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I can't be your pastor anymore. I'm sorry."

My tiny congregation stared back in shock. Those leaders who had already heard the news had moved beyond shock to become hurt and unhappy, but I didn't care. My sense of failure disqualified me to be their pastor. What had been an exciting personal dream just five years before was now a shredded "might have been," flapping in the lonely wind of unrealized expectations.

In 1985, I had moved to this promising new community to start a church. My father had pastored a successful church plant; I reasoned I was fit for the same kind of work.

The first setback came immediately. I had expected forty people for the inaugural worship service; only fourteen showed up. Not until I decided to leave did our church consistently average forty in attendance.

The low figure was not because of a lack of hard work. I was naive. I didn't know as much as I'd thought I did, and ministry was much harder than I had anticipated.

I'd never taken "Resignation 101" in seminary. The whole issue was never really discussed. I just knew that everything I tried had apparently failed. I had dreamed of reaching the masses; we reached only a few. I had dreamed of being sought as an expert in church growth; I was sought only by my wife for a ride home from work. I dreamed of initiating creative ministries; I had cerebral lock-up soon after I took the position. I imagined nice, respectable families joining my church; our first addition was a young woman who had recently completed a tour of duty as an exotic dancer. I wanted to need no one; I grew deeply infected with need.

So I quit. I did so without a sense of God's approval. I didn't care. I was disappointed and hurt. My ministry gas tank was dry, so I coasted into that morning service and said, "I can't do this anymore."

Since then, I've learned some powerful lessons—ones I wish I had known before I quit.

In my hurt, I didn't realize I was about to hurt others by quitting.

Out of our mutual pain over my resignation, I finally realized how much my flock loved me. It astounded me. I had confused their non-participation in my latest idea with a lack of love. I failed to realize how busy they were at inflexible jobs. When they didn't show up or give like I thought they should, that didn't mean they didn't like the plan or me; it meant they had to work late or they were having trouble making ends meet. Since that experience, I have resisted the thought that life as a pastor is harder than the lives my people lead.

Also, I believed the primary reason for anyone to love me was for producing results as a leader. When I told Rueben, one of our newer leaders, about my decision, he asked, "Why are you doing this? You're whipping yourself over something I can't see. I think things are going well."

I thought he was trying to keep me from leaving because of the extra work it would put on him and the other leaders. Now I know he was concerned about me because he saw a friend making a bad decision. The day I resigned I began to learn how much people loved me for who I was, not what I did.

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