Prayer for Optimists: Reimagining the World Through Jesus
One of the things I’ve always appreciated about Jesus—especially in how he teaches us to pray—is his unwavering optimism about the world.
Christianity, at times, has leaned into a rather grim outlook. There’s a narrative out there that the world is doomed, that it’s headed for destruction, and our task is simply to hold on until we're whisked away to some better place. But that’s not the vision Jesus offers.
A Mustard Seed Vision
Jesus gives us a vision of the world that is hopeful and redemptive. In his teaching, especially in the Lord’s Prayer, there’s an implicit belief that repair is not only possible—it’s inevitable. Like a mustard seed already planted, the kingdom is growing. And it will one day transform everything.
This is the spirit I want to bring to my prayers. When I say, "Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven," I’m not asking for a cosmic overhaul imposed from above. I’m aligning myself with a divine vision already in motion.
Cynicism vs. Participation
If you remember some of the critiques Jesus offers in the verses before the Lord’s Prayer, they’re aimed at cynicism. Hypocrites using prayer for performance, publicists managing their image, pagans trying to manipulate the divine—these are postures shaped by suspicion, not trust.
But Jesus begins with a simple, inclusive word: our. From the first syllable, the prayer is rooted in community and a shared sense of hope. It assumes a world not indifferent, but infused with divine, parental love. It invites us into a collective participation in healing and wholeness.
A New Way to Hear the Words
Sometimes, translating a passage as literally as possible reveals new layers of meaning. One way to hear the Lord's Prayer might be:
Come, kingdom of you. Be born, desire of you, as in heaven, now also on earth.
That changes the tone, doesn’t it? It shifts us away from an image of God imposing a will from above, toward an image of divine desire taking shape within us. This word ginomai in Greek—it doesn’t just mean "be done." It suggests something coming into being, something being born.
Prayer then becomes not a demand, but a birthing space. A place where God's dream for the world is slowly formed in us.
Sacred Self-Talk
This leads us to one of the deep paradoxes of prayer: who exactly are we talking to? Yes, I’ve said before that prayer isn’t for God—it’s for us. And I still believe that. Sometimes, prayer even feels like it’s to us.
Now, I’m not saying we pray to ourselves—that would be a stretch. But I do think that in praying, we are often speaking truth that our own hearts desperately need to hear.
God is the one we stand before. But our words? They are reminders, invitations, affirmations—sacred self-talk. "God, help me to know that you are ours, not just mine. Help me to imagine a family as you intended it, even if I’ve never known it before. Help me to trust your dream for the world and to long for it myself."
The Stories We Tell Ourselves
Humans are storytelling creatures. We are constantly narrating our own reality. The stories we choose to tell about ourselves, our world, and our God shape how we experience everything.
And the closer our stories align with the foundational love at the heart of the cosmos, the more truthful—and the more healing—those stories become.
For millennia, prayer has been the space where we craft and recraft those stories. Where we dare to believe in the best versions of ourselves. Where we imagine a world shaped not by fear, but by love.
Because if there’s anyone who will always believe the best about you—it’s the one who placed every good thing in you to begin with.
Prayer is where we begin to believe we are who God says we are. And from there, we begin to see the world as it truly is:
Good, and worthy of celebration. Broken, and in need of healing. Hopeful, and waiting for us to play our part.
Here, in the space between heaven and earth, we are invited to close the gap.
