They Call Me Daddy, But I Call It Divine Work

By The Edupreneurial Theologian

I remember the first time my oldest daughter fell asleep while I was holding her. The nurses told me that newborn babies enjoyed skin to skin contact. So, I snugged her down into my t-shirt to where only her head was sticking out. Her tiny breath was almost one with mine. She was so much at peace that she fell asleep. Thinking back on that moment, I realize that I shared something with my child that many Black fathers experienced before me. Black fatherhood is not just biological. It is ancestral. It is spiritual. It is sacred.

Black fathers carry a weight many cannot see. The world often measures us by stereotypes before it ever witnesses our sacrifices. They do not see the time that we take to make sure our children have what they need. The tears we wipe. The hugs and comfort we give. The prayers we whisper. The dreams we quietly store away so our children can chase their own. And yet, despite all that, we show up—repeatedly.

That is the mystery of Black fatherhood. It is more than DNA. It is more than discipline. It is a sacred calling. A quiet covenant passed down from the weary hands of the enslaved to the calloused hands of the working-class, and now to ours—filled with laptops, lunchboxes, and love.

“It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.” — Frederick Douglass

I want to speak directly to you, Black father.

You are not invisible.

You are not disposable.

You are not failing.

You are becoming—sometimes in ways that feel like fire, sometimes in ways that feel like grace.

Black fathers carry a sacred burden. The kind that is not always seen. We work, we stretch, we sacrifice—not for applause, but because love requires it. Because our children need it. Because our souls will not let us do anything less. And still, the world often treats us like footnotes in our own families. It asks for our labor but doubts our love.

But I see you.

You are not invisible. You are vital.

Black fatherhood comes in many forms—biological, spiritual, communal. Sometimes we are fathering from a distance. Sometimes we are fathering without a blueprint. Sometimes we are learning how to father while still healing the boy inside us.

And yet, we show up.

Not always perfectly. Not always loudly. But consistently—with intention, with prayer, with presence. That presence? That is power. That is protest. That is liberation.

Hebrews 12:1 speaks of a “great cloud of witnesses,” and I believe that cloud is filled with men like your grandfather who worked three jobs, or that older cousin who stepped in when no one else would, or that coach who gave you the confidence your own father didn’t know how to offer. They are watching, not in judgment, but in joy—cheering you on every time you choose presence over pride, tenderness over toughness, truth over silence. I believe our ancestors—those who had to love in silence, survive in fragments, build futures out of nothing—are part of that cloud. They see us. And they are proud.

Black fatherhood is not one-size-fits-all. It is the father who co-parents with dignity. It is the stepfather who loves without condition. It is the uncle who gives rides and wisdom. It is the man who is learning to heal so he does not pass his trauma down like inheritance.

And yes—it is messy. And hard. And holy.

In a culture that rarely honors our complexity, I want to offer you this truth: you are enough. Not because you are perfect, but because you are trying—and trying is the sacred work of becoming.

So today, on this Father’s Day and beyond, I want to thank you:

• For holding it down when the world tried to tear you down.
• For being soft in a society that told you to be hard.
• For speaking life into your children, even when no one spoke it into you.
• For carrying generations in your shoulders, your smile, and your spirit.

You are the legacy.

You are the miracle.

You are the breeze that breaks generational chains.

So, to the Black fathers still figuring it out, to the ones who never gave up, to the ones who left but came back, to the ones who are fathering beyond biology—you are not alone. You are part of something eternal.

“We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.” — June Jordan

You are not just raising children. You are raising generations.

You are restoring what was broken.

You are loving in the face of erasure.

You are breaking chains while building legacies.

So today, I want to say it loud and clear:

Happy Daddy’s Day. We see you. We celebrate you. We honor you.