by Jeff Guinn
But a Jones appearance at a Macedonia service did more for the San Francisco church than his own, and now that sufficient funds were available he began periodically leasing space for Peoples Temple programs at a local school in the same section of town. In these, Jones was at his charismatic best, denouncing prejudice, leading energetic renditions of hymns and performing countless healings. It all resonated, and as Jones’s Bay Area reputation spread, his audiences gradually changed from virtually all low-income and African American to racially mixed. The school venue comfortably held perhaps five hundred. After a few monthly appearances, Jones enjoyed standing room attendance, and some of these people wanted to move up to Mendocino County and become full-fledged Temple members.
Besides the generous offerings collected at these San Francisco services—$3,500 wasn’t an unknown take—the Temple’s newest members relocating from the Bay Area expanded the possibilities for tithing and property donation. For the first time, Jones regularly attracted professionals whose salaries were, by previous Temple standards, astronomic—college professors, successful attorneys, business owners or managers as well as line workers and minimum wage employees. The turbulent times had much to do with it—at every social and economic level, Americans were discontented with escalating racial strife and the increasingly unpopular Vietnam War. Jones challenged visitors to stop talking about problems and actually do something to make America better—Peoples Temple was the way. And when eager, relatively well-heeled applicants arrived in Redwood Valley, they were offered the opportunity to immerse themselves in the effort, often by producing the pink slips for their very nice cars, or the diamond necklace and earrings bequeathed by a beloved grandmother. Some balked, but enough complied so that the Temple enjoyed substantial economic benefits. Best of all were those who owned property and were willing to turn over the deeds. Jones and his close advisors quickly became expert in flipping real estate.
Temple-operated businesses began proliferating in Mendocino County. Soon, besides nursing homes, these included a ranch for troubled children, a laundry, and a print shop. Each new operation also offered employment for the swelling ranks of members. The California legislature lent an inadvertent hand when it closed down state-operated mental health facilities, anticipating that private business would step into the service breach. Peoples Temple immediately did. Marceline Jones had the professional medical background to organize the new businesses, and Tim Stoen brought the necessary legal expertise.
Jones stretched his ministry further afield with occasional services in Los Angeles and Seattle. When these drew encouraging crowds, he began scheduling the programs on a regular basis—once a month in Seattle, twice monthly in San Francisco and L.A. Before and after these services, Temple members mingled with the audiences, turning apparently random, innocuous conversations into shrewd interrogations, as they had so often done. Immediately after the Temple contingent returned to Redwood Valley, letters would be sent to those they’d met, all of them citing something unique about the recipient, and almost always including assurance that Pastor Jones was keeping him or her in his prayers. Just before the next visit to Seattle or Los Angeles or San Francisco, there would be follow-up letters urging the person to attend the upcoming sermon. Each individual was made to feel valued.
As these road audiences increased—Jones always urged attendees to bring family and friends the next time he preached in town—the Temple found additional means of raking in money. Temple ladies offered snacks for sale—cookies, cakes, even healthy treats like collard greens—at temporary booths set up inside or just outside the venue. Jones interrupted his own sermons to hawk photos of himself for $5 each. Having such a photo—the picture blessed, of course, by Jones—guaranteed the owner immunity from disasters such as assault, fire, or cancer. Since each photo was good for protection from only one potential catastrophe, it was sensible to buy several. Jones was so mesmerizing at the pulpit, so convincing in his claim, that many people did just that. Often, photo sales at a single service totaled $2,000 to $3,000.
The Temple turned its burgeoning mailing list into a constant sales tool. Its letters began offering additional personal protections. Membership in the “Apostolic Blessing Plan” required whatever donation an individual could afford. In return, donors received a certificate stating they were now included in the daily meditations of Pastor Jones: “Expect the promise of God to be fulfilled and the blessings to begin to flow.” Because Pastor Jones loved all true believers equally, even if they couldn’t afford to send just a few dollars to support the Temple, there was still the “Blessed Penny.” Upon request, Pastor Jones would hold a penny in his left hand, bless it, and then send it to the person who’d requested one. Though any possible donation was always appreciated, recipients were assured, “There is no charge for Pastor Jones’s meditations. He will meditate on your needs whether you are able to send an offering or not.” Business was brisk. The Temple had to open a special letters office to handle the flood of mail.
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Jones’s new travel schedule kept him away from the Temple’s Redwood Valley church on many weekends. He usually managed to preside over at least one Sunday night service there, and at others either Marceline Jones or Archie Ijames led the meetings. Even then, it was still the Jim Jones show. A large photograph of Jones or a robe he often wore would be prominently displayed on the stage, and tapes of his previous sermons played. He frequently phoned in during meetings, and sometimes even rushed in toward the end, assuring Redwood Valley members that he’d risked life and limb racing over to share even a few precious moments with them.
The Redwood Valley congregation included members who hung on Jones’s every word, and who bought into every theatrical aspect. Others, loyal to the mission as much or more as they were to the Temple leader, certainly entertained occasional doubts about their church’s apparent descent into hucksterism. It was one thing to espouse socialism, and another to peddle photos and mail out pennies. But even the most dubious couldn’t deny another fact: the money pouring in from these questionable practices made possible exceptional outreach to those in need. Peoples Temple now had abundant clothing to distribute and food to serve at free meals in low-income areas. Its care facilities accepted clients even if they couldn’t pay a cent toward their treatment. Always, it seemed, Peoples Temple devised new, effective ways to help raise up the oppressed. One of the most impressive programs sent worthy teens to college, kids who otherwise could never have afforded an hour of education after high school. The Temple not only covered books and tuition, it purchased houses and remodeled them into serviceable dormitories—the students had free housing and meals. Most of them were the children of Temple members, but some came from the outside, often after successfully completing drug rehabilitation through that Temple program. The school they were sent to was a community college in nearby Santa Rosa, but still, none of this was cheap—members admired Jones’s absolute commitment. The man would do anything for the cause. Having seen the results, how could they do less?
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Prospective members now appeared by the dozens each week, some arriving in Mendocino County because of what the Temple could do for them (housing, professional training, jobs), and many because of what membership in the Temple would allow them to do for others. Anxious to emphasize its denominational affiliation to state and federal tax authorities, the Temple kept in close contact with the regional office of the Disciples of Christ. Many veteran Temple members realized that the affiliation was a sham, just one more distasteful thing Jones had to do for the socialist cause—“We all knew that the Disciples of Christ thing was just for the tax write-off, nobody took it seriously, Jim least of all,” former follower Alan Swanson recalls—but the Temple filed annual membership and income reports to the denomination office. These had to be reasonably accurate—the Disciples of Christ office could always send examiners to check. By 1973, Peoples Temple of Redwood Valley claimed 2,570 members, with only thirty listed as regularly
“non-participating” in services and church programs. Its annual income was estimated at $300,000 (the equivalent of approximately $1.7 million today), with so much expended on its own outreach efforts that only $1,080 remained to be forwarded to the Disciples of Christ in support of denominational operating costs and activities.
Peoples Temple was finally on sound financial footing. As church operations expanded, so did Jones’s demands on its members. Jones had their money and personal possessions, but he also wanted their time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WORKER BEES
In 1971, nineteen-year-old Terri Buford fled her home in Pennsylvania after her schizophrenic mother tried strangling her with the family dog’s leash. It wasn’t the first time Buford’s mother had assaulted her, but the teenager was determined it would be the last.
Buford cadged a ride with a friend who was driving his van cross-country to San Francisco. Once they arrived, Buford had nowhere to go. She bummed around the southern part of the state, then reconnected with the friend who’d driven her west. He talked about an amazing preacher he’d encountered up north in Redwood Valley: “I found God. We raise our hands in the air to feel his energy.” He claimed that Jim Jones, his new idol, had such supernatural power, he could even raise the dead. Buford was skeptical, but with nothing to keep her in L.A. she decided to hitchhike up to Redwood Valley and see for herself. Near Ukiah, she got a ride with a chatty man who claimed to know all about Jim Jones and his church, which was called Peoples Temple. He asked Buford if she had anywhere to sleep, and offered to drop her off at the home of some Temple members who would be glad to help out. Elmer and Deanna Mertle greeted her warmly, and said she was welcome to stay with them awhile.
After a few days, the Mertles began telling Buford about Peoples Temple and its mission to “feed the hungry, clothe the naked,” and, by its socialist example, inspire the rest of America to do the same. That resonated with the teenager, who considered herself “a compassionate socialist.” When the Mertles brought Buford to a Temple meeting, the people she met there were all she could have hoped for—friendly, entirely accepting of a ragged, homeless newcomer—but Buford wasn’t impressed with Jim Jones. When he appeared at the Redwood Valley pulpit wearing a dark robe and sunglasses, he reminded her of a cockroach. Jones seemed to spend most of his pulpit time either bragging about his great healing powers or else dunning everyone present for money during frequent pauses when collection plates were passed. Buford had about $20 when she arrived. By the end of the service, feeling worn down and intimidated by Jones, she’d given it all.
Even though she was put off by Jones, Buford was grateful to the Mertles for their hospitality and accepted when they invited her to stay longer. Feeling welcome and safe, she even wrote to her family back in Pennsylvania, providing them with the Mertles’ address and inviting them to write to her there. She was disappointed when she didn’t receive any replies.
Buford kept attending Temple meetings, mostly to enjoy the fellowship of its members and out of obligation to the Mertles. Her opinion of Jim Jones changed after she spoke to him several times. Buford thought Jones must really have special powers—he was able to read her mind, telling her all kinds of personal things about herself and her very dysfunctional Pennsylvania family that Jones could not possibly have known. These weren’t things she’d told the Mertles, or anyone else at the Temple or in Redwood Valley.
“Only much later,” she says, “did I learn that the Mertles were stealing letters to me from my family when they got to their mailbox. That’s how Jones got all that information, but since I didn’t know it then it gave him his first hold over me. He could read my mind, he had these powers, and the Temple was working toward the things that I believed in. So I joined.”
Jones enthusiastically welcomed Buford into the fold. She was so special, so talented—the Temple badly needed her. Jones promised that she’d no longer be homeless—the Temple would provide accommodations for her in a house that they’d purchased; she’d room with some other bright young adult members. Everything would be provided there—meals, clothes, every necessity. All she had to do each week was fill out a form, listing what she needed. Because everyone enjoyed the occasional soda or candy bar as a treat, Buford would also receive a weekly allowance of $2. She could even return to college part-time until she completed her degree—the Temple would pay her tuition. Naturally, Buford would want to earn what she was getting, so in return she would work full-time for the church. Tim Stoen, one of its most important members, needed a secretary. So she could do that, and also help out in whatever other ways she might be asked.
Buford moved into a house near the Redwood Valley church and the home where Jones lived with his family. It was crowded—sometimes a dozen people slept in space that could comfortably accommodate half that number. But everybody was friendly and excited about being part of the Temple. There always seemed to be one or two extra chores every day that Jim or somebody else needed to be done right away, and these had to be attended to after regular work hours, so there were plenty of nights with little or no sleep. But as Father frequently pointed out, it was an honor to work yourself into near-exhaustion for the cause.
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Terri Buford’s experience as a new member of the Temple was unique only in her assignment to work for Tim Stoen. Almost everyone else was, at least initially, given less important drudge work, but there was plenty of that. A plan was in place to make certain that neophytes were rapidly absorbed into the consistently frantic Temple pace. Every aspect of their lives was monitored and controlled, even manipulated when necessary. Experienced members like the Mertles didn’t consider it wrong to steal mail. Deanna Mertle would recall, “We were learning a new set of ethics from Jim: ‘The ends justify the means.’ He also called it ‘situational ethics.’ The way it was translated to [Temple] members was, ‘You do whatever Jim says because he knows what is needed for the Cause.’ Whenever he suggested something that sounded a little dishonest, he would lovingly remind [us] of the Cause and tell us not to worry.”
In Redwood Valley, and soon in San Francisco and Los Angeles after Peoples Temple established permanent churches there, a few particularly promising newcomers were occasionally singled out for full-time employment. On weekdays, there was always something that needed to be done—driving elderly members to doctors’ appointments, ferrying indigents to meetings with social service agencies, monitoring recovering drug addicts, and visiting sick members in the hospital. Most members’ day jobs limited their availability for these mundane, but important, chores. The approach to potential full-time Temple workers, given usually by Jones but occasionally by a subordinate, was always the same: “There’ll be no salary, but we’ll meet all your financial needs”—and they did. Even car payments and automotive insurance were paid for, though it was assumed that in these instances the vehicles would always be available for Temple use.
The Temple acquired a long, narrow building just down the road from the church itself. One end was turned into a laundry, and the rest renovated into office space for Temple business. These offices were open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and most church business and outreach operations were conducted from there. There was also an all-important phone line, whose operator followed rigid guidelines. On each call, the phone must be allowed to ring exactly four times, indicating that there were too many other calls to take this one immediately, but not such a long delay that the caller would grow impatient and hang up. Information about Redwood Valley service dates and times was freely provided, as well as when and where the next services were planned in San Francisco, Los Angeles, and other cities. If callers asked to be put through to Pastor Jones, they were told he was away—could someone else help? Usually they were then referred to one of the Temple social service programs. Those insisting on talking specifically to Jones—it was an emergency, something only he could help with, usually a healing—were assured that if they provided information, it would be pas
sed along to him—“[You] do not have to tell him directly what the problem is.” Above all, Temple operators were reminded in a prominently posted notice that it was necessary to be polite and patient, no matter how insistent a caller might be: “REMEMBER in answering [Father’s] phone, you are representing the highest office in our church. Be KIND and LOVING, even as Pastor would be!” Sometimes at two or three in the morning, it was hard to be patient with near-incoherent callers, but that was what Jones expected.
The Temple acquired houses in Mendocino County, including several immediately adjacent to the main church building, and gradually converted a few into communal dwellings. As space permitted, members were urged to “go communal.” In Redwood Valley, perhaps 15 percent of all members did. As with Terri Buford, all of the communals’ material needs were met—if they had salaries, child support, or any other outside income, all these funds were turned over to the Temple. The church, in turn, made a profit by purchasing food, clothing, and personal supplies in bulk, everything in the most basic, inexpensive form. This meant many communals dressed in discount store attire or hand-me-downs from other members. Those with “professional jobs,” who worked in banks or law offices or schools, were permitted to wear nicer attire. Jones was always concerned with public image—it would have been detrimental to the Temple’s local reputation if members working in formal public jobs looked like ragamuffins.