Through the ages, when folks wanted to worship, they would gather supplies, muster their strength, band together, and build.  Worship, true homage to God, demanded a tabernacle, a temple, or an altar be built before psalms, prayers, and sacrifices could begin.   The other day a simple truth about worship sank in as I, too, gathered supplies, mustered my strength, and banded together with some brothers in Christ to continue working on our new staff house here at DM.

We had been working on random days to build but were now under the gun to get a roof on the structure to protect the timbers from UV rays and rain showers.  A team of volunteers donated their valuable time to bolster our staff so that we might complete the task.  In less than two days, we hoped to cover the bare trusses with sheathing, place the underlayment barrier, and finally screw down a blanket of metal panels that would protect the house for the coming decades.  Honestly, as I considered the probability of completing the task within the time constrains, it seemed next to impossible.  

​Because none of us would gain much personally from the work we did, one might expect to see people standing around, leaning on shovels, taking extra breaks to shoot the breeze, or knocking off early in search of some food and relaxation.  I saw none of these things, however.  Over those few hours, joyful volunteers and underpaid camp staff threw themselves into the task as though it were their highest aim in life—as though they would earn a fat paycheck at week’s end or someday live in this home as they raised kids and grew old with their spouses.  No, these workers would see no such benefits of their labor, yet they poured themselves into the assignment.
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As we worked, I discovered something else being built in my heart, mind, and spirit.  We were not just building something that would someday enhance our worship and pleasure.  We had joined together to worship through the process of construction right here…right now.  

​In chapter four of John’s gospel, Jesus rests beside the town well in the despised region of Palestine called Samaria.  Here, He has a surprising conversation with a local woman.  It is surprising because the culture does not approve of a holy-man speaking with a lone woman, and it is even less acceptable for Jesus, a Jew, to speak to a Samaritan.  I love that Jesus disregards the oppressive and engrained social stigmas and forges ahead with His purpose.  He initiates a deeper conversation than the well they were drawing water from, to focus on the topic of worship and identity.  In this exchange, Jesus reveals a remodel of the whole order of things as He clarifies Whom and how we should be worshipping.  As pastor and teacher, Mark Moore puts it, “Jesus now introduces a new relationship with God where the Spirit of God and the spirit of man co-mingle.”  It’s a concept of worship that was inconceivable to ancient believers and somewhat unpalatable even to us in the 21st century.  

Jesus said to the woman, “You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews.  But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father is seeking such people to worship Him.  God is spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth” John 4:22-24 (ESV).

The Jews of Jesus’ time needed the temple, the structure, to really truly worship, but Jesus makes His first clear statement in His ministry about how things were going to change.  Interestingly, it is also to this wayward, Samaritan woman that He first reveals who He really is—the Messiah.  In this private conversation, He simply says that the true worshipers will worship in Spirit and in truth. 
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Jesus says worship requires a willing heart rather than a fancy temple.  But does this make it any easier to worship?  In some ways, yes.  Now we are the temple of the Holy Spirit, so now we can worship in Spirit and in truth any time, anywhere.  But for many of us, it might be simpler just to have a place that makes it official, to have a duty to fulfill, and to have a box to check that says we did enough to fulfill worship for another week.  Maybe this attitude explains why many of us still gravitate to a church sanctuary for “real” worship, complete with an organ piping out the old hymns, penned in past times and leaving us the perception of happier days, hallowed songs written by holier people.  Don’t get me wrong, the church sanctuary, in my opinion, is where last week’s worship ends and this week’s worship begins, but the building is not the place reserved for worship in Spirit and truth.  Worship flows from the heart.  

This brings me full circle back to the house project where, at the end of the time set aside to build, we gazed at our handiwork.  The roof lay secure and complete!   Wearily we leaned on the shoulder of the man next to us and just stood in silent appreciation for the seeming miracle we were beholding.  It wasn’t a church sanctuary; there had been no singing except the song of the hammers and nails, but it was worship in Spirit and in truth. 
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As we considered our accomplishment, we weren’t worshiping ourselves—our abilities or success.  We had been worshiping God through all the long hours of labor because it was within that process of sacrificing ourselves to a greater purpose where our spirits mingled with the Spirit of the Almighty, resulting in nothing short of true worship. 

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.”  Romans 12:1 ESV

Have you ever been recognized as a hero?  I’ve experienced this accolade a few times in my outdoor pursuits. There was the time a few buddies and I climbed Devil’s Tower in Wyoming.  Just loading our climbing gear in the busy, tourist parking lot attracted a lot of hero worship, and we hadn’t even set foot on the climb yet.  As one of my friends simply walked along the base of the Tower with his rack of climbing cams slung over his shoulder, he drew a small crowd of curious hikers.  By the time I caught up to him, he was lecturing like a college professor on the finer points of lead-climbing.  For all the crowd knew, he was as expert as they come.  I knew better since he and I had only done lead-climbs a handful of times. 
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Later after we had made it to the top and descended back to the base, we truly felt a little less like posers and more like the real deal.  Eager hero worshippers, who wanted to have their picture taken with us when we returned to the parking lot, bolstered our egos.  They seemed to think that whatever it was they admired about us would rub off on them a little.  What they didn’t know was that I hadn’t slept a wink the night before, fearing that I might die climbing the route.  They didn’t know that we had chosen the absolute easiest way up and that we barely knew what we were doing.  They had no idea that our heroism was more an illusion that a reality and that, in truth, under the image and climbing equipment, we were normal—just like they were.  

All of this fleeting renown caused me to think, how does any hero remain constant over the ages?  I can’t remember off the top of my head who won the MVP in the super bowl 10 years ago.  I don’t remember who won an Oscar for best actor last year or the year before.  Moreover, few of us could even remember the most famous people from the 1950’s or 60’s.  I’m not suggesting that we succumb to hero worship; I’m just trying to understand how we can be so dedicated one minute and fickle the next.  How can one go from being a raw novice one minute to being an honored expert the next and then come full circle back to taking up space in the “average-person line?” 
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Experts, according to one online essay I read, say, “Hero worship is deeply rooted in how we form attachments and learn from others….we still look for figures who embody strength, success, and security,” (takingthehelmcounselling.co.uk).  This helps make sense of why people can so quickly attach themselves to those they view as larger than life.  But there is a dark side.  According to the same online source, “One of the biggest dangers of hero worship is the development of unrealistic expectations.”  That idea explains why so few of us last very long as heroes.  In truth, we weren’t really all that heroic to begin with.  

As I pondered all this, I thought of all the heroes and famous people whose reputations have lasted over the ages, and I couldn’t think of anyone more successful at this than Jesus.  It’s amazing how He’s accomplished this, considering that studies show people to be drawn to heroes who permeate strength, success, and security.  Let’s look at Jesus’ track record for this.

• Strength?  He was hung on a cross, meekly led there like a sheep to the slaughter. 
• Success?  Wasn’t it Jesus who told His disciples that if they wanted to be the greatest, they had to first become the servant of all—that the first would be last?
• Security?  In one biblical account, Jesus tells a man to sell everything he owns, give the proceeds to the poor, and then come follow Him. 

Jesus seems to get it all wrong if He wants to build a reputation as a hero. Nevertheless, He’s the most stalwart, heroic figure in history.  What are we missing?
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There’s something in us that loves and admires that which we aspire to be but rarely, if ever, achieve, like the tourists who admired our Grand Canyon achievement.  Some of them may have been inspired to hike the rims themselves someday, and they certainly could recognize the hard work we had put into accomplishing the feat.  Then, there’s a part of us that makes a hero out of one who does what we have not had the courage, discipline, or strength to do ourselves.  

"He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature,
and he upholds the universe by the word of his power.”
Hebrews 1:3 ESV

What we were doing seemed crazy—not just because it was winter and not just because we had never done it before.  Those risk factors weighed heavily, but my greatest concern rested on our motley group.  You see, our “band of brothers”—made up of a nine-month-old baby, a nursing mother, a young mother in her 24th week of pregnancy, two teens, three college students, and two, more mature adventurers—were attempting to hike the expanse of the Grand Canyon rim to rim and back again.  We would hike more than 50 miles and face over 11,000 feet of elevation change. The hand-crafted trails etched into the sides of the cliffs led to arid, empty wastelands, making our journey not only about endurance, but also about survival.  

As we approached the South Kaibab Trail, a warning sign appeared: Down is optional.  Up is mandatory.  However, from the moment we stepped onto the trail, an unanticipated, immense desert panorama that far exceeded our expectations captivated us with its beauty.  Our route took us north on a path that centered on the spines of ridges, and we could behold the full, gaping expanse of the canyon that was swallowing us whole.  The sun shone brightly, and its warmth caressed our faces—a gentle kindness despite the time of year—while a cool breeze refreshed our panting breath.   

You may be wondering why we would venture to such a mighty place with such a frail and vulnerable group.  Somewhere around halfway down the canyon, I could see the bottom where the cold Colorado River flowed like a green ribbon, and when our party stopped for a short rest break to take in the view, I remembered a prayer I had prayed a week and a half earlier. 
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My wife, Julie, and our 9-month-old baby, Lydia, almost didn’t come.  Leading up to the trip we had wrestled daily with the indecision of whether or not to take a baby on such a long and arduous expedition.  Winter, backcountry, and babies don’t always mix well.  It wasn’t that we thought the trip was life threatening, just that we didn’t want Lydia or Julie to suffer.  At the same time, we really wanted to do this as a family.  The decision consumed our thoughts. 

So, during a planning evening a few days before the start of the trip, we sat with other members of our expedition and prayed about whether Julie and Lydia should go.  As we sought the Lord for clear direction, no one felt a pang of worry, but neither did they report a sense of confirmation.  One friend said he felt the Lord say that whatever decision we made would turn out good.  In my heart I wanted to see them go, but I worried about the outcomes.  As I bowed my head the Holy Spirit revealed an image and invitation.  The picture was of Jesus, suited up for the expedition and walking next to Lydia and Julie down the Grand Canyon trail.  He was beaming with a huge smile, and with a sweep of his hand gesturing to the spectacle of the canyon said, “Come and see.” 

That’s why when I stood looking down at the river, feeling the sun on my face and looking at my wife and baby there beholding it, too, my eyes sparkled as I held back tears of joy.  “Come and see!”  What an invitation!  What a command!  He’s been making that statement since He created this world. 

Psalm 66:5 says, “Come and see what God has done: He is awesome in His deeds toward the children of man.”  Is it possible that when He made the Grand Canyon, He did it just to show it to us?  It is possible that He really did hike right next to a baby, keeping her contented and supplied while she bounced in the back of a pack carrier?  What sort of a God does that, and why?
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Psalm 111:2-4 gives further revelation: “Great are the works of the LORD, studied by all who delight in them. Full of splendor and majesty is His work, and His righteousness endures forever. He has caused His wondrous works to be remembered; the LORD is gracious and merciful” (ESV). 

​It seems clear that God does this—makes this stuff, invites us to come and see—so we will remember that He is all powerful (greater than any canyon), a delighter of people, righteous, gracious, and merciful.  Instead of seeing God as a killjoy or as indifferent to our plans, perhaps we should consider how He’s orchestrated His creation to center all our affections, all our hopes, all our longings on Him, proving that when we “come and see,” it’s not creation that we truly marvel at, but the Maker of it all.  All we have to do is lift our eyes and see. 
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I placed faith in the Lord’s simple invitation.  He didn’t promise it would be easy, and He didn’t guarantee our safety, but knowing He would be with us left me with a peace that passed understanding.  So, there we stood, Julie and Lydia and I with our family and companions.  We stood in the glow of morning sunlight and drank in the cool canyon air.  We stood in awe of the breathtaking scenery at the invitation of almighty God.  He had said, “Come and see,” so what else could we do but behold and worship?   

For you, O LORD, have made me glad by your work;
at the works of your hands I sing for joy.
Psalm 92:4 ESV