The formula was always the same. Loud music. A speaker. A moment. A hand raised in the dark. He spent years near that bullshit before something broke him open wide enough to find a different Christ. Drugged is the account of that breaking. A man is drugged, launched into space, and deposited on an alien world with five true believers and a mission he never agreed to. What he finds there - an ooze that speaks, asks the oldest question in the tradition, and refuses to stay in any category the formula ever built - is either blasphemy or the fullness of the incarnation. Probably both. This is not systematic theology. It does not build from premises to conclusion. It moves the way encounter moves: disjointed, dreamlike, lit from underneath. It begins with a formula and ends with dissolution. Everything in between is the long, strange, beautiful work of learning to see Christ in forms the formula never prepared you for. a publication of New Theology School Press