Chapter 27
Good Monday Morning to this new week.
Since the beginning of the Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, Taras Dyatlik, an evangelical Ukrainian theological educator, has shared his daily reflections in a WhatsApp.
The following is one recent journal entry from June.
Today, I woke up again with my heart torn in two. Shelling, deaths, and propaganda go on and on, day and night. I am tired of sharing our daily nightmares in this war diary.
God, where are you? Why are you silent? Do you really not care?
After every shelling, after every news of Russian atrocities, my heart is filled with a thirst for revenge. I want to scream like the psalmist, “Happy is the one who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks” (Ps. 137:9). And then a still, small voice whispers, “But I tell you, love your enemies” (Matt. 5:44). How is this possible, Lord? How do we love torturers and murderers? But I know that if I let hatred seize my heart, I will become like them, and then evil will win. Love for enemies is my Garden of Gethsemane, my bloody battle. It is the only way I can remain human. This endless exhaustion, this spiritual desert—my “volunteer marathon” is a carrying of the cross. I fall under the weight of other people’s pain, and there is no end in sight. Will I have enough strength? Will I break down like Peter, who promised to follow Jesus to the end but denied him before the rooster crowed?
Lord, I pray like Paul that your grace will be sufficient for me, that your power will be perfect in my weakness (2 Cor. 12:9). And then there are these thoughts: I am not like others! I do so much. I sacrifice so much in this civilian life and ministry! And then I stop myself: Do you think that your righteousness is greater than that of the scribes and Pharisees? (Matt. 5:20). All my good works are but filthy rags before the holiness of God (Isa. 64:6). All I have is his undeserved gift. So, down with pride, Taras. Serving is a privilege, not a merit.
And how often I find myself judging my brothers in faith—in both Ukraine and the West. But who am I to judge another’s servant? (Rom. 14:4). Each of us has our own Calvary. My job is to carry my personal cross—and then lend a shoulder to those who fall under their burdens, like Simon of Cyrene on the Via Dolorosa. But the worst thing is when you realize that in the whirlwind of your ministry, you have forgotten the main thing: your relationship with the Stranger on the road to Emmaus. Prayers have turned into dry, short reports with figures and requests. The Word of God has become an unopened book with too many painful questions. I work hard, but have I become a modern Martha who cares for many things but forgets the ”one thing” that is necessary—to sit at the feet of Jesus, forgetting about job descriptions (Luke 10:41–42)? Forgive me, Lord! Without you, I am nothing. The source of my life is in you. How unbearably painful this contradiction is sometimes: I love my country to the core, every piece of land. But at the same time, I know that my true homeland is in heaven, from which I am waiting for the Savior (Phil. 3:20). What do the borders of earthly states mean in the face of eternity? “There is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all” (Col. 3:11). Even if my body is handed over to be burned for Ukraine, if I do not have the love of Christ, I am nothing (1 Cor. 13:3). Sometimes, amid the hell of war, I want to escape into sweet oblivion—not to think, not to remember, to live one day at a time. But then your Spirit reminds me, Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness (Matt. 6:33). For what is our life? A vapour that appears for a moment and disappears (James 4:14). Every day can be a step toward eternity, where God will wipe away every tear from our eyes, and death will be no more. There will be no more sorrow, no more crying, no more pain (Rev. 21:4). Although the whole world and politics cries out to us like the movie title, “Don’t look up! Don’t look up!”—we must look up. And how often we must wrest joy from the teeth of despair—to fight for hope in a battle with hopelessness. It is so easy to give up. But doesn’t the kingdom of God belong to children (Matt. 19:14), like that boy and girl who smiled at me from under the rubble of a ruined house? Where did they get this fierce strength of spirit?
I, too, must shine forth to a war-torn world. Let them see my joy and glorify my Father in heaven (Matt. 5:16). The path is narrow, and the gate that leads to life is small (Matt. 7:14). Every step of our life and ministry in Ukraine is a battle. The enemy is external, but even stronger are the internal demons that cry out, “Taras, don’t look up!” Every choice is a risk. Did Christ promise us a cloudless life? No! He warned, “In me, you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). How, Lord, can this be true?
And yet I choose to believe, despite … To serve, despite … To sow seeds of goodness in my soil scorched by hatred, despite … To be a light in this oppressive, almost physical darkness, despite … Because I know that one day, there will be no shadow, no trace of war, only light, only peace, only love. One day. Peace be with you and keep your children away from war.
Taras Dyatlik; coordinates seminary-based refugee hubs in Ukraine and serves as a theological consultant for Leaders in Eastern Europe and Central Asia.
Wishing you resilience and faith as you start this week.
Philemon