Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
Peace be with you, from our community at Our Lady of Silence Abbey.
We live in a world thick with noise. The clatter of constant updates, the swell of opinions, and the hum of modern restlessness. But, amid it all, there comes a quiet voice — a request, gentle but urgent:
“Lord, teach us to pray.”
That’s where today’s Gospel begins. Not with a sermon or a miracle, but with a longing. The disciples saw Jesus praying, and something about His stillness — His presence — moved them to ask: Teach us to do what You do. Teach us to rest where You rest. Teach us to speak to the Father like sons.
Christ responds, not with a lecture, but with a gift — the words of the Our Father. Short, simple, unpretentious. And yet within those few lines lies the whole mystery of our faith.
“When you pray, say: Father…”
Just that word — Father — is radical. In Aramaic, Jesus used Abba — not a stiff, distant title, but an intimate, tender word. Like a child saying Dad. We have lost the importance of this first line of the famous prayer, as it has long switched over to sound too formal – quite the opposite of what Jesus intended.
Jesus invites us to speak to God not as subjects, not as strangers, but as beloved sons and daughters. This prayer is not a formula. It is a relationship. It is not meant to be rattled off — it’s meant to be entered into.
And what follows is striking in its trust:
Give us… forgive us… lead us…
Not one of these is a demand. They are all confessions of dependence. In the Our Father, we learn not to pretend. We bring our hungers, our guilt, our fears — and we lay them honestly before the one who is already looking on us with love.
And yet, perhaps we feel unsure. We ask: Can I really speak to God like that? Won’t I be ignored, or worse — disappointed?
Here’s where Genesis helps us. We see Abraham pleading with God over Sodom — not as a passive onlooker, but as a friend of God, a co-intercessor. He dares to bargain, to press further, again and again:
“Suppose there are fifty… forty… thirty… twenty… ten?”
Some might find this cheeky — even irreverent. But God doesn’t rebuke him. He listens. Patiently, kndly. And in doing so, He reveals His heart — not quick to condemn, but slow to anger, abounding in mercy.
It’s a glimpse of divine intimacy. Abraham knows God. And because of that, he dares to wrestle with Him in prayer.
Do we have that same courage? When we see brokenness — in our families, in our country, in our Church — do we dare to plead? Or have we grown polite, detached, even cynical?
We monks like to say that silence is not the absence of speech, but the fullness of listening. But sometimes, silence must also be broken — by the honest cry of intercession.
Saint Paul, writing to the Colossians, takes us deeper. He says:
“You were buried with Christ in baptism… and raised with Him through faith.”
And again:
“God made you alive… having forgiven all your trespasses, erasing the record that stood against you.”
This, friends, is the reason we can approach the Father. It is not because we are flawless. It is because Christ has opened the way. The barriers have been broken. The chains have been cut. Even the “legal demands” that once kept us distant — they have been nailed to the Cross.
Prayer, then, is not a luxury for the pure. It is a lifeline for the broken. You don’t need to earn your place before God. It has already been given — in Christ.
This is the Good News: We are no longer slaves or strangers. We are heirs. The door to the Father’s house is open. The table is set. And your name is known.
Jesus ends the Gospel with a strange little story: a man goes to his friend at midnight, asking for bread. And at first, the friend refuses. But the man keeps knocking. Not politely — but persistently.
Jesus calls this shameless audacity.
It’s a strange phrase. We’re not often told to be “shameless” — especially in Ireland, where quiet reserve may even be considered a virtue! But here, Jesus invites us to drop the decorum. To pray boldly. To storm heaven’s door — not as intruders, but as children who know they are loved.
“Ask, and it will be given you. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened.”
This is not a vending machine guarantee. It is something richer: a promise that your pursuit of God will never be in vain. You may not get what you want. But you will get Him. And He is what you were always looking for.
We monks of Our Lady of Silence do not – cannot – claim to be experts in prayer. But we do believe this: the world needs pray-ers more than it needs planners. In a time of uncertainty, what Ireland needs is not louder voices, but truer hearts.
So, may we become a people who pray — not out of duty, but out of desire.
Let us pray like Abraham: honest, bold, invested.
Let us pray like Jesus: tender, trusting, intimate.
Let us pray as Paul reminds us: knowing that every wall has already been torn down by Christ.
And when we pray — whether from the quiet fields of Roscrea, the still cloisters of the Abbey, or the bustle of Dublin — let us believe, truly believe, that the Father hears us, sees us, and delights when we call Him Father.
Amen.