Austin Habash

I grew up in a half-religious home, with a Catholic stepmom and an agnostic dad. My biological mom passed away when I was just two, and my stepmom entered our lives a couple of years later. They got married in the Catholic Church and promised to raise me Catholic, which led to my baptism on May 2, in the summer between kindergarten and first grade. That day marked my official beginning as a Catholic.

As a child, I was deeply influenced by my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Lane, who was devout and outspoken about attending Mass every Sunday. She even offered to take us herself if our parents couldn’t. This had a profound effect on me—and my family. One Sunday, when my stepmom decided to sleep in, I innocently asked her if Mrs. Lane could take me to Mass instead. That moment shattered her heart, and from then on, missing Mass became a thing of the past.

Prayer became a regular part of my life during this time. Every night, I would pray the Our Father and ask God to help me learn from my mistakes and walk more closely in the way of Jesus Christ. I even ventured into the Dominican convent next to my parents’ workplace to pray, though the nuns initially thought I was causing trouble. They left me alone once I explained I was there to pray.

By sixth grade, I began expressing a desire to become a priest. I remember telling a recess teacher and my dad about it. My dad, though, wasn’t thrilled; he joked I should aim to be a Baptist preacher so I could get married. Despite his response, my heart leaned toward the priesthood.

Things changed in middle school and high school. Moving from a Catholic elementary school to public school, I slowly drifted away from my faith. Many of my Catholic peers seemed to shed their ethics while keeping the name “Catholic.” I learned my moral code from my public-school friends, and since no one around me acted differently, I didn’t think much of it.

By high school, my faith was more a label than a conviction. My dad, who was exploring Nietzsche and Dawkins, had a significant influence on me. He taught me to think critically, which I appreciated, even though it pulled me further from religion. I read works by Emerson, Nietzsche, and Lao Tzu, and these ideas began shaping my worldview.

In college, my faith completely dissolved. A philosophy class at KU pushed me over the edge. For a final paper, I argued for material determinism, essentially rejecting the idea of the soul. That paper cemented my belief that humans were just atoms and synapses, and if there was no soul, maybe there was no God either.

For two years, I lived as an agnostic. Those years left me feeling increasingly empty and uncharitable. Seeking some sense of purpose, I reached out to a high school friend who invited me to his non-denominational Bible study. That community reignited my interest in Christianity, and I attended their church for the rest of undergrad.

The turning point came during a visit home, when I went to Mass with my mom. The Gospel reading was from John 6, where Jesus speaks about eating His flesh and drinking His blood. The priest’s homily emphasized the Catholic belief in the True Presence of the Eucharist. I was stunned. I had always assumed all Christians believed this, but now I realized there was a fundamental difference.

This realization forced me to decide: Was the Eucharist merely symbolic, or was it truly the Body and Blood of Christ? If it was the latter, I had to return to the Catholic Church. I began researching, reading early Christian writings like St. Justin Martyr’s description of the Eucharist from 150 A.D. His words convinced me—this was the faith of the early Christians, and it had to be mine too.

Back at KU, I sought community at the Catholic campus center. After Mass one Sunday, I sat down at a spaghetti dinner and struck up a conversation with a FOCUS missionary. He invited me to an “upper room” meeting, where the speaker said something that cut to my heart: “If you don’t pray, you don’t know God.”

I didn’t know how to pray, but I remembered the Rosary from my childhood. It gave me a structure I could manage. I started going to a nearby church every morning at 6:30 a.m. to pray the Rosary, and soon discovered weekday Mass. From then on, I attended daily Mass and prayed the Rosary every evening.

This routine transformed me. I became more charitable and family-oriented, calling my sisters daily and showering my stepmom with gifts. When I was offered a promotion that required moving to Boston, I turned it down to stay close to my family—a decision that baffled my old self, who prioritized career above all else.

During this time, I overheard someone talking about spiritual direction. Intrigued, I asked a Capuchin friar about it, and we scheduled a session. I brought up Matthew 19:21, the story of the rich young man, and admitted I felt like that man—unwilling to give everything to follow Jesus.

The priest asked if I’d considered becoming a priest. For the first time, the question hit me differently. I confessed my fear of the idea and mentioned my dad’s spiritual well-being as a concern. The priest responded with Jesus’ words:

“Let the dead bury their own dead; come follow me.”

That conversation reignited my childhood dream of the priesthood. I entered seminary that fall. To my surprise, my dad joined the Catholic Church the following year—not because of me, but on his own spiritual journey.

Seminary life deepened my faith, and I finally felt at peace. Prayer, community, and spiritual guidance had brought me full circle—from an agnostic young man to a Catholic seminarian, ready to give my life to God.

For what happened next, see the upcoming interview…