The burning Lavra: Why a Christian cannot be part of a war of hatred

Attack on the Lavra sparked a thirst for revenge in Ukrainian society. Photo: UOJ

On the night of June 15, 2026, a tragedy occurred in Kyiv that deeply wounded the hearts of many believers. As a result of an RF attack, the roof of the Dormition Cathedral of the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra caught fire, with the blaze covering an area of approximately 800 square meters. The copper roof of one of Ukraine's main Orthodox shrines was severely damaged. This is painful and bitter. Moreover, it is a tragedy that cannot be met with indifference.

The natural reaction of any Christian to the destruction of a church is grief and prayer. That is precisely why people, upon learning of what had happened, posted emojis of tears, hands folded in prayer, and burning candles on social media. This was a normal human reaction. But what followed this tragedy in the political and public sphere causes no less — and perhaps even greater — alarm than the fire itself.

Rage Instead of Prayer

Several days after the shelling of the Lavra, Volodymyr Zelensky, standing at the walls of the damaged cathedral, gave an interview in which there was not a single word about prayer or Christian humility. "The strike on the Lavra filled me with rage," he said, adding that "something must follow from that rage." The President promised to "bring the war back" to Russian territory, emphasizing: "They strike us every day — and we will respond every day." As an example, he cited a strike on an oil refinery in the Tyumen region and promised to extend the range of strikes.

One "Orthodox" Telegram channel called on the Ukrainian army to strike back at the Resurrection "military" church of the Russian Orthodox Church in Moscow.

Notice how this mechanism works. A shrine burns. But instead of a call to prayer and an end to the war that has already claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, words of vengeance follow. The burning cathedral becomes fuel for new victims.

The destruction of the Lord's temple is turned into a political argument, into a justification for strikes on cities and factories. The grief of believers is converted into "righteous anger," and "righteous anger" — into missiles.

And here we encounter a terrible paradox that should make every believer stop and reflect. The very same people who yesterday wept over the shelling of a shrine, lit candles and prayed (even if only through emojis), literally the next day greeted retaliatory strikes, destruction, and deaths on the other side of the border with enthusiasm and jubilation. The shrine, which should have become a place of prayer and a call to repentance, was turned into an instrument for stoking even greater rage. What else can this be called, if not a spiritual catastrophe?

This Has Happened Before. And We Know How It Ends

The use of religious shrines and the feelings of believers to escalate conflict is a well-known path, proven by history, and no less terrifying for it. We have seen where it leads, in the example of the wars in the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s.

In that bloody conflict, religion became the primary marker of identity: a Serb meant Orthodox, a Croat meant Catholic, a Bosnian meant Muslim. Politicians deliberately exploited this factor to inflame hostility toward those of other faiths and to mobilize the population for war. The destruction of Orthodox churches, Catholic churches, and Islamic mosques became not merely collateral damage of war, but an instrument of propaganda — a pretext for a new wave of hatred. As Serbian sociologist Milan Vukomanović notes, "the ethno-mobilization that took place during the 1990s in the former Yugoslavia established a firm link between the religious, confessional, and ethnic identity of peoples." Bosnian professor Dino Abazović adds: "People in situations of war and crisis easily turn to totalitarian and universal systems, including religion, which proclaims itself the guardian of tradition."

As a result, the war took on a ferocious character, in which vengeance for desecrated shrines gave rise to new rivers of blood. Senior representatives of religious communities, in the words of the same Vukomanović, "did very little for reconciliation, and what they did was not sincere, did not come from the heart." Religion was used by those who wanted war — and it, regrettably, served them faithfully.

It is important to note: Ukrainians and Russians are different peoples with their own history (even if that history has a great deal in common), culture, and statehood. There is no equivalence here, nor can there be. But the mechanism by which politicians exploit the religious factor remains unchanged in any country and in any era. When power takes up the banner of faith, it does so not to save souls, but to throw new lives into the furnace of war. And the tragedy of the Lavra is being used precisely to justify "righteous anger" and calls for vengeance.

What the Gospel Says

But can a Christian be part of this spiral of hatred? Can he justify vengeance by the destruction of a church? The answer of Holy Scripture is unequivocal and leaves no room for loopholes.

Christ brought into the world a commandment that still seems to many to be foolish and impossible: "Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you" (Matt. 5:44). This commandment contains no exceptions for wartime. It has no footnotes permitting hatred of those who destroy our shrines. It is spoken without any qualifications — and it is precisely in this absoluteness that its power lies.

The Apostle Paul explicitly forbids Christians from taking on the role of avengers: "Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath; for it is written, 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,' says the Lord" (Rom. 12:19). Vengeance is the prerogative of God, not of man. When we attempt to take revenge, we place ourselves in the position of the Creator. We say to God: "You are too slow, too lenient — so I will handle it myself." This is not merely a sin — it is, in a certain sense, blasphemy.

Moreover, hatred in the heart of a Christian destroys him from within, severing his connection with God. The Apostle John the Theologian warns us: "Whoever hates his brother is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life abiding in him" (1 John 3:15). That is, the apostle equates hatred with murder, and does so because hatred kills the soul of the one who hates. This is precisely why, when we rejoice over the deaths of others, we are first and foremost killing ourselves.

A Christian understands that it is impossible to pray to God and at the same time wish death upon other people. The Apostle John holds a mirror before us: "If someone says, 'I love God,' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God whom he has not seen?" (1 John 4:20). Rejoicing over the deaths of others, even when those deaths are presented as just retribution, is decidedly not Christianity — it is its direct opposite.

The Apostle Paul writes: "Let all bitterness, wrath, anger, clamor, and evil speaking be put away from you, with all malice" (Eph. 4:31). It is precisely wrath and malice that are today being actively cultivated in society under the guise of patriotism and righteous anger.

A Paradox That Should Give Us Pause

Let us return to where we began. A person posts a candle emoji under a news item about the shelling of the Lavra — and twenty-four hours later posts fire and applause emojis under a news item about a strike on a Russian city. He grieves over the Lavra — and immediately rejoices at the suffering of others. He calls himself a Christian — and yet lives by the law of "an eye for an eye," which Christ abolished (Matt. 5:38-39).

This is not merely inconsistency — it is a spiritual illness, and it must be spoken of plainly. When religious feeling is used not to draw a person closer to God, but to kindle hatred within him, this is no longer faith, but an idol worshipped in place of Christ.

And it is hard to disagree with the observation that everyone is using the strike on the Lavra for their own public relations campaign: some to persuade Trump, others to appropriate budget funds, still others to justify a "holy war," and yet others to put pressure on the UOC. And notice: no one speaks of repentance, of the fact that the fire in the Dormition Cathedral is a sign from above, a call to stop and come to one's senses.

A Call to Repentance

The fire in the Dormition Cathedral of the Lavra must not become a pretext for rage and new calls to killing, because for a believing person such things are never accidental.

The Gospel of Luke describes an episode in which Christ was told about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. Jesus answered: "Do you suppose that these Galileans were worse sinners than all other Galileans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, no; but unless you repent, you will all likewise perish" (Luke 13:2-3). Every tragedy, every destruction of a shrine, is a call to our personal repentance. It is an occasion to look into our own hearts and ask ourselves: have I become part of this war of hatred? Have I allowed malice to burn out within me the love of Christ?

Politicians do their work — they mobilize society, seek pretexts for escalation, and speak of vengeance. That is their choice, for which they will answer before God. But Christians are called to something different. We are called to be the salt of the earth and the light of the world (Matt. 5:13-14). We are called to be peacemakers, "for they shall be called sons of God" (Matt. 5:9). We must not allow hatred into our souls, for in doing so we go against Christ.

The war will end sooner or later. But what will we be left with? If we allow hatred to destroy the image of God within us, if we learn to rejoice over deaths and justify vengeance in the name of God, then what will we build afterward? On what foundation? From what material?

The burning dome of the Dormition Cathedral is an image of our times. But let it be for us not a call to new fires, but a reminder that the flame of hatred consumes first and foremost the one who kindles it.

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