Summary of my sermon, based on Luke 11:1-13. Preached at Greenhills Christian Fellowship Toronto on April 13, 2025.
It’s funny how easily we can overlook what’s right in front of us just because it’s familiar. A friend of mine who’s been living in Japan for years admitted that I, as a tourist, had seen more of his adopted home than he had. I think the same could be said for a lot of us and our own city. We miss the wonder, the beauty, the significance of things simply because we’ve seen them too often. And sometimes, that same kind of dullness happens with Scripture—especially with passages we know by heart, like the Lord’s Prayer. That’s why looking at the version in Luke 11 is so refreshing. It’s a little different than the version we’re used to from Matthew 6, and that difference wakes us up to its meaning again.
In Luke 11, Jesus is responding to a personal request from one of His disciples: “Lord, teach us to pray.” It’s not a sermon to the crowds like in Matthew; it’s a conversation with someone close to Him. That context matters. It tells us that prayer isn’t just a performance or a public discipline—it’s relational. It’s intimate. And the very first word Jesus uses shows us just how intimate prayer is supposed to be: “Father.” That one word would have shocked the disciples. The God whose name was so holy it couldn’t even be spoken aloud is being addressed like a parent? This wasn’t how people talked to God. In fact, throughout the Old Testament, God is only referred to as “Father” about fifteen times, and almost always in the collective sense—as the Father of Israel. Jesus, on the other hand, refers to God as Father around 250 times in the New Testament. And each time, it carries a sense of closeness that had never been seen before.
But just because Jesus invites us to intimacy with God doesn’t mean we lose our reverence. That’s the tension we often get wrong. I remember hearing someone open a public prayer with “Hey God,” and it struck me—even as a teenager—as disrespectful. It felt like the pendulum had swung too far in the direction of casual. Then there’s the idea of calling God “Daddy,” based on the Aramaic word “Abba.” But that term was used not just by little children but by adults as well—it wasn’t baby talk; it was just the everyday word for “father.” So yes, God is close. Yes, He is familiar. But He is still God. That’s why the next line matters so much: “Hallowed be your name.” To hallow something is to set it apart, to recognize its sacredness. We’re not making God holy by saying this; we’re acknowledging His holiness. We are worshiping.
That distinction between praise and worship is subtle but important. Praise celebrates what God has done—His works, His blessings, His victories. Worship, on the other hand, is about who He is—His character, His nature. And both have their place in prayer. Praise can prepare our hearts for worship. It helps us focus on God’s character by reflecting on how His character has shown up in our lives. When we say, “Hallowed be your name,” we’re doing just that—we’re stepping into worship, affirming God’s holiness, and aligning our hearts with who He is.
Then we move to “Your kingdom come.” This is where our longing for God’s rule comes into play. It’s an act of trust—a declaration that we believe in His justice, His order, and His plan. We know His kingdom is already here in part, and we’re also waiting for the day when it will come in full. This line holds both present faith and future hope. It reminds us that we’re living in the “already and not yet” of God’s reign. And it realigns us—it pulls our eyes off our own agendas and toward God’s bigger picture.
“Give us each day our daily bread.” This is about provision, yes, but it’s also about dependence. Every day we come to God, acknowledging that He is the one who sustains us. It echoes Philippians 4:19, which promises that God will supply all our needs. Not our wants. Not our fantasies. But what we need. And the fact that Jesus tells us to ask for daily bread, not a lifetime supply, is a reminder that our relationship with God is meant to be ongoing, constant, daily.
“Forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone who is indebted to us.” This part shifts the focus to our relationships—with God and with others. Asking for forgiveness is one thing—but Jesus links it directly to how we treat other people. If we truly understand the grace we’ve been shown, it will overflow in grace toward others. Like in the parable in Matthew 18, the one who’s been forgiven much should be the first to extend mercy. It’s a gut-check for us. Are we holding grudges while asking God for grace?
And finally, “Lead us not into temptation.” This isn’t just a plea to avoid difficulty. It’s a recognition of our weakness. It’s an honest admission that we need God’s help to stay on the path. 1 Corinthians 10:13 assures us that God won’t let us be tempted beyond what we can bear—but we still need to ask for that strength. We still need to be humble enough to say, “God, I can’t do this on my own.”
So this prayer that might feel overly familiar suddenly becomes a rich framework for how we relate to God. It’s not just a script—it’s an outline. A way to approach God with the right heart: as children who are both loved and in awe. Who trust Him with our daily needs, with our future, and with our hearts. Who come to Him intimately, but never casually. Who praise Him, worship Him, and want His name to be made holy—not just in our words, but in our lives.
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