we are open and affirming but our doors are still closed due to the danger to our vulnerable members. pastoral services are available by phone and facebook.
GUERNEVILLE COMMUNITY CHURCH - UNITED CHURCH OF CHRIST
12060 Highway 116, Guerneville, CA
Mailing address:
PO Box 765, Guerneville, CA 95446
Pam Tinnin, Pastor 707-921-8078
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the pastor's prayer
We are currently having church at home during this difficult time.
Pastor Pam is preaching in her kitchen and we are watching at home.
You can find the video of her message for May 31,2020 on her Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/pamela.tinnin.3/videos/10220494534427847
Below is the transcript of her message:
Pastor Pam is preaching in her kitchen and we are watching at home.
You can find the video of her message for May 31,2020 on her Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/pamela.tinnin.3/videos/10220494534427847
Below is the transcript of her message:
What Is Truth?
Pamela J. Tinnin
JULY 5, 2020
John 18:28-38
An old cleaning woman sees everything the day Jesus is brought before Pilate. She never lets on that she has met the accused man before.
I was there—I heard every word. I am a cleaning women at the preatorium. I know everything that goes on in that place—they pay me no mind—I’m just one more old widow woman.
All this craziness. I think it’s just a sign of the times—things are getting way out of hand, have been a long time now. Crazy John the Baptist crying out for repentance and dunking people in the river, saying they were born again, when anyone in their right mind knows that’s impossible.
Always some nut claiming to be the messiah. Conjurers and magicians in the streets, yelling themselves hoarse trying to drum up business, saying they could foretell the future, heal with a touch, or cast a spell on your enemies—after you give them a coin, of course.
I wouldn’t want to be in Pilate’s shoes—I mean, he’s a powerful man, sets his own wages and married into money—but trying to keep the Romans happy, and convince the Jews they never had it so good. And that wife of his—well, she can’t be easy to live with. Always nagging him with those dreams—dipping into the wine too often, I say.
And if he didn’t have troubles enough, they went and arrested that Nazarene. Pilate tried to wash his hands of him. He thought he took care of it when he sent the Jew on to Herod, but they don’t call Herod “The Fox” for nothing. Here Jesus stood before Pilate again, smelly, unshaved, in rags, looking the worse for wear…
What is it about this Jesus? He didn’t even try to fight back, just stood there quiet, trying to rub some feeling into his arms where the leather bindings pulled tight. Pilate blurts out, “So you’re king of the Jews?” And then that answer—“My kingship is not of this world.” Then Pilate snorts, “So you are a king?” You don’t get much past Pilate, that’s for sure.
Then another answer that just didn’t make sense: “You say I am a king—but I came to bear witness to the truth.“
Then they just stared at each other for the longest time, that Jew without a hope in the world of walking away, and Pilate, probably hoping against hope that the man in front of him, reeking of blood and sweat and muck, would disappear in a puff of smoke.
Nobody moved, or said a thing. A big blow fly up near the ceiling buzzed loud and slow in the heat, the clop of horses’ hooves sounded through the window; and still the Jew stood there, scuffing one bare foot in the dust, and saying nothing. The carpenter held his ground, kept looking Pilate right in the eye. And Pilate…he turned away first. I almost didn’t hear what Pilate said at the last, barely more than a whisper, “What is truth?” Strange thing, he sounded almost sad.
The truth? Pilate had the power, and Jesus had nothing. We all knew how it would end. Only a miracle would save him; some said the carpenter had done miracles, but there weren’t any that day. There were plenty who wanted his blood. He must have stepped on some pretty important toes.
I don’t think Pilate cared one way or another. He isn’t any worse than any other prefect, as long as you stay out of his way. As my man Caleb used to say, “Go along to get along.”
Pilate tried to set Jesus free. The high priests didn’t have enough to convict him. But, no, they wouldn’t have it, and Pilate gave in. Now it’s just a matter of time—they’ll crucify him for sure.
Can you keep a secret? You look like I can trust you. I didn’t say anything when they brought him in, but I recognized the Nazarene right off. I had seen him once before.
It was an early morning, two summers ago, before I came to Jerusalem to be near my son. I went down to the shore when the fishing was good. I could usually pick up a bit of work mending nets. They’d give me fish, enough to dry and to sell for a few coins.
That’s when I saw him, talking to those two boys of Zebedee’s, James and John. The three had built a little fire with some sticks of driftwood, a big fish with its tail curling up cooked over the flames, the fat sizzling and popping when it dripped into the fire.
There was the first glimmer of light at the far shore, the sun just beginning to come up, trying to shine through one of those thick Gallilee fogs. The waves lapped at the rocks, knocking the boats against each other.
These old bones hurt with cold, and I was shivering. The stranger waved me over, saying “Sit by the fire, mother.” He made room, then broke off a piece of his bread and handed it to me.
Bread never tasted so good, and the fish was smoky and rich on my tongue. You could tell Zebedee’s sons couldn’t believe he’d called a woman to sit and eat and talk. But the strange one acted like it was natural as anything. At first I was too nervous to speak, but he asked me about my people.
Once I started it was like I wanted to tell it all—how when I was a girl I could run like the wind; how I haven’t seen my daughter since she married that boy from the south; how funny it was that Caleb and I came to love each other even though our folks arranged the marriage; how much I miss that old man.
The stranger ate, stirred the fire, and listened like he had all the time in the world, like my life was as important as anyone’s. Talking, I forgot the cold, I forgot my worries.
When it was time to take the boats out again, he filled my basket with fish, then helped me to my feet. As I turned to walk away, he stopped me. I felt the calluses on his hand as he touched my forehead, smelled the fish on his breath as he whispered words of a blessing.
I watched the three of them step into the water and walk towards the boats, the dark water moving up their legs, the heavy nets carried on their shoulders. The sun was up, the fog had disappeared. The Nazarene turned his head and looked back at me. The strangest thing—his face seemed filled with light, even though he stood in the shadows.
I never saw him again, not until they brought him into the praetorioum. I’d heard the stories—the whole countryside was talking. I’d only seen him that once, and when I remembered that morning—the eating, the talking, the blessing—I wondered if it was real or just the dreams of an old woman’s heart.
What is truth, Pilate asked, and well he might. I think he’ll come to regret the day he washed his hands and gave him up to that mob. As for the rest of us, we who don’t have the courage to stop it, we who stay quiet in our corners, hoping no one notices us—we should be on our knees praying that God doesn’t rend the heavens and shake the earth, and destroy us all at the moment of Jesus’ dying.
I’m just an old woman—maybe my mind’s going—it happens. But…what if he is who they say?—the Holy One who came to offer us new life, a way of living where no one must beg for a few fish just to live; no one would be condemned to spend their last days with the untouchables because they have no other place to go.
In these times, it’s dangerous to talk of such things, but what is truth? …could it be? Is it him? Has he really come? And if he came, why aren’t we doing what he told us to do? Why aren’t we loving each other? Why aren’t we being kind? Why aren’t we living like family?
Like I said, I’m just an old woman. Maybe I don’t understand these mysteries. But what if we could do those things? What if we could? Please God, help us. Help us.
An old cleaning woman sees everything the day Jesus is brought before Pilate. She never lets on that she has met the accused man before.
I was there—I heard every word. I am a cleaning women at the preatorium. I know everything that goes on in that place—they pay me no mind—I’m just one more old widow woman.
All this craziness. I think it’s just a sign of the times—things are getting way out of hand, have been a long time now. Crazy John the Baptist crying out for repentance and dunking people in the river, saying they were born again, when anyone in their right mind knows that’s impossible.
Always some nut claiming to be the messiah. Conjurers and magicians in the streets, yelling themselves hoarse trying to drum up business, saying they could foretell the future, heal with a touch, or cast a spell on your enemies—after you give them a coin, of course.
I wouldn’t want to be in Pilate’s shoes—I mean, he’s a powerful man, sets his own wages and married into money—but trying to keep the Romans happy, and convince the Jews they never had it so good. And that wife of his—well, she can’t be easy to live with. Always nagging him with those dreams—dipping into the wine too often, I say.
And if he didn’t have troubles enough, they went and arrested that Nazarene. Pilate tried to wash his hands of him. He thought he took care of it when he sent the Jew on to Herod, but they don’t call Herod “The Fox” for nothing. Here Jesus stood before Pilate again, smelly, unshaved, in rags, looking the worse for wear…
What is it about this Jesus? He didn’t even try to fight back, just stood there quiet, trying to rub some feeling into his arms where the leather bindings pulled tight. Pilate blurts out, “So you’re king of the Jews?” And then that answer—“My kingship is not of this world.” Then Pilate snorts, “So you are a king?” You don’t get much past Pilate, that’s for sure.
Then another answer that just didn’t make sense: “You say I am a king—but I came to bear witness to the truth.“
Then they just stared at each other for the longest time, that Jew without a hope in the world of walking away, and Pilate, probably hoping against hope that the man in front of him, reeking of blood and sweat and muck, would disappear in a puff of smoke.
Nobody moved, or said a thing. A big blow fly up near the ceiling buzzed loud and slow in the heat, the clop of horses’ hooves sounded through the window; and still the Jew stood there, scuffing one bare foot in the dust, and saying nothing. The carpenter held his ground, kept looking Pilate right in the eye. And Pilate…he turned away first. I almost didn’t hear what Pilate said at the last, barely more than a whisper, “What is truth?” Strange thing, he sounded almost sad.
The truth? Pilate had the power, and Jesus had nothing. We all knew how it would end. Only a miracle would save him; some said the carpenter had done miracles, but there weren’t any that day. There were plenty who wanted his blood. He must have stepped on some pretty important toes.
I don’t think Pilate cared one way or another. He isn’t any worse than any other prefect, as long as you stay out of his way. As my man Caleb used to say, “Go along to get along.”
Pilate tried to set Jesus free. The high priests didn’t have enough to convict him. But, no, they wouldn’t have it, and Pilate gave in. Now it’s just a matter of time—they’ll crucify him for sure.
Can you keep a secret? You look like I can trust you. I didn’t say anything when they brought him in, but I recognized the Nazarene right off. I had seen him once before.
It was an early morning, two summers ago, before I came to Jerusalem to be near my son. I went down to the shore when the fishing was good. I could usually pick up a bit of work mending nets. They’d give me fish, enough to dry and to sell for a few coins.
That’s when I saw him, talking to those two boys of Zebedee’s, James and John. The three had built a little fire with some sticks of driftwood, a big fish with its tail curling up cooked over the flames, the fat sizzling and popping when it dripped into the fire.
There was the first glimmer of light at the far shore, the sun just beginning to come up, trying to shine through one of those thick Gallilee fogs. The waves lapped at the rocks, knocking the boats against each other.
These old bones hurt with cold, and I was shivering. The stranger waved me over, saying “Sit by the fire, mother.” He made room, then broke off a piece of his bread and handed it to me.
Bread never tasted so good, and the fish was smoky and rich on my tongue. You could tell Zebedee’s sons couldn’t believe he’d called a woman to sit and eat and talk. But the strange one acted like it was natural as anything. At first I was too nervous to speak, but he asked me about my people.
Once I started it was like I wanted to tell it all—how when I was a girl I could run like the wind; how I haven’t seen my daughter since she married that boy from the south; how funny it was that Caleb and I came to love each other even though our folks arranged the marriage; how much I miss that old man.
The stranger ate, stirred the fire, and listened like he had all the time in the world, like my life was as important as anyone’s. Talking, I forgot the cold, I forgot my worries.
When it was time to take the boats out again, he filled my basket with fish, then helped me to my feet. As I turned to walk away, he stopped me. I felt the calluses on his hand as he touched my forehead, smelled the fish on his breath as he whispered words of a blessing.
I watched the three of them step into the water and walk towards the boats, the dark water moving up their legs, the heavy nets carried on their shoulders. The sun was up, the fog had disappeared. The Nazarene turned his head and looked back at me. The strangest thing—his face seemed filled with light, even though he stood in the shadows.
I never saw him again, not until they brought him into the praetorioum. I’d heard the stories—the whole countryside was talking. I’d only seen him that once, and when I remembered that morning—the eating, the talking, the blessing—I wondered if it was real or just the dreams of an old woman’s heart.
What is truth, Pilate asked, and well he might. I think he’ll come to regret the day he washed his hands and gave him up to that mob. As for the rest of us, we who don’t have the courage to stop it, we who stay quiet in our corners, hoping no one notices us—we should be on our knees praying that God doesn’t rend the heavens and shake the earth, and destroy us all at the moment of Jesus’ dying.
I’m just an old woman—maybe my mind’s going—it happens. But…what if he is who they say?—the Holy One who came to offer us new life, a way of living where no one must beg for a few fish just to live; no one would be condemned to spend their last days with the untouchables because they have no other place to go.
In these times, it’s dangerous to talk of such things, but what is truth? …could it be? Is it him? Has he really come? And if he came, why aren’t we doing what he told us to do? Why aren’t we loving each other? Why aren’t we being kind? Why aren’t we living like family?
Like I said, I’m just an old woman. Maybe I don’t understand these mysteries. But what if we could do those things? What if we could? Please God, help us. Help us.
Below are audio recordings of our last few services. at the church. Thanks for listening.
A POST FROM FORMER PASTOR REV. REBECCA SCHROEDER
7 June 2020
Jerimiah 6:14 –
They dress the wound of my people
as though it were not serious.
‘Peace, peace,’ they say,
when there is no peace.
It’s been quite a week. So many images are swirling in my head. Yesterday’s protest marches had an almost triumphal feel to them. In Atlanta, folks were dancing. In Milwaukee, my hometown and one of the most segregated cities in America, about a half-dozen Bucks joined the march, including the reigning NBA MVP. In DC, people peacefully congregated all day in the newly named Black Lives Matter Plaza – down the block from a fortified White House – on bright, yellow letters freshly painted on the street proclaiming that Black Lives Matter, letters so large as to be visible from space. Here in the Bay, protesters effectively took over the Golden Gate Bridge.
There are so many feelings swirling around my heart. I’ve felt this main feeling before, usually at the death of a relationship or loved one: my heart is still breaking. I have images of George Floyd being murdered, viciously, violently, slowly, intentionally, brazenly by those “officers of the law.” I’m seeing the 22 year old man in Vallejo, shot while kneeling with his arms raised because the officer thought his hammer was a gun. I’m seeing that young couple in Atlanta being tazed and dragged out of their car. I’m seeing an elderly protester in Buffalo shoved to the pavement by “peace officers” and bleeding from his ear. I’m seeing military blocking anyone from the Lincoln Memorial – where Marion Anderson and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King both sang.
While all this is going on, 45 sits in his fort and tweets about law and order. He, apparently, likes the pictures of peaceful protesters choking on tear gas so that he can have a photo op in front of a church he doesn’t attend holding a bible he quite clearly doesn’t read.
Generally speaking, it was quite a week, too. Gen. Mattis turned on him first. His current (so far) Secretary of Defense spoke out next, trying to distance himself from his glorious leader. This morning, Gen. Colin Powell was on CNN, condemning 45 in no uncertain terms. It seems the military, which 45 keeps trying to pitch against American citizens on American soil, might not be whole-heartedly in 45’s corner.
I’m heartbroken and cautiously optimistic. There is reason to hope. The nation seems to be taking an honest look at police brutality against African Americans. As we have seen this week, sometimes police are just brutal. I know this is only a small portion of officers and the situation is exacerbated by them now feeling under attack. We’ve also had some very positive images this week of officers kneeling and even marching with protesters.
While we are seeing some changes happening in police departments, it’s just the tip of the iceberg. We need to confront fully the systemic racism in our society. As a gay, disabled woman, I fall into several discriminatory categories and can give you examples of each. However, I have received so much blanket protection and unearned credit in my life due only to the color of my skin that it blows my mind. I’ve never been turned down for a loan or a place to live because I’m white. I have peacefully protested without arrest or injury. When my bad driving has gotten me legitimately pulled over, the only thing I got was a ticket; I have never feared for my life.
African Americans live in the negative column on the great spreadsheet of life. The Brookings Institute puts the net worth of white Americans ($171,000) as nearly 10 times greater than black Americans ($17,150). According to the non-partisan Economic Policy Institute, the median black family earns 61% of the median white family. The Prison Policy Initiative reports that for every one white person in prison, there are five black, yet African Americans make up only about 13% of the population.
Don’t let’s put a band-aid on a compound fracture. While police reforms are desperately needed, that’s not where this should end. Education plays a major role. How many people do you know who moved because of the schools? Zip code is a great indicator of public school quality and resources. Do we need affirmative action in higher education? Absolutely! Again, a good start, but there’s no aspect of life in the US in which African Americans are on equal footing with white Americans.
This statistic is chilling as well: nearly 23% of reported covid deaths in our country are African American, although they make up roughly 13% of the population.
Keep up the good work, protesters! I wish I could be with you physically.
Jerimiah 6:14 –
They dress the wound of my people
as though it were not serious.
‘Peace, peace,’ they say,
when there is no peace.
It’s been quite a week. So many images are swirling in my head. Yesterday’s protest marches had an almost triumphal feel to them. In Atlanta, folks were dancing. In Milwaukee, my hometown and one of the most segregated cities in America, about a half-dozen Bucks joined the march, including the reigning NBA MVP. In DC, people peacefully congregated all day in the newly named Black Lives Matter Plaza – down the block from a fortified White House – on bright, yellow letters freshly painted on the street proclaiming that Black Lives Matter, letters so large as to be visible from space. Here in the Bay, protesters effectively took over the Golden Gate Bridge.
There are so many feelings swirling around my heart. I’ve felt this main feeling before, usually at the death of a relationship or loved one: my heart is still breaking. I have images of George Floyd being murdered, viciously, violently, slowly, intentionally, brazenly by those “officers of the law.” I’m seeing the 22 year old man in Vallejo, shot while kneeling with his arms raised because the officer thought his hammer was a gun. I’m seeing that young couple in Atlanta being tazed and dragged out of their car. I’m seeing an elderly protester in Buffalo shoved to the pavement by “peace officers” and bleeding from his ear. I’m seeing military blocking anyone from the Lincoln Memorial – where Marion Anderson and the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King both sang.
While all this is going on, 45 sits in his fort and tweets about law and order. He, apparently, likes the pictures of peaceful protesters choking on tear gas so that he can have a photo op in front of a church he doesn’t attend holding a bible he quite clearly doesn’t read.
Generally speaking, it was quite a week, too. Gen. Mattis turned on him first. His current (so far) Secretary of Defense spoke out next, trying to distance himself from his glorious leader. This morning, Gen. Colin Powell was on CNN, condemning 45 in no uncertain terms. It seems the military, which 45 keeps trying to pitch against American citizens on American soil, might not be whole-heartedly in 45’s corner.
I’m heartbroken and cautiously optimistic. There is reason to hope. The nation seems to be taking an honest look at police brutality against African Americans. As we have seen this week, sometimes police are just brutal. I know this is only a small portion of officers and the situation is exacerbated by them now feeling under attack. We’ve also had some very positive images this week of officers kneeling and even marching with protesters.
While we are seeing some changes happening in police departments, it’s just the tip of the iceberg. We need to confront fully the systemic racism in our society. As a gay, disabled woman, I fall into several discriminatory categories and can give you examples of each. However, I have received so much blanket protection and unearned credit in my life due only to the color of my skin that it blows my mind. I’ve never been turned down for a loan or a place to live because I’m white. I have peacefully protested without arrest or injury. When my bad driving has gotten me legitimately pulled over, the only thing I got was a ticket; I have never feared for my life.
African Americans live in the negative column on the great spreadsheet of life. The Brookings Institute puts the net worth of white Americans ($171,000) as nearly 10 times greater than black Americans ($17,150). According to the non-partisan Economic Policy Institute, the median black family earns 61% of the median white family. The Prison Policy Initiative reports that for every one white person in prison, there are five black, yet African Americans make up only about 13% of the population.
Don’t let’s put a band-aid on a compound fracture. While police reforms are desperately needed, that’s not where this should end. Education plays a major role. How many people do you know who moved because of the schools? Zip code is a great indicator of public school quality and resources. Do we need affirmative action in higher education? Absolutely! Again, a good start, but there’s no aspect of life in the US in which African Americans are on equal footing with white Americans.
This statistic is chilling as well: nearly 23% of reported covid deaths in our country are African American, although they make up roughly 13% of the population.
Keep up the good work, protesters! I wish I could be with you physically.
