While I was in the armed forces in the sixties, I was privileged to be able to travel to fourteen different countries. I have seen and entered some of the most beautiful houses, dedicated to worship, in the western world. I once went to midnight mass at an enormous church in London, replete with all the idols and icons that define that religion. I walked the halls of Westminster Abby. I stood on Mars Hill were Paul preached to the Greeks about the Unknown God. I didn't know Christ then. I was lost and had no idea. But I remember the all too human experience of these places and the feeling that I was in a holy or sacred place. That feeling was born of fear of the unknown, conscious of my wickedness, and a superstitious anxiety that I was in the presence of God. Of course, I wasn’t, and, in my ignorance, I felt that these visits would count well on my merit ledger when the dust settled. As beautiful and awe inspiring as the places were, they were just places and just buildings and what I felt was not the presence of God but rather the fascination that enters only through the eye. I was awed by what men could do without any of it bringing me closer to God. These buildings are not houses of God; His people are His house (Eph. 2:20-22).