If you’re a good dad, give yourself a pat on the back. If not, you can start to change.

I read somewhere long ago that when Jesus referred to God as the heavenly father, it was a pretty radical thing to do.

I don’t recall anymore where I read that. But the gist of it was that in the ancient world most religions didn’t conceive of God as a loving father to human beings. Gods were more often thought of as judgmental, distant and vengeful. They didn’t like people much and mainly went about punishing them on the least pretext.

Then Jesus arrives and says, no, God is not out to get you. God is gracious. God loves you dearly, provides for you and is eager to forgive your faults—just like a good dad.

As others have noted, Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son is mis-titled: it should be called the parable of the prodigal father, because it’s really about the dad in the story, who accepts his two wayward sons beyond all bounds of common sense or propriety. And that father in the tale clearly is a stand-in for God.

Which brings me to my point. After I became a Christian, especially when I began to preach, I liked to talk at length about God that way.

“When in doubt,” I’d tell my congregation, “picture the Lord as your dad.”

I intended this as a message of reassurance and hope. But I discovered that wasn’t always what people heard.

One by one, folks approached me—usually it was women, for some reason—to tell me this was a bad image for them. Their own father had been angry, dishonest, alcoholic, emotionally abusive, violent or absent. Trying to imagine God as their father, they said, made them recoil, not want to run and hug him.

Fathers, I gradually saw, help form our understanding of God. They help determine whether we regard God as warm and loving or as a martinet. They’re infinitely influential in forming our self-worth and our reactions to authority figures generally.

Imagining God as my father comforted me, because I had a dad whose love I never doubted. My dad wasn’t perfect. There are no perfect fathers among us mortals.

But Dad cared and told me so. He did his best to provide for me. He was always present. He taught me all manner of wisdom that still guides me today. When I was a kid, he came to my ballgames. When I was an adult, he helped me navigate my various setbacks.

Until he died in 2012, I always knew that if I had a problem, even if it was one of my own making, I could go to him and he’d try to help. If he couldn’t do much else, he’d drape an arm over my shoulders and tell me things would be OK.

For reasons I’ve never quite understood, though, as a society we undervalue fathers.

Comedians—memorably Chris Rock—have riffed about this. Everybody gives moms their due, they say. Point a camera at a star athlete after he scores a winning touchdown, what does he invariably yell? “Hi, mom!”

“And what does Daddy get for all his work?” Rock asks. “The big piece of chicken. That’s all Daddy gets, is the big piece of chicken.”

Substitute fathers receive even less credit than traditional dads. I’ve known stepfathers, grandfathers, uncles, coaches and schoolteachers who stepped up at crucial times in some child’s life and made a lasting difference. Although technically they weren’t the dad, they were the closest thing available, and that turned out to be enough.

I’ve come to believe nobody is more important than a father. “Bank president” doesn’t hold a candle to “good dad.”

That certainly seems to be what Jesus believed. He made a point of casting God as a kind father rather than as a mother or brother or mentor. I suspect his own surrogate father, Joseph, must have been a fine model, too, probably a slightly flawed, earthly version of that heavenly father.

With this in mind, here are some things you might consider this week.

If you’ve worked as hard as you know how to be a conscientious dad, if you’ve changed those diapers and pitched those baseballs and bandaged those booboos and paid that tuition, then give yourself a well-deserved pat on the back. You’re a hero. You’ve successfully held one of the most important jobs on the planet. Go buy yourself a new set of golf clubs.

If you’re a father who hasn’t done those things, begin now. Change. Even if your children are grown, humble yourself, apologize for your shortcomings and start fresh—maybe with your grandkids. Real men make amends, or at least try.

And finally, if you were blessed to have a decent father or to have married one—heck, even if you’ve just been blessed to witness a great dad in action—thank him. Call him. Send him a text. Mail him a card. Give the old geezer a kiss on the jaw. Say, “Man, you made a huge difference.”

The big piece of chicken isn’t recognition enough.

Paul Prather is pastor of Bethesda Church near Mount Sterling. You can email him at pratpd@yahoo.com.