We are pleased to announce a new documentary project from TheoEco:
The Christians of Ukraine: 2000 Years of Faith

Along with this announcement, we are also launching a new project page and sharing two preview reels that offer an early look at the film now in development.

Built from three documentary journeys across wartime Ukraine — Trek to Bucha, Back to Bucha, and Beyond Bucha — The Christians of Ukraine: 2000 Years of Faith is a feature-length documentary planned for release in 2027.

The project begins with the reality of the present war, but it reaches much further back.

The Christians we encountered in Bucha, Irpin, Kharkiv, Zaporizhzhia, Odesa, Kyiv, and elsewhere are living out a faith whose roots did not begin in February 2022. Its story reaches back through the ancient tradition of St. Andrew’s first-century journey to these lands and to 988, when Prince Volodymyr baptized Kyivan Rus’ — more than a century before Moscow first appears in the historical record.

That is the larger story this film seeks to tell.

The three original films together ran nearly three hours and 45 minutes. We have already distilled that material into an approximately 60-minute cut containing the strongest stories, people, and moments from those journeys.

It is a film we could release today.

But our goal is to make it all that it can be.

The completed documentary will expand into a feature-length film of approximately 90 minutes, adding the historical, visual, and interpretive elements that will help Western audiences understand not only what they are seeing, but why it matters.

Those additions will include:

• animated sequences
• expert interviews
• maps and graphics
• historical imagery and context
• explanatory material on Ukraine’s Christian history and traditions

​In other words, the heart of the film is already there. What comes next is the work of deepening it, clarifying it, and placing the present war within the much longer story of 2,000 years of faith.

Watch the Reels
We are also pleased to share two early video previews of the project:

Preliminary Trailer — Under 3 Minutes
A brief introduction to the film and the world it enters.

​15-Minute Reel
A deeper look at the people, places, and faith at the center of the documentary.

Learn More
Visit the new project page here:
Read the Full Story

Support the Film
Support will help us complete the full feature-length version of The Christians of Ukraine: 2000 Years of Faith — including the animations, interviews, graphics, and historical materials that will allow this story to be told as fully and as powerfully as it deserves.

Support the Film
​
If this is a story you want told well, we invite you to follow the project and help bring it to completion.

By Steve Richards
With assistance form ChatGPT

Thomas Paine’s warning still echoes: autocracy’s great weakness is not only cruelty. It is blindness.
​
On the Fourth of July, Americans celebrate independence from a king who believed distant power could command a free people into submission. That mistake cost Britain its colonies. Two and a half centuries later, Vladimir Putin is making a remarkably similar mistake in Ukraine.
 
The American Revolution was not simply a protest against taxes. It was a revolt against autocratic rule — against a monarch who claimed authority over people whose lives he did not understand, whose grievances he ignored, and whose consent he did not need.
 
Thomas Paine understood the deeper problem. In Common Sense, he argued that monarchy does not merely give one man too much power. It also isolates him from the truth. A king is surrounded by courtiers, flatterers, and fearful subordinates. He hears what others think he wants to hear. The more absolute the ruler, the less likely he is to know what is actually happening.
 
That was the fatal blindness of King George III. He mistook the American colonies for disobedient dependents rather than a people discovering their own nationhood. He believed force would restore obedience. Instead, force clarified the moral issue. The more Britain tried to dominate America, the more Americans understood independence as not only practical, but necessary.
 
Putin’s war against Ukraine follows the same autocratic pattern. He appears to have believed Ukraine was not truly a nation, that its people would fold quickly, and that Russian power could erase Ukrainian identity. He confused military strength with legitimacy. He mistook fear for loyalty. And he badly underestimated what free people will endure when their homeland is at stake.
 
That is why Ukraine’s struggle should resonate so deeply with Americans on July 4th. Ukraine is fighting the same fundamental claim our founders rejected: that a larger power has the right to decide the fate of a smaller people. Russia calls Ukrainian resistance extremism, Western manipulation, or historical betrayal. Britain said much the same about the American colonies. Empires always have a vocabulary for denying the obvious.
 
The people themselves know better. Ukrainians know their churches, homes, language, families, graves, and future are not bargaining chips on an imperial map. They are the living substance of national freedom.
 
That is the deeper Fourth of July lesson. America’s founders did not merely reject King George. They rejected a system in which power could be insulated from truth, law, and accountability. Their answer was not another strongman. It was constitutional government — imperfect, contested, often frustrating, but built on the idea that no leader is above the people or the law.
 
There is a lesson for modern America here too. The danger of autocracy does not begin only when tanks roll across a border. It begins when leaders stop listening, when loyalty becomes more valued than truth, when institutions are treated as obstacles, and when citizens are encouraged to confuse grievance with patriotism.
 
Autocracy’s great weakness is not only cruelty. It is blindness. A free society’s great strength is not only liberty. It is the ability to speak the truth before disaster becomes inevitable.
 
That is what July 4th asks us to remember — and what Ukraine is reminding the world in blood.

​By Steve Richards
With assistance from ChatGPT

​Tragedy and hope—just like Christ on the cross.Four years ago, in April 2022, I found myself in Bucha, Ukraine—just weeks after the world first began to understand what had happened there. It was my first trip into the country after the invasion, and nothing could have fully prepared me for what I encountered.

Easter that year looked nothing like what I was used to.

Instead of a familiar church service or a family brunch, I spent the day in a cold parking lot beside an apartment building, gathered around a makeshift field kitchen. A group of us cooked chicken soup over an open fire—rain, sleet, even a bit of snow falling around us. The power had only just been restored after nearly two months. The meal took hours to prepare and fed more than a dozen people. I remember peeling potatoes, trying in some small way to be useful.
 

​What struck me most, though, was that it wasn’t even Easter for most Ukrainians yet.

As part of the Orthodox tradition, they were observing Palm Sunday. There were no palm branches—just small budding twigs, a quiet symbol of life beginning again. Their Easter would come next Sunday, marked by a midnight service I watched on a small screen in a darkened train station somewhere between Kyiv and Lviv.

​But my Easter—that year—was in Bucha.

At the church the world had come to recognize.

Near the ground where mass graves had been dug.

The evidence of what had happened there was everywhere—not distant or abstract, but deeply personal. I met people who had lived through it, people like Igor, an insurance agent who had been bound and blindfolded in his own apartment, then later struck by shrapnel from an armored personnel carrier before eventually being evacuated. He told his story simply, sitting in the very apartment where it had all occurred.

​It’s hard to describe what that does to you.

I’ve included here a short, four-minute video excerpt from Trek to Bucha—the first film I created from that journey in April 2022. It captures some of what I witnessed in those early days, and the reality on the ground as the world was just beginning to understand.

Now, four years later, I find myself reflecting on Bucha in a different way.

The town is no longer what it was in those early days. There has been rebuilding. Streets have come back to life. Churches are filled again. But nothing has been forgotten—and the war itself is not over. For the people of Ukraine, this is not history. It is still their present.

And yet, what stays with me most from that Easter is not only the tragedy—but the hope I saw alongside it.
Not a distant or idealized hope, but something very real. The kind that shows up in small acts: sharing a meal, welcoming a stranger, gathering to worship, choosing—day by day—to rebuild.

That’s something I’ve seen on every trip since.

So this Easter, I find myself returning to a simple idea: tragedy and hope—the cross, and what comes after.

If you have a few minutes, I hope you’ll take the time to watch this short excerpt. It offers a window into a moment when the lights came back on—and into a place that continues to shape everything that has followed.

Thank you, as always, for following this journey and for caring about the people and stories behind it. 

​Easter in Bucha video - April 2022 (4 minutes) 

If Stalin couldn’t erase Ukraine, how can a diminished and isolated Vladimir Putin hope to do so?

That question is not rhetorical flourish. It is rooted in history—hard, blood-soaked history.

In the 1930s, Joseph Stalin commanded one of the most ruthless and totalizing regimes the modern world has ever seen. Through forced collectivization, mass deportations, political purges, and the engineered famine known as the Holodomor, millions of Ukrainians perished. The Soviet state attempted not merely to control Ukraine, but to break it—its farmers, its clergy, its intellectuals, its language, its memory. Entire villages were starved into silence. Cultural elites were imprisoned or executed. The Ukrainian church was persecuted. Even the word “Ukraine” was treated with suspicion when attached to aspirations of sovereignty.

And yet Ukraine survived.

It survived not because the Soviet state was weak, but because Ukrainian identity ran deeper than state violence. Language was preserved in kitchens and whispered in lullabies. Faith was practiced in forests and behind closed doors. National memory endured in poetry, folk songs, and the stubborn will of ordinary families who refused to forget who they were. Even after decades of Soviet repression, when independence finally came in 1991, Ukrainians voted overwhelmingly—over 90 percent—to leave the collapsing Soviet Union. That was not a manufactured statistic. It was a civilizational statement.

Fast forward to the present.

Vladimir Putin does not command Stalin’s global ideological machinery, nor does he preside over a superpower of comparable scale. He governs a Russia facing demographic decline, economic strain, and international isolation. His invasion of Ukraine in 2022 was meant to decapitate the state in days. Instead, it galvanized a nation.

Cities like Kyiv, Kharkiv, and Odesa did not fold. They resisted. Ukrainian soldiers—many of them ordinary civilians just months earlier—dug in. Clergy of multiple denominations prayed openly in public squares. Evangelical, Orthodox, Catholic, and Jewish communities alike rallied to defend not merely territory but the right to exist as Ukrainians.

Ironically, the invasion has strengthened the very identity it sought to erase. The Ukrainian language is more widely spoken than at any time in modern history. Cultural production has surged. Churches once divided by jurisdictional tensions have found common cause in survival. A generation of young Ukrainians now defines itself not in relation to Moscow but in opposition to it.

History offers a sobering pattern: empires can occupy territory, but they struggle to extinguish identity—especially when that identity is tied to faith, land, and memory. Stalin’s Soviet Union had near-total control over information, borders, and movement. Putin’s Russia does not. In a connected world, images of destruction become testimonies. Atrocities become rallying cries.

If Stalin, with all his brutal power, failed to erase Ukraine, the notion that Putin can succeed is not just implausible—it misunderstands what a nation is. A nation is not only borders on a map. It is shared suffering, shared language, shared prayer, shared graves, and shared hope.

Ukraine has already endured one attempt at annihilation in the twentieth century and emerged independent. The current war may reshape its borders and scar its people, but it is far more likely to deepen Ukrainian nationhood than dissolve it.
Erasure requires surrender. Ukraine fights. You cannot erase a nation that refuses to kneel.

​Ukraine will not be erased.

On January 7, I wrote to a friend of mine in Kyiv, a Ukrainian Greek Catholic priest, simply to check in. I knew he was facing brain surgery, and I wanted to be sure I was praying on the right day.

I’ve been thinking about you and wondering when your surgical procedure is going to happen. Want to be sure I add into the chorus of prayers on that day and after… and before.

A few days later, he replied calmly, almost matter-of-factly. He would see his doctor the following week; a decision would be made then. He promised to keep me informed.

Of course, he wrote.

This is what resilience looks like.

Not speeches. Not slogans. Just prayer, work, prayer again—under air-raid sirens, amid blackouts, in freezing apartments, with brain surgery scheduled in a city at war.

It is a reminder that faith, at its most authentic, is not loud. It is steady. It shows up. And somehow, impossibly, it keeps going.
Moments like this are why I continue to return to Ukraine with a camera and a notebook—why Beyond Bucha exists at all. Not to capture destruction alone, but to bear witness to lives lived faithfully in its shadow, where prayer and perseverance are not abstractions, but daily necessities.

Please keep Fr. Roman—and Kyiv—in your prayers on January 27, and in the days before and after.

This past Sunday, January 4th, I attended the Divine Liturgy at St. Jonah Orthodox Church in Spring, Texas, just a few days before Orthodox Christmas, which this year falls today, January 7th.

While much of the Christian world has already dismantled nativity scenes and returned to ordinary time, this small Orthodox parish north of Houston was still moving toward Christmas. That sense of being out of sync—celebrating later, differently, and largely unnoticed—felt emblematic of Orthodoxy’s place within the broader American religious landscape.

St. Jonah’s describes itself as an English-language parish of the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR), a body formed by clergy and faithful who fled Bolshevik Russia and lived for decades apart from the Moscow Patriarchate. The parish itself began as a small mission community and gradually took shape as families gathered around a shared commitment to Orthodox life in English. That lineage matters. It situates St. Jonah’s within a Russian Orthodox tradition shaped by exile, memory, and distance from state power—even as contemporary geopolitics complicate those inherited narratives.

The 9:00 a.m. liturgy lasted nearly two hours, all of it standing. At least seven clergy in full vestments participated, processing through a modest sanctuary with deliberate precision. The service was conducted in English, yet much of it remained difficult to follow. Orthodox worship does not aim for clarity in the modern evangelical sense; it seeks immersion. Scripture, chant, incense, and ritual blended into a sung, Eucharist-centered liturgy anchored by a disciplined, well-rehearsed choir. This was not a sermon-driven service; it demanded patience and submission to form.

The congregation numbered roughly one hundred or so. Many women wore headscarves, and several families presented an aesthetic that felt closer to Mormon communities than to either mainline Protestantism or American evangelicalism. This was not a political gathering.

The pastor, John Whiteford, offered a brief sermon on Matthew 1:1–25, the genealogy and birth of Christ. Whiteford joined the parish after converting to Orthodoxy in the early 1990s and has been associated with St. Jonah’s for decades. Online, he is a controversial figure, known for sharp critiques of Western culture, outspoken political commentary, and unapologetic Orthodoxy. In person, however, the sermon was restrained and textual. Whatever controversies surround his public persona, they were not evident from the pulpit that morning.

That gap between digital reputation and physical reality matters. Whiteford’s online profile is often amplified by a broader phenomenon sometimes labeled the “ortho-bro” movement—young men drawn to Orthodoxy less through parish life than through social media, podcasts, and culture-war aesthetics. Online, that world can feel loud, combative, and far larger than life. Inside St. Jonah’s on a Sunday morning, there was little evidence of it. What existed here was not a movement, but a parish—small, multigenerational, and decidedly ordinary.

What is often overlooked in discussions about Whiteford is his religious background. He was raised in the Church of the Nazarene before converting to Orthodoxy. That detail resonated personally; I, too, was raised Nazarene in my childhood years. The Nazarene Church is an evangelical denomination widely regarded as socially and theologically conservative Christian tradition that stresses moral discipline and visibly lived faith.

This visit also connects directly to the work I’ve been doing on Beyond Bucha, which examines faith communities in Ukraine as they navigate war, occupation, and ecclesial fracture. In Ukraine, Orthodoxy is not a niche tradition; it is the religious majority, embedded in national identity and daily life under fire. The tensions playing out throughout Ukraine now echo—quietly and imperfectly—even in places like Spring, Texas.

​Orthodox Christmas in Spring, Texas arrived without spectacle. No cameras, no slogans, no audience beyond those who stood there that morning. What remained was a small community practicing an old faith—and quietly collecting support for Ukraine, directed toward the historic Orthodox Church in Ukraine, the network of parishes traditionally recognized within global Orthodoxy and long embedded in Ukrainian religious life. In an age shaped by amplification and outrage, that modest act offered a reminder that some of the most meaningful responses to global crises unfold far from the noise, where conviction is measured less by volume than by presence.

​The film will weave together intimate, character-driven moments from both Ukraine and Rhode Island, including:

• Archival and contemporary footage of the family in Odesa
• Everyday life in Jamestown unfolds through classrooms, playing fields, after-school pursuits, and even nights around the Boy Scouts campfire
• Aerial drone cinematography piloted by Sasha
• Viktoriia’s woodcraft training at IYRS in Newport
• The family’s origin story in Rhode Island through the Naval War College in Newport
• Interviews with leaders from the Jamestown and Aquidneck Ukrainian Relief Projects and key community sponsors
• Sasha’s All-State flute performance
• An in-depth exploration of Sasha’s medical journey
• A potential visit to Ukraine’s front lines and to meet the rest of the family including daughter/sister Yana and Holly, the family dog, in Ukraine

This multi-location structure emphasizes resilience, displacement, community, and the enduring bonds of family under wartime conditions.

Meet the Pinchuks: Impact
Beyond documenting one family’s journey, Meet the Pinchuks seeks to deepen Americans’ understanding of Ukraine and of a people who have become our newest democratic allies. By placing viewers inside an intimate, transatlantic family story shaped by war, displacement, resilience, and community, the film humanizes a global conflict through the lens of childhood, sacrifice, and hope.

The impact strategy for Meet the Pinchuks builds on the proven success of the Trek to Bucha trilogy and is amplified through a multi-platform distribution and engagement plan that includes:
​

• Curated in-person and virtual community screenings
• Pursuit of a national broadcast distribution via PBS and partner networks
• Strategic film festival participation to drive awareness and reviews
• Availability across streaming platforms
• Targeted educational distribution for schools, universities, and civic organizations

​Together, these outlets position Meet the Pinchuks to reach broad national and international audiences while fostering dialogue, empathy, and sustained engagement with Ukraine’s ongoing struggle for freedom.

Join Our Cause!
Stand with us in telling this urgent story. Your support helps bring Beyond Bucha to audiences around the world—through screenings, broadcasts, education, and advocacy—amplifying the voices of Ukrainian families living through war. Whether through a donation, a partnership, or hosting a screening, you become part of a growing movement using film to inform, inspire, and mobilize. Together, we can ensure these stories are seen, heard, and never forgotten.

The Director
Steve Richards directs and produces all of TheoEco’s documentaries. He first traveled to Ukraine in March 2022 to film Trek to Bucha, returned in January 2023 to shoot Back to Bucha, and completed additional production shoots there in 2025 for Beyond Bucha. With seven documentaries to his credit, he co-founded TheoEco in 2015.

This past summer marked the beginning of our Beyond Bucha release. As we move into the winter and spring of 2026, our focus turns to sharing it more widely. Alongside that effort, we’re releasing a short video about my June 2025 trip to Odesa—to visit Sasha and Viktoriia Pinchuk and to premiere the film in Ukraine.

The story opens aboard a crowded bus heading south from Kyiv—my backup plan after every train seat sold out. Soon after, we’re greeted by a small surprise in the garden—a curious hedgehog making its rounds.

Next, we reconnect with Sasha and the Sunrise Flute Ensemble—familiar faces from the Odesa segment of Beyond Bucha—as they take the stage at the film’s premiere inside the historic Cossacks Museum.

Odesa remains, in many ways, a front-line city—home to Ukraine’s navy and key shipping facilities, roughly 400 kilometers
northwest of occupied Crimea across the Black Sea. As a result, it has endured relentless drone and missile strikes over the past year.

But this video isn’t about the destruction—it’s about life in between the sirens. Much of it is told from the vantage point of the Pinchuks’ country home, a refuge outside the city where they can escape the constant threat of bombardment. They bought it mainly for Sasha, to give him peace and safety as he continues to recover from a brain injury caused by a nearby missile blast that sent a shock wave through his neighborhood.

We find Viktoriia at the grill, turning skewers of pork destined to become both dinner and several days’ worth of meals. Between the sizzle and laughter, she talks about the difference between life at the summer house and their condo in town.

But someone is missing. The man of the house—a career naval officer—is on the front line. His absence is deeply felt, a quiet reminder of the sacrifices behind every Ukrainian soldier’s family’s resilience.

Next, we step into the garden—lush, sprawling, and ambitious. I’ve never seen two “non-gardeners” create such a thriving patch of paradise. It’s both sanctuary and statement: life goes on, and it’s beautiful.

We return briefly to the Odesa premiere, where outside the museum Sasha and the curator recall how a recent drone strike shattered the windows and brought down part of the roof. Later, we visit Sasha’s rehab clinic, which was also hit earlier in the summer.

Still in his teens, his developing brain is healing from trauma few could comprehend. We join him during a rehab pool session on the outskirts of Odesa—hope floating just beneath the surface.

We then pass the once-grand Hotel Bristol, which made headlines after a missile strike gutted it. From the street, the façade still stands tall, but the missing roof tells a different story.

Back in the garden, I try to help by picking cherries—so many cherries!—before we head to one of Odesa’s stunning public parks. There, amid fountains, flowerbeds, cafés, and children’s laughter, Sasha sits for a caricature. The artist’s quick lines capture not just his face, but his spirit—cheerful, brave, and unbowed.

​We are now filming another documentary that will pick up the Pinchuks’ story here in New England. The next time we see them, it will be far from the Black Sea—on the shores of Rhode Island.

The other day, an Evangelical leader in the Southwest said something that stopped me cold.

I’d heard it before—but it still made my stomach turn. He claimed Vladimir Putin was somehow a defender of Christianity, a champion of “traditional values” standing up to a godless Ukraine and its supposedly secular president, Volodymyr Zelensky. The idea would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous.

It’s easy to see why some find that claim seductive. In an age of moral drift, many believers crave firm spiritual leadership and a culture that still honors faith. But this narrative—crafted and amplified for years by Russian Orthodox Patriarch Kirill—is not a defense of Christianity; it’s a weaponized lie. It hijacks the language of faith to mask imperial ambition and seduce well-meaning Christians in the West—all while Russian forces kill Protestant pastors, level churches, and fill churchyards with mass graves, as in Bucha.

The truth is, Ukraine has been a cornerstone of Christianity for over a millennium. It embraced the faith in 988 AD under Prince Volodymyr—when Moscow was still a swamp. Across Ukraine, church domes crown every skyline; shrines and crosses stand proudly in public squares. Schools welcome prayer. Faith shapes daily life. From Lviv to Kharkiv, the church isn’t a relic of the past—it’s the living heart of the nation.

Russia’s record on religion tells a darker truth. After 1917, Lenin and Stalin waged open war on faith itself. “Militant atheism” became state doctrine. The so-called League of the Militant Godless spread its gospel of disbelief through schools and propaganda, hunting down believers of every kind—Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist. Churches, mosques, synagogues—boarded up or destroyed. Priests and pastors hauled off, shot, or left to freeze in the gulag. By the late 1930s, faith in Russia survived only underground, whispered in fear.

When Nazi Germany invaded in 1941, Stalin suddenly discovered his “faith.” Not out of belief—out of desperation. He resurrected the Russian Orthodox Church, not to worship God, but to weaponize Him—turning priests into mouthpieces for the state under the iron grip of the NKVD, later the KGB. Other faiths remained crushed beneath the boot. In 1946, he outlawed the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church, jailing its priests and forcing its flock into Moscow’s fold. Protestants and Jews were surveilled, harassed, and driven underground. Stalin didn’t spare Orthodoxy; he enslaved it—using a hollowed-out religion as camouflage for tyranny while extinguishing real spiritual life across the Soviet empire.

For forty years, the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church survived only by miracle. Its clergy met in cellars, kitchens, and forest clearings—whispering the liturgy, baptizing in secret, burying their dead by night. Faith became an act of resistance. Only in the late 1980s, under glasnost and perestroika—and with the bold encouragement of Pope John Paul II—did the Church rise again, a resurrection after four decades in the catacombs. Protestants, too, endured in the shadows. In Kyiv and beyond, pastors still speak of grandfathers who were jailed, beaten, or vanished simply for preaching the gospel.

Since independence in 1991, religious freedom in Ukraine has flourished. I’ve interviewed Pentecostal, Charismatic, Presbyterian, Catholic, Evangelical, Baptist, and even Orthodox pastors across the country—none feel persecuted. They laugh at the notion; it’s pure Russian disinformation.

Meanwhile, Putin and Patriarch Kirill parade as defenders of Christianity—but only their own, state-approved brand of it: a weaponized Russian Orthodoxy chained to the Kremlin. Every other expression of faith is treated as a threat. Protestant and Evangelical churches are smeared as “sects” or “cults.” Even Ukraine’s own Orthodox Church is punished simply for breaking free from Moscow’s grip. In Putin’s empire, faith isn’t sacred—it’s scripted.

The bottom line couldn’t be clearer: Ukraine lives religious freedom. Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim—all free, all respected, all thriving side by side. It’s not propaganda; it’s reality. And it’s one of the very freedoms Ukrainians are bleeding to defend. Even priests of the Russian Orthodox Church are free to hold mass in Ukraine so long as they don’t engage in espionage or act as tools of Russian propaganda.

Good luck finding that in Russia—or anywhere under its boot. That’s not propaganda. It’s witness—the living faith of people who refuse to bow, even as bombs fall and churches burn.

Ukraine marks its 34th Independence Day today, Sunday, August 24, 2025.

On this day in 1991, the Ukrainian parliament declared independence from the Soviet Union — a decisive step that helped bring the USSR crashing down. Ever since, war criminal Vladimir Putin has seethed, calling the collapse of the Soviet Union “the greatest geopolitical catastrophe of the 20th century.” His lament exposes his imperial ambitions and his refusal to accept Ukraine’s right to exist as a free and sovereign nation.

No doubt the same sinking feeling Santa Anna had when Texas bolted in 1836 — or King George when his colonies slipped away in 1776. But I digress.

I know a bit about Texas, as I travel there often. Both my sisters moved there long ago, and all my nieces and nephews were born there. Just recently I was in Dallas helping my 87-year-old mother settle into a lovely assisted living facility near my sister. Christmas in Texas has been a family tradition for as long as I can remember. I truly love the place. Fittingly, the first draft of this piece was written while visiting Texas megachurches last summer, with the idea taking shape at the Alamo in San Antonio — itself once a church.

When I do Q&A after screenings of my Ukrainian documentaries, I often compare Ukraine to Texas. For Americans, especially Texans, this analogy offers a clear framework for understanding Ukraine’s fight for freedom.

First off, Ukraine and Texas are roughly the same size (Texas covers about 268,600 square miles, Ukraine about 233,000). And here’s another surprise: In 2024, Russia’s nominal GDP is estimated at about $2.1 trillion, while Texas’ real GDP is roughly $2.2 trillion. Russia may look enormous on a map, but in terms of economic power it’s no bigger than a single U.S. state—a reminder that appearances can be deceiving.

Their struggles for independence as sovereign republics are strikingly parallel. Texas won its freedom from Mexico in 1836 before joining the United States in 1845. Ukraine declared independence in 1991, confirmed by more than 90 percent of its people in a national referendum, and has defended that sovereignty ever since.

The principle is timeless: it doesn’t matter who once claimed the land. What matters is the people’s right to a government that protects their liberty. As our Founders wrote in 1776:

Ukraine, after centuries of attempts to erase its culture, simply seeks to raise its children in its own homes, land, and traditions. That is why so many mothers have returned home despite the threat of missiles and drones.

Like Texas, Ukraine is defined by conservative values: family, faith, and freedom. Evangelical life thrives there. During my five-week tour in the fall of 2024, I visited many churches and interviewed pastors for my new documentary Beyond Bucha. An evangelical from Texas would feel right at home in Lviv, Kyiv, or Kharkiv. I even met one in 2023 — Pastor Doug Shepherd from Dallas — leading a church in Lviv. Prayer is welcome in schools and public spaces, and churches remained open through COVID. Religious freedom in Ukraine is not only alive, it is flourishing.

Despite constant missile and drone strikes, Ukrainians refuse to be intimidated. Predictions of Russia’s inevitable victory have proven as hollow as Mexico’s claim over Texas or Britain’s attempt to retake America in 1812.

In 2022, the world braced for Kyiv’s fall. Instead, Ukrainian soldiers armed with U.S.-supplied Javelins forced Russia to retreat. The atrocities at Bucha became Ukraine’s Alamo — where defiance met brutality and inspired lasting courage. The Javelin itself has deep Texas roots: originally developed by Texas Instruments in Denton/Lewisville (now part of Raytheon) with Martin Marietta, and still built in part in Dallas, where DRS Technologies produces the infrared assemblies that power its Command Launch Unit.

Traveling across Ukraine in 2024 and again this summer, I found a nation remarkably resilient. Shopping malls, grocery stores, restaurants, even its vast rail network all function under bombardment. Life goes on. Borders may shift, but Ukraine endures.

Just as Texas sought U.S. statehood in 1845, Ukraine seeks integration with Europe today. Like Texas, it is blessed with beautiful cities, vast lands, and proud, resilient people. These are natural allies who share our values — and our determination to be free.

This is not only about Ukraine. It is about us. Imagine if American leaders saw Ukraine not as a burden but as an opportunity: a partner in freedom, a place where American investment and ideals can flourish. Any president who helps secure Ukraine’s freedom would be remembered not only as a statesman, but as a champion of liberty itself.

Ukraine’s fight is America’s fight — for freedom, family, and the future of democracy itself. Texans said it best: Don’t Mess With Texas.

​Today the call is just as clear: Don’t Mess With Ukraine.