History of Jim Jones & The People's Temple


Redwood Valley is not marked on most maps and yet has a compelling, contemporary history. Redwood Valley was home to the notorious Jim Jones and The People's Temple.

I knew Jim Jones as "Mr. Jones," my substitute English teacher at Ukiah High School. I remember his charismatic, captivating personality, which inspired students and adults. He was the founder and leader of The People's Temple, which he built on land he purchased on East Road in our valley. He believed a nuclear holocaust would occur on July 15, 1967, and his research revealed Redwood Valley would be one of the few places in the world likely to survive the holocaust. He predicted the surviving elect would create a new socialist Eden on earth, and he intended to be the leader of that select group.

The holocaust did not happen. Even so, Jim Jones' congregation remained faithful and the church membership increased. He expanded, opening new churches in San Francisco and Los Angeles.

His sphere of influence continued to grow, and he and his congregation were applauded for helping the poorest of the poor –- drug addicts, the homeless, and racial minorities throughout California.

During the 1970s, The People's Temple purchased and managed at least nine residential care businesses, including my family's board and care home. At first, my parents respected his work with the poorest of society; however, in mid 1975, he tried to cheat them out of a portion of their vineyard land and their opinion changed.

I went to visit Jim Jones in August 1973. What follows is an excerpt from my book (Chapter 27):

...During my parent's visit at the San Diego commune a couple of years earlier, they'd spoken highly of Jim Jones's accomplishments—helping drug addicts, the homeless, and racial minorities throughout California—and had even encouraged me to join The People's Temple.

Just that morning they'd told me the County Deputy District Attorney and his family were members of the church, adding to its credibility. The People's Temple was flourishing.

I wanted to share my religious experiences and find out about the church's mission. Maybe Mr. Jones's group was a better answer to my desire to serve the Lord than The Children of God.

The Temple was located two miles from my parent's property. Borrowing their pickup truck, I went to meet with Pastor Jones before his Sunday service. Gravel and rocks popped and cracked under the car tires as I drove into the parking lot and parked near a large unmarked building. A small wooden sign on the side of the building pointed to an office. Approaching the front door, I found a tall, thin, black man with a harsh look on his face. He clutched a rifle in his hands."

May I help you?" he asked."

Is this The People's Temple? I'm looking for Pastor Jim Jones. Isn't he the pastor here?" I was confused to see a man with a rifle on church premises."

Yes," he said, looking me over. I was wearing a long, sleeveless dress and sandals, trying to be comfortable in the hundred-degree August heat."

May I see him?"

"Do you have an appointment?"

The weapon in his hands and the stern face did not make me feel at home or welcome. "No, but he used to be my high school teacher. I've just come back from two years in the mission field and I want to share my testimony with him."

"He's not receiving visitors. Please leave." His rough, dismissive tone of voice surprised me.

It's not in my nature to turn away from opposition without some type of response, but this time I didn't stay to argue. The rifle shocked me. There was nothing spiritual or enticing about the rifle. Why would Jim Jones need an armed guard at the door of his office? I didn't bother to ask, and drove back to my parents' house, unable to understand what I had just experienced. My hands trembled on the steering wheel.

Nobody was prepared for what happened years later, after Jim Jones moved his followers to a remote jungle in British Guyana, called "Jonestown." There, on November 18, 1978, Jim Jones, my former teacher, a man who lived in my hometown, ordered the mass suicide of over 900 followers. Men, women, and children died agonizing deaths. Some were shot, and others were forced to drink poisoned "Kool aid." Most were said to have willingly participated in what was called "revolutionary suicide."

I heard the news on my car radio. I pulled the car to the side of the highway and sat there listening in complete shock. The pictures of death were soon broadcast to the world. The dead, lying on top of each other, mothers lying face down holding onto their young children, and men holding their wives. I lost several of my neighbors that day. They were good caring people who followed Jim Jones and moved to Guyana to find peace and purpose. He had promised them life in a Utopia – he delivered death. It was a sad day for the world, and for all of us from Redwood Valley. 

I am forever grateful that God was looking out for me on that hot August day in 1973. In retrospect, I believe that the man standing at the front door of The People's Temple with a rifle was actually an angel, stopping me from entering Jim Jones's world.

Padre Beto & The Holy Spirit

Padre Beto asked me about the outward manifestation of the Holy Spirit. He wanted to know about praising aloud, speaking in tongues, and the laying on of hands as was the custom for healing. Although I explained things as best I could, I thought it better for him to see what The Children of God called a Holy Ghost sample. We went for a visit. It inspired Padre Beto to see nearly a hundred young people praising God with loud, fervent voices and arms raised to the heavens.

After experiencing that first evening of praise and worship, he asked me to explain the gift of tongues.

"I was anointed with the gift of tongues a couple of years ago," I explained. "This might sound weird, but hear me out before you write me off as a psycho."

"Okay," he said, laughing.

"I was praying and praising aloud one day when suddenly words and sounds started pouring out of my mouth that had no meaning to me. It was as if I was speaking a foreign language. Then I felt a liberating feeling in my heart and soul as I continued to bring forth what was on my heart . . .not filtering it. I realized I was speaking to God, to the Spirit, without limitation of words. I did not have to think about the words I was saying. They just flowed." I stopped and looked at Padre Beto. "I really perfected my speaking in tongues gift back in Santa Rosa at the Pentecostal Church. There were a lot of gifts of the Spirit pouring out there," I said.

Padre Beto continued looking at me, not saying a word. I figured I had lost him.

"I told you it might sound strange," I said in my defense. "But it is the most incredible, freeing way to pray. I can get everything on my heart out to God without having to translate emotions into words. Sometimes I do not know what is bothering me and do not need to know because I am able to just pray in the sounds we call 'tongues' until I am emptied of emotions."

He was quiet a moment longer and then asked, "So what does interpreting tongues mean in your religion?"

"Well, sometimes there is a message in what we call the tongues that others are gifted to understand. Those individuals have the gift of interpreting tongues. When I finish speaking in tongues, someone else may speak up and give the congregation a message they believe is from God. However, you always have to be careful that messages from God are Bible-based, and not just someone's self-serving crazy thoughts."

Sundays after Mass, Padre Beto, Berna, Chety and others went with me to visit The Children of God. At first, Padre Beto had difficulty understanding what he saw, as he watched the gifts of the Spirit poured out. I give him credit that he was open to new spiritual experiences and I was excited to see him take such an interest. He was awakening to a personal, spiritual revolution.

An invitation, via a phone call, arrived asking me to attend and sing at something called a "Charismatic Catholic Mass" in San José. I didn't know what a Charismatic Catholic Mass was, nor did Padre Beto, but I agreed to attend.

I arrived home late that particular evening. Padre Gogo, a young priest and friend of Padre Beto's, had taken me out for ice cream. We'd lost track of time and Padre Beto went to the meeting in my place.

"Lo siento. I am sorry I did not get home in time to go to the Mass," I told Padre Beto when he returned home. "How was it?"

"I had never experienced anything like it at a Mass before," he said, his face aglow. "I arrived and found Catholics praising God out loud with their hands raised in the air like at The Children of God services."

"Wow, that is great," I said, glad he'd enjoyed himself, yet feeling guilty for having failed to meet my obligation to attend the Mass.

"In the beginning I just stood there watching. I was thinking, this is not the way I pray. I sang with them, but kept my arms down at my sides," he said. We both laughed.

I smiled imagining Padre Beto standing there in his priestly attire, trying to be so proper.

"Then a young man approached me," he continued. "He touched my arms and guided them up toward the ceiling. As my arms lifted up in praise to God something happened within me. . .I actually felt the warmth of the Holy Spirit."

I could see that Padre Beto had changed. He was animated and enthused with what he had seen, felt and experienced. Soon after, he brought the Charismatic Catholic movement to Tres Rios. A movement that dated back to the time of the original apostles as described in the Book of Acts, but had died out over the years in most churches worldwide.

We discovered that the Charismatic movement had been renewed in the Catholic Church in 1967 during a Duquesne University weekend conference in Pittsburg. One night, students and professors gathered in the chapel and the Holy Spirit fell upon them. Some praised God in new languages, others quietly wept for joy, and others prayed and sang.

During the following weeks, the fellowship group at the university grew. This renewal spread to other universities. In September 1967, approximately 150 students, staff and priests attended the first annual National Catholic Pentecostal Conference. The movement then spread to parishes across the United States and then around the world, eventually involving millions of Catholics.

Far away in Costa Rica, Padre Beto had been led to a meeting of Catholic Charismatics. He had found a way to live and minister with the power of the Holy Spirit while keeping the Catholic religion's foundation.

While I was busy preparing to leave the Casa Cural and begin the La Casa de la Esperanza project, Padre Beto held Charismatic Catholic services at the Tres Rios Church. They lasted late into the night. Hundreds of people joined in and the Holy Spirit touched them. Loud praising of God sounded throughout the church and town plaza. Parishioners received the gifts of the Holy Spirit. The entire feel and format of his Masses changed as the new Holy Spirit experience burst forth.

In early 1976, Padre Beto Cordero, the beloved Priest of Tres Rios, received orders from above to leave the Tres Rios church. They reassigned him to a new parish in a nearby town. Newspaper reporters wrote about the night he left Tres Rios and it will always be in the minds and hearts of his congregation.

Five buses, with 100 parishioners in each bus, along with dozens of cars and taxis filled with his friends and followers, lined the highway. They followed Padre Beto as he drove away in his own car. I can imagine how their hearts were heavy. People cried. It was like a super-sized funeral procession. They escorted him in style to the town of Guadalupe and to his new Casa Cural.

Padre Beto had touched so many lives in the 17 years he had served as the priest of the Tres Rios Catholic Church. Some say his reassignment was normal, just the way the Catholic Church moves its priests from parish to parish.

Others, like me, believe his reassignment came because of his revolutionary, spirit-filled leadership that could not be contained.

Skip and the FBI

My parents raised me to be independent, responsible and make good choices. I didn’t always.         

Two years before graduation, at the age of sixteen, my girlfriend, Debi, called to tell me she’d gotten a summer job cleaning cabins at a resort in Homewood, on the west side of Lake Tahoe.         

“If you get a job there,” she said, “we can spend all summer together. Just don’t tell them you know me ‘cause they don’t hire friends.”         

I found my mom in the backyard hanging sheets on the clothesline. The cats scampered over the woodpile as I slammed the backdoor.         

“Please, Mom,” I begged. “This is a great opportunity for me to get some work experience. And Debi is going to be there so I won’t be alone. Please?”            

She conferred with my dad and they agreed to let me go. “Promise you’ll behave and listen to the adults in charge,” Dad said. “I will,” I promised, not quite believing myself. My tendency was to say anything I needed to say, to get my own way.         

I applied and they hired me as office help. I packed my ‘56 Chevy station wagon, a present my parents gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Veda’s husband, Paul, a mechanic, had painted it blue and added pinstripes. I stuck on five yellow plastic-flower decals and, filled to the brim with youthful excitement, drove myself to Lake Tahoe, some seven hours away.         

I’d lied to my parents, telling them the resort owners knew I was only sixteen. I’d lied on my job application, giving my age as eighteen. I justified the lying as something I needed to do to be independent and have fun.         

The summer promised to be liberating—with no parents, and no supervision. I lived next to a beautiful, deep-blue lake, amongst tall majestic pine trees, with warm weather and hundreds of teenagers. Debi and I worked and roomed together at Chambers Lodge.           

One Saturday evening, we drove forty minutes to the Crystal Bay Casino at Stateline, the line separating California and Nevada, to gamble using our false I.D.’s. There we met Skip, a tall, handsome young man and his equally tall roommate, Hank, both eighteen. They parked cars for the casino patrons.         

“They’re cute,” we agreed, giggling, as we left my car with them and entered the smoke-filled casino. Hours later, after having lost our first paychecks on the nickel and quarter slot machines, we returned to the parking garage to find Skip and Hank punching their time cards.          

“Hey, ladies,” Skip said, his blue eyes catching my attention. “Where you two goin’? We’re just getting off work. Want to stop by our place in Kings Beach for a beer?”           

We talked, flirted, accepted their invitation to hang out and drove home that first night feeling like we’d won the casino jackpot. Debi and I returned to visit them almost every day after work and within a couple of weeks—a lifetime for a teenage girl—I fell in love with Skip.         

Debi dated Hank, and the four of us spent all of our free time together. We drove around the lake and visited tourist spots like Reno and Virginia City. We shopped, cooked meals, and partied. We played house, acting like adults.

Besides parking cars, the guys sold pot on the side. Skip, always protective of me, didn’t let me smoke it. He said he loved me and my life felt new, exciting and complete. He showed his love as he held my hand walking on the beach, or held me close in the car as I nestled under his arm. He whispered his love as we listened to late-night radio music. I was smitten and for the first time in my young life, I felt special and wanted.           

The magical summer ended and I returned home a different person, no longer willing to be just a child. Hour after hour, I laid on my bed writing poems of love to and about Skip, longing to see him. I stared at the tall oak trees outside my bedroom window, aimlessly counting the acorns clumped on the tree limbs. I felt sad, moody and depressed as I waited for his phone calls. His love defined me somehow. How could I go on without him? He drove from Lake Tahoe to Redwood Valley several times, and I made the drive to see him whenever I could sneak away. I even joined the Ukiah High Ski Club so Debi and I could go on their ski trip to Soda Springs, near the lake—anything to get close to Skip. We planned to be together the following summer and counted the weeks and months.         

That didn’t happen. The police arrested Skip for selling pot and put him in jail. He wrote to let me know and I drove the ten hours to Los Angeles to visit him.         

“I’ll always love you and be here for you,” I promised, hating the thick pane of glass between us. “I’ll wait for you no matter how long it takes.”         

I held the black phone receiver in one hand while pressing my other hand against the window pane, reaching out, wanting to touch him—like a scene in a movie.         

“What did you tell your parents to let you drive down here?” he asked.         

“They don’t know,” I confessed. “I asked permission to spend the weekend at Debi’s house in Santa Rosa, and then drove all night to get here. Thankfully, they didn’t check with her parents. She’ll cover for me if they call.”         

“Will you be back here tomorrow?”         

“I can’t. I’ll drive to Deb’s house tonight. And, Skip, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it back down here again. It’s too risky. But I promise I’ll write. . . every day.”         

I drove away wiping the tears from my face. How could they have him locked up? He’s not a criminal, he’s my love. I kept my promise, in part, and wrote to him almost every day.         

A few months later, on a warm Friday afternoon, I heard Suzy the goose squawking with indignation. Within moments came the sound of someone cursing at Suzy, and then a loud knock on our front door. I rushed to open it, wondering who Suzy was attacking now. Two men stood before me, dressed in black suits and shiny black shoes, official and stern looking. Suzy waddled behind them, pecking at their heels.          
“We’re here to see Linda Cassells,” the taller of the two said, without preamble.         

“That’s me,” I replied as my mom walked up behind me.         

“What’s this about?” Mom asked.         

“We’re from the FBI. Lincoln Phillips escaped from jail. We want to know if your daughter knows of his whereabouts.”         

I gasped.        

“What?” Mom said.         

“Escaped?” I said.        

“Who’s Lincoln Phillips?” Mom turned to ask me. I wanted to hide.  

“That’s Skip’s real name.” I tried to stay calm as I faced the men who stood at the door. “I don’t know anything about him escaping.”         

“Why do you think she knows something?”         

“She’s the only one who has gone to visit him at the jail, and we have a record of the letters she sent him.”         

“What jail?” Mom stepped closer to me and I cringed. Busted. I sensed big trouble on the immediate horizon.         

“Los Angeles County Jail,” the shorter man replied.          

“Los Angeles? You’ve gone to Los Angeles? When? How?”         

The FBI men left, after warning me about the penalty for hiding a fugitive.         

“Linda, what’s going on? What’ve you done?”          

“Nothing, Mom. I just went to visit Skip once. I’m sorry, but I had to. You don’t understand. . .he needed me.”          

She took away my car keys, sent me to my room to think about my actions, and grounded me for a month.           

You’d think I’d learned my lesson, or that my parents watched me more closely. I didn’t and they didn’t.            

Instead, I created a façade. I continued to do my homework and get good grades. I smiled and nodded in agreement with those in authority—but, I had a secret life. I snuck out at night to meet friends and experimented with cigarettes and pot, enjoying the feeling of independence. Sometimes, I’d lie, saying I’d be at the movies and instead drive the hour and a half to Santa Rosa with girlfriends to cruise up and down 4th Street listening to “Wolf Man Jack” on the radio, while checking out cute boys driving by in souped-up cars.         

One night, Karen and I lied to our parents about our whereabouts and camped out at Lake Mendocino with some hitchhiking hippies. We smoked pot and lay outside under a huge star-speckled sky, stoned out of our minds. I loved the adrenaline rush of independence, never fearing where my risk-taking might lead me.         

There were consequences for my actions, like being grounded or losing phone and driving privileges, but they didn’t faze me. I mostly did what I wanted. I did what I had to do to get my own way.         

However, a few years later, huge consequences would catch up to me and affect the rest of my life. And, sitting in a Mexican jail was just one of them.