December 31, 1969, blindsided me. I came into that day tied up in knots with long-standing spiritual doubts. Then some friends invited me to a concert that evening at the Pasadena Civic. When the curtain went up and the music began, I was blown away. Here was a Jimi Hendrix-like Chicano dude on lead guitar, a very hip girl on bass, and a blond hippie on drums. Agape was their name. Among other songs, they sang Happy.
In 1969 no one was happy. The Summer of Love in 1967 had been crushed by the assassinations of 1968. The three days of love and peace at Woodstock earlier in 1969 had been canceled by the bloodshed of Altamont. Everyone was angry, including me. Then Agape stood there and — in total counterculture — sang with radiant faces and utter sincerity “He loves me.” Simple. Direct. Prophetic. I couldn’t resist. My heart gave way. He loves me.
Later I had to think through my doubts, of course. But now I could do so with a new premise, a new assurance, fearlessly. He loves me.
Thank you, Fred, Lonnie, Mike. The joy has been battered in the intervening years, but it will not die. Thank you, Lord.