Genesis 18:20-32; Psalm 138; Colossians 2:6-15,(16-19); Luke 11:1-13
The Rev. Drew Brislin
In the name of the one Holy and Undivided Trinity, Amen.
“Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.”
Do you remember when you learned how to pray—or maybe who taught you? I have a memory etched in the back of my mind about the first time I was invited to offer the blessing at a family gathering. It’s likely stuck in my memory because it became one of my dad’s favorite stories to tell about me as I was growing up.
We were in Tuscaloosa at my grandparents’ house—I think it was Thanksgiving, though it could have been another holiday. While the adults were in the kitchen, my brothers and I played in the other room with puzzles and toys. There was also a television, and we loved to watch shows like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and National Geographic. I forget which show we were watching, but we were deeply engrossed in an episode about dolphins. We were glued to the TV like bugs to a blue light and hung onto every word.
The problem, though, is that at the ripe old age of seven, you don’t exactly know what every word means. A few moments later, we were all seated at the appropriate Southern kids’ table while the adults gathered around the big table. For one reason or another, I was invited to offer the blessing. My grandfather, who taught Sunday School at First Presbyterian Church in Tuscaloosa, usually did this, but this time, the honor was handed to seven-year-old me. Fresh from a documentary filled with scientific dolphin language, I felt fully prepared.
I thanked God for my family and for our food, and then I ventured out—like any good theologian—to offer thanks for all the creatures of the earth, especially dolphins… and females. Yes, I thanked God for females in my blessing.
I’ll never forget the response that prayer evoked—laughter and empathy for my earnest attempt.
This morning, the disciples ask Jesus to teach them how to pray. Their request might seem odd, given that they were faithful Jews who would have grown up with a strong prayer tradition. The Old Testament is full of people praying: Abraham prayed for children, David for guidance and victory, Elijah for fire from heaven, and Daniel prayed even when it was forbidden landing him in the lion’s den. Prayer was a central part of Jewish piety. So why do the disciples ask Jesus how to pray?
Throughout the Gospel, Jesus often goes off by himself to pray in private. His prayers are not shared with the disciples, so perhaps they want to know the content of those prayers. But that’s not exactly what they ask. Instead, they ask Jesus how they should pray.
Jesus begins by saying, “When you pray, say…”—implying, first of all, that this is something meant to be repeated. He then instructs them to address God as Abba, or Father—or probably more accurately, Dad or Daddy. Prior to Jesus, this intimate Abba language was avoided in favor of more formal ways of addressing God. Most commentators believe Jesus is conveying that through relationship with Him, we are drawn close to God and can speak to Him as Jesus does.
You’ve probably noticed that we have two versions of the “Our Father” in our Prayer Book. You’ve likely used both, though one is probably etched in your memory more deeply if you are like me. Aside from the one version found in our reading today, another version appears in the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew. From these two sources, through centuries of translation—and perhaps a little transliteration—we have arrived at our current versions of the Lord’s Prayer.
In both forms, the structure remains clear: we begin by addressing and praising God, and then we move into petition. Approaching God as Abba brings intimacy, reminding us that prayer is not about listing our wants, but about seeking the fullness of God’s reign. As Thomas Merton once said, prayer is “communion of our freedom with God’s ultimate freedom.” If God chooses to be known to us through the One who teaches us to pray, then prayer becomes a conversation with a Friend.
Jesus then offers two parables. The first, about a friend seeking food for late-arriving guests, could be called the “Parable of the Pushy Pal.” It encourages persistence in prayer. Often, when our prayers seem unanswered, we are tempted to give up. But in my experience, patience in prayer brings immense value.
The second parable is about asking, seeking, and knocking—and it subtly suggests that anything we think we can offer or request, God can do better. It’s not about prosperity or getting what we want, but about waiting faithfully. True prayer means asking with a willingness to accept not just what we want, but what we truly need—what God knows is best.
As inheritors of these traditions, we are called to help others learn how to pray. What does that look like in your life? I know that when clergy are in the room, it’s easy to defer to them to lead. As a priest, that is indeed part of my role. But I often wonder whether your own prayers and blessings might not be more powerful. Certainly they are more intimate.
While my seven-year-old self was not exactly trained in offering blessings—resulting in that memorable prayer for dolphins and females—I believe my prayer was pleasing to God, because He knew the intention of my heart and desire to thank him for what he had created.
When I talk about prayer, I often refer to our catechism. On page 856 of your Prayer Book, under the section titled “Prayer and Worship,” the first question is: What is prayer?
Prayer is responding to God, by thought and by deeds, with or without words.
Prayer is responding to God. When we go off to pray, when we’re called on to lead prayer, when we find ourselves in seasons that demand a devout prayer life, we are responding to God’s invitation.
The beauty of memorizing the Lord’s Prayer is not that it allows us to recite it faster or participate more often in worship. The beauty is that memorization frees us—to be more open to God’s voice and responsive to His desire for deep relationship with us. That deep relationship is what we were made for, and it is what we are constantly being called back into.
Amen.