Each Sunday at Lighthouse, after a burst of heart-felt, honest, and holy prayer — the kind that comes when people have nothing left to lose and nothing to hide — we say the words Jesus gave us.
We say them together.
Our Father.
A cry from those who’ve known more absent fathers than faithful ones.
A plea from those caught in addiction’s grip.
A whisper from those who, if they’re honest, aren’t even sure God’s really there — but still they pray.
Who art in heaven.
Spoken by those who’ve walked through hell.
Words of hope from those who have seen the worst of earth.
A reminder that there’s a home beyond this one —
a home where wounds are bound and tears are wiped.
Hallowed be your name.
A line lifted by image-bearers who haven’t always been treated without dignity, honour, or respect.
A fragile declaration that God is still holy — even when life is not.
Your kingdom come.
A shout from the streets, a plea from prison cells,
a cry from bedsits and park benches,
a longing from lives where violence, abuse, and poverty have ruled like kings for too long.
Your will be done.
A surrender from those who don’t always know what’s best for them,
whose own will has led to places of pain,
who have learnt — the hard way — to trust the God who loves them.
On earth as it is in heaven.
A prayer for the compassionate kingdom to break in —
into the streets, into the bedsits, into the emergency accommodation,
into the hospital ward, the hostel room,
and into the caverns of every wounded heart.
This is no polite prayer.
It’s a desperate, defiant cry — a longing for a world made new.
A refusal to accept that what is must always be.
A prayer for those battered by the storms of life,
who have tasted the bitter winds of injustice,
but who still, somehow, believe in hope.
It’s the prayer of those who see — really see —
the fracture lines running through their own stories and the world around them.
It’s the prayer of those who feel — deeply feel —
the weight of injustice in their bones.
It’s the prayer of those who, instead of retreating into numbness or despair,
lift their faces to heaven and pray:
Let your kingdom come.
Let ancient promises stir to life.
Let the world be rewritten.
Let a new story begin —
where justice and mercy kiss,
where the first are last and the last are first,
where every tear is wiped away.
And notice this — it starts not with a distant King,
but with our Father.
Not just power, but relationship.
Not just authority, but affection.
Not just command, but compassion.
The kingdom we long for flows from the heart of the Father —
the one who knows our names,
shares our breath,
and stoops low to lift our faces.
This is the holy paradox at the heart of the prayer —
justice and mercy, majesty and intimacy, holiness and tenderness
all held together in these words:
Our Father, hallowed be your name, let your kingdom come.
And what kind of kingdom do we pray for?
What shape does this longing take?
What does the reign of God look like,
when heaven collides with earth?
It looks like on earth as in heaven.
This is a prayer of collision —
where heaven meets earth,
where the eternal interrupts the ordinary,
where the holy invades the human.
It refuses the lie that anyone, anywhere, is beyond hope.
It holds fast to the truth that every inch of creation —
from the streets to the shelters,
from the back alleys to the broken hearts —
is loved by God.
On earth as in heaven.
In homes where families fall apart.
In streets where addiction stalks.
In forests we flatten and oceans we pollute.
In the courtrooms, the foodbanks, the hostels, the waiting rooms.
In every broken story, in every bruised life.
On earth as in heaven.
This is a prayer of longing —
and a prayer that costs.
If we dare to pray it, we must dare to live it.
Our hands become the answer to our own prayer —
planting seeds of justice,
building bridges of peace,
binding up wounds,
offering mercy we have received.
And all the while, we watch, we wait, we whisper the words again:
Our Father, hallowed be your name, let your kingdom come, on earth as in heaven.
A Prayer from Lighthouse
Our Father,
Father to the fatherless,
Hope for the hopeless,
Shelter for the battered and bruised,
Hallowed be your name.
Amongst the chaos, be our calm.
Amongst the brokenness, show your beauty.
Amongst the violence, reveal your peace.
Your kingdom come.
Come to the streets and the shelters,
Come to the hostels and the prison cells,
Come to the back alleys and the hospital wards,
Come to the bruised hearts and the shattered lives.
Your will be done.
Even when we resist it, even when we don’t understand it,
Shape us, guide us, lead us,
Be gentle with us, for we are dust.
On earth as in heaven.
Let heaven’s mercy flood our lives.
Let heaven’s justice transform our streets.
Let heaven’s peace still our restless hearts.
For yours is the kingdom,
the power,
and the glory,
now and forever.
Amen.
- Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025
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