There is a song that I love from my formative days, a song by the oft-underrated Waterboys called “Church Not Made With Hands,” a song about the spiritual splendor and overwhelming majesty of the natural world. “Holy,” which sees Jacre joined by Lucie Glang, muses on a similar idea: perhaps what we call holy —what brings us closer to the source of all things and therefore closer to ourselves —is, and always has been, all around us. Why build temples and cathedrals when something even more awe-inspiring is already just beyond our front door?
And if the song is profound in its message, it is also beautiful in its music, drifting in on a flutter of fingerpicked guitar and hushed vocals —a gentle balm for a world frayed at the edges. It doesn’t shout for attention—it breathes, beckons, and merely exists, offering listeners a moment of calm in an age addicted to chaos. It is a song that sounds more as if it is woven from atmosphere and ambiance rather than the usual musical building blocks, a soundtrack to and an extension of the natural world it describes.
Rather than preaching from pulpits or digital platforms, “Holy” finds its sacred ground in the quiet spaces between people, in the rustle of leaves, the setting sun, in shared glances and long silences. It’s less a song and more a whispered invitation—to unplug, to slow down, to remember what it feels like just to be.
Romantic without cliché, spiritual without sermon, it reminds us that in a world screaming for our attention, stillness itself can be an act of rebellion—and love, the purest form of protest.
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