It’s like being a missionary without leaving home. You’re part of an ancient faith that most of your neighbors have never heard of, and you get used to explaining yourself.
Texas sits in what one Orthodox priest calls the “Buckle of the Bible Belt.” When you tell someone you’re Orthodox, they usually think you mean Greek Orthodox (and they picture My Big Fat Greek Wedding) or they confuse you with Jews. Sometimes they ask if you’re Russian. The conversation that follows depends on whether you’ve got two minutes or twenty.
Most Texans assume “church” means Baptist or non-denominational or maybe Catholic. They know about altar calls and praise bands and fish fries during Lent. They don’t know about standing for two hours on Sunday morning, kissing icons, or why you won’t eat meat on Wednesdays. You learn to answer the same questions over and over. No, we’re not Protestant. Yes, we’re Christian. No, the incense won’t kill you.
But here’s what’s good about it.
You can’t coast on cultural Orthodoxy in Texas. There’s no Orthodox neighborhood where everyone goes to the same parish their grandparents attended. Most Orthodox Christians here chose this. They read their way into it or married into it or visited once and couldn’t stay away. The parishes tend to be convert-heavy, which means the coffee hour conversations run deep. People are working out what it means to be Orthodox in a place where that’s not normal.
The Antiochian parishes in Texas function as pan-Orthodox communities. You’ll find people with Greek last names and Russian last names and Smith and Johnson. You’ll find former Baptists standing next to cradle Orthodox from Lebanon. The services are in English, mostly, because they have to be. This isn’t ethnic preservation. It’s just the Church doing what it’s always done, planting itself in new soil.
Your extended family probably thinks you’ve joined a cult. Thanksgiving gets awkward when someone asks why you pray to Mary or why you have all those paintings. You explain that we don’t pray TO Mary, we ask her to pray FOR us, same as you’d ask your mom to pray for you. You explain that icons aren’t idols, they’re windows. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. You learn patience.
Work schedules complicate things. Plenty of Orthodox Christians in Southeast Texas work rotating shifts at refineries and plants. You miss Liturgy sometimes because you’re offshore or on turnaround. The Church understands. She’s been dealing with fishermen and shift workers since Peter.
The isolation can be real. If you live in Houston or Dallas, you’ve got options, multiple parishes, Orthodox bookstores, other Orthodox families your kids can grow up with. If you’re in a smaller town, you might drive an hour each way to Liturgy. You’re the only Orthodox family at your kid’s school. You bring Kolyva to the funeral and have to explain what it is.
But there’s also freedom in it. You’re not carrying centuries of ethnic baggage or village feuds. You’re not expected to know how your great-grandmother made baklava. The Church in Texas gets to be the Church without all the cultural barnacles. We fast, we pray, we commune, we try to love our neighbors. That’s it.
And your neighbors? They’re mostly kind about it. Texans value faith, even when they don’t understand yours. They respect that you take it seriously. When hurricane season hits and everyone’s pulling together, nobody cares whether you’re Orthodox or Baptist. You’re all filling sandbags.
The growth is real. More parishes are starting, more people are inquiring. Ancient Faith Radio reaches into pickup trucks on I-10. People are hungry for something older than 1995, something that doesn’t change its theology every generation. They find Orthodoxy and realize it’s what they were looking for.
Being Orthodox in Texas means you’re part of something small but growing. You’re connected to Antioch, where they first called us Christians, and you’re also connected to Beaumont and Houston and Fort Worth. You’re learning to be faithful in a place that doesn’t make it easy or automatic. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
