TWENTY-SIXTH AFTER PENTECOST 2016 PSALM 98 I made a trip to the Susquehanna this week. I was a man on a mission. I parked on the West Shore, and strode purposefully onto Market Street bridge and listened. Because I was all about listening. I stood many feet above the river, leant over the railings and turned my head sideways to the water to try to catch as many decibels I could. But the sound I was hoping to discern was drowned out by the traffic. So, I persevered, and continued my search to City Island, where I could be nearer the water and away from the cars and trucks.

I found a spot where I could be really close to the river, and I crouched down and listened hard. Of course, there are different kinds of listening. There's the listening you do when the cabin crew on the plane are explaining the safety drill, i.e. not very much; the kind you do when you are sitting in class waiting for the teacher to stop droning on so you can go to recess, i.e. not at all. But this was real listening. Like, 'turn off the TV, sit forward in your chair and truly take in what is said' listening. Quiet, intent, passionate listening. (Long pause….) Nothing. Well, not quite nothing. There was a splosh, a splash, a splish, a slop, a bubble, a babble, a gurgle, a gargle. A squirt, a squelch, a squish. But I wasn't there for those sounds. That's what you'd expect to hear. The Susquehanna, the Nile, the Rhine, they all speak those same words. I've heard rivers talk a thousand times. Sometimes they crash, sometimes they whisper. What I was hoping to hear – for the first time in my life – was a river not speaking, but clapping. Clapping its hands. Leaving its bed, rising to its feet, and giving a rousing round of applause. But the Susquehanna simply muttered a few shallow, splashy sounds and continued its serene meander to the Chesapeake Bay.

So I wonder what it sounds like when a river claps its hands. When mighty waters are..... (Read the full Sermon here: New Day, New Song, New Spirit.pdf ) Mount Calvary, Camp Hill