It's amazing how the mind of a Southern Humorist works. Even those of us who are Southern Humorists often don't understand the process of what goes on beneath the calcium substrate atop our spinal columns. All we can tell you is - we look for the humor in life.

A recent turn of events led us to discuss traditionally taboo subjects - religion, politics and the proper methods of handling poisonous reptiles, i.e. snakes.  Our full time newspaper editor (also a minister) and official Redneck Genius - Ben Baker -  is also a member of a pentecostal church. When this came up ... inquiring minds and all that.

Join us as we open the lid on a writer's forum discussion on 

SNAKES, CHURCH AND A FEW OTHER THINGS THAT WILL MAKE YOU LOOK UNDER YOUR DESK

CATHY GREGOR

Ben, I love your attitude, the same goes for me.  I only have one question - is  pentecostal the religion where they handle snakes in church?  

BEN BAKER

There are churches which are of the pentecostal persuasion which seek out and intentionally handle snakes in church. Our church frowns on that. I once took a dead canebrake into the social hall to get my daughter to come home and watch me dress it. One of the youth leaders and one of the young'uns walked past me in the hall, not initially seeing what I had. On the way back, the two of them had turned over a table and were hiding behind it, demanding I take the snake out of church.

The kids in the social hall ranged from terror to fascination to "Oh, he's just the newspaper editor. He's weird like that."

At home I dressed the snake (will cook it for July 4th) and a fang stuck me in the finger. My finger went a bit numb.

A baby rattler (live) cause much the same commotion. This one was released into the woods.

I've been bitten by snakes several times, much to our mutual chagrin and annoyance. They were chagrined cause I didn't let go. I was chagrined cause I was bitten. We were both annoyed by each other's presence. I don't know who came off worse - me or them. They all got released in an appropriate location. I suppose the same could be said of me.

The only critter I have ever killed with a bow & arrow was a 5 foot rattler. I emptied my .45 at the snake, who did not take the opportunity to escape. I took a broad head off one of the arrows and shot, pinning him to the ground. I ate him too.

ASA SPARKS

Some handle snakes
Others preach healing on demand
Some speak in unknown tongues.

Asa's reply sparked the following question - This is 3 things Pentecostals do, I wonder what the other 47 are?

LOCKE MILLHOLLAND

Sounds like  a religious Paul Simon song, "Pentecost ways to Leave your Lover," or the beginning of an example of a humor column that doesn't know when to stop.  Then again, Jeff Foxworthy managed to successfully take a list of things well beyond the David Letterman established 10-count.

The idea of Baker "dressing" a snake took on new dimensions as you might expect when a group of humor writers are around.

THOMAS LYNN

Hey Ben, if you have trouble dressing a snake it's probably because it's a boy snake. Boy snakes don't like wearing dresses.

But, there are churches which believe in handling snakes. The Bible does say that the righteous can handle poisonous snakes and not be harmed. As for moral standing of those who do get bit, we leave that your mind dear reader.

Snake Handling Religion 

They [the church] once had an evangelist for revival. He was very unlearned. He had to have someone to read the scripture. But what I remember most was how he kept asking for someone to bring him a poisonous snake.

The next day we were working in the tobacco field and a man we knew came by. He saw a copperhead sunning itself on the rocks, so he put a plank on its neck and called my papa to come and hold it so he could take out his shoestring and make a halter. This he did, slipping the noose over the copperhead's head.

My papa told him he should not, but he said the preacher wanted it. He took the snake to the nearest farmhouse, got a fifty-pound lard can, put the snake in it, and took it to the church.

Two or three days later, the preacher called for a time of snake handling. Everyone living close enough to get there went. Well, that night the members sang very loud, played guitars, danced in the spirit, and spoke in unknown tongues for some time. There were about 15 or 20 people on the stage.

By now, the snake on the pulpit in the can was scared to death, I suppose. So when the preacher danced up to can, opened it, and grabbed for the snake, it bit him in the palm of his hand. He flinched a little. By this time we were all up on the pews.

We thought the next lady who grabbed it by the tail and slung it around would surely let it loose. But it did not have time to coil again when she got it, so it did not bite her. By now it was evident that the preacher, who had said the snake would not bite, or if it did would not hurt him, was mistaken. His arm was swelling fast, and he became very ill. He asked his wife to close the service.

My papa was the only one there with a car. He offered to take the preacher to the doctor, Doc Martin, as we called him. But the preacher said, "no." He had to prove that he would not take medication. He went to our next door neighbor's home where he was staying.

Of course, we had some Baptist skeptics. Several young men went home with them to see what he would do. He was very ill. They reported that he laid on the bed with his hand hanging off and poison dripped from his hand. I suppose this helped some. He did not go to the doctor or take any treatment.

What he said was the Lord would take care of him. And maybe he did, because the preacher did not die or take treatment, although he was very sick for about two or three weeks. He continued his revival with his arm swollen too large to go in his coat sleeve. 

by Gladys Adams Crump (via Sheila Moss)

Mrs. Crump's story about the snake-bit preacher resulted in this never-before-published piece.

BEN BAKER

I sat down in the pew, not knowing precisely what to expect. I'd coached with Pastor Lamar Lee in rec ball the season before. I'd even been to the youth services.

But, I was in a new place, a place I had once upon a time said I would never set foot into. I was in a Church of God house of worship. Holy Rollers. Raise the Roof - literally.

When the electric guitar player behind the projection screen began playing "Smoke on the Water" by Deep Purple before services began, I REALLY began to wonder what I was in for. I also began to think I was definitely in the right place. Deep Purple indeed!

I was sitting, Pew 3 in the main hall of the Christian Union Church of God about to experience the regular Sunday morning worship.

I was raised half Baptist, half Catholic, and 9/5ths hunter and fisherman. When I was growing up, Church to me was a place to sit and be bored still while some adults sang mostly off key and another adult sometimes got apoplectic on a stage while Grandpa snored. Later on, serving as an altar boy, I fought the Baker Tradition to go to sleep because sleeping and falling over on the priest mid-service was frowned on and would likely result in the parish's nun paying an after-church visit to the house.

My only prior experience with "charismatic" churches, aside from the Youth service which I expected to be pumped up, was listening with much amusement to a church which met for several hours at a stretch across the road from the deer woods camp in Stewart County.

My church upbringing also instilled in me the very first row of pews was reserved for visiting ministers, couples about to be married and the immediate family during funerals. Pews were also supposed to be place very close to the dias, lectern & etc. Why, I don't know. Perhaps it was to make sure people got up close & personal when they went to the back to go to the bathroom mid-service.

The singing was more in line with a funeral dirge than making a "joyful noise unto the Lord."

The pastor and choir were also supposed to be barricaded by intricately carved fences, a massive altar and a lectern carved from lead-impregnated oak, thick enough to prevent even cosmic rays from penetrating let alone let us see what color the preacher's pants were.

At Christian Union, the lectern was clear, glass or plexiglass. The choir simply stood behind the preacher with one row on a small shelf (not wide enough to be a stage). Lamar was wearing a gray-ish (colors are not my forte) suit with pants.

Only the band was hidden, behind the projection screen. Why, I don't know. Maybe the audience was known to get rowdy from time to time and wad up their bulletins to throw at the band to register their displeasure with the band's version of "Are You Experienced?"

At this church, there was enough room to play a game of full-contact volleyball between the first set of pews and the stage. I later learned this was so the church could come forward, en masse, at various points during the service to stand, knee, cry and generally carry on in such fashions as to make a Babdist ressurect the idea of excommunication.

Lamar came out. The band fired up and the speakers rocked the joint belting out decibel levels associated with a Guns N Roses tour and a beat previously only heard at raves. I approved heartily. Music, good music, is meant to be played loud enough to be heard 2 weeks ago. The church sang, led by Lamar. Hands waved. Feet stomped. It was fun.

I forget most of what Lamar said. I just know he was excited about it. Judging from the number of people at altar call, they were excited too.

Me, well, I was just happy to be alive. 

Then, sometimes we surprise ourselves.

BEN BAKER 

I just went back and read what I posted (which was written a couple of years ago) "Music, good music, is meant to be played loud enough to be heard 2 weeks ago." I can't believe I wrote something that perspicacious. I'm also impressed I know what perspicacious means, even if I had to use 2 dictionaries to get the correct spelling.

BAYOU BILL

Next time, go electronic. Dictionary.com caught it on the first try. :) 

LEEUNA FOSTER

Although I was raised as a Baptist, I love a good shoutin', praisin' God church service.  I am fortunate enough to be a member of a little church that has these meetings still. I have often wanted to attend a Pentecostal service, but haven't yet. I do believe in God's healing power. 

 

Sheila, I love your mama's story. she is a good writer. I almost felt as though I were in the service with her.

 

Ben, I marvel at your perspicacity. :-)

MIKE BAY

Believe it; you did it. You even spelled it right; keep both your dictionaries.

If I'm reading your previous somewhat correctly*, the visual and audio impact of a Pentacostal service is such that one remembers less what is said, than the energy behind the saying of it. So in between "Praise God!s," he could be talking macroeconomics in frightfully boring detail. But with'Deep Purple's Smoke on the Water, coupled with an inspirationally animated delivery -- perhaps with an occasional snake flying through the air, for emphasis in some venues -- the shouted frenzy of the revved up throng is inspired to His Word. As well as to cost/debt ratios.

* Disclaimer: the previously stated interpretational opinion of aforementioned SH er, aka Danged Fool Yankee, is just that: the previously stated interpretational opinion of the aforementioned. It is in no way representative of Pentacostal practitioners, snakes, healers, blue or otherwise, macroeconomists, redneck editors/arsenal holders, grits lovers, grits haters, Deep Purple groupies, snake-bitten appendages, old coffee cans not used for bacon grease storage, other SH ers on either side of the Mason-Dixon, and/or others of discernibly like-minded perspicaciousness, especially if redundantly stated herein. Void only where restrooms allow for proper HAZMAT disposal.

But the issue of snakes, much like archetypical beast of myth, refused to die.

CATHY GREGOR

Well, the snakes are not an option for me, I am scared to death of them.  I do, however believe in "healing" of the hands and I guess I also speak in unknown tongues --- at least that is what my stud muffin always tells me. 

I can't believe him though, he tells me a lot of stuff that is not always true.  Years ago he told me to ask the clerk at the vitamin store (where I was going with my mother no less) for spanish fly for him.  I said that was a "myth" and he insisted it wasn't.  So as a devoted wife I was checking all the shelves for spanish fly while my mom got all her vitamins.  I went with her to check out and waited in line to ask the cashier if she knew what shelf it was on.  The clerk almost choked and I was so humiliated when the others in line burst out laughing.  My mother acted as though I was a total stranger as I ran out of the store as fast as I could and my sneakers left skid marks. 

True story, it also quite awhile to forgive my stud muffin.  I bought a shirt for him to wear to parties when all our friends got together which read "OLD GOAT, FORMALLY KNOWN AS STUD MUFFIN". 

See what I have to live with, no wonder I get brain farts!

Sheila, I now know where you got your gift for writing (from your mother)!  After reading this I almost needed a "nitro" under my tongue to finish the article to see if your mama was bitten by the snake or not.  I don't know if it takes total trust in God to "heal" you after a freaking snake bite without hospitalization or just stupidity.  I would have slit my arm open and ask the congregation to just "believe" and suck out the poison

 

BEN BAKER

Exerpted from Origins of Hawgin': How to catch wild hogs on topwater  tackle.
From the chapter - Feelin' Froggy.

“Gottan idea,” Hawgin’ Fishbreath announced after  pulling up in  the yard. I was busy tending the damfinos,  which I usually tend by  mowing ‘em down along with the  grass, so I was extremely interested  in doing just about anything else. Besides which, the first blossoms of spring were in  the air and spring always turns a country boy’s  thoughts to  ... frog legs. Hawgin’ was thinking the same thing,  which  proves again great minds think alike. “Gonna get some frogs tonight,” he said. We quickly laid plans to float down Little  River shining the banks for frogs among the willow trees.

What he did not bother to tell me at the time was how he intended to catch the frogs. This waited until we slipped the canoe into the river. He reached behind the seat of the  Stumpjumper and withdrew a single shot shotgun. From the  back of the truck came a bucket, which I had previously  ignored.

Hawgin reached into the bucket and withdrew something the likes of  which I’d never seen before. It was a 12  gauge shell with the shot cup cut off. In its place was a twisted salad fork painted black.

“Stealth frog blaster. Painted it black. Frogs’ will never  see it coming,” he said.

“Aha Einstein, and just how are you going to recover  the frog after you shoot one? ”I asked.

“Not a problem. Just gotta be sure we either shoot one on the bank, on a tree limb of shoot low across the water so the fork will catch the frog and scoot it along the surface to the bank,” he said.

It sounded like a logical idea to me. By pinning the frogs to bank or tree limb, we could avoid the problem of get- ting wet. Besides which, the frog blaster was much shorter than the gigging poles we normally used which meant that we’d both come home that night without  black eyes. Many of you know I wear glasses, but that was not always  the case. I’ll just say it’s hard to keep up with the butt end of a frog gigging pole in the dark and leave it at that.

We eased into the water and hooked up the Q-beam. AQ-beam can cook frogs at close range so Hawgin’ had the battery half-charged to keep the light’s power on low. The trolling motor pulled us along as we  slid under, around and through the willow trees. Then, a glint gave away a frog’s position. I turned the light full on the frog and it froze in place. Hawgin’ took aim. He pulled the trigger. The noise was considerably less loud than a standard dove load from the same gun and the recoil barely budged Hawgin’ from the front of the boat.  

The frog had disappeared. I shined along the limb, reaching the trunk  of the willow. There, firmly imbedded in the tree by one of Sally Jane’s “company silverware” forks was a very dead frog. We eased up to it. Hawgin’ grabbed the fork and pulled. The fork was stuck to the tree harder than a lawyer sticks to a person- al injury claim. He pulled some more and it continued to display the kind of sticking power generally reserved for the lug nuts on the Moosemobile when I have a  flat tire. Finally, having cut the frog loose, leaving the flatwear in the tree. Later that night having greatly improved the commercial value of a number of willow trees by adding silver to them via  the StealthFrog Blaster, we had a fair number of frogs in the boat.  

Still, it was not enough. We continued to drift along.

We floated under a willow tree looking for a frog Hawgin’s swore he saw swimming there. A snake dropped into the boat.

This has happened to us in the past while fishing. General procedure is to take a paddle and 1] beat the snake to death or 2] pin it to the boat, catch it behind the head and release it into the river ...  at least that’s the plan. Somehow when a moccasin drops in the boat,  the second option seems incredibly stupid. The first option is a good idea for Hawgin’ to choose, but he is of the opinion I should take matters into my hands and deal with the snake. By the time we decide who is to deal with the snake, it has vanished, we’re on the bank and the boat is halfway to the Gulf of Mexico. However, on those previous occasions we did not have a firearm aboard. Since Hawgin’ is a  responsible hunter and gun owner and always safety conscious, I knew what I had to do.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” I screamed.

Hawgin’ turned around. He saw the snake in the boat moving toward  him. He looked up at me. He looked back at the snake, now considerably closer. The shotgun swung around. “DON’TSHOOT!” I  screamed as I rolled out the back of the boat to avoid being impaled by Sally Jane’s wedding present from her parents.

I was under water when something big hit the water a few feet away. I  surfaced and peered over the gunwale to see what was going on.  

Hawgin’ had jumped out of the boat as well, leaving it to the snake for the moment. As soon as he was able to stand, the creek was only a  few feet deep, he aimed into the boat and pulled the trigger. The blast shot a knife out which pinned the snake to the boat, killing it instantly.

It also knocked a hole in the boat which promptly began to sink.  

Frogs floated rapidly filling boat. I grabbed the boat intending to save the frogs from being alligator chow. Hawgin reloaded. He aimed the shotgun and fired again. A fork now pinned the snake to the boat.  

With two holes in the side, the boat began to sink twice as fast.

“Think he’s dead or should I shoot again?” Hawgin’ asked. The snake was very, very dead. In fact, you could not find a snake more dead than that one.

It was also Hawgin’s boat.

“Better shoot it again,” I said. “Can’t be too safe.”

Copyright 2006 Southern Humorists
Compiled and Edited by Ben Baker



NOTE: Snake handling for religious purposes is now against the law in most southern states and this time honored tradition is but fond and distant memory.