The Gospel we hear this Sunday opens with a deeply human and profoundly important request: “Lord, teach us to pray.” It is a request made by one of the disciples who had observed Jesus often withdrawing to pray—sometimes before dawn, sometimes in solitude, always with intensity and peace. The disciples recognised something vital in His prayer. They saw that it was not a mere duty or routine, but a relationship—a lifeline.

And so, in the most genuine expression of spiritual hunger, they asked, “Teach us.” They didn’t ask Him to teach them how to perform miracles or preach sermons. They wanted to know how to speak to God as He did. That is where true discipleship begins.

This Gospel gives us three major lessons:

The Our Father as the model of all Christian prayer

The need for persistence in prayer

The certainty of the Father’s goodness

Let us explore each of these in the light of our Catholic faith.

When Jesus responds to the disciple’s request, He gives what we now call the “Our Father”—a prayer so central that it is recited at every Mass, included in every Rosary, and found in every catechism. But it is far more than a formula—it is a blueprint for living as a child of God.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church devotes an entire section to the Lord’s Prayer (CCC 2759–2865), reminding us that it is the summary of the whole Gospel. Every petition is deeply theological and personal:

We address God as Father, not in abstraction, but as adopted sons and daughters in Christ. This is no small thing: we have been made children of God by grace, and prayer is our conversation with the One who truly knows and loves us.

We hallow His name, not only by our words, but by the holiness of our lives. We pray for His Kingdom, not merely in some distant future, but here and now—in our hearts, homes, and parishes.

We ask for our daily bread, and the Church has always seen in this a Eucharistic resonance: not just the bread for our tables, but the Bread of Heaven that we receive in Holy Communion. We are asking, at the deepest level, to be sustained by Christ Himself.

We beg forgiveness—and bind that to our willingness to forgive others. It is a reminder that receiving mercy requires extending mercy.

We pray for protection against temptation, recognising that the Christian life is a daily spiritual battle, and that we are never strong enough alone.

Now here’s where Abraham quietly wanders in. In Genesis 18, we see Abraham speaking with the Lord — not grovelling, not hiding — but actually reasoning with Him. Bargaining, really. “What if there are fifty righteous? Forty-five? Forty? Thirty? Twenty? Ten?” It’s like watching someone reverse-auction the wrath of God. And God doesn’t smite him for the cheek — He listens. Patiently. Lovingly.

Abraham’s confidence came from knowing he was speaking with Someone who was not only powerful but good.

The Our Father picks up that same tone. Not a transaction, not a list of spiritual Amazon orders — but a child speaking to their Father, with confidence in His love.

We hallow His name — not to remind God who He is, but to remind us.

We ask for His Kingdom — because frankly, we’ve seen what happens when ours is in charge.

We ask for daily bread — not cake, not tomorrow’s bonus, but just today’s grace.

We ask for forgiveness — and we promise to forgive, which is often the harder bit.

We pray for protection — not because the world is safe, but because we know Who walks with us.

It’s the prayer of children who trust that God really does know best — and is listening.

The Our Father is not meant to be rattled off mechanically. It is to be meditated upon, lived out, and allowed to shape our desires. The saints often spent long periods praying this one prayer slowly. As St. Teresa of Avila said, if we truly understood what we were saying in the Lord’s Prayer, we would never rush through it.

After giving this model prayer, Jesus tells a brief parable—one that reveals something crucial about how we approach God.

He describes a man who receives a visitor at night and, lacking food, goes to knock on his neighbour’s door at midnight. At first the neighbour refuses—but eventually, moved by the man’s persistence, he rises to help.  Jesus is not saying God is like a grumpy neighbour. He’s saying: if even a tired, grumpy human will respond to persistence, how much more will your Father in heaven, who actually loves you?

Our Lord uses this image to teach that perseverance in prayer is not nagging—it is faith. God is not like the sleepy neighbour reluctant to answer. Quite the contrary. But He wants us to be truly invested—to desire what we ask, to grow in trust, to be open to receiving not only what we want, but what we truly need.

The Catechism reminds us: “Prayer is both a gift of grace and a determined response on our part. It always presupposes effort” (CCC 2725). Persistence is not about changing God’s mind—it’s about opening our hearts so that He can change us.  Prayer isn’t spiritual magic. It’s not a vending machine. It’s relationship — which means showing up, again and again, even when it’s hard.

So many of the faithful give up on prayer when they do not receive what they ask for quickly. But God’s timing is not ours. He may delay to deepen our desire, to draw us closer, to teach us something greater. Some of the most beautiful answers to prayer come not when we expect them, but when we are finally ready to receive them.

Jesus then offers a comparison: what human father would give his child a snake instead of a fish, or a scorpion instead of an egg? If even flawed, earthly fathers can be generous, how much more will our heavenly Father give to His children?

And then comes the real key: “How much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him?”

This is the goal of all true prayer: not simply to receive material blessings or emotional consolation, but to be filled with the very life of God.

The Holy Spirit is the greatest gift the Father can give, because through the Spirit we are united to Christ, made holy, strengthened in virtue, consoled in suffering, and inflamed with love.

And yet — when we pray — how often do we assume God might be holding back? As if His love is conditional, or His grace rationed.

Jesus wants us to know: the Father’s answer to our prayer is not always what we expect — but it is always good. And more than that — it is Himself.

Even Abraham, for all his holy haggling, couldn’t have imagined that the true answer to all intercession would be God becoming man and dwelling among us — not to destroy cities, but to save them. Despite his bold prayers, only four people actually walked out of Sodom. And even then, one looked back and perished. The three who remained — Lot and his daughters — were far from shining examples of holiness. Abraham’s intercession was genuine and courageous, but it could only go so far. What he began in hopeful pleading, God would one day fulfil completely in Christ: not just sparing a few from judgment, but offering salvation to all, by entering into our world and bearing our sin Himself.

Too often we limit our prayers to practical concerns—health, success, resolution of problems. These are real and worthy intentions. But do we ask for the Holy Spirit? Do we pray for holiness, wisdom, courage, and a heart open to the will of God? St. Augustine once said, “God is always trying to give good things to us, but our hands are too full to receive them.” Sometimes we need to pray not for more things, but for more space in our hearts.

So how do we live this Gospel in practice?  Make time for prayer daily. Prayer is not a luxury for saints—it is the lifeblood of the soul. A few minutes in the morning, at night, or before the Blessed Sacrament can reorient your whole life.

Pray the Our Father slowly and attentively. Don’t just recite it—meditate on it. Each line is a doorway into deeper communion.

Persevere, even when prayer feels dry. The saints often endured long periods of spiritual dryness. What matters is fidelity. God is working even when we cannot feel it.

Pray for the Holy Spirit. Before making a decision, before a difficult conversation, or simply each morning, ask: “Come, Holy Spirit.” This is not a prayer God will ever ignore.

Forgive from the heart. If we are to call God “Father,” we must live as His children—marked by mercy, not bitterness.

Prayer is not just part of the Christian life—it is the expression of it. It is through prayer that we grow in faith, that we receive grace, that we discover who God is and who we are. The disciples asked, “Lord, teach us to pray.” That remains the prayer of the Church in every age. Let it be your prayer this week. Let it be mine.

And when we pray with open hearts we can be sure of this: the Father does not just hear — He gives. And what He gives is not gold, not ease, but Himself.