The most dangerous moment of my life wasn't when I walked onto the stage; it was about twenty minutes after I walked off. For years, my life was measured in Sundays. When the service ended and the house lights came up, there was a specific kind of rush. People would line up in the lobby to shake my hand. They told me I was articulate, or anointed, or that I had said exactly what they needed to hear. For an hour, I was the most important person in the room. I was the shepherd.