“Hey, I saw your kid on TV!”

The voice reached me from behind as I walked down the corridor of my Scientology Church. During the split second that elapsed between hearing the voice and turning around to see its source, the thought flashed: “That sounds familiar, but is it anyone I know?”

Then I saw who it was: David Miscavige, ecclesiastical leader of the Scientology religion. He was smiling broadly. “It was on a commercial during a Lakers game! It was hilarious! I laughed my head off!”

Here David Miscavige was, a person I’d never had a conversation with, had only seen from a distance of 35 rows, give or take, from audience to stage, whose 24/7 job is protecting, preserving and expanding a religious movement involving millions of parishioners and 11,000 Churches, Missions and groups spanning some 170 countries, taking the time to tell me he’d seen my kid in a 15-second commercial on television and how much he liked it.

“Thank you,” I said, and took his offered hand.

“You guys must be pumped!” he grinned, shaking my hand. And then—with a wave and a salute—he was off.

For the next few minutes, my friends and I watched as the woman spoke and spoke and spoke some more, David Miscavige and the other executives listening intently.

“How does he do that?” I wondered. Yet he did. He recognized me, knew who I was, knew who my kid was. He must have looked up the young man, found that he was from a Scientologist family and made a point of stopping me in the hall and letting me know what a great thing it all was. Then, during our brief interchange, he made me feel like I was the only person in the world and that it was the high point of his day to stop and congratulate me on my kid’s acting performance in a television commercial.

Another time I was dining with friends at a restaurant on board the Freewinds religious retreat. It was a special convention and many ministers and executives of the Church were in attendance. A rather, shall we say, garrulous woman sitting next to me suddenly cried, “Look! There they are!” Following the direction of her pointed finger, we saw David Miscavige dining at a table with Church executives and local dignitaries.

Before I could shush her, she got up saying, “There’s something I REALLY NEED to go over with them, and I’m going to talk to them RIGHT NOW.”

“No, no! They’re probably busy discussing…” I began, but she was already on her way to the table.

Peering through closed fingers, I saw an astonishing sight: David Miscavige spotted the woman approaching and instantly stood up, followed promptly by the other six or seven people at the table. Mr. Miscavige pulled an empty chair from another table as the others made room, and invited her to have a seat next to him, then waited for her to be seated before resuming his seat.

For the next few minutes, my friends and I watched as the woman spoke and spoke and spoke some more, David Miscavige and the other executives listening intently. When she had finished speaking, he replied at length—to her apparent satisfaction—shook hands with her, then rose as she rose and bowed slightly to her as she left, not resuming his seat again until she was completely clear of the table and on her way back to us.

“Well!” she said, sitting back down with us. “I’m VERY glad I spoke to him. It’s much better now.”

Neither I nor anyone else asked her what “it” was. We were confident, however, that David Miscavige could not only make whatever concerned the woman better but that, as leader of our religion and an extraordinary gentleman, he could make anything he touched not just better, but first-rate—and do so with effortless effectiveness.

Scientology Founder L. Ron Hubbard wrote, “When one is lucky enough to get to meet and talk to the men and women who are at the top of their professions, one is struck by an observation often made that they are just about the nicest people you ever met. That is one of the reasons they are at the top: they try, most of them, to treat others well.”

I’ve long been familiar with that quote. It’s from The Way to Happiness, a nonreligious moral code based on common sense that swiftly inspired an international movement reaching millions on how to live a rich and ethical life. And though I know that passage by heart, rarely, if ever, have I seen it in action.

In a world too often immersed in self-importance and intolerance of others, it’s comforting to know there is a David Miscavige among us—driven only by a purpose to help others and focused on the greatest good—a remarkable leader who routinely makes decisions that affect continents, yet who cares enough to share the joys of one proud father like me.

Originally published by STAND.