The Psychedelic Christ: Recovering the Lost Sacrament of Original Christianity – An Interview with William Henry

What if the sacrament you were handed in church was never the original one?

Most of us grew up with a version of Jesus that fit neatly inside a building, a belief system, and a one-hour Sunday service. But long before the wafer and the grape juice, before the church councils and the creeds, there may have been something far more powerful at the center of the Christian experience — what William Henry calls the lost dose.

In his new book The Psychedelic Christ: The Lost Dose of the Son of Man, Henry makes the case that the original sacrament of Jesus opened the human mind to cosmic love, direct communion with Christ, and a transformation so profound that Rome hunted down everyone who knew about it. In this conversation, he brings thirty years of scholarship, sacred art, and ancient mystery traditions to bear on one of the most explosive questions in spiritual history. 

Whether this challenges everything you believe or simply cracks open a door you never noticed before, this dialogue invites you to consider that the story of Jesus may be far bigger, far stranger, and far more alive than any of us were taught.

Continue reading or listen in by subscribing for free on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, or YouTube.

What did your own awakening look like? Did spirituality begin in childhood, or did it come later?

William Henry: It really came later. Although, to be fair, there were early influences. I wasn’t raised in a particularly religious household, but my mother had serious health issues, and that led us to explore different churches—Episcopalian, then a Church of Religious Science, which at the time, in the 1970s, was a pretty new idea.

My mom was very open spiritually—you might call her a “first waver.” She read Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Chariots of the Gods by Erich von Däniken—things like that. But there wasn’t a strong structure around religion or spirituality in our home.

For me, things really opened up in my late teens. My father got into the record business, and we moved from Detroit to Nashville. I originally wanted to become an entertainment lawyer—I was deeply interested in music and the music industry. I enrolled in what is now Belmont University, which at the time was a small Southern Baptist college offering a music business program.

It was an interesting mix—musician types alongside pretty strict Southern Baptists, all trying to coexist. Because it was a Baptist school, we had to take Bible study classes, and I knew absolutely nothing about the Bible. I like to joke that in our house, the four apostles were Waylon, Willie, Kris, and Johnny—Sunday mornings were for Johnny Cash records.

In a sociology class, we were assigned to review a book that could impact Christianity. I went to a local bookstore and found a brand-new bestseller: Holy Blood, Holy Grail. Even if you haven’t read it, you’re probably familiar with The Da Vinci Code, which was based on its premise.

The book suggested that Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married, had children, and that original Christianity had been suppressed. I was supposed to write a three-page review—I wrote forty-four. I was completely hooked.

My professor sat me down and asked, “Do you believe this?” I said, “I don’t know—but I can’t stop thinking about it.” He told me that if I really thought it might be true, I might want to pursue my education elsewhere.

So I became an autodidact. I started pulling on that thread, reading everything I could. I lived five minutes from the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, and although I wasn’t a student there, I went through their entire collection. That became my life’s path—trying to understand original Christianity, what was lost, and why so many people are unaware of it.

How did this intellectual exploration translate into your personal spiritual experience? How did you connect to the divine?

William Henry: I followed what I’d call the “follow me” thread—particularly the story of the Transfiguration, where Jesus reveals himself as a being of light. To me, that suggested something profound: that this is our true divine nature. Buddhism teaches something very similar.

That became a calling for me. In the early 2000s, I went deeply into what are often called “light body” teachings—not just within Christianity, but also in Egyptian and Tibetan traditions. I began to see connections across all of them and realized there was an actual practice embedded within these teachings.

That became both my calling and my personal practice.

What did that practice look like for you beyond study and learning?

William Henry: It led me into sacred art. One of the most important realizations I had was that early Christianity didn’t rely on books—it relied on images, icons.

These weren’t just decorative images. They were considered sacred mirrors—two-way channels of communication. The idea was that even though Jesus is no longer physically present, you can still commune through the image. It becomes eye-to-eye, soul-to-soul contact.

There’s a line from the Corpus Hermeticum that says, “The image will show you the way.” I took that seriously and began exploring sacred art across traditions. They all point to the same truth: art can be a conduit to the divine.

Think of the story of Moses and the bronze serpent—how simply looking at an image could bring healing. That only makes sense if the divine can be transmitted through form—through a sculpture, a painting, an icon—and then embodied by the person engaging with it.

That became a central focus for me, and it still is. Alongside breathwork, meditation, yoga, and visualization, there’s also deep concentration on sacred imagery. In Buddhism, this is called ekagrata—one-pointed focus—where you concentrate on an image or statue until the separation dissolves. You’re no longer looking at the Buddha—you become one with it.

It’s simple, but incredibly direct.

How did this evolve into your career and teaching path?

William Henry: It began very organically. I started collecting notes from everything I read, just out of personal interest. One area that fascinated me was the rod or wand of Jesus. In early Christian art—up until the fourth century—Jesus is often shown performing miracles with a rod or wand.

That intrigued me. Where did it come from? I traced it all the way back to the Garden of Eden—a branch from the Tree of Life. Eventually, I started making these rods myself—copper, crystal, leather—and that caught the attention of an event promoter in Nashville.

He invited me to give a presentation, which became my first public talk.

Afterward, he took me to lunch and told me about his own experience during the Harmonic Convergence, where he had embodied the Quetzalcoatl archetype—fully dressed, performing, living it. He said he later realized he had gone too far into identification.

He invited me to give a second talk called “Transcending the Archetype.”

That was a turning point. I understood that these figures—Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Quetzalcoatl—are not identities to claim, but frequencies to access. We’re meant to work with them, learn from them, but ultimately transcend them.

I see this even now—people strongly identifying with certain archetypes. But the deeper truth is that all of these energies exist within all of us. We’re here not to become one expression, but to move beyond limitation entirely.

If figures like Jesus or Mary Magdalene were here today, they wouldn’t be walking around in sandals in ancient settings. They’d likely be engaging with modern frontiers—science, technology, and consciousness research. They’d meet at the moment.

That realization shaped everything that followed in my work.

As someone whose message centers a great deal on Jesus, how do you feel about being embraced by the broader spiritual community?

William Henry: It’s a true blessing. I’ve had a reputation as a bit of a “Jesus freak” for a long time—I’ve been writing about Jesus, early Christianity, the Essenes, all of that for nearly 30 years. At the same time, I’ve always held a broader perspective.

I’ve been on Ancient Aliens for 16 years, and we’ve never done an episode about Jesus. It’s such a sensitive topic that it’s likely the one subject the show will never touch. But for me, I made a decision early on—this is who I am. I’m not doing this to convince anyone or push an agenda. I’m doing it because it matters to me, and I’m sharing it with those who resonate.

I’ve never been a flamethrower about Christianity, and I’ve never been an evangelist either. I approach it from a historical perspective. Jesus’ story didn’t happen in a vacuum—it has a long prehistory. There were ideas like reincarnation that were later removed from the tradition. Even John the Baptist is often understood as a reincarnation of Elijah.

So I’ve always tried to place the life of Jesus within a broader lineage—looking at groups like the Cathars, the Knights Templar, and the Magdalene tradition—and then follow that thread forward.

At the core, I’m really asking the same fundamental questions: Where do we come from? What are we doing here? And when we leave, where are we going?

How do you personally relate to Jesus today? Do you admire him, love him, worship him—who is he to you?

William Henry: Jesus is a brother to me. I love him as a brother, I embrace him as a brother—I don’t see him as “other.” At the same time, I also see myself as a son—S-O-N—and even S-U-N, a child of the light. That’s part of the lineage he represented.

I’ve never had to deconstruct or unwind a previous belief system, which I think is different from some people’s experience. My path has always been about recognizing that I’m part of a spiritual family—not in a physical genealogical sense, but in a spiritual one. And that’s the place I’ve always operated from.

What is the premise of your new book, The Psychedelic Christ: The Lost Dose of the Son of Man?

William Henry: The core premise is that there was an original sacrament in early Christianity that has been lost. What’s practiced today—the wafer and wine—is not the original form.

The original sacrament, as I see it, was a catalyst. It allowed people to directly perceive and commune with the Christ presence while Jesus was alive. That was lost sometime around the fourth or fifth century, along with other key elements of early Christianity, including sacred relics like the Shroud of Turin.

Who is this book for?

William Henry: I didn’t write it with a specific person in mind. Like much of my work, I’m exploring these questions for myself and sharing what I find.

But it’s for anyone interested in the origins of Christianity, in plant medicine, or in expanded states of consciousness. I explore figures like Mary Magdalene as a myrrh-bearer—someone deeply knowledgeable in herbs and plant-based healing. Many of the Essenes, including figures like Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, were trained in these practices.

It’s also for people interested in the current psychedelic renaissance—those who sense that these tools can be used not just recreationally, but for profound spiritual connection, even communion with higher intelligences.

Do you expect pushback, or do you feel people are ready for this perspective?

William Henry: I think people are more ready than ever. Christianity isn’t necessarily failing, but it is losing relevance for many people—and part of that is because there’s no direct experience anymore.

There are also institutional issues that have caused people to turn away. But more than anything, people aren’t experiencing higher states of consciousness within the tradition, and they don’t see how it fits into a world shaped by AI, transhumanism, and disclosure.

My intention isn’t to diminish Christianity—it’s to amplify it. If there truly was an original sacrament that awakened consciousness, brought people into states of deep love, and allowed them to perceive the divine directly, wouldn’t we want that today?

Many modern psychedelic experiences mirror descriptions from scripture. Take Paul on the road to Damascus—encountering a blinding light, undergoing a total transformation. These accounts have all the hallmarks of altered states of consciousness. It’s reasonable to ask whether there was a catalyst involved.

What does the term “Son of Man” mean?

William Henry: “Son of Man” is the term Jesus used for himself—it appears about 81 times in the New Testament. He didn’t call himself the Messiah or the Christ, likely because those were politically and religiously charged terms.

What’s fascinating is that “Son of Man” is what’s called a polysemic term—it has multiple layers of meaning. In one context, it suggests humility—identifying with humanity. In another, it refers to a cosmic axis, a ladder between heaven and earth. In another, it represents a transformed human being. And in yet another, it’s described almost as something consumable.

When you put all of that together, it suggests something much more complex—that the “Son of Man” could refer to a state of consciousness, a pathway, even a sacramental experience that allows us to perceive higher realities.

How much did your own psychedelic experiences influence this perspective?

William Henry: Interestingly, I was already deep into this research long before I had any psychedelic experience. For years, people told me that what I was studying—especially in Egyptian traditions—had psychedelic elements. I resisted it completely. It just wasn’t part of my world.

But eventually, I reached a point where I needed healing. I felt like a dolphin in an aquarium—aware of something vast beyond me, but unable to access it. I was reading about these expanded states, these encounters with higher realms, but I was still on the outside looking in.

In Gnostic texts, the soul is described as a “robe of light,” and mine felt… clouded. I needed to cleanse it, in a sense. And psychedelics helped me do that.

Through those experiences, I had direct, profound encounters—including what I can only describe as conversations with Jesus—that affirmed I was on the right path.

How long ago were your first psychedelic experiences?

William Henry: My first experience was in December 2022, so about three years ago.

After that first experience, did you immediately want more, or did it feel complete for the time being?

William Henry: It was so mind-blowing that, yes, part of me immediately wanted to go right back in.

In that first experience with Jesus, he took me to the top of Mount Hermon and showed me what I can only describe as his gymnastics routine, his physical training. That may have been a manifestation of my own subconscious, because I had long been aware that the image on the Shroud of Turin suggests someone who was physically powerful—someone prepared for what was to come through the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension.

So I was peering into a reality I had never really contemplated before, and I definitely wanted to return to it. But I’ve always held a very clear boundary around these experiences. In the psychedelic world, there’s often an overlap with party culture—open-eyed experiences, dancing, raves, all of that. That has never been my interest.

For me, it is entirely internal. The glasses go on, the mask goes on, and I go inward. My purpose is healing—to wash what I call the robe of light, to release old trauma, whether from this life or perhaps beyond it. So for me, it has never been anything other than sacramental and healing.

You write that psychedelics are catalysts, not shortcuts, and that initiation begins after the experience. How has that been true in your own life?

William Henry: What it opened for me was the possibility of direct connection with higher frequencies, with intelligences beyond Earth.

That realization became an important part of the evolution of my Starwalker work. I began to understand that these substances can be used to connect with intelligences from other realms.

For example, I had been to Egypt thirty times before my first psychedelic experience. I had seen the images on temple walls of gods holding jars, or of humans offering jars to the gods, but I had never understood that those vessels may have contained psychedelic substances—and that these gods were not necessarily being encountered as physical beings walking around in three-dimensional space, but through consciousness.

That changed everything for me. Once I realized that connection in consciousness was possible, it became more than a theory. I was no longer simply thinking about these things or studying them—I was actually able to experience that interaction.

For readers unfamiliar with the story of Nicodemus, who was he, and how do you interpret his story differently?

William Henry: As I was writing the book, Nicodemus almost forced his way into it. I kept hearing, “Follow Nicodemus.”

Nicodemus was a member of the Sanhedrin—a Jewish elder, highly educated in the law and the prophets. He was one of the most learned men of his time. His friend Joseph of Arimathea, also a member of the council, was a secret disciple of Jesus.

In the well-known story, Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night, puzzled by the idea that in order to enter the kingdom of heaven, one must be “born again from above.” Jesus’ response is essentially: How do you not know this? You’re an elder of the temple, a member of the high council, and yet you don’t understand that transformation is required.

What struck me is that Jesus is also making a much bigger statement. He’s saying, in effect, that he is not from this world. He comes from above. He speaks of ascending beyond the layers of this reality. It sounds, in some ways, very similar to what simulation theorists say today—that we live in nested levels of reality, worlds within worlds.

Jesus is telling Nicodemus that to move beyond these layers, one must be transformed by something from above—a light, a vibration, the Holy Spirit, a descending force that changes us.

And when you follow Nicodemus through the story, he undergoes a dramatic transformation. He begins as someone who seems confused and uncertain, but by the end, he is present at the most intimate moments—at the burial, in the tomb, helping Joseph of Arimathea prepare the body with aloe and myrrh.

He moves from the outer edge of the story to the inner circle. That arc of transformation, to me, has all the hallmarks of an initiatory experience. I began to wonder whether Nicodemus himself had encountered this “lost dose”—whether that was the catalyst that transformed him.

Why do you think that “dose” was never explicitly named in the texts?

William Henry: Because Rome destroyed everything connected to what I would call the Jesus revolution.

Anything associated with Jesus after the resurrection had to go underground. Otherwise, Rome would crush it—which it did. After the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, anyone connected to Jesus, anyone who had seen him, experienced him, or carried that knowledge, was at risk.

So if there was a sacramental substance involved, they could not simply state it openly. They couldn’t write, “Yes, this was the catalyst, this is what Moses once used, this is what Jesus restored.” It all had to go underground. The story had to be sanitized for survival.

But there are hints. There are references that, when unpacked, suggest more is there beneath the surface.

Who were the Essenes, and why are they important to your understanding of this story?

William Henry: The Essenes were a mystical Jewish community, and in my view, they were deeply important to the spiritual atmosphere into which Jesus emerged.

I describe them as a group seeking to preserve and restore an older, more mystical current of religion—one that had been lost or replaced by the elite priesthood. They withdrew from mainstream society and established communities in places like Qumran, near Jerusalem, as well as other sacred centers.

According to texts like the Dead Sea Scrolls, they were awaiting the arrival of a high celestial being who would teach them how to put on what they called the crown of glory and the robe of unending light, to undergo a transfiguration into an angelic or celestial state.

That matters because Jesus’ life is surrounded by this imagery: annunciation, baptism, transfiguration, resurrection, ascension—always with the presence of beings of light, the angels of the Lord. The Essenes were preparing for that kind of transformation. And in my view, Jesus was the one they had been waiting for—the one who would show them how to attain what I call the light body.

What is the light body, and how does that idea actually matter in everyday life?

William Henry: In the Gnostic tradition—and the Essenes were part of that wider mystical stream—the teaching is that there is a divine spark within us that gives rise to this physical body.

The light body is the frequency form of who we really are. You could call it the archetypal body, or our divine nature. It is not the ordinary flesh-and-blood identity we’re so attached to. And that’s why this matters in everyday life.

So many spiritual teachings, especially those connected with ascension, are trying to remind us that we are overly identified with the material world—with the body, with the appearance of solidity, with the pressures and limitations of daily life. But the deeper teaching is that none of this is the full truth of who we are.

Our true self is not limited to the physical body. It is the divine spark, the inner fire, the soul. And the light body is the expression of that deeper reality.

When you speak about the resurrection as the activation of the light body, how do you understand that connection?

William Henry: At the core of this idea is something very simple, but very profound. As Paul says in the Book of Acts, flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of heaven. That means this physical body, as it is, cannot enter higher states of existence.

So if we’re going to move into those realms, something has to change. Christianity calls that change transfiguration—a transformation of form.

This is exactly what Jesus demonstrates in the story of the Transfiguration, when he takes Peter, James, and John up the mountain. He reveals himself as a being of light—his face shining like the sun, his body almost plasma-like, his clothing radiant.

The implication is that this isn’t just about him. It’s showing us what exists within us—a higher form waiting to be activated. A potential to transform from a dense, physical state into a higher-frequency light body.

And then the resurrection becomes the full expression of that process. He undergoes the transformation and returns—not as the same physical form, but as a luminous, radiant being. That, to me, is the form capable of crossing between worlds—moving through what you could call the “gates” between dimensions or states of consciousness.

If your hypothesis is true, what are the real-world implications for people today—especially those navigating between traditional religion and modern spirituality?

William Henry: That’s such an important question, because we’re seeing this tension everywhere right now.

There are billions of people within organized religion—Christianity alone has around two billion followers. But I believe a significant portion of them are searching for something deeper than what they’re being given. They’re there with genuine intention, but the experience they’re looking for isn’t being fulfilled.

At the same time, many people who leave traditional religion enter the broader spiritual world seeking freedom—but then eventually find themselves craving structure, clarity, even guidance. They want answers. They want something grounded.

So we have this movement in both directions.

From my perspective, the deeper issue is that most traditions have lost the experience. They talk about transformation, but they don’t facilitate it directly.

If what I’m suggesting is true—that early Christianity included a direct, experiential sacrament—then the implication is enormous. It means that what people are seeking isn’t more belief systems or better theology. It’s an experience. It’s a transformation that is felt, embodied, and undeniable.

You can see a hint of this in places like Pentecostal Christianity, where there’s an emphasis on direct experience—ecstatic states, emotional connection, a sense of divine presence. People are drawn to that because it’s not just intellectual—it’s lived.

Now imagine if that kind of direct experience were widespread—not just emotional, but deeply transformative. Something that helps people release trauma, feel profound compassion, and connect to a higher intelligence or presence.

That would change everything—not just individually, but collectively.

Because once you move from talking about love, compassion, and higher consciousness… to actually experiencing them, it’s no longer abstract. It becomes real. It becomes embodied.

And that, to me, is the real implication of this work:
What if the original teachings were never meant to be believed—but to be lived, directly experienced, and integrated?

That shift alone could transform how we understand spirituality, religion, and even what it means to be human.

If Jesus were speaking to humanity today, what do you think he would focus on?

William Henry: I think he would be speaking about the power of the soul.

We’re at this unique point in history where ancient knowledge and modern discovery are colliding. What we once thought was a 5,000-year-old civilization now appears to stretch back much further—there’s growing evidence of advanced pre-flood civilizations, which echoes stories like those in Genesis.

At the same time, we’re facing rapid developments in AI and transhumanism. I don’t think he would approach those with fear. I think he would say: Don’t lose sight of the soul. That’s where your true power is.

He would also likely be speaking openly about non-human intelligences—what many traditions have described as angels or higher beings. There’s a growing conversation today around disclosure, and I think he would place that within a much bigger spiritual framework.

Ultimately, I think his message would be about empowerment. Many people feel overwhelmed right now—by technology, by global uncertainty, by forces that seem beyond their control. There’s a subtle tendency to give in to that.

But the truth is, we still carry that divine spark. We can strengthen it. We can move closer to that higher state of being. Maybe not fully into a “light body” in a literal sense—but even moving a little in that direction changes how we live, how we feel, how we experience life.

Love seems central to everything Jesus taught. How does love fit into your hypothesis?

William Henry: Love is absolutely central.

In the Beatitudes, Jesus says, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” So the question becomes: how do we purify the heart?

There are many traditional paths—prayer, meditation, devotion. But what I came to understand, both through research and experience, is that there are also catalysts that can accelerate that process.

I sometimes use a simple analogy: if you have a clogged drain, you can run water through it all day, and nothing changes. You can try a plunger—that helps. You can call a plumber—that’s deeper work. Or you can use something that clears the blockage instantly.

In this framework, psychedelics have historically been seen as those kinds of catalysts—tools that can open the heart very quickly. The word “psychedelic” itself means “mind-manifesting” or “mind-revealing.”

At their highest potential, these substances aren’t about escape—they’re about opening perception, dissolving barriers, and allowing access to states of deep compassion, connection, and what I would call cosmic love.

And that, ultimately, aligns with the core of Jesus’ teaching—not just to talk about love, but to experience it directly.

Where can people follow your work and learn more about your book?

William Henry: You can find everything on my website, including information about the book, upcoming events, and tours. I also lead trips to Egypt—our next one is March 28, 2026, and another is scheduled for October 20–31, 2026, with more dates to be announced.

Thank you for being here and for sharing your work.

William Henry: My absolute pleasure. Thank you so much.