In December 2025, I traveled to Ukraine.
Although I visit the country annually, this trip felt different. I went with mixed emotions. Like many observers, I had been following the headlines: difficult, uncertain military developments, political turbulence, corruption scandals, and visible fatigue from almost four years of full-scale war.
Subconsciously, I carried a quiet assumption—that perhaps Ukraine was nearing collapse, that the country was simply surviving… barely.
I was wrong.
One of the purposes of my visit was to attend the Military Prayer Breakfast in Kyiv and reconnect with longtime friends. Another was to visit LYNC-supported humanitarian aid sites. Our organization currently supports seven locations across Ukraine, helping elderly internally displaced people survive with dignity amid the ongoing war.
What I encountered was not a collapse. It was resilience.
There is a line in the Ukrainian national anthem: “The glory and freedom of Ukraine has not yet perished.” After spending time on the ground, I can testify—this is not merely poetry. It is a lived reality.
I am not speaking only about high-profile officials or military commanders. I am speaking about ordinary people: a rural pastor burying fellow citizens, comforting the family members; a Kyiv business owner who lost a key employee in a missile attack yet continues operate and provided much needed jobs; a seminary rector wrestling with questions of theology and citizenship amid national trauma.
What struck me most was not only courage, but vision.
In conversation after conversation, in different cities and regions, I heard something remarkable. People would say—almost hesitantly—“It is a strange thing to say, but because of this war, we are learning.” And then they would explain that they are learning to rebuild their country better than it was before, to confront corruption, to have civil society take responsibility, and what truly matters.
War brings devastation. The human cost is tragic and immeasurable. But in Ukraine, war is also reshaping character, clarifying priorities, and forging a new sense of national responsibility.
As my colleague, Dr. Chris Seiple, who was on the same trip, said, “The war has killed so many, but it is also killing the Soviet mentality that still permeates much of Eurasia.”
Ukraine may become the first post-Soviet country to completely cleanse itself not only politically, but also psychologically and spiritually, of that legacy.
This is where the learning begins for the rest of us.
Internationally, Ukraine is often framed primarily as a victim—and rightly so. It is the victim of brutal aggression and requires sustained military and humanitarian support.
But that is not the full story.
Military analysts openly admit they are learning from Ukraine’s battlefield innovations. Yet beyond the battlefield, another set of innovations is unfolding—in civil society, religion, and governance.
One of the most complex areas is religious freedom. The Kremlin has weaponized religion, using structures connected to the Moscow Patriarchate as channels of political influence and infiltration. Ukraine has had to navigate an extraordinarily delicate balance: protecting national security, preventing manipulation by hostile actors, and upholding freedom of religion and conscience.
This is not theoretical. It is unfolding in real time.
Ukraine is attempting—imperfectly but seriously—to maintain freedom of conscience even under existential threat. For the Free World, this is not a distant case study. It is a living laboratory of how a democracy responds when religion is politicized and weaponized by an aggressor.
Perhaps the deepest lesson I encountered was theological.
In Ukraine today, theology is not abstract. It is forged through missile sirens, funerals, displacement, and sacrificial service.
I met pastors who bury parishioners far too frequently. I spoke with a theologian leading an Evangelical Theological Seminary that has launched the world’s first PhD program in Theology and Citizenship, because war has forced the Church to reflect on what it means to be a Christian and a responsible citizen in a time of devastation.
The churches that refused to abandon their communities, that remained present through bombings, blackouts, and freezing cold, have gained moral credibility.
This should challenge those of us living largely in peacetime security. What does theology look like when there is no mass suffering and devastation, and what might we be missing?
We must see Ukraine in its full strength and dignity—and represent it that way internationally.
Ukraine will not only be rebuilt. It is already offering invaluable lessons to the Free World about how a contemporary democracy defends itself against brutal aggression, how religious freedom can be upheld even when a certain internal religious structure is weaponized by the aggressor, and how faith communities maintain the structure of life when the government can no longer cope, serve as pillars of resilience, healing, and peacebuilders during an existential crisis.
Ukraine is not merely surviving. It is reimagining.
The war has taken countless lives. Yet it is also dismantling a Soviet mentality of dependency and fear. A different civic culture is emerging—one grounded in dignity, freedom, and responsibility.
At LYNC, we believe this is precisely where covenantal pluralism, cross-cultural religious literacy, and cooperative engagement become essential—not only for Ukraine, but for the rest of the world.
We have much to give to Ukraine.
But we also have much to learn from Ukraine.
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