Prologue: Across the Water
By G. Wayne Miller Tom Tobin stood with his parents on an ocean liner that was docked at New York City. The baggage had been loaded, the supplies taken on; shortly, the Michelangelo would set sail for Italy. Except for a trip to Canada, Tobin, 21, had never left the United States. He had spent virtually all of his life in Pittsburgh, where his father was a salesman for Sears, his mother a housewife.
It was Saturday morning, Aug. 23, 1969. Just the weekend before, on a farm near the town of Woodstock, N.Y., barely 100 miles away, almost a half-million others in Tobin’s generation had celebrated the Age of Aquarius. The Jefferson Airplane played the psychedelic White Rabbit, Jimi Hendrix his Purple Haze. Many in the crowd wore tie-dyed clothing — when they wore anything at all. Two births and three miscarriages were recorded during the weekend. Thousands were treated for drug overdoses, accidents and illness. Later, some of these same baby boomers would join movements to legalize abortion and gay marriage. To the young man on the boat, Woodstock was just another story in the newspaper. Tom Tobin was in third grade when he started saying pretend Mass, wearing vestments his mother had sewn from a sheet, and using a tea cup for a chalice and sandwich bread that he flattened and cut as the host. It was the 1950s, a relatively simple time for Catholics like the Tobins — a time of blacks and whites but few grays, the Baltimore Catechism guiding the way, the priests speaking Latin in churches with high altars and stained-glass windows. Tom attended parochial school and, at 14, he entered minor seminary, a boarding school 2 1/2 hours from home where the nights passed in Great Silence, and girls and TV were forbidden. On May 11, 1969, he graduated from St. Francis College in Loretto, Penn. He was an honors student, as he had been throughout school. He was headed now for Pontifical North American College, a short distance from St. Peter’s Basilica. His early desire to become a Roman Catholic priest having only intensified, Tobin planned to study theology for several years, return home to be ordained, and begin ministry in his native diocese. God willing, some day he would realize his highest ambition and become pastor of his own Pennsylvania parish. AS THE NOON departure neared, the young man posed for photographs on the Michelangelo’s deck, the New Jersey shoreline providing backdrop under a cloudless sky. Of average height and build, Tobin wore a light-blue blazer, brown trousers and a gold tie that ended two inches above his belt. His brown hair was short, and his ears nearly eclipsed his glasses. But his eyes were kind, his smile genuine. 
In 1969, Thomas Tobin (in the top row, wearing glasses) joined a class at the Pontifical North American College, a short distance from St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. Photo courtesy of Bishop Tobin Tobin took a turn at the camera to capture his parents standing with the Rev. John B. Hagerty, a young priest who had come to New York with the family. A member of the minor seminary faculty, Father Hagerty had become a mentor as the 14-year-old boy grew into an adult. On this trip, Father Hagerty and the Tobins had visited the United Nations and dined at Mama Leone’s restaurant, a Manhattan institution. The priest said a private Mass for Tom and his parents in a small city chapel. In his final year at St. Francis, Tobin had been faced with a choice: continue toward ordination in Pittsburgh, or study in Rome, home of the Catholic Church for almost 2,000 years, since the first Pope, Peter, had been martyred there. Hagerty had urged him to go to Rome, where Peter was said to be buried. A letter he sent to the 21-year-old greatly influenced Tobin’s decision. “And so, Tom,” Father Hagerty wrote, “to know His Church, to love Her, to serve Her and Christ with fullness of enthusiasm and knowledge, I have no doubt as to where I would support your study — Rome. How wonderful an opportunity of uniting past and present — and shaping the future — by studying at the heart of Christendom.” Hagerty also knew, although Tobin as yet had little understanding or interest, that priests trained in the shadow of the Vatican often enjoyed favor with Rome. THE FINAL goodbyes were said, the relatives and friends returned to land, and tugboats sent the Michelangelo into New York Harbor. Passing the Statue of Liberty, Tobin took a photo. He took another when the ship reached open water, its powerful wake trailing behind it. 
Tom Tobin, second from left, prepares to leave for Italy in 1969. His parents, standing to his left, and two friends see him off. Photo courtesy of Bishop Tobin One of the last of the great ocean liners, the Michelangelo was the pride of the Italian Line — a 900-foot-long ship that carried 1,775 passengers and a crew of 725. Decorated in art-deco style, it featured six swimming pools, an art gallery, a 489-seat theater and a ballroom with a crystal chandelier. Veal, squab and Florentine steak were among the culinary specialties. Almost a third of the cabins were first-class. Tobin was sailing at the bargain rate, and he would share a tiny, windowless cabin several decks below with another seminarian — accommodations only marginally more comfortable than those his great-grandfather experienced coming to America from Ireland in the 19th century, at the time of the Potato Famine. This passage to Italy would take five days. Tobin would meet more of the three dozen seminarians from around America who were also bound for Rome. He would compete in the ping-pong tournament and keep abreast of the Vietnam War in the ship’s daily newspaper. He would reflect, in ways not possible before, on his commitment. Barring the unforeseen, he would not return home until 1971. As the horizon shrank, Tobin felt conflicting emotions. I’m twenty-one, he thought. I’m leaving behind everything — everyone — I have known, for at least two years. I could still jump over the rail and swim back. 
On Aug. 23, 1969, Thomas Tobin sails for Italy on the Michelangelo to begin studying for the priesthood. He shot this photo of a tourist boat on the way out of New York harbor. Photo courtesy of Bishop Tobin THE MICHELANGELO continued east, and Tobin’s parents, Mary and Raymond, headed back to Pittsburgh. Tom was the youngest, by eight years, of the Tobin’s four children: three sons and a daughter. He was Mary’s baby, the one she was often tempted to spoil. She remembered becoming pregnant with him, long after the Tobins believed they’d had their last child. She remembered an elderly neighbor, a devout woman, holding the newborn Thomas Joseph Tobin and prophesizing: “This one will be a priest.” She found satisfaction in an old adage: When you give your son to God, God gives you a priest back. One of the first things Mary did when she arrived back in Pittsburgh that August weekend was write her son a letter. “I really felt so close to God at our private Mass with Father H. and so very close to you, too,” Mary wrote. “You know you will be missed and we know you will miss us — but when you get lonely, just think of the blessings you have had, by the grace of God — up to you now — and then go about your Father’s business.… “So this letter wings its way across the water with all the love I have to give to a very dear son. Be good, God bless you and write when it rains.”
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On Monday, Oct. 29, Journal staff writer G. Wayne Miller hosted 
