The Absent Throne: When Fathers Forget Their Crown

The Absent Throne: When Fathers Forget Their Crown

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

They say when a boy looks up and sees strength, he’s often looking at his father. And when he can’t find him he stares at the sky, confused, wondering what strength is supposed to look like. A person’s view of their father, whether whole or broken, will always, somehow, inform and direct their view of The Creator. Yes, it shapes the architecture of how we trust, how we believe, how we kneel to pray or curse the sky in silence. This is not to say the Creator is male, nor bound to the image of man but for many of us, the first time we hear “Father,” it’s not in church, it’s not in scripture it’s in the home, or the absence of one.

I grew up under the warmth of women. I had double mothers my birth mother, Marva, who had the strength of a lioness and the tongue of an evangelist, and my grandmother, Celestine, who walked this earth with the kind of old-world wisdom that only comes from wrestling time and winning. These women taught me, raised me, dressed me in love, bathed me in prayers, and stretched their hearts until they split to cover my needs. But even with all that love, all that strength, there was a silent shape missing in the shadows. The form of a father.

You see, the world sings ballads to mothers and they should. They deserve it. They birth nations. But fathers? The world whispers about them. And sometimes, it goes quiet altogether.

We’ve glorified single motherhood to the point that we’ve made fatherhood optional, like an extra seatbelt in the back you don’t really need unless there’s turbulence. But, beloved, here’s the truth our homes, our communities, our hearts are in turbulence. And that seatbelt matters.

Now I hear some voices rising already: “Kateb, ain’t nobody pushing no man out unless he wants to be gone.” Oh, I hear you. And I’m not arguing with the fire in your belly, I’m asking us to hold the flame steady long enough to see what it’s burning. Because this issue is deeper than blame it’s ancestral. It's societal. It’s spiritual. So slow down and sit a while with me.

Let me tell you what my Grandmother Celestine once said, as we shelled peas on the back porch one humid evening:

"A man without his place is like a rooster crowing at midnight out of time, out of purpose, and waking up nobody but the dogs."

She was talking about the fathers we never knew, the ones who disappeared not because they didn’t love us, but because they didn’t know how to stay. They weren’t taught. They didn’t see a man be a man. They didn’t see a man pray, weep, lead, or love. They saw men run. Or they saw men dominate, control, abuse. So when the call came to be more they didn’t answer. Or worse, they did but without the right tools.

And let me be clear some men weren’t just absent in presence. Some were absent in presence and spirit. Some sat at the table, chewing Sunday dinner with you, but you felt like a ghost was eating beside you. Their minds were caught up in money, in ego, in the validation of the streets, or in the arms of someone who whispered lies into their weary manhood. Fathers were there but not there.

And when that’s all you’ve known, it can warp how you see the Divine. Because how do you trust God the Father, when your earthly father was a wound you kept putting Band-Aids on? How do you trust the embrace of the Universe when the man who made you never held you? This is why some people can’t bow their heads in prayer. It’s not disbelief. It’s distrust. Deep down, they believe something is out there they just don’t believe He’ll stay.

I’ve seen the ripple effects in the streets boys hardening themselves because no one ever affirmed their softness, girls searching for love in places where only lust lived, because no man ever looked at them without wanting something in return. The father's presence isn't just about provision. It's about affirmation. It's about stability. It's about mirroring what respect and reverence look like.

Let me take you down into an old African folktale Grandmother Celestine used to whisper to us just before the crickets took over the night:

There was a village where the sun forgot to rise. Day after day, it stayed dark. The people were frantic, lighting fires, building towers, and praying for light. One old woman said, “It’s not the sun that’s lost it’s the Father of the Sun. He has turned his face away.” So the villagers sent a child, pure of heart, into the forest where the Father of the Sun once dwelled. The child found him broken, kneeling before an altar of regrets. “Why don’t you rise?” the child asked. And the Father said, “Because I left long ago. I thought no one would notice. I didn’t know I mattered.” The child wept, touched the Father’s hand, and said, “You matter. Without you, we forget what warmth is.” And just like that, the sun peeked over the trees once more.

This tale wasn’t just a story it was a blueprint. Fathers matter. Not in the way society sometimes demands them to silent providers or emotionless protectors but in the spiritual architecture of our families. When a father is present and spiritually grounded, he becomes the mirror that reflects God's stability, protection, and wisdom to his children. When he’s not either by choice or by force that mirror cracks. And often, we spend our lives sweeping up the shards.

But here's the beautiful twist: Healing is still possible.

Some of us have had to find the image of the Father through the Creator Himself. Some of us had to let the Universe re-father us. We had to let the wind whisper what our fathers never said: You are enough. You are loved. You are chosen. We had to let God teach us what our fathers didn’t know how to say.

I remember fishing with my grandfather, casting lines into waters that didn’t promise fish, but always delivered peace. Those moments became divine appointments. I watched how he was quiet with the world, how he respected time, nature, and the patience of waiting. That was fatherhood. And sometimes, that's all we need a moment of stillness to understand what was missing and what still can be.

To the men reading this if you are a father, be present. Not just in body, but in heart. Lay your ego down. Tell your children you love them. Don’t just buy things build things. Build memories. Build safety. Build identity. Be the reason they know how to pray not just because they’re in trouble, but because they saw you kneel first.

And to those who never had a father, or had one who failed know this: The Creator is not limited by your earthly example. He can rewrite that script. He can fill the empty chair. He has been, whether you saw it or not. Through mentors, grandfathers, uncles, teachers, even through women who stood in as prophets and protectors. The Creator doesn’t abandon His children. And He sure doesn’t define you by who left you’re defined by who stayed.

Let us begin to heal our view of The Creator by healing our understanding of fatherhood. Let us raise our sons not just to be men, but to be fathers even if they never have children of their own. Let them father their communities, their passions, their relationships with honor, humility, and holiness.

As Grandmother Celestine once said, sipping on her coffee as if it held secrets of the universe:

"A man who knows he’s needed is a man who’ll stay. But a man who’s needed and never told he’ll vanish like mist in the morning."

Let’s tell our men they matter. Let’s call them back into the home. Let’s remind them the crown isn’t just for kings it’s for fathers, too.

The throne has been empty long enough. It's time we call our fathers back to it with love, not blame. With truth, not shame. And with a vision that reflects not just what they’ve been but what they still can be.