Living Psalm 98 for November 9, Sam Houser

Sing a new song, O my soul—
not because the old songs have faded,
but because the world has cracked beneath them.
The seas rise in protest, the forests whisper in grief,
the nations rage and unravel, and even the sky mourns its own dimming.

We have worshiped convenience and called it blessing.
We have extracted life from the earth and named it progress.
We have crowned cruelty with policy and called it order.
Yet still—the Holy One breathes somewhere in the rubble.
Still—there is melody left in our lungs.

So sing a new song, not of triumph, but of truth.
Sing in the language of repair, in the rhythm of mercy,
in the trembling key of “we are not done yet.”
Sing when you pass a neighbor’s garden and see something green still growing.
Sing when you pour clean water into a glass.
Sing when you watch the sun slide across your kitchen table.
Sing when a child’s laughter interrupts your despair.
Sing when the news burns your throat and yet—you choose to show up anyway.
Sing when you recycle,
when you write your senator,
when you hold the hand of someone who’s grieving,
when you rest your weary body without apology.

Let the new song rise from the cracks of what was—
from composted dreams and broken systems,
from kindness too small to trend but large enough to heal.

The rivers still clap their hands, though slower now.
The mountains hum their low lament.
And somewhere between the weeping and the waiting,
the Holy One hums along—
a melody of becoming,
a harmony for the not-yet-healed.

So sing, beloved community, sing.
Not because the pain is gone,
but because the song is what keeps us human.
Because every note of justice,
every chord of tenderness,
every verse of courage
is God—
still composing through us.