Blind Faith: Serpent Handling in West Virginia

By Colleen Sexton

Man has always sought for true and eternal happiness in life and only very few are able to achieve this. What we do not know is that happiness simply lies within us. This book teaches us that an intense willingness to submit one's self, without any questions or excuses, known as blind faith, can lead us to a better life that we've all been searching for. The book speaks about the strong faith in God exemplified by the "taking up" of serpents. Though the world may have several religions, our beli

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634176064

Colleen Sexton

Colleen Sexton is an author and editor who has lived in the Twin Cities area most of her life. She has written more than 100 nonfiction books for kids on topics ranging from the weather to space to animals. As a children's book editor, she developed geography books about the United States, as well as countries and cultures around the world.

Book preview

Chapter 1 

Church of the Lord Jesus Christ with Signs Following  

Deep in the valleys of the mountains of West Virginia exists a group of people whose faith is so controversial that outsiders rarely get the opportunity to witness it. It is a religious doctrine which began in biblical times with the last instructions of Jesus to the disciples to give to the new believers, and continued into the early twentieth century by George Went Hensley who proclaimed it was necessary for salvation. It is the ritual of taking up poisonous snakes in the name of religion. In a tiny sanctuary at the Church of the Lord Jesus Christ with Signs Following in Jolo, West Virginia, the practice continues today.  

Travel to this small town is rugged, so few visitors ever go to this southwestern most part of the state at the base of Grundy Mountain. It is a daunting task to negotiate the winding roads, but if you want to see serpent handlers, you must be willing to make the drive, so after two years of searching for information about the church, I am finally on my way. It has become my great desire to observe the religious rituals practiced here by Appalachian Holiness people—speaking in tongues, laying on of hands, drinking deadly poison, and handling serpents. 

At first, mine had been a simple idea of research, but as I continued to read and study, I have become compelled beyond reason to witness first hand, understand, and testify to the kind of faith that demands folks pick up poisonous reptiles, speak in unknown tongues, and drink strychnine in the name of religion. I need to know what kind of people do this, what a service is like, and why they believe so strongly in a faith for which they are willing to risk their lives.  

West Virginia is the only state in the nation where serpent handling is legal, so I willingly drive the three-and-one-half hours from my house to see what I must see. My husband has wanted no part of this adventure from the beginning. None. Yet he understands my research mind, and knows that I am not to be deterred when in pursuit of a story. Because he does not want me traveling alone, reluctantly, he has agreed to go along although he insists he will do a drive-by and shove me out of the car. I hope he is just kidding. 

Winding along West Virginia Route 119 to Logan, we take State Routes 80 to Gilbert, 52 to Iaegar, and 80 again to Bradshaw. This is forestland—high steep hills containing many coal seams where thousands of mountaineers work. The valleys in between are narrow and dotted with mobile homes and doublewides, and the main mode of transportation is four wheelers and pickup trucks, both of which whiz by us with lightning speed. 

Two years before this trip, I had read Dennis Covington’s Salvation on Sand Mountain. In this descriptive narrative, he tells of meeting the Pentecostals at Jolo, and of his ultimate test of faith when after observing them, in a moment of passion, he actually engages in the act of taking up himself. Today, I will see what so intrigued him. 

Early on, my search had begun with a desire to obtain permission to attend the church. I knew this would not be an easy task because the mountain people of West Virginia are distrustful of strangers since their land rights were stripped from them by large out-of-state corporations. These companies extracted the wealth of coal from poor landowners and paid them a pittance in return. But I am a girl whose geologist father spent a great deal of his life drilling for natural gas in Mingo County near the area of Jolo. My dad was trusted and admired by the people who live here because he treated them fairly when he leased their properties. He also knew about the terrain, home to many rattlesnakes and copperheads, and he passed some of that knowledge on to me. 

When I first became interested in the faith, I wanted to obtain permission to visit so my initial inquisition had been to surf the internet to see if the tiny church had a website. Immediately, I found one. This was going to be easy, I thought, until I learned that Bob Elkins, the former pastor had died, and Dewey Chafin, a long time elder, was very ill. I emailed the remaining names on the church list, and tried to call the printed phone number; yet, no one would respond, and the church number had been disconnected. For the next year, I continued to find websites where there was discussion about the church members, but much of it was argumentative remarks from or about relatives of the original church folks. In the months that followed, I posted message after message asking if anyone knew if the church was still in existence, and if I needed permission to go.  

Finally came a reply from an anonymous sender. Service—Saturday nights at seven-thirty. Little did I know that small piece of long sought after information would change the longing for God in my heart forever. 

As my husband drives, I look out the window at the beautiful sky. I think about my colleagues and relatives who want to know why I am going here—Why do I want to see and write about these people. They have called me crazy, insane, and tell me you know better than to be fooling around with this, or never trust a church with more than three names, but none of it can quench my desire to witness the blind faith of Mark 16—the kind described by Jesus when he told his disciples to baptize and then the believers of the new church could take up serpents and drink any deadly thing, and it would not hurt them. 

Three hours into the Saturday drive, we arrive at Bradshaw. We stop at the S and M Market, a gas station at the Junction of Rt. 83 and 635. Here, we are greeted by a clerk with blond hair who appears to be in her thirties. She is accompanied by a young man who immediately begins to scrutinize these outsiders. He looks us over with a stare that frightens me.  

Can you tell me, I ask her, where is the Church of the Lord Jesus Christ with Signs Following? I am certain she has answered this question a million times. Here is one more person, she must think, come to God’s House of Oddities. Nevertheless, she is patient and polite.  

I received directions from Mike at the War, West Virginia Police Department, I tell her. War is a town close by, and I thought someone there might know about the location of the church. Mike had answered my call to the department the previous Wednesday evening and had been very helpful in negotiating us through the mountains. 

My dad was the sheriff of McDowell County, he had told me, and I can direct you to the exact place where the church is. But I don’t know if they are still having services. 

The clerk points out the windows. Two miles, she says, on the left. 

Then the young man, who has been watching us, speaks up. They closed that church down. 

If there is one thing I have learned in my years of research, it is that you get a lot of different stories about snake people depending on whom you talk to, and that somewhere in the middle is probably the truth. 

I don’t think so, she answers him. 

What’s the pastor’s name? 

Harvey Payne, she replies. Used to be Bob Elkins, but he died, and Dewey Chafin, one of the elders is sick. I think he’s staying with a niece. 

I know about them. I know that Bob Elkins and his wife were the instrumental force in convincing the West Virginia state government that making it against the law to handle serpents is a violation of religious freedom even though their daughter Columbia Hagerman died from a snakebite in 1961 in the church at Jolo. I know that at last report, Dewey Chafin was bitten 133 times, and never stopped believing that God was in control of that snake. 

Can I call Pastor Payne from here? She tells me she does not have a phone book. 

Soon we are back in the car, driving two miles up the mountain. My husband, who has his doubts about this practice, the snakes, the people, and me, is not talking. I know he is envisioning how close he had to get to the back of the church during service without sitting outside. 

We pass the Church of God. Then another mile on the left, I see it. Two years and five hours of searching has brought me to a small building on the side of the road with a sign on the upper right side of the building Church of the Lord Jesus Christ with Signs Following. With Signs Following is in parenthesis. I will soon witness firsthand what these signs are. The lettering looks homemade, and is colored in bright blue. We welcome you is in the top left hand corner. 

Pulling into the parking lot, my husband and I get out. A white sandwich board outside the church announces, Pastor Harvey Payne Service Wednesday and Saturday, seven-thirty. 

I am in luck. At last, I am going to see snakes and faith spiral upward. It is six-twenty, and I suggest to my husband we go back into Bradshaw and get a camera. I have heard you are not allowed to take pictures inside the sanctuary because so many nasty things have been written about this body of believers, but I do not see the harm in taking a few shots outside. 

Arriving back at the church, I begin snapping photos of the sign on the right-hand side of the front door which is also homemade and bears the name of Bob Elkins, former pastor. I want my friends to see I have really been here. 

Moving toward the front doors, I pull the handle. Locked. I peer inside and see a second set of doors. For a moment, I begin to panic. Can I sit in the last row? Looking at the size of the church, that would have been row five, and at the moment of frenzy in worship would someone fling a snake my way, and I discover the second set of doors would lock me in? Maybe this had not been such a good idea after all. 

By now, the clock in my car says seven, and I am beginning to get in the words of Edgar A. Poe, Very, very nervous. I expect at any moment to see a truck pull into the lot with a screened box full of reptiles. Seventy twenty-five. No one. Seven-thirty. No one. Each truck that passes us on its way up the mountain makes me hopeful one member of the congregation will show up. But that night, no one does. Our long drive and my dedicated search have been in vain. The sandwich board has been wrong about the service time, wrong