The very first time anyone ever called me “Pastor” was during the early 1980s at First Baptist Church of Hopland, Calif. For 52 Fridays in 1981, I left my seminary classroom in the Bay Area and drove 100 miles with my wife, Becky, to my weekend pastorate. Parishioners often hosted us in their homes, but eventually they converted a Sunday-school classroom into a kind of bed-minus-breakfast room for their newlywed pastor. The church ladies strove for a homey feel, covering our poster bed with doily pillowcases and a homemade quilt. They welcomed me as their faithful, fun and fearless pastor. 

I was only six months into my first pastor’s job in Hopland, Calif., when I contemplated quitting. As I considered my pastoral responsibilities, I had to admit I had an uncomplicated life. I was a full-time graduate student driving 90 miles every weekend to preach two sermons in a country church. Not a bad gig, as they say.