Our Father. Our Prayer.

Why is it that Father’s Day always seems to land on the one Sunday I have to work?
 
But here’s the thing, like Mother’s Day, this can be a tricky one for preachers. Some of us have lost their dads, or long to be one.

Some of us carry deep wounds of never knowing their father. Or being hurt or abused by them.

Then there are those whose children have died, or moved on without a phone call or text.

​So today, rather than focusing on earthly fathers, let’s turn our hearts to another one. Our Father. The one who “art in heaven.” 

Most anyone who has spent some time in church can probably recite the Lord’s Prayer by memory. But when was the last time you really sat with it? And heard it the way Jesus’ first followers might have? As an intimate prayer that invites us near, and inspires our imagination. 

​There are two versions of this prayer in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke respectively. But we're going to look at Matthews because, well, it's the first one.

This passage is a part of the Sermon on the Mount—Jesus’ most essential teaching. Everything you need to know about how to live justly and faithfully, is recorded here.

Right in the middle of his lesson, Jesus stops to say, “Here’s how you pray.”

More than words to recite, he gives us this tender invitation home to where we belong - in communion with God and each other.
 
To put this into historical context, Jesus is speaking to everyday people—farmers, fishermen, widows, tax collectors, day laborers, and the like. They weren’t the socialites, or the religious or political leaders at the top of ladder.

These were folks who had been told they weren’t good enough or holy enough or worthy enough to approach God.

“Pray, then, in this way:
Our Father in heaven,
        may your name be revered as holy.

May your kingdom come.

May your will be done
        on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us today our daily bread.

And forgive us our debts,
        as we also have forgiven our debtors.

And do not bring us to the time of trial,
        but rescue us from the evil one.

                                           ​Matthew 6:9-13

Jesus doesn’t play that game of who’s in and who’s out. He invites everyone into the conversation. He says, “When you pray, say this…”

​This invitation begins with just two simple words: Our Father. Not my Father. Not the Father. But Our Father. It’s not a solo prayer—but a communal conversation. Before we’ve said another word, Jesus reminds us of our kinship. We are all God’s beloved children. God is, our “Father.”
 
Here, Jesus uses the word Abba—that Aramaic word we talked about last week. Often translated as Daddy, Abba is less of a word and more of sound anyone, in any language, could make. Ahhh-baaa. It’s an intimate sound of trust a baby makes reaching for their parent’s hand.
 
Jesus is inviting everyone to reimagine their relationship with God! Not as some cold, distant parent who hurts or abandons you. But as the one who waits up in the middle of the night to make sure you get home safely. And no matter where you were, or what you did, still embraces you and loves you … no questions asked.
 
Now I have a great relationship with my own father. But it took half my life to get there. When I was 30 and found myself in a dark place, it was my Dad who showed up. Even though he had no experience in what I was going through, he flew across the country just to say, “I’m here with you.”

That changed everything. Now, as a father, I see how presence is the most powerful form of love I can offer my kids.
 
This prayer offers us that. An intimate relationship with God who is always present. An Abba Father we can count on. A love that runs after us and claims us and names us: beloved. Jesus emphasizes this point when he adds, “in heaven” to the prayer.
 
To some, this might sound like God is far off, unreachable. But in the Hebrew imagination, “heaven” wasn’t a hard-to-find address in a galaxy far, far away. Heaven was understood as the place where the fullness of God was present. Where God’s love is complete. Jesus’ audience might have heard it more like, “Our Father, who fills the space between us with love.”
 
As scripture teaches, wherever God shows up for us, that space is made holy. So, when Jesus adds, “Hallowed be your name” he’s not flattering God. He’s teaching us to recognize and realign ourselves with God. To make every space we enter…holy and sacred … all because God’s presence is within us.
 
In preparing for this message, I learned the early mystics often prayed this prayer more like a desire than a statement. I read one prayer that began like this: “Our father, here with us, may my life actions carry the fragrance of your holiness.”
 
Again, Jesus is giving us an invitation to participate in heaven, here on earth. He’s awakening our imagination that leads to transformation. 
 
In a divided and angry world full of shouting and shaming, we honor God’s name by choosing to reflect God’s holiness—in the ways we love God, love others, and serve both.

That vision we’ve set for the church is the best summary of this entire sermon on the mount. When our prayers and lives become the same thing, God’s kingdom comes; God’s will is done; on earth as it is in heaven.
 
Jesus isn’t asking us to escape the world—he’s inviting us to participate in it, to transform it. To walk in the presence of God, seeking justice and equality, doing good to one another, caring for those who cannot care for themselves. This is where things get a little messy.
 
Some of those folks who showed up to hear Jesus speak wanted a political revolution. They were looking for someone to liberate them from Rome. But Jesus is a different kind of king. Armed with compassion and mercy. His kingdom is incarnation. One where the fullness of God becomes fully alive in human form.
 
This prayer silently asks us: What if Anamesa became the place where heaven touched earth? What if we became people who feed the hungry?  Comfort the grieving? Bless the poor? Isn’t this God’s will for us? And why we pray that it may be done?
 
Jesus believes it can be. And so, the prayer switches to a tender request: Give us our daily bread. The original Greek is more accurately translated as “give us today’s bread for today.”

This request is packed full of all sorts of goodness. But without getting into too much, note this is both literal and metaphorical bread. In short, it asks God to give us what we need right now, in this moment, to do what we’re being asked to do.
 
Notice Jesus doesn’t say my bread—he says our bread. Again, it’s communal. Which means if someone around us is still hungry, the prayer isn’t finished. What we ask God to provide for us, Jesus is asking the same from us.

This kingdom comes alive when we trust God not just for what we need, but when we trust enough to give what we have, and love one another without counting the cost. If we can love like that, we can forgive like that too.
 
In this prayer, Jesus makes us both the forgiven and the forgiver. He’s essentially saying, if you ask for mercy, live mercifully. And if you receive grace, pass it on. This sounds simple enough. But again, it’s revolutionary because it means giving up our rights to get even.
 
Jesus is offering us a way to break the vicious cycles of hurt that leads to more hurt. He speaks against eye-for-an-eye thinking. And calls us to a way of a life that turns the other cheek, that refuses to judge, condemn, or retaliate.

​I think this is what it means to live a way that doesn’t lead to temptation. And a way that delivers us from doing evil stuff to one another.
 
So when someone hurts you deeply and you want them to hurt them back, Jesus says, “Pray like this.”

Because when hate is loud and hope feels small, this prayer can guide us out of the cycles that keep us from building a community of love. We would be wise not to rush through this prayer. But to devour and savor every delicious word Jesus serves us.
 
When you’re angry with God, or fed up with religion, lost or doubt your faith, or simply don’t have the words, Jesus says, “Pray like this.” He’s given us a language to speak to God honestly— with deep trust and faith.
 
Whenever I can’t sleep, I sit with these words—slowly letting each line become a sacred space I fill with names, needs, and hopes. When I say, “Give us our daily bread”—I pause and pray for those I know who are hungry: physically, emotionally, spiritually.  This allows the words to settle in my heart, connecting me to God and to those I’m holding in love.
 
Even when the words don’t come easily, this prayer stirs my imagination. And grounds me to my divine belonging as a beloved child of our holy Daddy.
 
I invite you to make this prayer more than words on your lips. Make it the breath in your lungs, the rhythm in your walk, the fire in your heart. Make it be the very thing that awakens the love of God in you. And in the world.
 
Where "thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, now and forevermore."