Serpents and Spirits: Inside America’s Enduring Snake-Handling Churches

In a tiny corner of West Virginia, a small group of Christians still pass live rattlesnakes around during Sunday services. They believe God will protect them. Not everyone makes it home.

Deep in the Appalachian Mountains, in a community so small it barely registers on a map, there exists a religious practice so extraordinary that most people assume it's either a hoax or a relic of history. It isn't. In Jolo, McDowell County, West Virginia (population around 400 today) a Pentecostal congregation still meets to worship in a way that has killed dozens of Americans and fascinated outsiders for over a century. They handle venomous snakes. Willingly. In church. As an act of prayer.

It was in 1977 that an obscure but fascinating documentary captured this world in stark, unsettling detail. It provided an in-depth look at a small Pentecostal Holiness church whose members quite literally put their lives on the line for their faith

This isn't performance, and it isn't theatre. To the members of the Church of God with Signs Following, picking up a rattlesnake mid-sermon is the most sincere expression of faith they can offer.

The Scripture Behind the Serpents

For most people, the idea of handling deadly snakes, let alone drinking poison, sounds like something pulled from an exaggerated Hollywood film about sinister backwoods cults. But to those involved, it is an essential act of devotion, rooted in a strict and literal interpretation of scripture. The basis for this practice comes from the Gospel of Mark:

“And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” — Mark 16:17-18

For most Christians, this is read as metaphor or historical context. For snake handlers, it's a direct command that hasn't expired. They believe that anyone truly filled with the Holy Spirit can pick up a venomous snake without being harmed, and that if they are bitten and suffer, it reflects a lapse in faith, not a flaw in the doctrine.

Beyond snakes, some congregants drink strychnine (yes, actual poison) diluted in water and sipped from Mason jars or Bell jars during worship. Others handle open flames, pressing burning bottle-wicks to their skin without suffering burns. These aren't stunts; they're what the church calls "following the signs."

What a Snake-Handling Service Actually Looks Like

Walking into one of these services is nothing like a conventional Sunday morning. The air hits differently, close, electric, heavy with anticipation. Music starts early and loud: not the measured hymns of a traditional church, but something rawer, with percussion and stomping and voices that climb rather than lead. People clap, sway, 'speak in tongues'. The energy builds for a long time before the snakes appear.

When the moment arrives, wooden crates behind the pulpit start to rattle. Lids come off. Rattlesnakes, copperheads, cottonmouths, and occasionally cobras or other exotic species, are lifted out by hand. Some worshippers raise the snakes above their heads. Others drape them across their shoulders, wrap them around their forearms, press their faces close. The congregation doesn't scatter; many step forward. Those called by the Spirit sometimes have no memory of the experience afterward, describing it as being absorbed entirely into prayer.

Children aren't given snakes to hold, but they're present. Services can last for hours. There's no admission, no dress code for visitors (though the congregation itself follows strict modesty rules), and no announcement of when (or whether) the snakes will come out on any given evening.

The Man Who Started It All

The origins of the movement trace back almost entirely to one man: George Went Hensley, born on 2 May 1881 in rural Appalachian Tennessee, one of 13 children. Hensley was barely literate (he needed his wife's help to fill out paperwork when he applied for his minister's licence in 1915) but he was a compelling preacher and a deeply driven man, with a background that included moonshining, chain gang escapes, and at least four marriages.

George Went Hensley shortly before his death

Hensley converted to Pentecostalism around 1909–1910, and around the same time landed on the Mark 16 passage with what he considered obvious clarity. If believers could handle snakes, they should. He reportedly made this point in a memorable way during an early sermon: when hecklers threw a box of cottonmouths and copperheads in front of him, he bent down and picked them up the way, one observer wrote, "a boy would gather stovewood." The congregation was stunned. His reputation spread quickly.

By 1914 he was holding meetings with Church of God bishops. By 1915 he was an ordained minister. He resigned from the denomination in 1922 and went on to found the Church of God with Signs Following independently. Over the following decades he travelled constantly through Tennessee, Kentucky, the Carolinas, Virginia, Ohio and Indiana, preaching and handling snakes. His services ranged from small house meetings to large gatherings that drew media attention and hundreds of attendees.

His personal life was, by any accounting, chaotic. He was arrested for Prohibition-era moonshining, escaped from a workhouse, and was arrested at least twice for illegal snake handling. He married four times and fathered at least 13 children. He also, by his own estimate, survived more than 400 snakebites over the course of his career — a claim he made toward the end of his life, by which point his body was reportedly covered in puncture scars. His followers believed this proved the doctrine. His critics pointed out that handlers sometimes develop a degree of venom resistance through repeated exposure, though this is disputed and doesn't account for the deaths.

On 24 July 1955, Hensley was bitten during a service in Altha, Florida. He refused medical treatment. He was 74. He died the next morning. Officials, apparently misunderstanding the theology, listed his cause of death as suicide. His followers didn't see it that way, and the movement he'd built continued without him.

It's worth noting that the practice didn't originate entirely with Hensley. A parallel tradition developed independently in Sand Mountain, Alabama, around 1912, traced to a preacher named James Miller. That branch of the movement became dominant north of the Appalachians and goes by the name Church of Lord Jesus with Signs Following, rather than Hensley's Church of God variant. Both exist today.

Why Don't They All Die?

It's the obvious question. The honest answer isn't fully reassuring.

Statistically, most venomous snakebites don't kill. Only around 0.2% of venomous bites in the US are fatal even without treatment, partly because snakes frequently deliver "dry bites" with little or no venom injected. Snakes also can't actually be trained not to bite — but they can be weakened. Critics of the practice, including animal welfare researchers, have noted that many of the snakes used in services are kept in cramped wooden boxes, underfed, frequently handled, and subjected to conditions that stress and weaken them. Weakened snakes produce less venom and strike less effectively.

This doesn't mean it's safe. As documented fatalities show, a healthy, freshly caught snake, particularly one introduced to a service for the first time, is a genuine danger. Deaths tend to cluster around such moments. The snakes used in these churches also suffer considerably; many sustain broken bones and shortened lifespans from rough handling, according to animal welfare observers who've studied footage of services.

For those who do get bitten during a service, the theology holds firm: medical treatment is traditionally refused. Prayer takes over. If the person recovers, it confirms faith. If they die, it's understood as God's will, or as a sign the handler didn't possess sufficient faith in that moment. This isn't a contradiction to believers; it's a consistent theological framework.

That said, attitudes have been shifting. Since the death of televised preacher Jamie Coots in 2014, some younger handlers have quietly moved away from the absolute refusal of medical care. University of Tennessee professor Ralph Hood, who has studied the movement for decades, noted that among some congregations refusing to call 911 is now considered "old school," with more pragmatic attitudes emerging.

Notable Deaths

The following is a documented record of fatalities directly linked to snake handling in religious services in the United States. It isn't complete, many deaths went unreported, and records from rural communities in the early 20th century are patchy, but it represents what historians and journalists have been able to verify:

• 1922 — The first confirmed fatality linked to serpent handling is reported at a Church of God Evangel service.

• 1955 — George Went Hensley, the movement's founder, dies in Altha, Florida, after refusing treatment for a rattlesnake bite at a service. He was 74.

• 1961 — Columbia Chafin Hagerman dies following a timber rattlesnake bite at the Church of the Lord Jesus in Jolo, West Virginia.

• 1967 — Jean Saylor, wife of a snake-handling preacher, dies from a rattlesnake bite in Bell County, Kentucky.

• 1982 — Reverend John Holbrook dies after a rattlesnake bite during a service in Oceana, West Virginia.

• 1983 — Mack Ray Wolford dies following a timber rattlesnake bite at the Lord Jesus Temple in Mile Branch, near Iaeger, West Virginia.

• 1995 — Melinda Brown of Parrottsville, Tennessee, dies from a timber rattlesnake bite at the Full Gospel Tabernacle in Jesus Name, Middlesboro, Kentucky.

• 1995 — Kale Saylor (husband of Jean Saylor, who died in 1967) dies from a rattlesnake bite at Crockett Saylor Pentecostal Church in Crockett, Kentucky. The same family, separated by 28 years.

• 1997 — Daril Colins dies from a snakebite during a service in Bell County, Kentucky.

• 1998 — John Wayne "Punkin" Brown, husband of Melinda Brown (who died in 1995), dies from a timber rattlesnake bite at the Rock House Holiness Church in rural northeastern Alabama. The same couple, the same cause, three years apart.

• 2004 — Dwayne Long, a Pentecostal pastor, dies from a rattlesnake bite during a service in Rose Hill, Lee County, Virginia.

• 2006 — Linda Long dies after a timber rattlesnake bite at East London Holiness Church in London, Kentucky.

• 2012 — Mark Randall "Mack" Wolford (son of Mack Ray Wolford, who died in 1983) dies from a timber rattlesnake bite while leading an outdoor service at Panther Wildlife Management Area, West Virginia. Father and son, same practice, same outcome, 29 years apart.

• 2014 — Jamie Coots, star of the National Geographic reality series Snake Salvation, dies from a timber rattlesnake bite during a service at the Full Gospel Tabernacle in Jesus Name in Middlesboro, Kentucky. His death prompted national coverage and a wider conversation about the movement.

• 2015 — John Brock dies from a rattlesnake bite at Mossie Simpson Pentecostal Church in Jenson, Kentucky.

The pattern of families losing multiple members across generations, the Saylors, the Wolfords, the Browns, gives these records a weight that statistics alone don't convey.

By 1955, there had already been at least 35 confirmed deaths. The total, across more than a century of practice, has exceeded 70 verified fatalities, with the real number likely higher. A 2003 National Geographic report noted that most families involved in the movement have at least one member with permanent injuries: atrophied limbs, missing fingers, or other lasting effects from bites that didn't kill but damaged badly.

When Snake Handling Turned Criminal: The Summerford Case

Not every controversy in the movement's history involves faith. In 1992, a serpent-handling preacher named Glenn Summerford was convicted of the attempted murder of his wife, Darlene, by forcing her to be bitten by a rattlesnake on two occasions at their home. Summerford's congregation split over the trial: some sided with Glenn, others with Darlene. Both accused each other of infidelity and "backsliding" through alcohol use. Summerford was sentenced to 99 years in prison.

Glenn and Darlene Summerford

The case attracted national attention partly because of the surreal specifics, a man weaponising his own religion's most dangerous ritual against his wife, and partly because journalist Dennis Covington covered the trial and went on to attend snake-handling services himself as part of his investigation. His resulting book, Salvation on Sand Mountain (1995), became one of the definitive accounts of the movement.

In a strange postscript, Summerford's nephew Billy Summerford continued practising snake handling and carrying on the family's involvement in the congregation.

The Law, the States, and the Snakes

The legal picture across the US is a patchwork:

West Virginia is the only Appalachian state where snake handling in religious services has never been outlawed, due to a state constitutional provision preventing any law from impeding or promoting religious practice. The church at Jolo operates here, legally.

Tennessee, Alabama, and Kentucky have all passed laws prohibiting the handling of venomous reptiles in ways that endanger others without a permit. In Kentucky, it's a misdemeanour, carrying a fine of $50 to $100. Enforcement is rare and inconsistent.

Georgia went furthest. In 1941, following the death of a six-year-old child from a rattlesnake bite during a service, the state made snake handling a felony punishable by death. The law was so extreme that juries repeatedly refused to convict, and it was repealed in 1968. A separate incident, also in Georgia, reportedly involved a seven-year-old — accounts vary slightly.

North Carolina saw its own legal battles. A 1948 three-day snake-handling convention in Durham resulted in multiple arrests and the seizure of numerous snakes. The following year, one of the organisers argued before the North Carolina Supreme Court that banning the practice violated constitutional religious freedoms.

The American Civil Liberties Union has, at various points, defended the religious freedom of snake handlers against state bans, framing the issue as one of constitutional protection for minority religious expression regardless of personal views on the practice itself.

In 2008, an undercover law enforcement operation named "Twice Shy" resulted in the arrest of ten people and the confiscation of 125 venomous snakes. Pastor Gregory James Coots, father of the later-famous Jamie Coots, was among those arrested, with 74 snakes seized from his home.

A Disappearing Practice, but Not Gone

At its peak, snake handling drew thousands of worshippers to outdoor revival meetings across Appalachia. The movement grew rapidly during the 1930s Depression years, when charismatic travelling preachers offered something that mainstream churches sometimes couldn't: immediacy, spectacle, and a God who could be tested.

Mainstream Pentecostal denominations have almost universally rejected the practice. Snake handling is now explicitly marginal even within Pentecostalism, accounting for an estimated 0.005% of the tradition. Current membership across all snake-handling congregations in the US is estimated at somewhere between 1,000 and 5,000 people, spread across 50 to 125 congregations, primarily in Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, and West Virginia. A handful of congregations also operate in Alberta and British Columbia, Canada.

The movement has grown increasingly secretive. Getting access to a service as an outsider is genuinely difficult. Filming one is harder still. Television brought brief waves of attention, the 2013 National Geographic series Snake Salvation, starring Jamie Coots, offered the most sustained recent exposure, but Coots' death during filming appeared to accelerate the closing of doors rather than open them.

There are some indications the practice is evolving rather than simply fading. Some younger preachers are publicly embracing a more hybrid approach to faith and medicine. Social media has allowed congregations to announce services and connect with believers in ways that weren't previously possible. The theology hasn't changed, but the context around it has.

What It Actually Means to Believers

It's easy to write about snake handling from the outside as though it's simply a morbid curiosity, but to do that is to miss what's actually going on for the people in those rooms.

Practitioners consistently describe the experience of handling snakes under the Spirit as a kind of absorption: the world narrows, the body becomes irrelevant, and they feel entirely present with God. Some report complete amnesia about the experience. Others describe it as the most intensely alive they've ever felt. For communities with limited economic and social power, this kind of direct encounter with the divine, no priest, no hierarchy, no mediation, has always had an obvious appeal.

The strict moral codes of these churches also matter: no alcohol, no tobacco, no makeup for women, modest dress for all. These aren't incidental rules. They're part of a coherent vision of a life set apart, visible holiness in daily behaviour as well as in extraordinary ritual.

People "called" to handle snakes claim they feel as though the world disappears in that moment, that they are entirely one with the Holy Spirit. Whatever one thinks of the theology, that description of transcendent experience connects to something broader in human religious life — which is probably one reason this practice has survived for over a century despite legal pressure, public ridicule, and the occasional reality TV show.

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Sources

• National Geographic: Snake handlers put their faith in God — and increasingly, doctors

• NCpedia: Snake Handling

• New Georgia Encyclopedia: Snake Handlers

• Christian History Institute: They Shall Take Up Serpents

• Culture Frontier: Snake Handling Churches in America

• The Bitter Southerner: The Pentecostal Serpent

• Appalachian State University Special Collections: Appalachian Religious Serpent Handling

• Hood, Ralph W. Them That Believe: The Power and Meaning of the Christian Serpent-Handling Tradition. University of California Press, 2008.

• Burton, Thomas. Serpent-Handling Believers. University of Tennessee Press, 1993.

• Covington, Dennis. Salvation on Sand Mountain. Addison-Wesley, 1995.

• Kimbrough, David. Taking Up Serpents: Snake Handlers of Eastern Kentucky. University of North Carolina Press, 1995.

• Duin, Julia. In the House of the Serpent Handler: A Story of Faith and Fleeting Fame in the Age of Social Media. 2017.

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