Gloryland

Gloryland -West Virginia and Appalachia have an appeal that’s almost impossible to ignore. The country is harsh, and so are the people who live here. As you climb into the deep Appalachian mountains, the roads begin to wind in almost unimaginable ways. Tight left and right turns seem endless, while Empress trees and black pines line the roads like guardians of a passageway. The great metal structures of the coal mines stand like ancient ruins. As you go deeper into the mountains, small towns begin to appear, no more than half a mile long along Route 16. For every ten houses, there seems to be a church, proving that the presence of religion is strong and deeply rooted in these mountains.

A small church called “The House of The Lord Jesus” stands by the roadside in the humble, quiet town of Squire, population less than 300. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was just another church you pass while driving along windy mountain roads. This Church of Holiness practices what is known as “sign following”. The church is small and led by Pastor Chris Wolford. Twelve pews (six on each side) take up most of the space. Old wooden panels cover the walls, and a burgundy-red carpet mingles with a wooden floor at the front of the church. Walking through the center of the church, we see women on their knees, leaning over the pews, praying and weeping before the saints.

The sound of crotales fills the air and several boxes are laid out behind the pulpit, while the guitar begins to blaze over the speakers at full volume. The music is incredible… a mix of delta blues and bluegrass, a unique style specific to this type of cult in applications. The women gyrate in flowing dresses, their long hair wrapped in cloth. Chris picks up a jar. It contains a mixture of water and strychnine poison. Small goblets line the front of the pulpit as he fills one and takes a sip. He pulls out a bottle, filled with alcohol and a homemade wick. He lights the cork and flames rise above the glass bottle. He shouts passionate praise, holding the bottle under his chin. Eventually, he passes the lit bottle to his mother, who also holds it under her chin and begins to turn in circles. Chris jumps and dances, stomping and praising the Lord as beads of sweat and tears stream down his head and face. He grabs one of the wooden boxes behind him and opens the Plexiglas lid. He pulls out a rattlesnake and waves it in the air. He jumps around, dances and shouts praise while the snake rests in his hand and looks out over the church. The energy is so palpable it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and the feeling is almost inexplicable.

There’s death in all of this, as well as a lot of suffering for the church and this whole region of West Virginia. But I’ve come to understand why Appalachia has this mystical quality. They’re full of love and compassion… you only have to sift through the coal dust to find it.

Welcome to GLORYLAND.