It was the smell of the toaster waffles that drew me in. This was the late 1980s and my dad was the pastor of our church, so attendance was obligatory.

Fortunately, I liked being there. I loved hearing my dad preach, even when he was asking my sister and me to stop talking from the pulpit of his small Methodist church in Towson, Maryland. We served in every capacity, from giving the announcements to singing in the choir to standing with the ushers. Raised in collective praise, we learned to honor God guided by wise elders and respected deacons.

But I was drawn to Sunday school by the appeal of the toaster waffles.

Every Sunday my family was the first to arrive, turning on the lights and readying the pews to receive worshipers. My dad would situate himself close to the altar as the first Sunday school attendees began to trickle in. While he always thoroughly prepared for the sermons, his passion came from teaching this class.

My sister and I headed to the basement for youth Sunday school with ...