Ten years ago, Indiana got an unexpected spiritual awakening—complete with incense, music, and a serious conversation about religious freedom and marijuana.

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On July 1, 2015, the First Church of Cannabis held its first service in Indianapolis. While no marijuana was actually smoked, the moment sparked national attention and a legal challenge that tested the boundaries of Indiana’s newly enacted Religious Freedom Restoration Act (RFRA).

And, if I’m being honest, I might’ve had something to do with it.

Back in 2015, I was sitting at Nicky Blaine’s in downtown Indianapolis—scotch in one hand, cigar in the other—reading the final version of RFRA. The law had been pushed in response to the legalization of same-sex marriage, and was framed as a way to protect people of faith from government overreach.

But as I read, something jumped out at me: a key line had been removed. Earlier drafts of the bill had specifically said RFRA couldn’t be used as a defense in criminal cases. That clause was now gone.

That meant someone could, in theory, claim religious protection for actions that would otherwise be illegal—like, say, smoking marijuana.

I sent an email to Bill Levin, a longtime political provocateur, and half-joked, “Indiana may have just legalized cannabis… if you start a religion.”

To his credit, Bill didn’t laugh. He launched the First Church of Cannabis just weeks later.

The church adopted a “Deity Dozen” as its core doctrine, held weekly services, and began collecting the symbolic tithe of $4.20 a month.

And then came the legal showdown. Here’s a quick law lesson: to sue, you need standing—a real injury or the credible threat of one. Originally, Bill considered lighting up during a service and getting arrested as a way to establish standing. But that’s what courts call manufactured standing, and they usually toss those cases.

Instead, he publicly declared he planned to use cannabis during worship. That prompted both Indianapolis police and the Marion County prosecutor’s office to publicly state that if he did, he’d be arrested.

That threat alone was enough to give Bill standing. He sued, claiming RFRA protected his religious use of marijuana.

In 2018, a judge ruled against him, saying Indiana’s interest in enforcing its drug laws outweighed his religious claim. The case was dismissed, but the cultural impact endured.

Today, the Church still holds services every Wednesday night. Levin is still the Grand Poobah. And Indiana? It’s now completely surrounded by states that have legalized marijuana in some form—Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, Missouri.

Meanwhile, Hoosiers are buying high-potency CBD and Delta-8 products from vape shops on every corner. So while marijuana remains illegal under Indiana law, enforcement has become hazy—pun intended.

RFRA was intended to shield people of faith from government intrusion. Instead, it became a legal and political Rorschach test: used by some to defend wedding cake refusals, and by others to defend sacramental cannabis.

The First Church of Cannabis wasn’t just a publicity stunt. It was a mirror held up to lawmakers and courts.

It forced us to confront the question: how far does religious freedom go—and who gets to decide what qualifies as a “real” religion?

For the record, many critics said Levin’s church wasn’t serious enough to merit protection. I reminded them that even Christianity and Islam had a day one.

Ten years later, we’re still wrestling with the fallout. But we’re also seeing how a scotch-fueled epiphany in a downtown cigar lounge became a test case in civil liberties—and how Indiana, despite its resistance to legal cannabis, played an unlikely role in the national conversation.

Happy anniversary to the First Church of Cannabis.