The Kulikovo Field. Artist: Pavel Ryzhenko
I know that many reading these lines are tired. Tired of “safe” words that crumble to dust at the first encounter with real horror. It’s easy to talk about forgiveness in the silence of a monastic cell, when birds are chirping outside the window and the world is painted in soft, pastel tones. But this text is not for monastic silence. It is for those who stand on the border, where darkness takes on flesh, the smell of burning, and the sound of breaking human bones. For those who have seen evil come out to hunt, baring its teeth in a predatory grin and showing no mercy. For those who are forced to make a choice that no person should have to face, but they must, nevertheless.
I want to talk about God, who descended into the very abyss of human suffering. Right from the very start, it is necessary to cut off two dangerous illusions, two poles into which the mind, tormented by the imperfections of the world, so easily slips. The first illusion is sugary Christianity, which dresses itself in the clothes of a defenseless victim and claims that faith is synonymous with passively accepting any blow. Such “Christianity” has nothing in common with the cross of Golgotha, for it renounces the most important thing—love. The second illusion, no less terrible, is the transformation of faith into a religion of sacred hatred, where the sword is blessed with the sign of the cross and people go to kill, believing that they are serving God. Christ did not found either a sect of the weak‑willed or an order of militant fanatics. The truth, as always, lies in that depth where a person is required to have both extreme courage and extreme humility at the same time.
Love, which gives life, is sometimes forced to take up the steel in this fallen world
Evil must be stopped not because the one who takes up the sword is “good” or “chosen.” Not because he has some metaphysical rightness on his side, elevating him above his opponent, but solely because he loves the victim. Because the sight of an innocent person subjected to abuse is unbearable for a loving heart. Here, love becomes not a feeling, but an action—sometimes extremely harsh and terrible.
And if someone now feels that they are hearing an excuse for violence, let them stop and reread the last few sentences: the only thing that distinguishes a protector from a murderer is the state of the heart, sacrificial love, and not intoxication with one’s own power. The tragedy is that love, which gives life, is sometimes forced to take up steel in this fallen world.
How to stop evil? Or why “non‑interference” can be a betrayal
There is one surprisingly persistent and incredibly convenient misconception. It hides behind the Savior’s words: Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. (Matthew 5:39). Interpreting these words as a call to total inaction in the face of an active aggressor is perhaps one of the most cunning temptations, forcing a Christian to renounce his neighbour. After all, if, before my very eyes, a beast attacks a child, a woman, or a defenseless old man, what will my “other cheek” be? This will be the cheek of this child, which I, in my false righteousness, expose to the blow of someone else’s fury. At this moment, I become not a meek lamb, but an accomplice to the crime. My “pious” inaction is a betrayal of the commandment of love. For Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. (John 15:13). And to lay down one’s soul means not only to die, but also to take on the terrible responsibility of protection, to enter the realm of darkness, risking getting stained, but not allowing the darkness to consume one’s neighbor.
Love is active. It bursts into a burning house, it shields itself, and—yes, it uses force to neutralize the madman who is sowing death
The Orthodox view on defense is stern and devoid of sentimentality. Stopping a murderer, even by physical force, is not a sin; it is a duty of love. It is an imperative. If you see sin and can stop it, but you do not stop it, you are giving part of your soul to that sin; you are partaking in the fruits of someone else’s evil deed through your cowardice disguised as false humility. Love is active. It bursts into a burning house, it shields itself, and—yes, sometimes it uses force to subdue a madman who is spreading death.
Let me offer an image that often comes to mind when you see this inner conflict. Imagine a surgeon. He is standing over a patient whose body is being devoured by a malignant tumor. He has a scalpel in his hands. The surgeon is causing pain; he is cutting into living flesh, and blood is flowing. But ask this doctor whether he hates the patient. No. He hates the tumor, this perverse, aggressive life that is killing healthy cells. He loves the person, which is why he is ruthless towards the disease. He amputates cancerous tissue not for pleasure, but to save the entire organism. Similarly, neutralizing a wicked person is a necessary amputation of sin for the sake of saving the body.
Here lies the fine line: evil is stopped by force, but this force must not arise from personal hatred
Whether it be the body of a family, a community, or an entire country. A devastating blow delivered without pleasure, with prayer and pain in the heart—this is the terrible, tragic lot of a Christian defender. And here lies the fine line: evil is stopped by force, but this force must not arise from personal hatred. A scalpel in the hands of a doctor and the same scalpel in the hands of a maniac: the tool is the same, but the action, the essence, and the consequences are profoundly different.
How to remain a Christian while stopping evil? A difficult asceticism of the heart
And this is where the most difficult part begins, what is called the “asceticism of the heart.” The outward action—neutralizing the enemy—may be absolutely right from the point of view of duty, but the inner state at that moment can completely destroy the immortal soul of the defender. This is the central nerve of all Christian life in war, the moment of defense. It is necessary to learn to distinguish between action and passion. A hand armed with a sword can be an instrument of truth, but a heart filled at that moment with hellish malice is already a defeat.
Sin begins not when the warrior strikes, stopping the rapist. Sin bursts into the soul at the moment when a sweet, burning desire for evil toward that person is mixed with physical effort. When you want not just to neutralize, but to tear apart. Not just to protect the victim, but to revel in the enemy’s pain. That is where ruin lies. Because to kill an enemy in the body is a tragedy of earthly existence, but to kill in oneself the love for the image of God is a tragedy of eternity. You can win a battle with steel—and in the same second, lose a battle with the spirit, becoming the very thing you’re fighting against.
In church tradition, there can be no concept of a “holy war,” if by that we mean a joyful, blessed act. Any violence is not a triumph. It is always a consequence of the Fall, a bleeding wound on the body of the universe, evidence of a total catastrophe that has distorted God’s plan for the world. A true warrior who uses force should not feel elation at victory, but deep, existential sorrow that the world has reached a point where one has to breathe in gunpowder and see torn flesh. And this is not about despondency or sentimental tearfulness, but about a sober awareness of the horror of human existence, which has fallen away from the Light. If you like, it is the lament of Adam, cast out of Paradise, who hears the clanging of the first forged sword.
The inner makeup of a Christian warrior is described by an ancient patristic formula, difficult to follow but the only correct one: hands at work, mind in hell, heart in heaven. Hands do what must be done. They are strong and do not tremble, for they are defending. The mind, understanding the nature of what is happening, is in hell—it sees the full monstrosity of the sin that has opened up all around, it contemplates the abyss into which souls are falling. And only the heart, purified by constant repentance, is kept in heaven, in secret communion with God. The heart does not allow hatred to take root; the heart weeps, even when the hand strikes. This is the highest form of spiritual sobriety.
In practice, this manifests itself in one way—in constant, often silent Confession. The warrior brings his pain, his numbness, his fatigue, and his almost unbearable burden to God. He asks not to be justified—for there can be no justification here—but to be cleansed. To wash his hands and heart from the filth that inevitably clings, even when you are doing a righteous deed. This secret prayer, this cry of the soul: “Lord, forgive and have mercy, cleanse me from the defilement of murder, for this was not done of my own will, but out of duty and bitter necessity,”—this is the last thread binding the soul to Heaven in the hell of war.
A warrior of Christ on the battlefield: how to behave amidst the bloody chaos
War is collective madness, a disease that afflicts entire nations. In this disease, there are no absolutely right sides in an ontological, profound sense. God’s truth does not fit within the narrow confines of political slogans. There are those who are forced to defend themselves against direct, unconcealed aggression, to protect their homes and their sacred places, and in this lies their earthly righteousness. But even on their side, there is sin, there is imperfection, there is something that requires repentance. Awareness of this prevents the warrior from succumbing to the intoxication of his own “sanctity,” which turns any confrontation into a crusade. War is dirty work, which, unfortunately, sometimes must be done so that evil itself does not consume everything.
Discipline and mercy are what distinguish a warrior from an assassin
How should one behave if he is forced to take up arms? Discipline and mercy are what distinguish a warrior from a murderer. A Christian does not mock prisoners. He sees the defeated, disarmed enemy not as an object for venting anger, but as a broken person. Looting, violence against the unarmed, and mockery of the defenseless are a satanic substitution for service. As soon as a warrior allows himself to do this, he ceases to be a protector and himself turns into the very predator he set out to oppose. The warrior’s strength is not controlled by fear of a military tribunal, but by the fear of God—that trembling that says: you walk before the face of the All‑Seeing One, and for every idle word, for every movement of hatred, you will give an account.
The most terrible thing that happens in war is the dehumanization of the enemy. Propaganda always tries to portray the opponent as a non‑human, a beast, a being without a soul. This is a psychological mechanism that removes the taboo against killing. But a Christian cannot afford himself such a “luxury.” The enemy is a person who has fallen into the terrible millstones of sin, deception, propaganda, and their own passions. Yes, they have consciously chosen the path of evil, and they must be stopped. But their soul, maimed and hurtling towards the abyss, is worthy of pity. Difficult? Unnatural? Yes. But this is precisely the anguish of Christianity. To pray for the enemies you have killed, because at that moment an immortal soul perished—a soul for which Christ also shed His Blood. It rejected this gift, but it was given to it as well. And from the awareness of this tragedy, the heart is filled not with the sweetness of revenge, but with quiet horror and humility.
History preserves examples that illuminate this evangelical ideal. Let us recall the holy and righteous Prince Alexander. He was a formidable warrior who struck down the enemies of the Fatherland. But when he arrived in the Horde, among the oppressors, he came not with a sword, but with diplomacy, with a readiness to lay down his life for the people. There was no hatred in him as a passion; there was only a forced, harsh necessity. Admiral Fyodor Ushakov, the invincible naval commander who never lost a battle and never lost a single ship, would retire to the Sanaksar Monastery after the battles. He would stand in prayer, asking for forgiveness for those he had sent to eternity, for the blood that had been shed by his order. And the holy army priests of our time, the priests in the trenches who walk alongside the soldiers—they do not sing hymns of hatred. They bandage wounds, bless the soldiers before battle—who weep, confessing their weary souls, blackened by gunpowder. For them, external war is merely a field on which the internal war is waged—the fiercest battle for the warrior’s immortal soul. To defeat the enemy externally but lose internally, to become brutal, to allow the heart to become encrusted – this is the main, strategic defeat for a Christian, after which there will be no reports of victory.
The bitter poison of retribution: why revenge is unacceptable for a Christian.
Now let’s move on to the most delicate and painful issue. Revenge. I know how it feels. When you lose friends, when you see a destroyed home, when you are confronted with images of atrocities that the mind cannot comprehend, it’s not just anger that rises inside you—it’s a black, scorching flame of the thirst for retribution. This is a natural psychological reaction. Anger at injustice, at pain—is an echo in a person of the image of God, who cannot tolerate evil. This is not a sin. This flame becomes a sin, a deadly passion, when it turns into vengefulness.
Justice is the protection of the weak and the suppression of evil. Revenge is the desire to repay evil with evil in order to assuage one’s own pain
It is necessary to draw a line in steel between justice and revenge, for they are often confused. Justice is the restoration of divine truth, the protection of the weak, and the suppression of evil. It is a duty. It is the hard work of a ruler, a warrior, a judge. Revenge is something fundamentally different. It is the desire to repay evil with evil, to quench one’s own pain, to drown out one’s own cry by enjoying the cry of the offender. Justice seeks to restore order. Revenge seeks to find pleasure in someone else’s suffering. Justice disarms. Vengeance maims and tortures. Justice says: “I set a limit to your atrocities.” Vengeance hisses: “Suffer as I suffered, die in agony.”
God says: In the day of vengeance I will recompense (Deut. 32:35). These words contain a categorical prohibition for a person to take on the functions of the Judge of the Universe. Why? Because God is merciful to the offender? Not only that. The main reason is that revenge destroys the avenger himself. It is poison. A person who drinks poison in the hope that his enemy will die is committing suicide. You can’t let this black liquid into your soul, thinking it won’t harm you. Revenge doesn’t bring the dead back. It doesn’t heal wounds. It only multiplies them, forcing you to fall into the same vortex of madness.
Revenge doesn’t heal wounds. It only multiplies them, forcing you to fall into the same vortex of madness
Neutralizing a threat, killing in the heat of battle – this may be a tragic necessity. But torturing a prisoner, finishing off the wounded, shooting those who have surrendered, mocking the bodies—this is already serving satan, no matter how you justify it with righteous anger. At this moment, the protector ends, and the one he once set out to protect against begins.
And here, the human spirit is called upon to do the most difficult thing—to forgive. And once again, I ask you to hear me correctly, without that unctuous sweet talk that makes your jaw ache. Forgiveness is not amnesia. Forgiveness is not saying, “Nothing terrible happened.” No, something terrible did happen. Evil is evil. Forgiveness is not reconciliation with evil. Forgiveness is renouncing personal revenge. It is breaking the chain of evil within oneself. It is a decision: “You have done me harm. But I will not let this harm spread further, into my heart. I will not give you my soul, I will not allow the hatred I feel for you to consume me from within. I entrust the judgment of you into the hands of God, for His judgment is terrible and just, while mine is merely the product of passion.” To forgive means to stop being a slave to the person who hurt you. It is an act of profound inner liberation. You are no longer bound to him by the umbilical cord of hatred. You are free for God.
Healing after the battle: returning home
The most dangerous period comes when the gunfire subsides. When that silence sets in, in which everything experienced begins to resound. Having stopped the evil from outside, a Christian must begin the long, painstaking work of healing his soul. Self‑deception here is mortally dangerous: you cannot simply “return to peaceful life” by pretending that nothing happened. The experience of coming into contact with death and violence changes the fabric of the soul. And you must allow God to heal that fabric.
The experience of encountering death and violence changes the fabric of the soul. And it is necessary to allow God to heal this fabric
There is no need to be afraid of your own fatigue, your own emptiness, your own silence. There is no need to be afraid to ask God those very uncomfortable, terrible questions that the psalms are full of: “Why, O Lord, do You stand far away, hide Yourself in times of distress?” (Conf. Ps. 9, 21) In these words lies the cry of a living faith that is struggling. You need to talk to Him about everything: about blood, about dirt, about fear, about those moments when you yourself almost became a beast.
And, of course, to approach the Chalice; with a deafening awareness of your own unworthiness, but also with hope in God’s boundless mercy. To confess not formally, but by laying bare your soul—for the hardening of the heart, for glimmers of hatred, for that terrible utilitarian attitude towards human life which inevitably takes root in war. To ask not only for forgiveness, but also for the strength to become capable once again of tenderness, of love, of simple human joy, without feeling guilty for being alive.
The main victory of a Christian warrior is not a medal for bravery or the number of defeated enemies. This is all dust and decay. The main victory is to return home with a living, non-petrified soul. The ability to hug your wife and not shy away from her touch. The ability to pick up a child, looking into his clear eyes, and not see there the reflection of the nightmare experienced. The ability to pray again not as in a trench—”Lord, have mercy and save me"—but with a quiet prayer of thanksgiving. To return is being capable of creating, instead of destroying. The one whose spirits fell, who planted hatred in his heart and allowed it to metastasize there—he lost, even if he remained physically intact. The one who, through repentance and pain, managed to keep the image of God in himself unclouded, who suffered from the necessity of his path—this is the true victor.
And let everyone who has gone through this hell remember: The door of repentance is always open as long as a person is alive. The darkness you saw and were forced to participate in cannot be stronger than the Light, as long as the heart does not stop longing for that Light. That is all the hope there is. That is the whole journey.
