We light this chalice
for the sacred that walks unshod through alleyways,
that leans against brick walls, with smoke on its breath,
that hums in neon flicker and bus exhaust.
This flame burns
for the holiness found in dirty hands,
in cracked voices,
in those moments of sudden stillness
between sirens and footsteps.
Not every sanctuary has walls—
some are made of shadow and asphalt,
some are stitched together
from longing, kindness, and sheer survival.
We light this flame to remember:
divinity does not always wear white.
Sometimes, it wears denim;
sometimes, it looks like a stranger
holding the door just a moment longer.
It burns to show us what is real.
Note: These chalice lighting words pair well with the chalice extinguishing “Where Holiness Is Hard to See.”