My Vocation Story

My First Mass - 19 May 1996 Immaculate Conception Parish, Connellsville, Pennsylvania

Since many people seem to think that I don’t fit the “mold” when it comes to the priesthood I frequently get asked “What made you become a priest.” Undoubtedly it is an inquiry made of any man who has chosen this way of life, so at odds as it is with what the world deems necessary for a happy and meaningful existence However, when asked of me, the question seems to betray more curiosity than normal. So after having spoken countless times about my journey to the priesthood I have finally decided to commit the story to writing ...

I was raised in a strong Catholic family, attended Catholic grade school and high school, and never missed Mass. I was active in my parish’s youth group. I served as an altar boy from third grade through my graduation from high school. Yet never did it cross my mind that perhaps the priesthood was for me. My interests were in other areas. I was only “knee high to a grasshopper,” according to some relatives, and was already talking about how much money I would have, how big my mansion would be, and how many Rolls Royces I would be driving. As I got a little older, I became fascinated with power; I dreamed of ruling the world. I wanted to roll into town on a tank and mete out appropriate punishment to each and every person who had ever looked at me the wrong way. As a child and young teenager, I was greedy, power-hungry, and, frankly, a tad bit psycho. My world revolved around me and me alone. My mother admitted as much the first time I mentioned to her that I was thinking of the priesthood when she exclaimed “You? A priest? I could see your brother Patrick; he’s such a nice person. But you?”

After high school, I entered Penn State with no idea of what I really wanted to do with my life. I chose to study business simply because it was 1984 and Ronald Reagan was God - at least in my world. At the end of my sophomore year, when I had to declare a specific major, I decided to go with management because it was the least restrictive of the various concentrations within the business school. Still having no idea as to what I wanted to do I needed to keep my options as wide open as possible. Truth be told, I really just wanted to enjoy the college life; I didn’t want to be bothered worrying about the future.

When my senior year began, I realized I could not ignore my life beyond college anymore. So I started to dream. And scheme. I decided that I wanted to own a dance club. I even had a building picked out in my hometown. In my mind I had created a fantastic multi-level club along with a sumptuous penthouse apartment. It seemed like the perfect life - partying, umm I mean working, in the club each evening, rounding up the choicest hotties for a private after hours party in my penthouse, sleeping till late afternoon, and then starting the fun all over again. Of course, I was being incredibly naive, but it sure sounded good! I even wrote to Robert Eberly, the richest man in Fayette County, explaining to him that I wanted to be able to contribute to the economic future of the area, rather than leave like most educated young people have been forced to do. Much to his credit Mr. Eberly met with me when I was home over Thanksgiving. He did not share my enthusiasm for the dance club idea! He instead suggested that I sell real estate in Florida. Still, I was thoroughly impressed that he took the time to meet with me. The irony in all of this (in light of the subsequent direction my life has taken) is the name that I had chosen for my dream-club - Original Sin.

As my senior year progressed, I knew that I should be interviewing for jobs. However, I just could not seem to bring myself to do it. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not see myself working 9 to 5 for some Fortune 500 company and being told how to dress, how to cut my hair, how to think. Even when I graduated and finally did start interviewing, I think I subconsciously sabotaged myself. Having graduated magna cum laud with a 3.84 GPA I should have had no problem finding a decent job; however, the fact that my heart was not really in it effectively kept that from happening. Apparently, in my gut I knew darn well what I didn’t want to do; unfortunately I was clueless as to what I did want.

Eventually I ended up taking a job in the drug store where I had worked in high school and my first two years of college. I convinced myself that I was earning money to move “down south” where jobs were plentiful. This period became a great time of questioning and doubt. Everything I picked up to read seemed to challenge my faith. Whether I was reading an article on evolution or a history of the Roman Empire the end result was the same - my faith in any kind of God was being steadily chipped away. After not too many months of this all that was left was an agonizing void where once the God of comfort and hope had resided.

I reached bottom during Holy Week of 1989. The day before Palm Sunday, I had gone to the Penn State-Fayette Campus Library to look for some books on Roman history. That was my topic of interest at the moment and I had exhausted the public library’s collection. It happened that the ancient history section was situated adjacent to theology. And of all the books I could have picked up, I opened a collection of essays on the historical Jesus where I began reading a German author who argued (quite convincingly to one completely unversed in the subject) that Jesus was, for all intents and purposes, the invention of St. Paul. That was the final straw. I recall vividly the sense of utter despair that came over me at that moment. Yes, I had always had ambitions that were less-than-spiritual, but at the same time I had always believed that life had to have ultimate meaning beyond the here and now. There had to be a deeper purpose. I knew many people who were content to go through life living a very shallow and superficial existence, people perfectly happy to approach life as nothing more than a big party, people who had no problem living by the mantra “he who dies with the most toys wins.” That just didn’t cut it for me. I needed more. But there didn’t seem to be anything else. My life was miserable. I was far from where I expected to be a year out of college. Now the only thing that could give my life any real meaning - my faith - had been completely stripped away. Without God in the picture I realized that all the success in the world meant nothing; death would end it all and I’d simply rot in the grave. At that moment, I seriously wondered why I should bother with anything. It was all so pointless.

I do not remember any more of that particular Holy Week until the Service of the Lord’s Passion Good Friday afternoon. I had to take my younger brothers to church because my parents were both at work. Yes, even though my faith was gone I still went to church. (In the business, we call that kind of behavior “fire insurance” - covering one’s butt just in case there is a God. And a fiery hell!) I very clearly remember praying during the course of the service, telling God that I wanted to believe in Him and asking Him to let me know if He was there. I was very specific. I made it clear that I did not want any big miracle; I did not want Him to go to all that trouble on my account. I simply wanted Him, in some small way, to reveal His presence to me.

Easter Sunday afternoon was when, very appropriately, God answered my plea. After dinner, I picked up the Sunday Pittsburgh Press and on the front page there was a story of a supposed Good Friday miracle at a church in Ambridge, Pennsylvania. People claimed that they witnessed the figure of Jesus on the Crucifix open and close its eyes. As I read the article something went through me, a voice saying “Bob this is for you; I’m here.” I cannot explain the feeling that came over me. It seemed like an incredible burden had been lifted from me. For the first time in weeks, the clouds parted and the warm rays of the sun beat down on me. My life again had meaning.

The rest of that Sunday was one of the happiest days of my life. In the evening, I went to the theatre with two of my brothers and the girls who lived down the street to see “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.” In the parking lot, before the movie, I blasted the car stereo and we spent some time “dancing in the streets.” I was overwhelmed with a palpable joy. However, this was not the end of my journey to faith; it was merely the first step on a long, and at times painful, road. God had done His part and now I had to do mine.

The very next day I decided to take a trip to see the miraculous crucifix for myself. Nothing out of the ordinary happened to me there. However, the next stage of the journey was revealed, the part that I would have to undertake myself. In the back of the church, there was literature on Medjugorje, a place in Yugoslavia where the Blessed Mother was supposedly appearing to a number of children. I took one of the newsletters and when I got home, I devoured it. I was fascinated by what I was reading. And I wanted to learn more. Soon, I was reading every book from the public library I could find on Marian apparitions. Then on miracles in general. And then lives of the Saints. When there were no more books at the library I started buying books on the same subjects. God, as he usually does, was working in my life in the way most natural to me. He was using my intellect and my insatiable thirst for knowledge as the means to draw me to Himself.

At this point, I should interject that the Diocese of Pittsburgh investigated the happenings at Holy Trinity Church in Ambridge and concluded that nothing miraculous occurred; it was simply an optical illusion. This fact does not in any way affect my conviction that God was working in my life through this non-event. God will use any possible means to reach out to His people. Perhaps the people thought they had witnessed a miracle precisely so that He could reach me. Seems like around about way to do it, but hey, I’m not about to limit how God chooses to work!

Throughout this period, as my faith continued to deepen, what I wanted out of life remained constant. I wanted to be successful. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to wield power. I wanted a beautiful wife (or two!) and 5-7 children. My renewed zeal for life capitalized on the fact that the good life would not end at death; it would only get better. Slowly, however, another quite unwelcome idea started to intrude upon my consciousness. Perhaps, just perhaps, God was calling me to something else. The more I read the lives of Saints and the more I began attending daily Mass the more I began to have this nagging feeling that maybe I was supposed to be a priest. It didn’t take me long to dismiss the outlandish idea ...

However, it would not go away. Every time I rid my self of the irritating notion, it would come back again, stronger than before. I tried to convince myself that there was no way that I could be a priest, but to no avail. Several bizarre experiences in those months made painfully clear God’s will for my life. One Sunday afternoon I was looking through a desk drawer in my bedroom when I came across an autograph book I had received as a gift in seventh grade. They were popular when I was in junior high; you took them to school and your friends wrote stuff about you in them.

The first person to sign mine, however, wasnot a friend, but my Great Aunt Betty, within a year of her death. I had completely forgotten about what she wrote and when I opened it to the first page I was (to put it mildly) shocked to read her inscription: “To Reverend Father Robert Lubic, Love Aunt Betty."

I quickly remembered that she was becoming senile the last year of her life and that at the time I had chalked her bizarre words up to that fact. She had never before said anything to me about being a priest, nor did she ever say anything after that one incident. That Sunday afternoon in my bedroom, though, the words hit me like a ton of bricks. And I had to wonder ... was there more than senility at play here? Did she have access to information beyond that naturally available?

The second incident involved the rather childish game of opening the Bible and randomly selecting a passage to see what God might want to tell me. Once again, it was a Sunday afternoon and I was in my bedroom. I spotted the Good News Bible (from a high school religion class) on the bookshelf atop my TV and I could not resist the temptation. I opened the book and my finger landed on 1 Corinthians 9:16, where Paul says “It would be terrible for me if I did not preach the Gospel.” I quickly slammed it shut and placed it back on the bookshelf, but not before those words - words I definitely did not want to hear - were indelibly etched on my mind. I learned an important lesson that day: Never tempt God; He may actually answer you. And chances are you won’t like what he has to say!

My struggle with God’s call can be compared with, at least in hindsight, with a person dividing a sheet of paper down the middle with all the pros on one side and the cons on the other. Initially the pros side was empty and the cons side completely full. There was nothing to recommend priesthood to me and everything to suggest that it was a crazy idea. Slowly, without my realizing it, the tide turned. Objections disappeared; positive aspects emerged. I guess I awoke one day with no more reasons as to why I should not at consider that as an option. And that’s what I did. I started seriously to contemplate the possibility of entering the seminary. The process was far from painless. Every time I took the slightest step in the direction of seminary I would literally feel sick to my stomach. Therefore, I took things very slowly. I told God I would contemplate the priesthood; I did not agree to any kind of time frame. Eventually I mustered the courage to actually talk to a priest. I had been attending Mass at the Maronite (Lebanese Catholic) Church in Uniontown just about every Tuesday morning. One particular Tuesday the students from nearby St. John Byzantine Catholic School were at Mass and the pastor, Fr. Gregory Mansour took time during the course of the celebration to explain the various rituals. I found his explanations very helpful myself and approached him after Mass to thank him. In the course of our brief conversation, I mentioned that I was thinking about the priesthood and he offered to talk more with me about it. Before long, he was spiritual director. His insight and wisdom were invaluable in helping me discern God’s call.

The time came when I had to take the step I dreaded most - making an appointment with the Diocesan Vocations Director, Fr. Joe Maddalena. It took every ounce of my strength to force myself to make the call. But I did it. As disconcerting as that first meeting with Fr. Joe was, something seemed right about it. Somewhere deep inside myself I was becoming more and more convinced that this was definitely the route I was supposed to take. I still was not ready to rush into anything, though. I could have hurried things along and entered seminary that fall (1990), but I felt I needed to take more time. I spent the next year preparing myself to take this giant leap of faith. Finally, on a late August Saturday in 1991, with my mother following behind with most of my possessions in her minivan, I made the 30 minute drive to my new home -St. Vincent Seminary in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. Interestingly my move to St. Vincent’s coincided with the ending of the failed coup against Soviet Leader Mikhail Gorbachev, the last futile effort of the old-guard to turn back the clock. Was this symbolic of the fact that the old me would fail in its efforts to prevent the new from emerging?

People often have the misconception that once a man enters the seminary he has committed himself to being a priest. Nothing could be further from the truth. Seminary is the place where, through prayer, study, and exposure to the demands of the priestly lifestyle, men are enabled to truly discern whether or not God is calling them.

My discernment was far from smooth sailing. The waves that rocked my boat were usually caused by the opposite sex. On several occasions I met young women with whom I seriously thought I could spent the rest of my life. The first such occasion was over Christmas break of my first year when, through a seminarian friend, I met a delightful young lady exotically named Cinnamon.

She was everything I wanted in a woman - smart, witty, religious, compassionate, attractive. For several weeks I wondered whether I should return to school for the next semester. But God, as he did every time such a “complication” arose, made me realize that I would only find true fulfillment through serving Him as a priest. And through prayer I was able to accept that. The only thing that really ticked me off was God’s seemingly perverse sense of humour. Before I was in seminary, the women would not give me the time of day. Now that I was “off the market”, they were coming out of the woodwork! I was not amused.

I spent five happy years at St. Vincent Seminary, years during which I became more and more certain of my calling to priesthood. The rough waters through which I now and then had to navigate only made that conviction grow deeper.

It was, therefore, with a deep sense of trust in God that I knelt before Bishop Anthony G. Bosco on 18 May 1996 in Greensburg’s Blessed Sacrament Cathedral for the laying on of hands that would forever mark me as a priest of Christ Jesus. Yes, there was apprehension.  There still is apprehension.  Like all things in life complete certainty is never attainable.

But underlying the doubts that come and go I have found a bedrock peace and joy which convince me that the path I have chosen was in fact not chosen by me. It was chosen for me by the One who loves me beyond all telling.

My classmates and me with Bishop Anthony G. Bosco and priests of the Church of Greensburg outside Blessed Sacrament Cathedral immediately following the Ordination Mass on 18 May 1996