The Little Church That Could

 

Dear all,

 

Monday will mark three years since Russia’s full scale invasion of Ukraine, and the resulting war.  Recent decisions made by the current US administration raise questions about the future of Ukraine, and by extension, the future of the church in Ukraine. 

 

I’ve been hearing from many Ukrainian pastors this week; recounting their past three years, describing their current reality, and explaining their fears for the future. 

 

One question we all have is how we in the West can come alongside the church in Ukraine.  One of the ways we can do that is this Sunday (February 23rd) at 3pm EST, I will help to host an hour of prayer for the Ukrainian church.  Please join us to hear from pastors in Ukraine, and spend time praying for them as they look at what three years of full scale war has done to their country and churches, and how to look at an uncertain future. 

 

One of the conversations I had this week was with the pastor of the church in Kherson, Ukraine, Vova Barishnev.  He described life in that city now, with just a river separating them from a good portion of the Russian army.   He described to me what life and pastoring looks like in a war zone. 

Vova talked about how they have gotten used to the daily noise of war. 

 

“It’s easy to tell the difference between outgoing and incoming, you hear the 155mm artillery, grenade launchers, tanks firing (when you hear those, you can count 30 seconds it takes to reload before another shot), then the HIMARS rocket launches are really loud, but the scariest of all is silence.  We’re not used to it, and who knows what will come after it.” 

 

It’s jarring to hear this from a person who has been to seminary but never to boot camp, but such is daily life in Kherson these days, a city about the size of Toledo.

 

His Sunday routine, for example, is different than a pastor in Ohio. He wakes up and checks the city group chat – what areas have been hit, and what they might need. 

 

He gets in the church van to do his rounds picking up church members for the service.  Before he pulls out, he makes sure to turn on the “drone detector”, a device that shows what drones are flying above that may attack.  (drone safari’s” have been a problem, small Russian explosive drones attacking cars and busses, and pedestrians). 

 

The drone detector is an upgrade from the previous alert system, having someone ride with their head out of the passenger window looking up.  I asked what happens if they detect a drone.  He said, nonchalantly, “two options, either stop the car and everyone runs in different directions, or drive over 100mph, because the drones can’t go that fast”….  all this while trying not to forget the points of one’s sermon presumably. 

 

Of course, a worship service means something different in these conditions.  Gathering together means something different if there’s a non-zero chance you’ll be killed that afternoon. It literally is a church in a war zone, their mortality is real, and their savior is very real as well.

 

“Why do you stay”? I asked him. 

 

“Our task is to keep the church open, and the people fed spiritually and physically” he responded. “We suffer alongside those we’ve been called to serve”

 

This is what I’ve seen in the church across Ukraine.  Risk, yes.  Fear, yes.  Fatigue, yes. But none of those things change the central calling of our churches and leaders in Ukraine; to love and lead God’s people, war notwithstanding. 

 

It’s exemplary yes, but none of the people or leaders feel like heroes, rather that they are following God’s call on their lives.

 

Please pray for the church in Ukraine, even through the risk, fear, fatigue, and recent uncertainty.

At the end of our call, in an offhand remark, Vova said the incomprehensible for those of us who don’t live with his risk tolerance – “If it gets worse, we may move”.

 

 

In Christ, 

Jon & Tracy Eide