Texas: new Catholic frontier: John L. Allen travels across the Lone Star State to learn more about the challenges the state's new, first-ever cardinal faces as he settles in. Key findings: Parishes are overflowing, immigration keeps leaders hopping, and stereotypes don't apply

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To the uninitiated, attempts to describe the congregation at Good Shepherd Catholic Church in tiny Johnson City, Texas, could sound like a routine from a stand-up comedian: "A white rancher, a Mexican day laborer and a Nigerian prince walk into a parish." Change "parish" to "bar," and you've got a setup in search of a punch line.

This is no joke, however, but the social reality in Johnson City, so named because it's the hometown of former President Lyndon Johnson, population 1,500 on a good day.

The small parish of 70 families has traditionally been mostly white--or, in the argot of the southwest, "Anglo"--descendants of European Catholics who settled in Texas after its 1836 declaration of independence from Mexico. (The first Polish colony in the United States, for example, was in Panna Maria, two hours to the south.) The parish also draws a few Tejanos, meaning Hispanics who have lived in Texas for generations, in some cases since the Spanish colonial era. (The unofficial Tejano motto is, "We didn't cross the border; the border crossed us.") There's a small but growing number of recent immigrants from Mexico, often drawn to work on ranches or in service industries.

The improbable pastor of this Tex-Mex mix is Fr. Nichodemus Ejimabo, an Ibo tribesman from Orlu state in eastern Nigeria. The mere presence of a Nigerian in rural Texas would, perhaps, be noteworthy enough, but Ejimabo is no ordinary Nigerian. Back home, his father is a village chief, making Ejimabo an Ibo prince. He's also a former striker on the Nigerian national soccer team, the "Super Eagles."

Johnson City thus offers a metaphor for today's Texas, where dramatic population growth and accelerating cultural diversity are shaping the new face--or, perhaps more accurately, a whole series of new faces--of American Catholicism.

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Recognizing the importance of Texas, Pope Benedict XVI recently named Daniel DiNardo of the Galveston-Houston archdiocese a cardinal, the state's first-ever prince of the church. DiNardo said that Benedict told him, "Texas needed a cardinal," and while there's little reason to believe the pope had Johnson City specifically in mind, the place helps make his point.

Chatting recently after Mass at Good Shepherd, one longtime parishioner told NCR that not only was Ejimabo the first African priest he'd ever met, he was the first black priest. In fact, he was the first black man with whom he'd ever really been on speaking terms.

Aware of this cultural gap, Ejimabo tweaks his message to play to Texan sensibilities. In describing the temptations of Christ, for example, he has Satan cajoling Jesus to turn the stones into hamburger rather than bread-apparently on the assumption that a parish that includes a number of cattlemen would respond better to that image.

He also frequently interrupts his homily to engage his flock. During an 11 a.m. service in nearby Blanco, for example, he broke off from a meditation on the spiritual meaning of Lent to ask one woman if her mother was home from the hospital.

"Is she drinking coffee?" he asked.

"Nope," the woman said.

"Vodka?"

"Yup," came the reply, bringing a round of chuckles, as if to confirm that Mom is back to her old self.

Ejimabo then resumed his impassioned preaching, leaving his congregation seemingly delighted, if occasionally straining to follow his rather thick African accent.

Welcome to the new Catholic frontier in the Lone Star State.

Dramatic growth

If one were to pick a single word to capture the Catholic reality in Texas today, it would have to be "growth." While dioceses in other parts of the country are closing schools and clustering parishes, in Texas Catholic churches are overflowing, driven above all by massive waves of Hispanic immigration since the early 1990s, but also significant gains in other ethnic communities such as Vietnamese, Filipinos, Indians and Nigerians.

"In some parts of our nation, you're trying to resurrect the faith. Here, you're just trying to keep up with how fast it's growing," said Bishop Kevin Farrell of Dallas.

Signs of expansion are ubiquitous. St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Parish in Houston, for example, serves a staggering total of 7,600 families, meaning roughly 23,000 people, making it in some ways a Catholic version of Houston's famous "megachurches." In Garland, a largely Hispanic region of Dallas, another parish named Good Shepherd holds 11 Masses over the weekend, with two Saturday night and nine on Sunday, beginning at 7:15 a.m. and ending at 7:30 p.m. The seating capacity is 450, but the smallest crowd is usually more than 500. ("We have a very understanding fire marshal," said Fr. Robert Williams, the pastor.) Mass-goers flow into the attached school, sometimes following the Mass on loudspeakers in the hallways and cafeteria.

"I firmly believe there are thousands of Hispanics who do not go to a Catholic Mass in this diocese on Sunday simply because they cannot find a place to sit," Williams said.