Don Draper is no moral icon, but a scene from Mad Men has stuck with me for years. He’s in a grungy apartment, surrounded by “hippies” doing what hippies do best—smoking pot and cosplaying as philosophers. When police arrive in the building, Don—after cutting his long-haired hosts down a peg with his usual blend of wit and smarm—grabs his hat and heads for the door.
“The cops . . . you can’t go out there!” one of the hippies says.
“You can’t,” Don replies, pointing his fedora before stepping into the hallway, nodding to the officer as he walks out.
Purpose. Certainty. Authority. Hallmarks of authentic leadership—and Christ carried them in their fullness. He is resigned to His agony, confident in the Father’s goodness, and commands man and spirit alike. We witness a flicker of these qualities in Peter when he steps from the boat and when he returns to Rome to receive his white robe and martyr’s crown. We look to Jesus to calm the storm, yet forget He equips us to face it. And sometimes, to calm it for others.
We see purpose and certainty blazing in the witness of the martyrs. We recognize spiritual authority in saints like Padre Pio, who worked miracles while still alive. Our victories may seem small by comparison, but if we look with grace and honesty, we may be surprised by what our faith has already built.
In the wake of a family tragedy, my faith was not so much tested as refined. After a phone call no one wants to receive, my trust in God and love for His Church stood before me like stairs I had never trusted with my full weight. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but this was a Peter moment—a call to step out of the boat toward Jesus in a new and terrifying way. The days that followed became a proving ground, where my discipleship met life’s most violent storm: a young life cut short, and a family left in pieces.
I don’t want to give the impression that I met this tragedy with stalwart resolve, or that my faith insulated me from the emotions even our Lord experienced. I was angry and sad in turns. Guilt bubbled beneath those emotions as I recalled the last time I saw my cousin—the answer, as it often is, was “too long.” And yet, as I wrestled with myself and man’s brevity here, I reached for the concrete extensions of my Church and my God. I opened my breviary to a section I had not expected to need so soon: the Office for the Dead. I gathered my oldest kids and, together with my wife, we offered a solemn Rosary to hasten my cousin’s journey to the Father. Days later, I donated to the Capuchins to have a Mass said for him.
I carried out these duties—the only one in my family who could. While others stumbled through vague spiritualism and bumper-sticker-level philosophy, I was anchored by something that does not shift. Beneath my feet, I found the firm foundation Christ speaks of in the Gospel. My mind did not swirl with questions of “how” and “why.” My spirit was not swept up in mourning that knows no consolation. I offered everything—grief, hope, guilt—for my family’s peace and my cousin’s soul, and I knew it was not wasted.
The drive out of state gave my wife and me space to breathe, to talk, and to pray. We reflected on Mary and Martha and asked the Holy Spirit for cues on which role to play when. Most of the time, we were Martha—cooking, cleaning, running errands, holding the mundane details together. Our Mary moments were fewer and hidden, but they were real.
A desire to help, mingled with spiritual pride, fueled my hope that someone might ask for theologically sound guidance. I was prepared with Scripture and Church teaching, ready to play pastor. Yet the closest I came was participating in a Divine Mercy Chaplet and many partial Rosaries recited in silence.
Several weeks later, during Adoration, the Lord began to speak to my heart about Presence. He showed me that Presence is at the heart of our Faith—not only in the Real Presence of the Eucharist, but in the Incarnation, at the wedding feast at Cana, and at the well with the Samaritan woman. He pressed on my heart the reality that we must be present to the people God places in our lives in the way He is present to us.
Christ’s Presence is awesome in that Almighty God condescended to live and die among us, then chose to remain in the common substances of bread and wine. Not even the holiest of saints approach such a transformation, but if our presence is to even begin to resemble that reality, we must first claim purpose, certainty, and authority from their only true source: Jesus Christ. When the quality of our presence is a product of these traits, we are equipped to follow Peter out of the boat. When the reality of the Eucharist shines through us, we are transformed into the rock for others to cling to.
My cousin’s death forced my faith out into the open. It took my spiritual pride and my genuine relationship with Christ, threw them into the crucible, and forged something sacramental. Like my Rosary and my breviary, my faith became tangible in a way that offered quiet comfort and steady assurance in the storm. Christ is with me, and as He has not left us orphans, neither did I let my family walk alone.
King David was called a friend of God, but lasting friendships are tested and forged in trials. Who is my friend, if not the one who consoles me in my misery? What sort of friend am I if I do not sit in solemn silence with you when words fail and hope flickers?
Genuine faith equips us to stand in the gap and to hold the line. The authority imparted by faith makes prayer efficacious, while confidence assures it is heard. Purpose directs us to pray—not as a last-ditch effort, but as the primary means to know God in the darkness and to speak with Him on behalf of those who cannot or will not. Faith draws us out of the boat, then bids us to wait for our brother to follow, no matter how long it takes. Without faith, we are reeds blown about in the wind, seeds dropped on the path. Absence of faith sees the storm raging outside and says, “You can’t go out there.” Faith answers, “You can’t.”
He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken.
On God rests my deliverance and my honor; my mighty rock, my refuge is in God.
Trust in him at all times, O people;
pour out your heart before him;
God is a refuge for us.(Ps. 62:6–8)
Photo by Redowana Rashid Hridy on Unsplash
