian exile (6th century BC), Hebrew elites encountered Mesopotamia’s entrenched psychoactive practices firsthand. The Persians, who later ruled the region, synthesized these traditions into Zoroastrian fire rituals, using haoma (likely containing Syrian rue) to induce visionary states. This cultural milieu—where incense blended with DMT-rich acacia smoke, cannabis-laced anointing oils, and opium-infused funerary offerings—formed the backdrop against which post-exilic Hebrew priests refined their own ritual pharmacopeia. The absence of explicit biblical references to these substances could reflect that it was assumed or that it was something orally passed on, rather than historical absence, as evidenced by the Tel Arad cannabis altars’ proximity to Yahweh worship.
From Ur to Babylon, the lands framing Israel’s origins and exile maintained a continuous entheogenic thread—one that shaped regional religious practices for over 5,000 years. This context suggests that Hebrew ritual, forged in dialogue with Egyptian and Mesopotamian traditions, likely engaged similar plant-based technologies of transcendence before their gradual marginalization in favor of textual-prophetic modes of revelation. This is an aspect of Creation we aren’t familiar with or good at: not them. Nor were they perfect with it either: their societies had some serious, ongoing issues. Yet, the recovery of this legacy reframes contemporary psychedelic exploration not as novelty but as a reconnection to one of humanity’s oldest spiritual toolkits.
Smoke, Oil, and the Architecture of Transformation
The Tabernacle and Temple rituals revolve around smoke, scent, and oil—somatic tools for communion with the divine. The daily incense offering (Exodus 30:34–38) specified stacte, onycha, galbanum, and pure frankincense. Rabbinic tradition expanded this formula to include 11 ingredients—among them myrrh, cassia, saffron, costus, and mastic. Many of these are aromatics with pharmacological effects. Frankincense, for instance, contains incensole acetate, which crosses the blood-brain barrier and activates TRPV3 channels, producing anxiolytic and anti-depressant effects in mammals. The Mishnah (Kerithoth 6b) warns that omitting even one ingredient from the incense incurred the death penalty, suggesting the formula’s importance went beyond symbolism. This wasn’t perfume. It was pharmacological liturgy.
Recent pharmacological studies confirm that inhaling the smoke of frankincense and myrrh produces measurable changes in brain chemistry, including the modulation of mood and perception. The inclusion of galbanum, which contains MAOI-like compounds, could have potentiated the effects of other psychoactives present in the incense blend. The use of oil as a carrier for aromatic and psychoactive compounds in anointing rituals further underscores the sophistication of ancient Israelite pharmacology. The anointing oil described in Exodus 30:22-25 is a complex mixture of myrrh, cinnamon, calamus, and cassia in olive oil—a formula that, if kaneh bosm is indeed cannabis (and/or other ingredients), would have had psychoactive properties when applied to the skin, especially in the context of fasting, heat, and sensory deprivation.
Inhaled in enclosed spaces—especially behind the thick veil of the Most Holy Place—this incense could induce altered mental states. Jewish tradition insists the incense was “so potent” that priests had to hold their breath while inside. The veil itself was “a handbreadth thick,” sealing the inner chamber like a vapor chamber. Parallels to the Oracle at Delphi—where the Pythia inhaled trance-inducing fumes—are not inappropriate. Greek oracles almost always required something to be eaten or drunk, on top of other washings and ceremonies, in order for a person to meet with the oracle (or the divine). The Greek kyphi incense, noted by Plutarch, included wine, honey, and up to 16 botanical ingredients for altered states. Josephus, in discussing Temple incense, makes comparisons that reflect this broader Mediterranean pharmacological tradition. The Tabernacle’s design, down to its materials, rituals, and sensory orchestration, was an encounter engine.
The phrase “pleasing aroma to Yahweh” recurs throughout Torah (Gen. 8:21; Lev. 1:9; Num. 15:3), signaling divine receptivity to burned offerings. But this was not a mere metaphor. The term nichoach (pleasing) comes from nuach—to rest, to settle. It implies a calming or attuning influence. Frankincense and cannabis together would produce precisely that: a ritual state of openness and surrender. In modern neuroscience, such states are called “pivotal mental states” (PiMS), theorized by Carhart-Harris and further developed in psychedelic research. These are brief windows of increased neuroplasticity where transformation is possible. PiMS can be triggered by psychedelics, trauma, chanting, meditation, fasting, or awe. The Bible’s sacrificial system—with its layering of smoke, blood, oil, sound, rhythm, and space—can be seen as a pre-modern technology of transformation.
Shekar and the Entheogenic Ale Tradition
The Hebrew word shekar (שֵׁכָר), often rendered “strong drink,” appears in parallel with wine (yayin) across many texts. It is not forbidden—in fact, Deut. 14:26 encourages its consumption during pilgrimage feasts: “Buy whatever your soul desires: oxen, sheep, wine, or shekar… and rejoice before the Lord.” Linguistically, shekar is rooted in shakar, meaning “to become drunk” or “to lose control,” and traditionally referred to fermented barley or date beer. But ancient beer was unfiltered, homemade, and often enhanced with local botanicals—flowers, fruit, and, often enough, psychoactive herbs.
BTW, this flies in the face of the old Baptist idea that wine back then was just grape juice. Speaking of which, before the German Beer Purity Law of 1516, beer was commonly infused with psychoactive and medicinal plants. Ancient brewing practices couldn’t produce the level of alcohol we do today. The Sumerians flavored beer with opium, poppy, or mandrake. The Ebers Papyrus includes beer recipes combined with sedatives and hallucinogens. In this broader context, shekar may have functioned more like an entheogenic ale than a modern beverage. If Israelites included any additive—intentionally or accidentally—the effects could range from mild inebriation to full-on visions.
One significant possibility: Claviceps purpurea (ergot) growing on barley. Ergot is a fungus that produces lysergic acid compounds, chemically akin to LSD. While ergot poisoning can be dangerous, in small or ritual doses, it could have induced profound altered states. There’s no biblical prohibition against ergot, cannabis, or any specific psychoactive plant. The concerns arise only when priests enter the sanctuary intoxicated (Leviticus 10:9), suggesting sacred sobriety during rites—not an anti-drug stance.
The possibility of ergot-contaminated bread or beer inducing visionary states is supported by the well-documented role of ergot in the Eleusinian Mysteries, where initiates consumed a barley-based kykeon containing psychoactive alkaloids. The lack of prohibition against such substances in the Hebrew Bible, combined with the explicit permission to consume shekar in festival contexts, suggests a ritual framework that embraced altered states, even if just from alcohol, as part of the sacred experience, provided they were properly controlled and contextualized.
Cakes of the Tabernacle: Food of the Gods
Another underexplored thread is the role of sacred “cakes” in ancient ritual. From Mesopotamia to Greece, temple systems often included the consumption of sacred bread or cakes prior to or during encounters with the divine. Oracular sites like Delphi had honey cakes mixed with other ingredients; Mesopotamian temples had grain cakes offered to Inanna or Ishtar. In the Hebrew Tabernacle, cakes and unleavened breads were a staple offering (Leviticus 2), often made with fine flour, oil, and frankincense. The lechem panim (“bread of the Presence”) sat continually before Yahweh, refreshed weekly, and eaten only by the priests.
Though the biblical recipes seem plain, their preparation involved oil and incense, and possibly fermented or fat-infused elements that could draw out pharmacological compounds. Ancient breads could be mixed with herbs or exposed to fungal contamination. In ritual contexts, such bread could function as a sacramental intake, preparing the body or stabilizing a trance. The sacred cakes and showbread of Israelite worship mirrored similar practices across the region, but within a restructured monotheistic frame. Instead of feeding gods, the bread became Presence—a portable temple theology, edible and holy–the god fed humans. The integration of frankincense with food and the burning of a memorial portion hint at dual ingestion: one physical, one aromatic. Bread here was not just food. It was a medium of encounter.
Prophetic Visions and Symbolic Parallels
Biblical visions carry the intensity and texture of altered consciousness. Ezekiel’s wheels, Isaiah’s burning seraphim, Daniel’s luminous throne room, John’s apocalyptic imagery—all reflect synesthesia, ego dissolution, and luminous phenomena typical of entheogenic states. When Moses descends from Sinai, his face shines. Exodus 20:18 describes the people seeing “voices and torches and trumpet sound”—a jumbled, multi-sensory hallucination. Scholars like Benny Shanon argue that these texts reflect psychedelic phenomenology. Purification rituals (fasting, washing, and anointing) before prophetic visions mirror those in other entheogenic traditions. Visionary states were not random—they were prepared for.
Comparative Entheogenic Traditions
Other psychoactive candidates remain embedded in Israelite culture. Mandrake, mentioned in Genesis 30 and Song of Songs, was associated with love, fertility, and sleep. It contains scopolamine and hyoscyamine—powerful deliriants. Henbane, also used in Egyptian and Hellenistic medicine, contains similar compounds and may have been woven into priestly garments (Josephus describes the high priest’s mitre with flower motifs resembling henbane). The mandrakes Reuben finds are exchanged for conjugal rights, hinting at their value and effect.
Across the ancient Near East, entheogenic practice was the norm. Sumerians grew opium poppies as early as 3400 BCE. Mesopotamians and Egyptians used kyphi incense, blue lotus, mandrake, and cannabis for divine communion. Greeks at Eleusis drank kykeon, likely brewed from ergot-infected barley. Given the geographic and cultural proximity of pagan practices, the Israelite religion was likely not wholly separate, but adapted and set apart. Monotheism reinterpreted the framework—but the tools may have remained. The goal was not intoxication but theophany: a collapse of ego before God.
The persistence of entheogenic practice across the region and the adaptation of these technologies within the monotheistic framework of Israel points to a sophisticated understanding of the relationship between altered states and divine encounter. The suppression or marginalization of such practices in later periods may reflect a shift in theological priorities rather than a lack of knowledge or access.
Final Reflections
No biblical passage directly describes psychedelics, and we must avoid anachronism. Still, the pattern is strong: materials, language, effects, and outcomes consistent with known entheogenic practices. The silence of scripture may reflect taboo, oral transmission, or later editorial caution. But the veil of incense, the shining faces, the euphoric oils, the burning coals, the trance-state prophets—these suggest that something more than poetry was happening in the holy places of ancient Israel. This was not a metaphor. It was a ritualized encounter.
Entheogens are not the secret key to biblical mysticism. But they are likely one part of a broader ancient technology—one combining plant, posture, sound, breath, and structure—to thin the veil and call down fire. In God’s own world, the created order becomes sacramental. And in Israel’s own story, from Exodus to Exile, the question was never if God would speak—but who would dare listen, and what it would cost them to hear.
The implications for contemporary spirituality are profound. Suppose the ancient pursuit of the divine involved the deliberate use of entheogenic substances. In that case, the current resurgence of interest in psychedelics as tools for healing and spiritual growth is not a modern aberration but a return to a forgotten dimension of religious practice. It gives credence and depth to the thousands who are reporting benefits. The challenge is to recover the wisdom and discipline that made such practices transformative rather than merely escapist.
It fundamentally implies that mysticism, not Protestant propositional assumptions, is the means we humans directly engage with the Divine.
If you stuck with this, thanks!
This appendix isn’t crucial for The Son of Man & Its Mystic Awakening, but it does echo its method—refusing to dodge the uncomfortable, refusing to clean up the mess. The real work is in the main chapters: reclaiming eschatology, rethinking atonement, and refusing to settle for the tired binaries that keep us divided. The hope isn’t in finding new dogmas, but in recovering the possibility of transformation—personal and collective, grounded in the world as it is. If you want updates, there’s a newsletter. If you want to read the rough draft or support the work, there’s Patreon. Either way, hope you find something worth wrestling with.
