The Night the Fireflies Sang in Unison

Every June in the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, thousands of visitors gather in Elkmont to witness something science still struggles to fully explain. Photinus carolinus — synchronous fireflies — begin their mating display, and within minutes, entire hillsides pulse with light in perfect rhythm. Flash. Darkness. Flash. Darkness. Thousands of tiny creatures, none of them conducting, none of them rehearsing, lighting up the forest in a coordinated chorus of cold fire.

Park rangers describe the crowd's reaction the same way every year. First, stunned silence. Then gasps. Then something close to reverence. Strangers sitting on blankets in the dark, watching a forest worship without being asked.

The psalmist who wrote Psalm 98 would have understood that hillside perfectly. "Let the rivers clap their hands, let the mountains sing together for joy." This was never metaphor to the Hebrew poets. They genuinely believed creation carried a song inside it — that the seas roared not randomly but responsively, that the hills had something to declare.

And the reason for the song? The Almighty has done marvelous things. His righteousness has been revealed not to one tribe or tradition but to all the ends of the earth.

Those fireflies do not know they are preaching. But every June, they remind us that the whole created order is already mid-chorus. The only question Psalm 98 asks is whether we will join in and sing the new song.