From Ashes to Altars: Restoring Fatherhood

Week 14 of Being 32

How do you destroy a nation built on biblical principles? By destroying the home. How do you destroy the home? By removing its guardian, by removing the father. How do you remove the fathers? Today, we will examine these questions, but before we do, let me once again quote a catechism of sorts attributed to Kate Millet and her friends during a gathering they had in New York City.

"Why are we here today?" the chairwoman asked.

"To make revolution," they answered.

"What kind of revolution?"

"The Cultural Revolution."

"And how do we make Cultural Revolution?"

"By destroying the American family!"

"How do we destroy the family?"

"By destroying the American Patriarch."

"And how do we destroy the American Patriarch?"

"By taking away his power!"

"How do we do that?"

"By destroying monogamy!"

"How can we destroy monogamy?"

"By promoting promiscuity, eroticism, prostitution, abortion, and homosexuality!"

We are sitting together today in the ashes of the structures they burned down.

A nation built upon biblical principles rests not merely on documents or declarations, but on the sacred institutions that undergird its people, chief among them, the family. Long before any constitution is drafted or a law passed, the values of a civilization are cultivated in the quiet routines of the home: at the dinner table, during bedtime prayers, through discipline, storytelling, and the day-to-day modeling of integrity, sacrifice, and strength. And at the head of that institution, according to the biblical design, stands the father, not as a tyrant, but as a guardian, a defender, a champion, a hero in the minds of those souls for whom he has been given charge. He was to be a model for sons to emulate and a standard for daughters to seek out.

The father was the cornerstone of the household. Scripture calls him to be the provider, the protector, the priest. When God desired to communicate His character, He did not choose the title of emperor or general—He chose Father. The role is not merely biological; it is spiritual, moral, and cultural. In the biblical order, the father is called to lay down his life, to lead with love, and to steward his family in truth.

So when a nation aims to destroy its foundation, the blueprint is clear: dismantle the home. And to dismantle the home, remove the head, remove its guardian—remove the father. But before you can remove the head, you must first destroy and corrupt the heart of the home.

The heart of the home is the woman. Her influence shapes the moral atmosphere of the household. She is the nurturer, the teacher, the emotional stabilizer. Her voice echoes in the ears of children long after her words are spoken. But it is precisely because of her centrality that she had to be targeted first.

The revolutionaries knew that to bring down the fortress of the family, they could not storm the gates. They had to slip inside, cloaked in the language of empathy and justice. And so they began to whisper: “You’re oppressed. You’re unfulfilled. Your children are a burden. Your husband is holding you back. You deserve more.” These ideas did not come with swords, but with sympathy, not with rage, but with rhetoric—deceptively soft, tragically effective.

Instead of celebrating motherhood, they mocked it. Instead of honoring sacrifice, they called it slavery. The home, once a sanctuary, was rebranded as a prison. Feminist thinkers redefined womanhood not as a high calling, but as a condition in need of escape. And what was offered in exchange for the home? Careers, casual sex, sterile apartments, and superficial empowerment. The promise was liberation. The result was isolation.

This wasn’t just social progress—it was strategic sabotage. If you corrupt the heart, the head will stumble. The woman was told she didn’t need a man, and in believing that, the man was told he had no place. The emotional, spiritual, and maternal glue that once held the family together was being carefully and systematically dissolved.

Once the heart of the home had been seduced, the head became expendable.

The cultural campaign against the father was not waged through open war, but rather through the gradual erosion of his image, influence, and authority. Television shows made him the bumbling fool. Commercials made him the absent-minded child. School systems sidelined him. Family courts discarded him. And culture at large asked, “Do we even need him at all?”

The answer became increasingly clear: No.

Manhood was no longer associated with honor, provision, or protection. Instead, it was rebranded as toxic, outdated, and oppressive. Masculinity itself was put on trial, and every virtue it once carried—strength, courage, leadership, responsibility—was reinterpreted as vice. The father was once a pillar of stability. Now, he was a potential threat.

The message to men was simple but devastating: Step back. You are not wanted. You are not needed. And as men retreated—some in confusion, others in bitterness or shame—the home became fatherless. Not just physically, but spiritually. Authority without presence became the norm, and in many cases, the children were left to navigate a chaotic world without a map or a model.

But this wasn’t accidental—it was engineered. Strip men of their role, rob them of respect, replace their leadership with the state, and what remains is a generation without roots. A generation that can be more easily reshaped.

And with the father removed, the final piece could be laid: dependency. Not on the husband, not on the home, and not on God—but on the system.

Nature abhors a vacuum. And when the father was removed from the home, something-or someone—had to take his place.

Enter the state.

What fathers once provided through responsibility, sacrifice, and strength—protection, provision, direction-the government now offers through programs, policies, and payments. But make no mistake: these were not gifts of grace. They were tools of control. Welfare systems expanded, not to support families, but to replace fathers. Incentives were subtly redesigned so that the presence of a man in the home became a financial liability. The more dependent the mother became on the state, the more absent the father became from the home.

And while his chair sat empty at the dinner table, his authority was transferred to bureaucracy. The state would now educate the children, counsel the family, enforce the discipline, and decide what values would be instilled. It would feed, clothe, house, and indoctrinate—an all-in-one surrogate patriarch.

But the state is no father. It cannot love. It cannot lead. It can only regulate.

This was never about compassion—it was about control. When you replace the father with the state, you don't just break the home; you break the spirit. You create a culture of dependency, of rootlessness, of citizens raised not by conviction, but by coercion. And all of it cloaked in the language of care.

The state stepped in, not because it was noble, but because it was opportunistic. And with every new handout, it tightened its grip. The more it gave, the more it demanded. And a population without fathers became a population easier to mold, easier to monitor, and easier to manipulate.

When you remove the father, you don't just leave a hole in the home—you fracture the entire household. His absence is not neutral. It echoes through every room, shaping not only the lives of his children but the very soul of the woman he was meant to walk beside.

For the mother, the absence of a father turns her into more than she was meant to carry. She must become nurturer and disciplinarian, protector and provider, comforter and corrector—all at once. She rises to the occasion with fierce love and resilience, but often at the cost of her own strength. She was never meant to shoulder the full weight of raising a family alone. The burden wears down her spirit, and many days are filled not with joy, but with exhaustion, confusion, and quiet desperation.

For the daughter, the father is meant to be the standard, the example, the first man who shows her how she ought to be valued. Without him, her sense of worth becomes fragile. She may search for affection in dangerous places, unsure of what love is supposed to look like. She may grow hardened, suspicious, or overly self-reliant—not because she wants to be, but because no one was there to protect the softness in her. Her ability to trust, to bond, and to discern true strength from counterfeit masculinity is often impaired.

And for the son, the loss is even more existential. Boys are not born men—they must be made into men. And the father is the forge. Without his presence, the boy is left wandering in search of himself. He feels the weight of manhood without the tools to carry it. He doesn’t know how to lead, how to protect, or how to take responsibility, because no one modeled it for him. In a world that already treats masculinity with suspicion, he begins to question his very instincts. Is it wrong to be strong? Is it wrong to lead? Is there even a place for me?

This is not just a crisis—it is a cycle. Sons raised without fathers grow into men ill-equipped to become fathers themselves. Each generation grows slightly weaker, more uncertain, more passive. The masculine line erodes—not just physically, but spiritually. And in its place, we inherit a society filled with men who are either angry and unmoored, or quiet and invisible. Neither leads. Neither blesses. Neither protects.

This is the snowball effect of fatherlessness. It doesn’t just hurt one generation. It multiplies its damage, sending confusion downstream like a curse.

But curses can be broken.

We cannot undo what has been done. But we can rebuild.

The walls have been torn down. The roof has caved in. The hearth has gone cold. But the foundation still whispers of what once stood—and what can stand again. If the destruction of a nation begins with the removal of fathers, then its restoration must begin with their return.

Not just biologically, but spiritually. Morally. Sacrificially.

We need men and fathers who will reclaim their post, not as domineering tyrants, but as servant-hearted leaders, protectors, and guides. Fatherhood is not a title granted by insemination; fatherhood is a title granted in actions you take. We need men who will reject passivity, resist cultural cynicism, and relearn how to love, lead, and lay down their lives for their families.

It will not be easy. Some are trying to father without ever being fathered themselves. Others bear the wounds of broken homes, abusive examples, or their own deep failures. But it is not perfection that rebuilds a home. It is presence. Consistency. Repentance. Courage. And a willingness to keep trying. The road back is not paved in shame—it is paved in humility, truth, and grace.

And the good news is this: it’s not too late. The prodigal father can return. The lost son can rise. The broken man can be restored. But only if he stops waiting for permission. Only if he stops believing the lie that says he is no longer needed.

We rebuild by picking up one stone at a time: a prayer over a hurting fatherless child. A conversation at the table. A moment of repentance. A vow of faithfulness. A commitment to truth over comfort. Each act of fatherhood is an act of rebellion against the revolution that sought to erase it.

The structures were burned. But men of God can rebuild.

This is not an easy task; this is not an easy calling. “It’s not fair.” Good, we don’t need fair. “It’s going to be hard.” Good, no thing that is easy is worth our time. We are forged in fire, not in comfort.

To the fathers who stayed…

To the stepfathers who stepped in…

To the grandfathers who became more than they ever expected to be…

To the mentors, coaches, teachers, uncles, pastors, and men who stood in the gap when someone else walked away…

To the men who are trying—

This is for you.

In a world that mocks masculinity and questions your value, you have not given up. You rise early. You stay late. You wrestle with your past, your temper, your doubts, and your fears—and still, you show up. You carry burdens no one sees and fight battles no one applauds. But your quiet faithfulness is not forgotten in heaven.

You are the backbone of your home, the ballast of your family, the boundary between chaos and order. Your strength may not make headlines, but it is shaping hearts, anchoring futures, and laying foundations for generations you may never meet.

You are not perfect—but you are present.

You are not always sure—but you are steady.

You are not the savior—but you are a shadow of the One who is.

So to you, today, we say: Well done.

Every act of sacrifice, every moment of restraint, every lesson, every prayer, every time you picked up the pieces and kept moving forward—it matters. It counts. It is not in vain.

You are needed.

You are honored.

You are deeply, desperately appreciated.

Keep going. Keep building. Keep standing.

Because while the world burns down what was, you are building what will be.

Happy Father’s Day Weekend.