Eastern Orthodoxy and the Churches of Christ
by Gregory Alan Tidwell
The midweek hush drifted across a modest church building on a quiet street in a small Southern town. A group of young men—fresh-faced, sincere, poised with open Bibles—exchanged thoughtful glances. Their heritage was the Churches of Christ, shaped by the American Restoration Movement. Yet, on their phones at night, the glowing images of golden icons and solemn processions half a world away had begun to captivate them. The deep cadence of Byzantine chant, the incense rising in ancient cathedrals, and the unbroken lineage claimed by Eastern Orthodoxy held a particular allure. This allure was not born of mere novelty but of a profound desire for faith with roots that ran deeper than the dust of centuries.
The longing went beyond candlelit images and shimmering iconostases. It arose from a sense that the streamlined worship in many Churches of Christ congregations—simple singing, simple prayers—might have lost its fierce vigor. The Restoration plea for undenominational Christianity had stressed the authority of Scripture, baptism for the remission of sins, and a cappella worship. But for these young men, the pull of Orthodoxy was about ritual, a heritage that allegedly reached back to the apostles, and a rigid spiritual discipline that promised purification of the heart. One visitor to an Eastern Orthodox service—a tall, quiet man of about twenty-five—stood for hours, captivated by the priest’s continuous chanting. He later spoke to his friends about that moment, describing the subtle hush in the crowd and the weight of centuries resting on every word. The experience felt distant from the world of contemporary praise choruses and quick announcements about youth group events.
Behind these attractions stood a shared suspicion that modern, casual religion had lost something ancient and sturdy. Strict periods of fasting, physical prostrations during prayer, and the ornate vestments of Orthodox clergy seemed to symbolize a faith that demanded serious effort. Some of the young men noted that their own congregations had done away with Sunday evening services or no longer held prayer gatherings outside the standard time slots. Many of them ached for discipline—an anchor in the whirl of social media and fleeting commitments. In Orthodoxy, they perceived an unyielding tradition, a bulwark against the contemporary world’s shifting tides.
Yet a different scene quietly emerged in one corner of that same congregation’s auditorium. Open Bibles in hand, those who had looked into Orthodoxy found themselves confronted by passages in Scripture that challenged the foundations of the elaborate liturgies and venerations they found appealing. On dog-eared pages, they read, “All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness” (II Timothy 3:16). The text declared Scripture sufficient—comprehensive in its ability to shape and guide believers. Those words became a moment of reckoning. If Scripture stands as complete and God-breathed, how do centuries of unwritten tradition fit in? The question took on urgency for anyone raised to trust in the New Testament pattern alone.
A second obstacle glimmered in Revelation 22:18–19, where John wrote, “I warn everyone who hears the words of the prophecy of this book: if anyone adds to them, God will add to him the plagues described in this book.” The dire warning cast a long shadow across any practice deemed an “addition” to the commands of Christ and His apostles. For generations, the churches of Christ had viewed creeds, hierarchical offices beyond local elders, and elaborate ceremonial customs as human additions. The iconostasis—lined with painted saints and the Mother of God—seemed to stand in tension with the caution not to “add” beyond what God had revealed. And the more these young men probed the teachings of Orthodoxy, the more they recognized that Orthodoxy itself elevates Sacred Tradition alongside Scripture, blending patristic writings, synodal decrees, and liturgical developments into a single font of divine authority. In the mind of someone shaped by Restoration ideals, this felt like stepping onto uncertain ground.
In the soft lamplight of an evening study session, another verse spoke in careful clarity: “You shall not make for yourself a carved image … You shall not bow down to them or serve them” (Exodus 20:4–5). Orthodox believers insist that icons are not idols but windows into the spiritual realm—respected, not worshiped. Yet for the earnest soul taught since childhood that Christian worship in the first century was free of physical images, the optics of bowing toward or kissing a portrait of a saint caused alarm. Doubts multiplied: Could such gestures ever be reconciled with the stark prohibition in the Ten Commandments? Could the richly incensed atmosphere of the Orthodox Divine Liturgy truly echo the simple assemblies of the New Testament church?
Questions of salvation soon followed, shining light on divergences between Orthodoxy’s synergistic approach—man cooperating with divine grace—and the churches of Christ’s emphasis on baptism, repentance, and faithful obedience informed by Scripture alone. The letter to the Galatians echoed loudly: “Yet we know that a person is not justified by works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ” (Galatians 2:16). Orthodoxy teaches theosis, or union with God, as a lifelong process fueled by the mysteries (sacraments) and ascetic disciplines. Among churches of Christ, the center often rests on the clear commands and examples in the Gospels and Acts—“repent and be baptized,” “continue in the apostles’ teaching,” “partake of the Lord’s Supper,” and “sing with the spirit and the understanding.” The elaborate theology surrounding icons, saints’ relics, and venerations could feel miles away from that earliest blueprint of Christian living.
Yet the sympathy for the search remains, as each young man’s longing points to a spiritual thirst. In an age of minimalism, the draw toward something majestic and demanding is entirely understandable. Upon hearing the litany of chants and observing the deep bows and processions, many in the churches of Christ might sense a missing transcendence in their congregations. The frustration with perceived “shallowness” is genuine, and the desire for deeper moorings is the heartbeat of countless souls seeking God. It is the heart’s natural cry for the Holy One who is “the same yesterday and today and forever” (Hebrews 13:8).
Still, the New Testament itself presents a model for worship and congregational life that rests on the apostles’ doctrine, fellowship, breaking of bread, and prayers (Acts 2:42). That pattern—devoid of centralized ecclesiastical hierarchies or complex rituals—was vibrant enough to turn the ancient world upside down (Acts 17:6). The Restoration forebearers believed this apostolic simplicity, fed solely by Scripture, was the surest path to unity and truth. To some, that simplicity might appear stark. But the impetus behind it was always to honor the clear commands of the Lord, for He declared, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments” (John 14:15).
In rejecting Orthodox tradition, Scripture again emerges as the linchpin. The epistle to the Colossians sounds a warning: “See to it that no one takes you captive by philosophy and empty deceit, according to human tradition … and not according to Christ” (Colossians 2:8). Orthodoxy insists that its traditions are apostolic in origin, passed down through centuries. Yet the question arises whether the pages of the New Testament, read plainly, ever hint at venerating images, chanting the praises of departed saints, or requiring lengthy fasts tied to liturgical calendars. The earliest Christians met in homes, took the Lord’s Supper each first day of the week, and sang together. The power was in God’s word shaping hearts, not in the splendor of ceremony.
For those on the threshold of Orthodoxy, the final chord in Scripture’s argument resounds: “Test everything; hold fast what is good” (I Thessalonians 5:21). The spiritual hunger pushing a young man toward Orthodoxy deserves understanding and empathy. The quest for reverence, depth, and a sense of timeless belonging is heartfelt. But when tested against the clear boundaries of the New Testament, the traditions of Orthodoxy often step beyond the lines drawn by the apostles. A similar exhortation arises from the example of the Bereans, who “received the word with all eagerness, examining the Scriptures daily to see if these things were so” (Acts 17:11). Their noble approach—Scripture first, tradition tested—stands as a model for every generation.
The conviction that the New Testament provides a complete guide for the church’s worship, organization, and doctrine is at the heart of the matter. The Restoration Movement’s unique gift to Christendom was a fervent reminder of this principle. While Orthodoxy’s solemn grandeur may stir the soul, the blueprint of first-century Christianity remains the guiding star for believers in the Churches of Christ. This unwavering fidelity to Scripture has led generations to baptize penitent believers for the remission of sins, to partake of the simple memorial feast each Lord’s Day, to sing without mechanical instruments, and to remain in local, autonomous congregations overseen by elders. The approach might look “minimal,” but for those who cling to it, it is the direct outgrowth of a biblical command: “Whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus” (Colossians 3:17).
That night, the young men closed their Bibles. The questions were real, the thirst for depth undeniable. Yet an unwavering confidence rose from the text as if the words glowed with that ancient light they desperately sought. The Scriptures had guided the earliest Christians through hostile empires and changing cultures. They needed no supplement.
Reverence did not require icons, structure did not need patriarchs, and discipline did not hinge on monastic asceticism. In the simple assembly of believers—sharing bread and cup, offering prayers and hymns, and taking God's words heart—there was enough majesty for any soul willing to seek it.
And so, with compassion for the struggle and firm resolve for the truth, the call remains: the fullness of the faith can be found in the pages of Scripture alone. No cathedrals, incense, or icons are necessary to access the living God. God’s word stands ready to stir the heart and guide the path toward salvation, “that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work” (II Timothy 3:17). The door to spiritual depth is open and waiting in the very tradition that first ignited these young men’s faith: the pattern of New Testament Christianity.
