It’s Friday night and I’m at church getting stoned. Around me, congregants of all ages are pulling colorful pipes and carefully rolled joints from their bags and pockets, lighting up and inhaling slowly, with purpose, before passing their paraphernalia down the pew. Dudes in baseball caps mingle with young women in sundresses; retirees rub shoulders with hipsters; a guy in a “Hemp Hustler” T-shirt shimmies down the aisle. When the slender, well-dressed man sitting next to me hands me a blunt, I take a drag. The mood is exuberant, anticipatory—like a party’s getting ready to start.
Entering the rainbow-streaked sanctuary of the