It’s a dilemma churches with praise teams face: when does the worship team’s performance replace the congregation’s participation? I’ve attended church worship services where a praise team prompted me to worship God, and others where I felt like an observer, watching a band perform.
I’m no musician: I’m not a connoisseur of erudite composers with polished music. But I know what I like: natural sounds that invite me in.
The praise team in my backyard does that for me; it’s a worship team that beckons me to participate.
Early one Sunday morning, before the heat of July surrounded us like a wet blanket, Lori and I sat on our back porch and worshipped with our favorite praise team. The American Robin is most often the lead singer, with the Northern Cardinal popping forward to showcase his abilities. The Song Sparrow consistently shows up, and the Common Yellowthroat sings uncommonly well.
I can’t sing with bird sounds; I don’t even attempt to mimic them, though some bird experts can develop such a skill.
But nonetheless, Lori and I worship with the birds, with creation itself. It’s as if we became one with nature.
A word of caution here: Nothing about a July morning on my back porch replaces gathering with God’s people on Sunday. Scripture never lets creation stand in for the church. We’re told not to neglect meeting together (Hebrews 10:25), and there’s something the birds can’t give me that a room full of imperfect, singing believers can: the presence of Christ among us, “where two or three gather” in His name (Matthew 18:20). My porch is a supplement, never a substitute.
But it is a real place of worship, and Scripture backs me up. “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1). David wrote that centuries before anyone had a hymnal, watching the same sky I watch, hearing something in it that pointed him straight to God.
The psalmist goes further, inviting creation itself into the choir: “Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad… let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them. Then all the trees of the forest will sing for joy” (Psalm 96:11-12). And Psalm 150 closes the whole psalter with an order that doesn’t exclude a single robin or cardinal: “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.”
Paul makes the theology plain: “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made” (Romans 1:20). The birds aren’t worshipping God the way I do, with words and intention. But they are declaring Him, whether they know it or not, and something in me recognizes the declaration and answers back.
Maltbie Babcock, the Presbyterian pastor who wrote “This Is My Father’s World” over a century ago, used to take morning walks overlooking Lake Ontario before writing his sermons, telling his wife he was going out to “see the Father’s world.” He understood what I’m describing. The old hymn still says it better than I can—that in the rustling grass and the birds’ songs, we can hear our Father speak.
I don’t think God minds that my porch has become a kind of sanctuary. I think He built the robin’s song, the cardinal’s flash of red, the sparrow’s steadiness, on purpose—knowing some of us need a wordless choir before we can find our own words.
So on Sunday mornings, before we ever walk through the church doors, Lori and I sit outside a little while. We let the praise team in the trees warm us up. Then we go inside and add our voices to the only choir that can ever really replace it—the gathered, imperfect, beloved body of Christ, singing together.