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The Lost Generation: appropriately named, as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway brilliantly described, for the disillusionment that pervaded society after the Great War.

The Greatest Generation: appropriately described the fierce and courageous patriotism of my father’s generation who fought in WWII.

Baby Boomers. My generation. It just doesn’t have the same panache as the other titles, does it? But, having been born in 1949, I am a boomer. I came of age during the rage of the late 60’s and early 70’s. Some of the memories of that turbulent time in history still resonate with surprising strength. It was a time of upheaval—musical, political, cultural, spiritual—and the stories of that era, especially the summer of 1969, still cling to me.

When I recall the road trip taken with a high school buddy during that summer of 1969, it almost has a Forest Gumpian aura about it. We were just two, wide-eyed Dutch boys chasing something we couldn’t name, finding ourselves in the midst of so many iconic events in just a short two-week trip.

My friend, Jim, had a sister who lived near Boston, so that was our first stop. While staying there we ventured out to the hippie haven of Provincetown, Massachusetts where O’Neill wrote his famous plays. Jim was a tennis player, so we found our way to the Longwood Cricket Club and witnessed an exhibition match on a grass court between four Australian tennis icons: Rod Laver, John Newcombe, Ken Rosewall and Fred Stolle. And as we were leaving the Boston area, Teddy Kennedy was driving off a bridge on the island of Chappaquiddick just a few miles away. History wasn’t just happening—it was unfolding right in front of us.

We both had connections in the Manhattan area, so our next destination was New York City. The iconic adventures continued. We stood in Times Square watching a projection on the wall of the Time-Life building of Neil Armstrong’s historic first step; we attended the Dick Cavett TV show and watched Gary Pucket and the Union Gap perform “Young Girl”; we walked down Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village and visited the Bitter End where Peter Paul and Mary had performed; all of these experiences comprised part of our amazing week in the Big Apple. Little did I know, all of this was mere prelude to the stories ahead that would truly shape me.

These days, when my wife and I go on a trip, we meticulously plan our itinerary. Whether it was our age, companionship, or some other factor, it was different on this trip with Jim. I can’t for the life of me remember how Jim and I made our plans day to day on our journey. It is clear now, looking back, that the Lord was certainly directing the paths of these two wide-eyed Dutch boys and keeping us on the straight and narrow.

A trip to New York City had to include seeing a play on Broadway. We chose a Saturday afternoon matinee (probably to save a dollar or two) and went to see The Great White Hope starring James Earl Jones and Jane Alexander. Now, I was a rising junior at Calvin at the time. I had already made some major changes in my academic path and was now looking to become a theatre/English major with the hope of teaching and directing. But I was not ready for what was about to happen when the curtain opened on that July afternoon in New York City.

Clive Barnes in his New York Times review published on October 4,1968 had said that when the play opened on Broadway, “Howard Sackler’s play The Great White Hope came into the Alvin Theatre last night like a whirlwind.” I could not have agreed more.

From the moment James Earl Jones appeared on stage—head shaved, sweat-soaked, shadowboxing his way into the spotlight—I felt something shift inside me. This man swept the entire audience along with his larger-than-life character, into the trajectory of this mesmerizing “whirlwind” story of boxer Jack Johnson. Jones held us in the palm of his hand until the curtain came down two and a half hours later. It took me a long time to catch my breath. This wasn’t just performance; it was revelation. It was what storytelling was meant to be.

A recent conversation with my road trip partner reminded me that, while we were “recovering” from Jones’ iconic performance (both Jones and Jane Alexander won Tonys for their performances that season), we went to a famous Italian restaurant and discussed what we should do with our Saturday night. We had three choices in front of us: a Creedence Clearwater Revival concert at the Fillmore East in Manhattan; a free, American debut concert for a band we had never heard of before—Led Zeppelin—in Central Park , or a concert at the West Side Tennis Club in Forest Hills featuring Janis Joplin.

Jim loved tennis, so we picked Forest Hills. That decision gave us the second story that has never stopped echoing.

The opening act was Richie Havens, someone neither of us had ever heard of. But by the time he finished singing “Freedom,” he had the entire crowd of 13,000 in his grip. Then came Janis Joplin. I can’t say I was her biggest fan, but there was no doubt that in July of 1969, she was a rising star. Like the experience we had that afternoon in the Alvin Theatre, I was not ready for what I was about to witness. Janis’ raspy, Southern Comfort-fortified voice became the focal point of 13,000 people in that stadium on that sultry July night.

The performance started off slowly, like two new acquaintances getting to know each other. She sang the classic “Summertime” from “Porgy and Bess”. The concert began to build both in energy and excitement, and as she sang “To Love Somebody,” the longing and yearning coming from Janis was palpable. As she wandered to the piano for a swig of Southern Comfort, her voice and lyrics confronted us with the truth that perhaps she, too, was longing for true comfort. She was baring her soul, reaching down deep and delivering a message that said, “This is who I am, this is what I have to offer, and you have to know that I am holding nothing back.” When she sang “Piece of My Heart,” it was no metaphor. We weren’t getting just a piece of her heart. We were getting all of it.

After several rousing encores, Janis came back out on stage and rasped, “Sorry, Honey, I got nothing left.” And we all knew it was true. She had given everything.

I didn’t know it then. But now, looking back through the lens of faith and years of teaching and directing, I see those performances as sacred encounters. Whenever Jesus wanted His followers to know how to join the Kingdom and start living a godly life, He would tell a parable, a story. Both Jones and Joplin were master storytellers, and stories can be a catalyst towards helping us make sense of our lives. Ecclesiastes 3:11 tells us that “(God) has set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” There is often a conflict between what we were intended for and what we struggle with on this side of eternity.

Now I certainly did not have these deep reflections circling in my head back in July of 1969, but the fact that I am still reflecting on the impact of these performances speaks to the power of each of them. The power of Jones’ and Joplin’s performances were so similar in their impact even though the lives of these two were so strikingly different.

James Earl Jones’ life was itself a story of redemption. Silenced by stuttering as a child, it was his high school English teacher who helped him find his voice by having him read literature aloud. After that, he found his calling through Shakespeare and his anchor in the Lord. His performances had strength, yes, but also humility that came from knowing the source of his gift. His legacy spans generations—Darth Vader, Mufasa, Field of Dreams. His faith also remained strong throughout his life, so much so that when he was asked to be the voiceover artist for the reading of the King James Version of the New Testament, he said it was the greatest honor of his life.

Janis Joplin’s story was heartbreakingly different. She had a voice that could move crowds, but not the compass to navigate her own longing. She was chasing something—maybe love, maybe worth, maybe God—but she never seemed to find it. She died just 14 months after we saw her. It was an apparent overdose that took her life, something she was perhaps struggling with when we saw her in concert.

It’s difficult to reconcile this contrast between Jones and Joplin—two performers who held nothing back, who gave all they had to their audience.

The Lost Generation lived lives of disillusionment trying to find meaning in their world while assuming that God had abandoned them. The Greatest Generation had a solid grip on their reality, knowing good from evil and making the ultimate sacrifice to ensure that good would triumph over the evil in this world. As a Boomer, I must confess that sometimes I feel less than proud of my generation. We demanded change for the greater good, but did we deliver it? I have my doubts at times, but there was no doubt that during the 60’s and 70’s “the times, they were a’changing.” Still, that summer of ’69 sits at the epicenter of our searching. And the stories we encountered—on stage, in song, on screen—shaped us in ways we were only just beginning to understand.

Jim and I recently revisited those memories. We laughed and marveled at the way the Lord guided our way that summer. As we were headed home that summer by way of Niagara Falls, we even talked about one last detour to a little music festival happening in a farmer’s field in upstate New York.

It was called Woodstock.

Written by Thomas Day on May 16, 2025.