“And when you pray, do not heap up empty phrases as bthe Gentiles do, for cthey think that they will be heard dfor their many words. Do not be like them, efor your Father knows what you need before you ask him. Pray then like this:
“Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our debts,
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.”
Isn’t it strange how even something as simple as prayer is something we humans can complicate? Sitting down, folding our hands, and spending time with God—throughout history, we’ve often made that more difficult than it needs to be.
Last Sunday, I said something along the lines of: to have a relationship with God—which is something He desires with all His heart—we may need to choose to spend time with Him. In prayer, in Scripture, and in Christian community. The real question isn’t whether God is near to you, but whether you’re able to trust and believe that He always is.
Prayer is a beautiful way to nurture and grow our relationship with God. It was through prayer that Jesus spoke most deeply with His Father.
One of the problems during Jesus’ time—and still today—is that prayer often becomes about performance. People wonder: Should I fold my hands? Raise them in the air? Should I use certain words? Should I sound a certain way?
In Jesus’ time, public prayer was sometimes used to show off one’s piety—to prove how holy and devout someone was. But when prayer becomes about image, it’s no longer about connecting with God. The focus turns inward, on the self, rather than upward, to God.
Personally, I’ve often felt inadequate in prayer—especially in communities where open, spontaneous prayer is the norm. When I attend pastors’ gatherings with people from other Christian traditions, it’s not uncommon to hear shouts of “hallelujah” and “amen” during prayer.
And as a pastor, there’s this expectation that I’ll always have the perfect words. People tell me I do, but it doesn’t always feel that way. When I’m asked to pray out loud in front of others, I often feel like I fall short. But really, that’s nonsense. Prayer isn’t about the words or how well-spoken they are. It’s about who we’re praying to.
What I feel when I pray doesn’t determine whether I pray or not. It’s my job to pray. And many tell me that it means something to them—that it brings them peace or comfort.
My point isn’t that it’s wrong to feel something during prayer, or to not feel something. But that how we feel or how we appear is secondary. What matters is placing what we bring in prayer into God’s hands—and trusting that He will do what He wills with it. Whether it brings peace to someone’s heart, builds faith, or extends grace—that’s up to God. It’s not something we can control.
That’s why I’m so fond of the Lord’s Prayer—what we today call “Our Father.” Whether or not you know what to pray for, this prayer is more than enough.
If you were to pray only one prayer for the rest of your life, this one—taught to us by Jesus—should be it.
Let’s briefly reflect on the prayer:
It begins with a declaration of belonging and identity: “Our Father in heaven.” A reminder that we are all God’s children and that He is holy. It reflects the first commandment: to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind.
Then we pray that heaven would come to earth—that God’s goodness would fill our world: “Your kingdom come.” That His will, not evil, war, hunger, or injustice, would be done.
Next, it moves into the everyday: “Give us today our daily bread.” It’s a simple request for the essentials—food, shelter, care. A reminder that while we live by faith, we also need physical nourishment.
The Salvation Army has a great motto: “It’s hard to get saved on an empty stomach.” As humans, we have basic needs—food and water, but also community. Bread is often shared with others.
But this part of the prayer isn’t just about physical needs. In Communion, we receive bread and wine—and in that, Christ is truly present. It’s spiritual nourishment too. We become part of Christ’s body.
In Matthew 4:4, Jesus says:
“Man shall not live on bread alone,
but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”
Then comes what might be the hardest part for us humans—acknowledging that we are sinners. We ask for forgiveness not because we think we’ve done nothing wrong, but because we know we have.
We all carry guilt and sin. According to Lutheran theology, sin is both something we are and something we do. The goal isn’t to avoid all sin and earn a prize—heaven isn’t a reward for good behavior.
No, it’s the recognition that we all fall short—even the pastor—and that the only way out of sin is through Jesus Christ. Not by our actions, but by faith in Him alone.
Jesus then shows just how well He knows us. We all want forgiveness for our own mistakes, but we often struggle to forgive those who’ve wronged us.
It may seem like God’s forgiveness is dependent on how much we forgive others—but it’s really the other way around. When we receive God’s forgiveness, it can lead us to forgive others in return.
The prayer ends with a plea for protection: “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” It’s not God who tempts or causes evil—something many have mistakenly believed. Rather, we ask Him to shield us from it.
It’s understandable why some older generations might think otherwise. The 1930 translation of the Lord’s Prayer said: “Lead us not into temptation.” But today’s version rightly says: “Do not let us fall into temptation”—a more faithful rendering of the original text.
Then there’s the final line:
“For Yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.”
This isn’t found in the original biblical manuscripts but was likely added early on by the Church. It’s a doxology—an extended “Amen” from the early liturgies. Jesus didn’t say it, and Catholics don’t include it in their version. Still, it’s a beautiful and truthful ending, even if it wasn’t part of Jesus’ original prayer.
So, if you’re ever wondering whether you’re praying “right” or “enough,” stop trying to make it a performance. The Lord’s Prayer is sufficient. It’s not the only prayer you must pray, but in many ways, it’s the only one you truly need.
A church service isn’t complete without it.
But is prayer always just prayer? Are there different types?
Yes, and they can generally be grouped into three types:
- Personal Prayer – This is when you pray to God about your own life, family, struggles, hopes. A private, intimate conversation with God.
- Contemplative Prayer – A quiet prayer, often with few or no words. A time of simply being in God’s presence. Maybe you light a candle, sit in silence, and thank God for His goodness. You don’t need to perform—just be with Him.
- Liturgical Prayer – This is what we do together every Sunday. We don’t pray as individuals but as a body, with Christ as our head. When we pray the intercessory prayer, I turn my back to you—not out of disrespect, but to symbolize that we, together, are speaking to God.
Still, there are times when even praying the Lord’s Prayer feels hard. I said earlier that spontaneous prayer can be difficult for me—but I’ve never found it hard to sit and pray quietly.
For years, I’ve prayed when I wake up, before I sleep, and many times throughout the day. Quietly, within myself—when walking, working, running. It’s been natural, almost effortless.
But here in San Francisco, it’s felt different. Personally, I’ve found it much harder to pray. Like walking into the wind. It’s taken effort. I don’t know if it’s something in the air or just how busy the church is—so many tasks, so many thoughts. It’s not that I forget to pray—I just find it hard to gather myself.
“Prayer in syrup” is the best image I can give for this past month.
At the same time, I’ve seen how well we welcome people here at the Seamen’s Church—offering coffee, waffles, conversation, and the view from the balcony.
But I’ve noticed that very few make their way down to this chapel space. And it’s no wonder—there’s no sign indicating it’s even here, except one for the toilets.
That’s going to change.
We will keep being warm and welcoming—but we also need to be more clearly a church. A house of prayer, here in San Francisco.
So, we’re making a few small changes. Signs have already been ordered to show that this is a chapel. We’ll turn the gallery into a playroom and eventually a space for Sunday school. (Yes, we’ll still have the toilets!)
We’ll also open the chapel during church hours for prayer and quiet reflection. We’ll set up 3–4 prayer stations—with candles, Bible verses, blessings.
The details aren’t all finalized. These are small steps, but the idea is this: we’re not just a church on Sundays at 11. The chapel must be a place of prayer on all the days we’re open.
We’ll start small. When the signs arrive next week, we’ll launch with a couple of prayer stations and grow from there.
Because this is what Jesus encourages us to do in Matthew 6:6:
“But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen.”
We want this house—this chapel—to be a place of prayer where anyone can come in, find
stillness, and pray the Lord’s Prayer. The prayer Jesus gave us.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit—
as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,
one true God, forever and ever. Amen.