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.

By Steve Richards

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.

This weekend we screened Beyond Bucha at the Cossack Museum and the Cathedral of the Nativity Orthodox Church in Odesa to packed audiences.

I arrived in Odesa on Friday and am staying at the summer home of Viktoriia and Sasha, just outside the city—away from the all-too-frequent sirens and explosions of Russian drones and missiles. Here, in a house surrounded by an extensive garden, life feels tranquil and worlds away from the war.

Viktoriia organized the weekend’s events, beginning with Saturday’s screening at the Ukrainian Cossacks Development History Museum—a small museum recently damaged in a drone strike. A hole in the roof and several shattered windows remain as reminders that this museum, like Ukraine itself, has been built and rebuilt after repeated destruction.

Korovai Presentation at the Ukrainian Cossacks Development History Museum

The festivities began with the presentation of a Korovai—a traditional Ukrainian celebratory bread—by singers in traditional Ukrainian garb. They sang their hearts out in a joyful performance that moved me to tears. I could only wish that my Ukrainian-American friends and supporters could have witnessed the passion with which they performed several Ukrainian folk songs accompanied by guitar. I will never forget the love and appreciation I felt from this group for making the journey and for making the film.

Next came a performance by the award-winning Sunrise Flute Ensemble, which is featured in the film. These talented young performers played several pieces, including Moon River by Henry Mancini—bringing more tears to my eyes. Considering the hell these children endure on a daily basis, their resilience—and that of their teachers and parents—is nothing short of extraordinary. That they continue to focus on school and extra-curriculars like this, and made it to an early afternoon performance on a Saturday, is a testament to their strength and community.

Beyond Bucha Odesa Premiere - Moon River and The Nightfall by the Sunrise Ensemble of Odesa

The film screening was met with an engaged and thoughtful audience, many of whom stayed afterward for a Q&A session—and to share the Korovai. Most were intrigued by the views of Ukrainian cities that few get to see, and by the evangelical faith practices, which were unfamiliar to them. As Orthodox believers of the Ukrainian tradition, they were already well aware of the Transfiguration Cathedral and its Moscow Patriarchate ties. Some questioned why it was included in the film—until I explained how it became well known in the U.S. after being struck by a missile in 2023.

The day continued with a tour of the museum and a fun moment where they dressed me in authentic Cossack attire. It was truly an unforgettable day.

Today, we held a second screening—this time at the Cathedral of the Nativity, a Ukrainian Orthodox church featured in the film, which was also struck by a Russian drone in November 2024.

Much of the Orthodox congregation squeezed into the parish hall following the Sunday service (which lasts several hours). Once again, they were immersed in the film’s journey through evangelical churches and cities—from Bucha to Kharkiv to Zaporizhzhia—and remained engaged as the story unfolded. The Ukrainian subtitles did their job; I was relieved and happy to see that everyone seemed to follow along.

I wasn’t entirely sure how an Orthodox audience would respond, but I needn’t have worried. Fr. Orobets, who was interviewed in the film, had already seen it and was the one who invited us to screen it here. He was glad not only to see churches and believers from across Ukraine but also to give his parishioners a glimpse of life outside Odesa.

In the end, the reception couldn’t have been warmer.

​My deep thanks to Viktoriia, who organized both events, and also to 13-year-old Sasha, who not only translated Fr. Orobets' interview in the film but also served as my interpreter at both events. It would have been next to impossible to be here without them—and without their husband and father, who has been redeployed to the front lines. He remains constantly on all of our minds.

​My final church visit in Ukraine felt like stepping into a Texas mega-church—an energetic service with a vibrant worship band, professional media setup, and a congregation full of families.

After the service, I interviewed Pastor Anton Kalyuzhny of New Life Church, a non-denominational congregation. He offered moving reflections on how war reshapes faith, urging believers to embrace lament and recognize God's shared sorrow: “When you are in a war, you cannot run away from pain and evil... He’s crying with us.”

Pastor Anton also issued a heartfelt plea to conservatives and evangelicals in the West. Though most Ukrainians are deeply conservative, they’re often mischaracterized as liberals by American media. He expressed deep frustration over how conservative outlets have distorted Ukraine’s reality, leading many U.S. evangelicals to dismiss the voices of their Ukrainian brothers and sisters.

He warned that trusting pundits like Tucker Carlson over firsthand testimony from Ukrainian believers is a painful betrayal—“a knife in our hearts.” His call was clear: listen to Ukrainian evangelicals themselves, not just the media narratives.

For more go to: We’ve Learned How to Lament and to See that He's Crying With Us.

​​On July 23, 2023, a Russian missile strike severely damaged the Transfiguration Cathedral in Odesa, shocking people around the world, including Christians across America.

Despite the attacks, Odesans remain fiercely devoted to their city—a resilience I’ve seen throughout Ukraine. My translator, Sasha Pinchuk, embodies that spirit.

Born in Sevastopol, Crimea, Sasha’s family left in 2014. In 2017, he spent a year in Newport while his father studied at the Naval War College. After Russia’s full-scale invasion in 2022, Sasha’s mother and siblings fled to the U.S., staying with a family friend in Rhode Island for 18 months. His father remained in Ukraine, serving on the front lines.

When I visited Odesa on October 11, I found the damaged cathedral open. The Sunrise Ensemble performed a moving flute recital in front of it, which we filmed for a short video. Inside, debris remained, but reconstruction had begun. We were even allowed to film inside the nave.

That visit also led me to Fr. Theodore Orobets at the smaller Cathedral of the Nativity. Just a month later, it too was hit by a missile. Fr. Orobets explained the distinction between Ukrainian Orthodox churches and those aligned with Moscow, which supports Russian aggression. He firmly denied any persecution of Christians by Ukraine and emphasized the freedom of religious life—unless clergy support the enemy. When sirens sound, his family prays. “Our true defender,” he told me, “is not just Ukraine’s army—but God.”

After visiting Kharkiv, I traveled south through Dnipro to Zaporizhzhia City to meet with Bishop Sergey Gashchenko, leader of the Union of Churches, a Pentecostal/Charismatic denomination.

I attended a service at his Source of Life Church, where he preached. The city lies about 25 miles from the front lines. While Zaporizhzhia City remains under Ukrainian control, the majority of Zaporizhzhia Oblast is held by Russian forces. 

The video makes it clear that the city is far from destroyed. What’s undeniable, however, is the immense danger evangelicals face under Russian occupation—and the church’s heroic efforts to help displaced believers escape. Bishop Gashchenko oversees dozens of Pentecostal and Charismatic churches that provide food, aid, and spiritual care, often risking their lives to defend their religious freedom. For more go to: https://www.theoeco.org/blog/kharkiv-to-zaporizhzhia-pentecostalcharismatic-churches 

I also met Pastor Karina Medvied of Yahum Church, a young, vibrant Charismatic leader. Karina supports actions against Moscow-aligned Orthodox clergy, citing their political loyalties and interference in Ukraine’s independence. She emphasized that Ukrainians wishing to stay within Orthodoxy should join the Orthodox Church of Ukraine, which respects both traditional practices and Ukrainian sovereignty. For more go to: https://www.theoeco.org/blog/a-lady-evangelical-pastor-near-ukraines-front-lines-in-zaporizhzhia 

Through leaders like Bishop Gashchenko and Pastor Karina, Zaporizhzhia’s churches embody extraordinary courage, compassion, and conviction in a time of great trial.

​In early 2023, I filmed a segment for Back to Bucha featuring charismatic/Pentecostal Pastor Oleg Regetsiy of the Church of the Glory of the Lord in Lviv.

At the time, he was conducting an online service with his displaced congregation, many of whom had fled Kharkiv in the early days of the war. While Oleg and his family have since returned to Kharkiv, most of his congregation has not.

In the video below, we see a Wednesday evening Bible study with Oleg’s family and a few parishioners. They translated the service into English for me, though they generally speak Russian, as Kharkiv is predominantly Russian-speaking. The gathering included scripture reading, discussion, and prayer.

Despite the ongoing threat of missiles and drones, Kharkiv is far from destroyed. The city boasts the nicest grocery store I've ever seen and a dazzling mall. Sirens are constant, but so are cafés, stores, and resilient people, many of whom never left, even during heavy fighting in 2022.

Kharkiv, like Bucha, is a story of victory. Ukrainian forces successfully pushed the Russians out in May 2022, and life, along with religious and other freedoms one expects from European democracies, persists—something Moscow’s autocrat can’t tolerate.

​I guess he’ll just have to get used to it.

In Irpin, we visit the thriving Irpin Bible Church, led by Pastor Mykola Romaniuk. 

This dynamic, modern Baptist congregation is filled with families, refugees, and an evangelical spirit that has led to the baptism of more than 130 souls since the war began. The church’s story took a dramatic turn in February 2022, when Russia invaded from the north. Russian forces shelled the area from occupied Bucha as they attempted to advance on Kyiv. They came close—but were ultimately halted in Irpin and forced to retreat.

The attached short video briefly captures a typical Sunday service, as well as an interview with Pastor Romaniuk including a dismantling of the disinformation that Ukraine persecutes Christians. In the he also shares how faith, hope, service, and fellowship help sustain the faithful through wartime, and can actually strengthen both the church and its members. For more about the church and pastor check out: Irpin Bible Church – Irpin, Ukraine.

Pastor Mykola Romaniuk

Introduction

​Beyond Bucha is a journey through the evangelical heart of Ukraine—part documentary, part travelogue, and wholly focused on faith under fire.

Shot across eastern and southern Ukraine in September and October 2024, this third film in the series visits both familiar places from Back to Bucha—like Kyiv, Bucha, and Irpin—and new front-line cities such as Kharkiv, Zaporizhzhia, and Odesa.

While the Sunday services, evangelical pastors, and worship bands resemble evangelical gatherings throughout America, what makes them profoundly poignant is that they can only happen in free Ukraine. In territories under Russian occupation, such gatherings are banned. Evangelical pastors are arrested. Churches are closed or repurposed. Faith, in these zones, becomes a crime.

​A central aim of Beyond Bucha is to expose the existential threat Ukrainian evangelicals face if Russia is allowed to continue its war unchecked. While some voices in the West—like Tucker Carlson—have falsely suggested Ukraine persecutes Christians, the reality is the opposite: in Russian-occupied areas, evangelicals are targeted and violently suppressed. The film seeks to correct this misinformation and call fellow believers in the U.S.—including members of Congress who claim Christian values—to stand with Ukrainian Christians whose churches, ministries, and very lives are at risk.

Chapter 1: Bucha

In Bucha, we revisit familiar faces, including Julia, the café owner featured in Back to Bucha. Her story of returning to rebuild in 2022 was powerful enough—but now, in 2024, she’s opening another spot: Jul’s Coffee and Cocktails. She offers duck breast and tiramisu alongside espresso and faith, not for profit but to restore her city’s economy. A petite cross around her neck reflects a deeper conviction—her belief in God, her country, and Bucha’s future. Hers is just one example of what could be called “faith-based capitalism,” alive and well across Ukraine. For a deeper dive since the initial destruction of her coffee shop in February 2022, check out Back to Bucha (Again) and Insights from Ukraine’s Faith-Based Capitalism.

​At Bethany Baptist Church in Bucha, we meet Pastor Oleksandr Kulbych, a fourth-generation preacher whose great-grandfather was imprisoned during the Soviet era. His congregation still bears the scars of Russian occupation—some members were killed, others are now on the front lines, and PTSD is widespread. Yet the church persists. For more from this Baptist leader check out Bethany Baptist Church - Bucha, Ukraine.