This Sunday’s Gospel starts with a deceptively simple question: “Lord, teach us to pray.” Not, “How do we work miracles?” or “Can you sort out the Romans?” Just: “Teach us to pray.”

Now that’s a proper Catholic question if ever there was one. You can almost hear the subtext: “We’ve been doing this wrong, haven’t we?”

The disciples had watched Jesus praying—off by Himself, sometimes very early, often in silence, always with a deep peace. And they realised: whatever He’s doing, we need to do.

So they ask. And Jesus doesn’t give them a seminar, a handout, or a theological lecture. He gives them a prayer. The Our Father. Just a few lines. But it turns the world upside down.

And it’s worth saying: some people think set prayers aren’t very “authentic.” That real prayer should be off-the-cuff, raw and unscripted—like a jazz solo for Jesus. But here’s the thing: Jesus didn’t say, “Go with whatever feels right.” He said, “When you pray, say this.” This isn’t a suggestion. It’s divine instruction.

Set prayers aren’t second-class. They’re tested, steady, rooted. They carry us when our own words run out. On days when your head’s foggy and your heart’s a bit off—thank God the Church gives us words.  Some say, “I don’t need the Church to pray.” But Christ gave us the Church so we could learn how. The Mass, the Rosary, the Divine Office, the Our Father—they’re not spiritual stabilisers. They’re the deep tradition of the Church doing what she does best: helping her children speak to the Father. Novenas and litanies—these are not empty repetitions, but treasures drawn from centuries of sanctity. They are soaked in Scripture and sanctified by saints.

St Paul wrote: “We do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit Himself intercedes with sighs too deep for words” (Romans 8:26). And when we haven’t even got sighs—well, that’s what the Church’s prayers are for.

Today’s world is obsessed with authenticity-as-emotion. If I don’t feel it, it’s not real. But the saints tell us that prayer is not about emotional fireworks. It is about fidelity. Even when dry, prayer is fruitful. Even when distracted, God is listening. The Church, in her wisdom, teaches us that the efficacy of prayer is not in how we feel, but in Who we speak to—and whether we persevere.

But let’s be clear: this doesn’t mean we avoid personal, unscripted prayer. Far from it. The Our Father isn’t meant to replace your own words — it’s meant to shape them.

It teaches us how to approach God: with love, honesty, reverence, and trust. After all, the same God who hears the Church’s formal prayer also listens when you whisper, “Help me,” or “Thank You,” or even “I don’t know what to say.”

So yes — pray with the Church, pray the prayers the saints prayed. But don’t forget: the Father also wants to hear your voice. No perfect phrasing required. Just speak. He’s listening.

“Our Father.” We’re not praying to some vague energy or spiritual force—we’re praying to the Father of Jesus Christ.

Through Him, in the Holy Spirit, we get to call God “Dad.” That’s not sentiment—that’s adoption. Baptism made you His. And we don’t pray alone—it’s not “my” Father, it’s our Father. We pray as the Church, in the Church, with the Church. Even if you’re alone in your kitchen with a cuppa, you’re praying in communion with saints, angels, and maybe half your aunties.

“Hallowed be thy name.” We’re not reminding God He’s holy—He knows. We’re reminding ourselves that He comes first.

That His name isn’t something to throw around when we stub our toe or for football commentary. To hallow His name means to honour Him with our lives—even in traffic.

“Thy kingdom come.” Dangerous words, these. We’re asking God to reign—not just in heaven, but in our homes, work and everywhere we are. And that means handing in our own little empires. The Kingdom of God isn’t built on ego or comfort. It starts small—like a mustard seed—but it grows. Even here.

“Thy will be done.” Not “here’s my five-year plan, Lord—please rubber stamp it.” We’re saying: Your will, not mine. And if that sounds scary, remember—God’s will isn’t harsh. It’s holy. It’s the only thing that leads to peace. Still, it can be hard—because surrender means trust, and trust means admitting we’re not always in charge (despite our best efforts).

“Give us this day our daily bread.” This isn’t about riches or planning our pension. It’s about now. Grace for today. And yes, the Church sees the Eucharist here. This line isn’t just about Hovis—it’s about Jesus, the Bread of Life, given at every altar. You want daily strength? Start with daily Mass (or at least, daily prayer and a biscuit).

“Forgive us… as we forgive.” This one stings a bit. Because we’re asking God to forgive us the way we forgive others. Which means if you’re still harbouring that grudge from 2015, it might be time to let go. Mercy isn’t optional in the Christian life—it’s the air we breathe. Forgive, not because they deserve it, but because we didn’t either.

And what does that look like in real life? Sometimes it means swallowing our pride and saying sorry—even if we think they were more in the wrong. Sometimes it’s choosing not to bring it up again.

Sometimes it’s letting someone sit in your pew without passive-aggressively coughing. And yes, sometimes it’s asking for the grace to forgive someone who’s not even sorry. Forgiveness is hard. But holding on to bitterness is harder. It corrodes. Mercy frees.

“Lead us not into temptation… but deliver us from evil.” We’re not saying God’s out to trip us up—He isn’t. We’re admitting we need help. The world, the flesh, and the devil are real, and temptation knocks loudly, often right before dinner. This line is spiritual armour. Say it like you mean it.

Then Jesus gives us a story. A mate goes knocking on his friend’s door at midnight asking for bread. The friend’s in bed, kids are down, lights off—but the knocking keeps coming. And finally, he gets up.

Now Jesus isn’t saying God’s like a grumpy neighbour. He’s saying if even your sleepy friend will help, how much more will your heavenly Father respond?

And this is key: God doesn’t mind the knocking. He wants you to ask. And keep asking. Prayer isn’t pestering—it’s persevering. Not because God is reluctant, but because prayer stretches the soul. It deepens our desire. It gets us ready to receive.

Now let’s talk Abraham. The original holy haggler. He hears that God’s about to smite Sodom and immediately starts negotiating: “If there are 50 righteous, will you spare it? 45? 40? 30? 10?” It’s like a divine game of Deal or No Deal.

And God listens. Patiently. Kindly. But in the end, Sodom still falls. Only four make it out—and one of them looks back and gets turned into a pillar of salt. The others? Let’s just say they’re not going to be on stained glass anytime soon.

Abraham’s intercession was noble. But it wasn’t enough. Because what we really needed wasn’t a negotiator. We needed a Saviour.  Where Abraham interceded for the righteous few, Jesus dies for sinners, for enemies, for us.

Jesus is that Saviour. He doesn’t just pray for us—He is the prayer. On the Cross, He offers the perfect intercession: “Father, forgive them.” And heaven responds. No haggling. No bartering. Just mercy.

Then comes the line that shifts everything: “How much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask?”

That’s the real gift. Not just stuff or success—but the Spirit of God. The love between the Father and the Son, poured into our hearts. If prayer’s about getting close to God, the Holy Spirit is what makes that possible.

So what do we do?

• Pray. Daily. Even if it’s while the kettle’s boiling.
• Say the Our Father. Slowly. Like you mean it.
• Ask boldly. God can take it. Don’t hold back.
• Ask for the Holy Spirit. He’s the One who changes hearts.
• Forgive. Because mercy unblocks grace.

Prayer isn’t about performance. You don’t need the voice of a prophet or the piety of a Carmelite nun. You just need honesty. Just saying “Father” is enough. Because He’s already listening. He always has been.

So go on—knock. Even if it’s midnight. Even if your heart’s a bit wonky and your words are a mess. The Father is home. The door is open. And the light’s still on.