1982 was the year I realized I didn’t want to be a pastor.   Well…sort of.  You see while  Eye of the Tiger, Rosanna and a little diddy about Jack and Diane were filling the airwaves, I was growing up as a pastor’s kid near Sacramento.  It wasn’t that I didn’t like being a PK, but it's just something I never thought about doing.  My ambivalence turned to avoidance that year when I was asked to teach the Sunday morning message at my Dad’s church. 

Terrified is a word that is overused, but trust me…that was me.  I studied for hours and hours in preparation for that message because I didn’t want to mess up the church or misuse God’s word.  I looked at Bible commentaries and study guides day after day.  My prayer life was dynamic that week.  When the Sunday finally arrived I got up to the podium and was a little worried I had way too much information to share.  I was hoping I didn’t go over the normal 45 minutes my Dad usually spoke.   

I don’t have a clue what I spoke about that day.  It might have been out of Romans but I’m not really sure.  However, I do remember launching into the message with leg-rattling fear.   I poured my heart out to the people for what seemed like hours.  They loved me, so they stayed awake and smiled every so often. I shared every story and memory verse I could come up with.  I sweated through my suit jacket and could feel my heart pounding in my chest.  And then finally, mercifully, it was over.  I walked off the stage and looked to see that 17 torturous minutes had ticked off the clock.          

I sat down on the front chair in the auditorium and felt like a total failure.  Little old ladies I had known for years came up and gave me a hug.  One of them gave me 10 bucks so that was kind of cool.  My friends tried to console me.  My Dad and Mom were strangely proud.  It was a strange day to say the least.  But at least I was certain of one thing:  God could never use someone like me in His church.