Some of them, probably. But not all.
That’s the honest answer. When you become Orthodox, some friendships will change. A few might end. Others will deepen in unexpected ways. And you’ll make new friends in the Church who share your faith. It’s not a simple trade-off, and it hurts when it happens, but it’s also not the catastrophe you might fear at 2 a.m. when you’re lying awake thinking about it.
Here’s what actually happens. Your Baptist friends from small group might drift away because you’re not at Wednesday night Bible study anymore. Your worship team buddies might stop texting. That couple you did marriage studies with might feel betrayed, like you’ve rejected everything you shared. One woman who converted reported that her former music team members literally ignored her at social gatherings. She cried about it. That’s real.
But other friends surprise you. The guy you worked offshore with who never talked about church might ask genuine questions. Your college roommate might visit a Vespers service out of curiosity. Some people stick around because they care about you more than they care about which building you worship in on Sunday.
The hardest part isn’t usually your secular friends. It’s your church friends. The people who prayed with you, who brought meals when your kid was sick, who knew your marriage struggles. When you leave their congregation for Orthodoxy, some take it personally. They think you’re saying their faith isn’t good enough, that they’re not real Christians, that you’ve gotten proud and weird. You’re not saying that (or you shouldn’t be), but that’s how it lands.
And here’s the uncomfortable truth: sometimes it’s your fault. New converts can be obnoxious. Frederica Mathewes-Green, who wrote about her own conversion in “Facing East,” admits she went through an insufferable phase. You’ve been reading church history for months. You’ve discovered the Fathers. You’ve learned about Nicaea and Chalcedon and the filioque. You’re bursting to share it all. So you lecture your friends about heresies they’ve never heard of and don’t care about. You correct their theology at dinner parties. You post long Facebook essays about icons. They start avoiding you.
Don’t do that.
Your priest will tell you the same thing: shut up for a while. Learn to be Orthodox before you try to explain Orthodoxy. Love your friends without arguing. When they ask questions, answer them. When they don’t, pray for them and pass the brisket. You’re learning humility and long-suffering, which are harder than memorizing the Creed. Your friendships are where you practice.
Some relationships will end anyway, even if you’re gracious about it. That’s grief, and it’s okay to feel it. You’re not betraying Christ by missing your old community. You’re not weak for wishing your best friend understood. Bring it to confession. Talk to your priest. Let the Church hold that sadness with you.
But you won’t be alone. The parish becomes family in ways that surprise people. You’ll stand next to the same people at Liturgy every Sunday. You’ll fast together during Lent. Someone will teach you to make prosphora. Another person will explain the Paschal greeting in Arabic because that’s how St. Michael’s does it. You’ll serve at coffee hour, paint classrooms, and stand in the Texas heat at the church picnic. These people become your friends. Not because you chose them from a catalog, but because you’re being saved together.
That’s different from the friendships you pick based on shared hobbies or life stage. It’s deeper in some ways, more awkward in others. You might not have much in common with the retired engineer or the young mom with four kids, but you’re in the same Body. You learn to love people you wouldn’t have chosen. That’s part of theosis too.
Your non-Orthodox friends can still be your friends. You can still grab coffee, watch football, help them move. You don’t have to make everything about religion. You don’t have to decline every invitation that conflicts with a feast day, especially at first. You’re learning to live as Orthodox in a non-Orthodox world, and that takes time. Your priest will help you figure out what’s essential and what’s flexible.
What you can’t do is pretend you’re not Orthodox to make people comfortable. You’ll fast on Wednesdays. You’ll go to Liturgy on Sunday morning, which means you might skip some things. You’ll have an icon corner in your house. You’ll make the sign of the cross before meals. Some friends will think that’s beautiful. Others will think you’ve joined a cult. You can’t control their reaction. You can control whether you’re loving and patient while you live your faith.
The friends you lose weren’t necessarily bad friends. Sometimes people grow in different directions. Sometimes your conversion challenges them in ways they’re not ready to face. Sometimes they’re protecting their own faith by keeping distance from yours. Pray for them. Don’t burn bridges. Leave the door open. I know people whose friendships resumed years later, once the initial shock wore off and everyone relaxed.
You’ll also find that some Protestant friends become curious. They visit. They ask about the icons. They want to understand. Those conversations are gifts, but don’t push. Answer what they ask. Invite them to Pascha or a feast day when the church is full of joy and food. Let them see Orthodoxy lived, not just argued.
If you’re in Southeast Texas, you already know your extended family is probably Baptist or Church of Christ. Your coworkers might think Orthodox means Greek food and beards. That’s fine. You’re not trying to win arguments. You’re trying to become a saint, which is harder and takes longer. Your friendships are part of that work. Some will last. Some won’t. All of them teach you something about love, loss, and what it means to follow Christ into His Church.
