Trying to re-find Paradise generated arts-based theology

During a summer ministerial job when I was in theological school, I led a weekend retreat for young adults and older teens. It was a good group experience, with shared recreation, group-building exercises and thoughtful conversation. A short time afterward, I was talking with a guy about my age who had participated. He began to delve further into my being a seminary student. Being skeptical but searching, he asked me the inevitable question: “Who or what is God?”

I thought for a few moments and remembered one of the more significant exercises we had done on the retreat. Each person takes a turn lying face-down on the floor while others tap firmly but gently on them, head to toe for a minute or so. They press down, then roll the person, who remains limp, over and raise them high above their heads. The feeling that one gets up there is beyond explanation. One experiences many things, including complete trust. You know that — no matter what — those people won’t drop you. That works even for certified acrophobes such as I. So, I said, “You remember how you felt when you were up in the air in that exercise on the retreat?” (And it’s worth noting he was the largest participant.) He smiled and said, “Yeah.” I replied, “That’s God.” His response: “Dig it.”

This guy is one of countless individuals I’ve encountered who are trying to know God. I’m in this group, and I’m confident the ones I’ve encountered represent a small sample of those on this journey. Often this search is for a limited God, not unlike one maybe heard about in Sunday School and/or John Milton’s “Paradise Lost.” This search is, at best, incomplete; at worst, disillusioning.

My religious upbringing was not completely fundamentalist but still quite “orthodox.” It was slightly altered along the way though never shaken for 19 years. But then one night during the spring of my freshman year in college, I was reading “Paradise Lost” for an English class. Ironically, it was this that started a chain reaction in my mind, so that in about 10 minutes, the beliefs I had held my whole life to that point were wiped out. Milton’s picture, so similar to what I had learned in Sunday School, was just so nice, that I suddenly realized it couldn’t be that way. No three-level universe, no war in heaven and, to my horror, no Ruler in heaven. The image this experience still brings to mind is that of a sandcastle disintegrating in the rising tide. It just shows how shallow my faith really is, I thought at the time. I’ve since learned it wasn’t shallow, just immature.

I immediately began to try frantically to piece my theology back together and/or rebuild it. I figured if there were a God, I’d better find “him” PDQ. So, I directed a lot of attention and energy to trying to define “God.” Every now and then, I would come up with some very systematic, step-by-step theory of what it was all about, just what “God” meant. And the very moment I got the theory all spelled out in my head, I immediately realized it was baloney.

This miserable time of being an atheist-wanting-to-be-a-theist went on for two or three years. In my quest, I fell into some patterns that I suspect hinder a lot of people in the same situation. I was trying too hard. Yes, we do need to be diligent in trying to figure things out, but there’s a point of diminishing returns. Sometimes we may be searching so hard for “God” (or the meaning of life, or Shalom or whatever term works for you), that we miss a small but significant clue that is right there. Often, we base our search on a narrow concept of God. Again, incomplete and potentially disillusioning.

Finally, I resigned myself to the fact that I did not understand what, if anything, the term “God” meant and might not ever. In this process, I subconsciously made the decision to affirm what did have meaning for me, rather than constantly being uptight about what didn’t. That was the first positive step I had taken in some time toward rebuilding my personal theology.

I didn’t even realize at first that these affirmations were helping me understand the concept of “God.” That realization developed slowly. I continued to participate in many of the same “religious” activities, including Sunday morning worship at church and various gatherings of a student organization. The rituals felt rather empty, but I got something out of being with the others. There was a human connection that was more than human.

Gradually, I came to understand that the connection with others – in religious and other settings, as well – was an experience of love. It was real and beyond the physical realm. I believed in this spiritual connection, whether or not I could define it or give it a name.

And there was art.

Art in all forms, though especially music and poetry, has always appealed to more than just my five senses. During that miserable time, I had no trouble continuing to affirm artistic expression and experience. I didn’t feel miserable when hearing good music or reading a meaningful poem. I came to appreciate that art has more than a physical dimension. This reality helped me realize I wasn’t an atheist after all.

The spiritual nature of human community reinforced this notion. Finally giving that connection a name – “love” – led to understanding, at long last, the scriptural phrase “God is Love.” To get to that understanding, I had to flip the phrase. Reasoning that “if A=B, then B=A,” I said, “Love is God.” Another piece of the puzzle.

The arts helped me begin again to rebuild my personal theology.

I think that one way of understanding how we are created in our Creator’s image is that we too can be creators, albeit imperfect ones. I am not suggesting we can all paint masterpieces, write quality poetry or compose fine music. But we do have the potential to be creative. Different individuals have potential that is developed further in particular areas. We have the potential fully to appreciate art in any of its expressions, be it visual art, music, drama, poetry, etc., even if we are not blessed with the ability to produce it. Yet, further, creativity, as given to us by our Creator, is not confined to what we think of as art. Our Creator’s image within us, like our Creator, transcends boundaries and limitations.

We can and should be creative in our occupation, in our relationships with others, in all aspects of our lives. That is, we need to be open, innovative, aware of all the possibilities, conscious of what is going on inside and outside of our heads. We need to utilize all our senses as well as components of our thought processes, without getting stuck in any particular one. Stated overly simply, we need to avoid operating “in a rut.”

If we truly become conscious of what is involved in a good poem, a moving piece of music or any other art form, we become aware of something more than this physical world. To create music or poetry or any kind of art takes a power not of this realm of existence. Experiencing this art – listening to or performing a song, reading a poem – allows us at least a glimpse of this realm.

Ultimately, what worship is all about is transcendence – not as a means of religious intoxication, but as an impetus and aid to active Christian (or substitute the name of your religion) living. Through art, through creative expression, through utilization of God’s gift of creativity, we commune with our Creator.

This understanding of theology evolved for me concurrently with my deepening understanding of the spiritual nature of human community, leading me to be more interested in and dedicated to worship renewal.

Just as a side note, it is thus impossible for me to see any difference between “sacred” and “secular” when we talk about art. Begin by looking at the genesis of classical music. Many of the fine pieces used for preludes and postludes were written without words to convey a sense of the presence of God. Stained glass was put in the church windows not only to tell Bible stories, but also to evoke a sense of the Divine presence via their artistic quality and multicolored light shining through. Songs don’t have to include “religious” words to connect us with God.

I do think, however, that we do at times need the use of traditional religious symbols. For while it is good to experience the presence of God, it is even more joyous when we realize more fully that that is what we are doing. These symbols can do the reminding. But our dependence on them is due to our limitations. It certainly isn’t due to God’s. My spiritual journey over these decades has included redefining virtually every religious symbol, as well as many words and phrases I’ve heard quoted freely in church all my life.

When I was a student at “the oldest Protestant graduate school of theology in the nation,” one of my favorite and most influential professors was Rabbi Murray Rothman. In one class discussion, he reminded us – most eloquently – that God is infinitely greater than human understanding. Any ‘god’ that you can understand could not possibly be God.

As noted earlier, accepting my limitations was a positive step forward. We do not have to make God be there by searching frantically through the hymnal or the latest version of the Bible. Nor is the Rock of Ages going to crumble because some people rest on it in “unorthodox” ways.

Wrong anthem

As I sit here on Sunday morning, Sept. 28, 2025, listening to my local classical music radio station, which plays music reflecting the day’s Common Lectionary (selection of scripture passages used in many churches), I just heard “Poor Man Lazarus,” with its refrain:

I’m tormented in the flame!
I’m tormented in the flame!
Dip your finger in the water;
come and cool my tongue,
’cause I’m tormented in the flame!

It is based on the parable Jesus tells in Luke 16:19-31, one of today’s readings.

Some years ago, when this same passage was also used, a small choir of which I was a member, sang a song recounting John 11:1-44, in which Jesus is said to raise his friend Lazarus, brother of Mary and Martha, from the dead. Same name, but one was a character in a story Jesus fashioned, the other real person. Different stories, serving different purposes.

I didn’t realize we had prepared an anthem about the wrong Lazarus until I heard the day’s scripture read that Sunday morning. Our director, bless his heart, had seen the name Lazarus and then had chosen the song.

I sent a group email that afternoon pointing out the faux pas. The director admitted it was embarrassing. Another member, though, who as I do, holds a Master of Divinity degree, somehow found a way to see it as OK.

Why did/does it matter to me? Well, besides my OCD tendencies, I think that the more the music and liturgy directly support the day’s scripture, the more meaningful the worship experience can be.

Things you didn’t know I invented

If I were the subject of a Wikipedia page, I would hope it would list three important contributions I have made to modern culture. I invented the blitz in football, the musical genre folk rock and, in the world of fashion, wash and wear clothing. At least, as far as I know I did.

Trying to gasp football’s nuances

I began my very brief interscholastic football career in 1959 as a 7^th grader. The coach put me at linebacker, and I played every defensive down of every game that season.

The instructions I got on how to play the position and feedback on how I did were limited. At best. I did know that linebackers stood up, unlike linemen. I did understand that the point of defense was to keep the other team from advancing the ball. I deduced that I should go all out to stuff any attempted advancement as quickly as possible.

So, I did my best to get directly to the ball the moment it was snapped. I had never heard the word “blitz,” but that’s what I did. On every single play the whole season. In later years, I began to hear about blitzing as I followed college and pro football. I recognized the technique.

Sometimes we switched from a five- to a seven-man line, in which case I dropped into a lineman’s stance. I still went straight for the ball, but I guess that was not a blitz since I was crouched instead of standing.

Was louder better?

My first guitar was a Silvertone, a brand produced and sold by Sears for not-a-lot-of-money. It was your basic acoustic six-string. As I learned to play and began doing some performing, I wished I could graduate to an electric guitar.

My playing and singing at that time fell into the folk music category, including a lot of traditional tunes and maybe even more Kingston Trio numbers.

Eventually, I was able to get an electric guitar. I continued playing and singing the same songs. There you had it. Folk music accompanied on a rock instrument, a few years before Dylan showed up at the Newport Folk Festival with an electric guitar.

Curating my clothes

Then I invented wash and wear. Not permanent press. Wash. And. Wear.

As I began college, I wore to class clothes we called “Ivy League” style (which later became known as “preppy”), the pants and shirts being clean and pressed. After classes, I went back to my dorm room, changed and carefully hung the good clothes in the closet. With such limited wear, each shirt and pair of slacks came up in the rotation a few times in between appropriately spaced trips to the cleaners.

That was OK for a time. But was it worth the time (multiple clothing changes each day) and money (cleaners’ fees) to look preppy in class? I decided it wasn’t. Following my new plan, I just washed everything, dried it and then wore it.

A million-dollar experience I wouldn’t take $2M to repeat

As the sign came into view, “Entering Forsyth County,” one of my colleagues exclaimed, “Yay, Forsyth County!” It was maybe a little over the top but mostly amusing. She attended Wake Forest University, which is in that county.

There were four of us. Each attended a different college. No one put another’s school down, but none of us hid our pride in our own. This was just another example. It was all in good fun, much more positive than some of our interactions.

We had been chosen and put together for this summer project. Our primary role was to spend a week each in various churches, interacting with youth, leading in worship and presenting two plays. There was one other team like ours. A couple of times, with neither team booked in a church, we were together for other activities.

During one week when we were a group of eight, we had a meeting that departed from the good-natured banter described above.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a guy on the other team criticized me for talking about my school, UNC, and the town in which it is located, Chapel Hill, more than he wanted to hear. My team members, who had spent a lot more time with me, didn’t seem to have a problem with me on this. (But, as we’ll see in a moment, they did have other problems with me.) I tried to say I thought I was joining in the rah-rah banter, maybe as much as but no more than everyone else. If I’d had more presence of mind, I could’ve added that for the past three years, I had spent most of my days there. UNC and Chapel Hill provided the context for much of what I had to say.

He didn’t indicate he had a problem with anyone else sharing their own campus experiences. Ah, but what was different was that he had wanted to go to UNC-CH but couldn’t swing it financially. When others mentioned their schools, he didn’t feel envious.

It was unpleasant, but much worse was to come.

As if interpersonal issues weren’t enough, we also had to deal with a number of external challenges, including a drowning at a swim party and a serious accident during a fellowship event. One day, our supervisor received a letter from members of one church, complaining about our time with them, though the feedback had seemed quite positive while we were there. Late in the summer, we performed the play “In White America” in a town that had just been ordered (finally) to integrate their schools.

Each person had a specific area of responsibility. These roles were team coordinator, music leader, recreation and discussion leader, and preacher. I was designated the preacher and worked up a sermon to give each Sunday. The other guy was assigned recreation and discussion. The older of the two young women was named coordinator, the other given music responsibility.

That seemed good at the start, but circumstances blurred some lines. Because we traveled in my car, it was necessary for me to do some coordinating. Because my guitar and I accompanied our singing in the productions and sometimes in worship, I was de facto music leader at times. Of lesser note, but notable, I was passably athletic while the other male student was not athletic at all. This may have affected our relative roles in some recreational activities.

Even if you don’t intend to usurp some of other people’s authority (and even if they let you), doing so can engender resentment. And I presented them with other issues as well.

I do own some of the blame for intra-team friction. I had strong ideas about many things and could be short on tact. I had mental health difficulties I had only begun to address, though it turned out I wasn’t the only one on the team wearing this tag. Nonetheless, I felt then and still feel now that the amount of criticism leveled at me, as compared to what others received, was excessive.

That I was less conventional in my appearance and approach to life was a problem for the others from the beginning. Yet before the summer started, I had shaved off my then-full beard. I got my hair cut shorter and neater, though since it still touched my ears, it was too long for my teammates. Less superficial were the adaptions I made conversationally. I made sure my language was less “colorful” than was the norm among my college friends. Just as significantly, I began peppering things I said with theological words and phrases, something I had pretty much abandoned as a college student.

I felt I was compromising — moving closer to being like my teammates. I made changes to be less different from them. But I didn’t become exactly like them, and they discredited or disregarded the changes I had made. It wasn’t all; so it was none.

We had a weekly meeting that including the chance to air concerns — i.e., a gripe session. I seemed to be the primary object of the aired concerns. There was one week in which the two females had done something that the other male told me he was going to criticize in that week’s session. But it was held after we’d led some activity in which everything had clicked. My compatriot was in too good a mood to complain during the session. That was the closest we came to having one of those meetings in which I wasn’t the focus.

Things boiled over in a team meeting one night with our supervisor. The other guy on the team went through a long spiel about his growing dissatisfaction. He said he didn’t think he could continue to be on the team. His biggest issue was that there was one person he just could not work with. And that person, he revealed (though everyone already knew), was the person now writing this piece. Among other things, he criticized my hair. That didn’t surprise me, but I was taken aback when he also said the sermon I had preached most Sundays wasn’t any good. That was the first I’d heard of that. Some helpful suggestions early on might’ve been nice.

Before he officially quit, he got a chance for a repeat performance. The next week, we were again together with the other team at a weeklong youth conference. There was a meeting one night of both teams with our supervisor and his supervisor. My colleague repeated his soliloquy for a larger audience, with the same buildup to leveling blame on me. The first time, I had tried to offer some personal defense for my alleged transgressions. This time, I said nothing.

Accommodations were made for us to operate as a team of three in the last two or three churches. Despite this person’s growing resentment toward me, he had freely used me as a sounding board for his personal struggles. Not many days after he had left the team because he couldn’t work with me, he called one morning to the home where I was staying that week, because he just had to talk to me about the latest things with which he was dealing in his personal life.

The summer provided growing experiences, and not all of them were negative. Our highest highs weren’t as high as our lowest lows were low. But there were a lot of highs. Many joyful moments. A lot of intensity, often good, at times not so good. I can’t say I’m sorry I went through it, but by the time it was over, I was more than ready to go home.

After the goodbyes at the conclusion of a meal following the Sunday morning service in our last church of the summer, I got in my car and headed southwest. In Durham, on I-85, I reached the exit with the sign saying:
U.S. 15-501 S
Chapel Hill

Tears flowed.

What it’s like to be a radio personality — for a short time

There was a time when you could hear me on the radio, if you wanted to. And if you were in the same town and had an AM radio. I backed into the experience and rode it as long as it lasted.

My “career” in radio comprised two programs in two different states in which I mixed music and discussion. The first was just for a summer, the second for about two-and-a-half years.

The first was on a small radio station in Orange MA. I say “small” to refer to the size of the staff and building, as well as the reach of its broadcast signal. It was AM, as most stations were back then.

I was in town for that summer, as I had been for the previous one, to run a youth ministry supported by five local churches. For the radio station I checked two boxes: trying to appeal to younger listeners and providing some community-service programming.

As part of the attempt to reach community youth, the Saturday afternoon format was called, at least by the program director, “Rap and Records.” In those days “rap” was slang for “to converse” as a verb or “conversation” as a noun. My shift was referred to as “The United Youth Ministry Portion of Rap and Records.” A friend had a slot in which he played and talked about jazz.

My program aired live for an hour. I had one or two guests. The engineer played a recording of a meaningful rock song I had chosen, and my guests and I discussed it. Listeners could call in and join the conversation, though few did.

I enjoyed hanging around the radio station, getting to know some members of the staff and maybe learning a few things.

The one person on duty during my gig was a high school student who had landed a part-time job there. He used an on-air name that was more Anglo-Saxon than his real name. In time, I learned that another high school student I knew had wanted that job. I had the second guy as a panelist on my show one week. At one point, the student employee called in from another line in the adjacent studio, as if he were a listener at home. During the call, I was aware of some subtle digs between the two, though it’s likely listeners didn’t notice.

At some point, I saw a memo from the program director to the limited number of DJs, who apparently programmed their own music. Selections during the day were to be from the vanilla section of popular tunes — my wording, not his. After sundown, however, “rock out, as long as the towers don’t fall down.” These were his words. The music after dark though, was still pretty vanilla.

One evening I did hear something with a little more zip to it. I don’t remember what it was, but it wasn’t the Carpenters. On the other hand, it wasn’t Black Sabbath either. The D.J. quipped, “I hope the towers don’t fall down,” a reference one could get only if they’d seen the memo.

This same DJ also took credit for the urban legend that Jerry Mathers, TV’s Beaver Cleaver, had been killed in Viet Nam. He told me he and some fellow students had floated the notion on their Westcoast college radio station and it had caught on.

One of the few times my show did get a caller, he had a lot to say about that day’s topic. It was a good interchange, but as the top of the hour approached, I kept trying to end it tactfully. Not only was my segment supposed to end on the hour, but there was also the station identification requirement, about which I somehow was aware. The FCC has loosened up some since then, but in those days, you had to give the station call letters on the hour. There were only two minutes’ grace before you were in trouble.

The clock moved to 2:00 as the guy continued to talk. It moved past as I tried to interrupt without seeming to interrupt. Finally, somewhere between 2:01 and 2:02, he took a breath, I said, “Thanks for calling” and said — through the live phone — “You are listening the WCAT, Orange Massachusetts” with about five seconds to spare. I hung up the phone, quickly wrapped up and tossed it back to the high school student DJ/engineer. I’m sure he had queued up a recorded station break, then probably held it for 3:00.

A couple of years later, after I had returned to Chapel Hill NC, I got to know the program director of the local radio station, then also AM. They had recently expanded their broadcast day to 24 hours. The program director said they needed to expand their public-service broadcasting accordingly.

They were interested in something that could fall into the category “religious programming” but wouldn’t be overtly religious. Canned programs were available, but none really fell into this category. Besides, they preferred something with local appeal. I told him about my previous experience. He agreed I could provide what they needed.

Once again, I featured guests and music. This program, though, was a half hour long. It was prerecorded and aired on Sunday morning. I called it “Sacred Space.” In my introduction each week, I identified it as, “a program dealing with our relationship to God and our relationships with each other, with the belief that these two kinds of relationships are inseparable.” I closed each program with these words: “God touches and is part of all aspects of our lives. Sacred Space is where we stop to realize that.”

Usually, I focused on discussion with the guest(s) and used some music to enhance the discussion. At first, a competent engineer recorded and produced. After he moved on the bigger and better opportunities, the quality of the production help I got began a downward slide. Eventually, I did all the production work myself. My work was at least passable much of the time, though occasionally I ventured into the realm of the Peter Principle.

Every now and then, I deviated from the from the format and offered music and my own commentary. A specific topic may have suggested itself to me. I know I did at least one for Christmas and one inspired by the birth of my first child. A time or two, I threw something together because I had trouble lining up a guest.

I got some feedback from time to time that let me know that at least a few people listened. For a short while, an FM station on a nearby college campus used some of my work in their programming. Running the show itself didn’t work out, but some of my interviews fit into an on-air magazine. (Several years later, I was a guest at that station for an interview — by the same guy who had used parts of my program — to talk about a health promotion program I was running at UNC Health.)

Another commercial station in another city asked about letting them get tapes of “Sacred Space” to broadcast each week, but our PD said no. It was a competitor. Also, the person asking was a former employee of his. While I got along well with both of them, I got the idea they were less than friends.

In time, there was a new program director, with whom I also had a good relationship. At one point, he said he wanted to move my program back from 8 a.m. to 7 a.m. I already wondered how many people were up at 8 on Sunday morning to listen in. I told him I wasn’t sure it was worth my effort to produce a program that even fewer people were likely to hear. He didn’t change the time.

All my work for both stations was volunteer. When I sent tapes to the college FM station, I paid for the postage. Eventually, this PD had the station start cutting me a $5 check (about $30 today) each week for “expenses.” It was basically a “tip” for 3-4 hours of work each week.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that may have been the beginning of the end. Several weeks later, he called me at home one morning and said the station was making some cost-cutting moves. One move was to replace my show with one they could get for free from some organization that was not local. It would begin airing that coming Sunday in my slot.

I had mixed feelings. I was getting tired of doing the program. So, there was some sense of relief, along with the feeling of rejection and some anger at the abrupt way it came down. I choose to remember that the program director at least implied some message of thanks, but I still feel it would have been appropriate for the station’s owner to have sent me a short letter thanking me for all I had done for them. But that wasn’t his style.

My radio days ended without a sign-off.

Faith of our fathers and mothers

Some time back, my kids asked me a series of questions, the answers to which were published in a book for them and their offspring. One of those questions was “How is your faith different from your parents’ faith?” Here’s my answer. As with all my personal reflections, I offer it here in hopes others might find something with which to relate.

My parents’ faith was simple, traditional and seemingly based on a literal reading of the Bible. They attended all activities at the church and had little social life otherwise. Sometimes this need to attend appeared to border on obsessive, though I’m sure they did get a lot from being there.

For 18 years, I bought into all this with little or no questioning. It worked for me. And then it didn’t.

In the journey that followed, I soon realized that music, poetry and other art forms affirmed for me that there is something beyond the physical world. I felt a connection with other people, a connection sometimes called “love.” There was something spiritual about that.

In the midst of all this, the musical “Hair” came along. In it, a character named Claude sang, “I believe in God, and I believe that God believes in Claude. . . .” I had never thought about that relationship in that way. The phrase played often in my head. I was struggling to understand the nature of that which we call “God,” but somehow — maybe because of the power of music and poetry through which the idea was presented to me — I couldn’t help thinking that “God” believed in me.

I spent years redefining virtually every Christian symbol and ritualistic phrase from my childhood. Eventually, not only could I affirm those symbols and say those phrases again, but also they took on deeper meaning. Or maybe, I could affirm and say because they took on deeper meaning.

It wasn’t about merely reading the Bible and mindlessly following it as a road map, never mind that the map was hundreds and thousands of years old. It was helpful to hear someone point out that the Bible is a book of Truth, not a book of facts.

It worked for my parents to view what they read in the Bible and heard at church fairly literally. If the Bible said it, there was no reason to question it, even if you don’t understand it. I think it’s all more complex than that. I want to understand. I don’t think trying to understand denigrates religion. Yet I’ve come to accept that it is not possible to understand everything, and I’ve learned to affirm and celebrate mystery.

I’ve also become able to accept that my parents’ faith was just as real for them as mine is for me.

Perfect happiness

(In a different context, my offspring have been asking me random questions. Back in the spring, one was, “What is your idea of perfect happiness?” This is my answer.)

I experience perfect happiness at the start of almost every day. I sip fresh coffee, beginning in the pre-dawn stillness and through the coming of the light. Often enough I see the sun itself appear. When at the beach, I am out for each day’s sunrise.

It’s interesting this question popped up this week. For the first time in 16 months — a break necessitated by the COVID-19 pandemic — I just got to visit in person with my three granddaughters and their parents. Genuine hugs can bring perfect happiness, especially after so long.

Or maybe a better word here is joy. I did a little research. Happiness results from external causes. When happiness gets into your soul, joy is engendered.

When I think of moments of perfect happiness, among the first thoughts that come to mind are holding one’s child or grandchild and being together with family or other loved ones in any of a variety of contexts.

Many years ago, a peer-counseling agency of which I was director had a journal in which anyone — staff, volunteers, clients — could write whatever was on their mind. One day I wrote a brief paragraph about sitting on my front stoop for an hour or more, holding my first-born while she slept. The afternoon sun warmed us just the right amount. Her tiny hand wrapped tightly around my finger. Much of my life was a struggle at that time, but for that moment — perfect happiness.

When I first read this question, I began to overthink it. “Perfect”? No matter how happy you feel, you know that high is not going to last forever. So how is that perfect? This led me to realize that one important reason it’s perfect is because it compels you to be completely in the moment. In that moment, it is not temporary because there is no tempus.

Another moment of perfect happiness that comes to mind took place about 65 or so years ago. My family had driven all day returning home from my grandparents — 550 miles in the days before interstate highways. I remember entering my room and collapsing onto my bed, caressing it. I chanted, or maybe just thought, “Oh my bed, my good ol’ bed” more than once, but probably not much more. Then it was morning.

Disney World claims to be “the happiest place in the world.” I’m sure a lot of other places would beg to differ, and I know it’s a marketing slogan, but I’ve certainly had a lot of moments of perfect happiness there. A key element is sharing the experience with people you love.

Petting a dog is a scientifically-proven source of happiness.

Also music. Countless times, listening to or performing music has enabled me to experience perfect happiness. Or, as with other experiences cited, joy.

Signs of hope

Here’s a couple of recent encounters with people showing their better sides.

One night recently, we attended a concert by Sammy Miller and the Congregation. They play “joyful jazz–music that feels good. It is a style the entertains, enriches, but most of all uplifts.”

As you can surmise from the group’s name, Sammy Miller is the leader. When the concert began, he came out on stage (without fanfare), along with the pianist and bass player. Sammy was carrying an armload of bottles of water. He dropped at least one, then picked it up before depositing most behind three standing microphones.

The three began to play as soon as Sammy sat down at his drums. Shortly, we heard more music behind us. I turned to see the trombone, trumpet and sax players at the top of three aisles. Ah, so that’s whom the three mics and the water were for, I thought. I also realized why they couldn’t have carried their own bottles onto the stage. So the band leader — rather than a stage hand — took care of that for them.

After the requisite number of bars, they made their ways down the aisles, greeting audience members. The trumpet player, appropriately named Alphonso Horne, shook my hand on his way to the stage.

It was a great show and not just because they are such talented musicians. For about an hour and a half, they really had a good time, which easily rubbed off on the audience. It was easy to feel joyful and uplifted.

Ringo Starr tells of a time he visited George Harrison during George’s last days. When Ringo mentioned that he was about to fly to the US because his daughter was to have surgery there, George asked, “Do you want me to go with you?” Here was a man who was terminally ill and in poor health offering to support his friend.

I was reminded of this a couple of days ago when a friend texted me, expressing concern for my relatives in Alabama (none of whom she knows personally), after the tornado-filled storm that had just blown through. (They were fine.)

Certainly a thoughtful gesture from anyone. More so, perhaps, from this person, who is in Hospice care.