When the Sky Itself Began to Dance

Every November along the shores of Lough Ennell in County Westmeath, Ireland, something happens that stops travelers mid-step. Hundreds of thousands of starlings rise from the reeds at dusk and move as one body — swooping, spiraling, folding into shapes no choreographer could design. The locals call it a murmuration. No single bird leads. No signal is given. Yet they turn together with such precision that the whole sky seems to pulse with a single breath.

Scientists have studied murmurations for decades and still cannot fully explain how each bird knows exactly when to turn. There is no conductor, no rehearsal, no sheet music. And yet the result is so beautiful that onlookers along the lakeside often find themselves weeping at the sight.

The psalmist who wrote Psalm 98 would have understood. "Let the sea roar, and all that fills it," he sang. "Let the rivers clap their hands; let the hills sing together for joy." This was never mere poetry. It was an observation. Creation already knows how to worship the One who made it. The rivers do not need hymnals. The mountains do not need a choir director. The starlings over an Irish lake do not need a downbeat.

The question Psalm 98 puts to us is simple: If the sky itself can dance in praise of the Almighty, what is holding us back from singing a new song?