A machine translation of the video transcript here:
Although we preach, we do not preach primarily with our mouths—we preach with our lives. This was a naval base in the South. I regularly came to meet with the personnel. It seemed that two weeks before the start of the full-scale invasion, everything was already clear. War is unnatural. Killing your fellow human being is unnatural. But you are forced into it. And you—you are a good man. The function of a chaplain is to help a person remain human in the context of war.
At first glance, our chaplaincy service looks like social work. You had to choose who you were more: a reservist, a full-time volunteer, or a chaplain. When I first arrived in Odesa, the Moscow Patriarchate was something very strange and curiously foreign to me. Before 2014, almost every parish of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the Moscow Patriarchate had signs reading “Moscow Patriarchate” in large letters, with “Ukrainian Orthodox Church” written in small print underneath. I try to explain to people that what is happening to them is not just external. The most important change happens within. And that—our humanity—is the greatest gift of God.
You serve in the Maritime Apostolate of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church. What is its mission? The maritime apostolate is a structure of the Catholic Church created to be an instrument of pastoral care. We use a specific term: “people of the sea.” These are not just seafarers but anyone connected to the maritime industry—port workers, aquaculture professionals, and their families. In Ukraine, this structure is represented by the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church. It is a patriarchal institution that serves both foreign sailors in Ukrainian ports and Ukrainian sailors wherever our Church is present around the world. The Synod has appointed Bishop Pavlo Khomnytsky to lead it. I have the honor of serving as his deputy and managing the apostolate’s day-to-day affairs.
Incidentally, “Maritime Apostolate” is an older name. Today, our international organization is known as Stella Maris—Latin for “Star of the Sea.” Our task is to care for seafarers. You visit crews at the Port of Odesa, including those whose ships have been hit by missiles. How do you speak with traumatized sailors—people who seem completely unable to communicate? That impression is misleading.
People need to talk after trauma. It’s wrong to assume they can’t. I wrote about this on my Facebook. Once, there was a missile strike near—but not directly on—a ship. A day or two later, I visited. The watchman—responsible for granting or denying ship access after checking documents—told me, “What are you doing here? They’re so shocked after yesterday’s hit that you’re wasting your time.” Still, I had already made the trip. I figured, maybe they won’t want to talk. But I boarded the ship anyway—and spent two full hours in conversation. I hadn’t planned that. They didn’t want me to leave.
Later, I returned with the captain and the chief officer. People need to talk. Sailors especially know who we are. They trust us. If it’s a border guard or a port worker with a walkie-talkie, that’s one thing—they’re there for work. But when sailors see us, they know we’re the ones they can trust. We came for them. So no, they don’t shut down—they want to talk. They need to talk. And over time, they do. Sometimes you just need to be ears for a while. People want to unburden themselves. That false impression—that they’re incapable of speech—is just that: false. They can speak. They just need someone to speak to. That’s our role.
Currently, most crews in Ukrainian ports are Syrian, Egyptian, and Turkish. The Syrians in particular have experienced 13 years of war. It may have formally ended, but their reality is still shaped by conflict. It’s powerful to see our war experiences overlap. When we talk, there’s a mutual understanding.
Although we preach, we do not preach primarily with our mouths—we preach with our lives. This was a naval base in the South. I regularly came to meet with the personnel. It seemed that two weeks before the start of the full-scale invasion, everything was already clear. War is unnatural. Killing your fellow human being is unnatural. But you are forced into it. And you—you are a good man. The function of a chaplain is to help a person remain human in the context of war.
At first glance, our chaplaincy service looks like social work. You had to choose who you were more: a reservist, a full-time volunteer, or a chaplain. When I first arrived in Odesa, the Moscow Patriarchate was something very strange and curiously foreign to me. Before 2014, almost every parish of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the Moscow Patriarchate had signs reading “Moscow Patriarchate” in large letters, with “Ukrainian Orthodox Church” written in small print underneath. I try to explain to people that what is happening to them is not just external. The most important change happens within. And that—our humanity—is the greatest gift of God.
You serve in the Maritime Apostolate of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church. What is its mission? The maritime apostolate is a structure of the Catholic Church created to be an instrument of pastoral care. We use a specific term: “people of the sea.” These are not just seafarers but anyone connected to the maritime industry—port workers, aquaculture professionals, and their families. In Ukraine, this structure is represented by the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church. It is a patriarchal institution that serves both foreign sailors in Ukrainian ports and Ukrainian sailors wherever our Church is present around the world. The Synod has appointed Bishop Pavlo Khomnytsky to lead it. I have the honor of serving as his deputy and managing the apostolate’s day-to-day affairs.
Incidentally, “Maritime Apostolate” is an older name. Today, our international organization is known as Stella Maris—Latin for “Star of the Sea.” Our task is to care for seafarers. You visit crews at the Port of Odesa, including those whose ships have been hit by missiles. How do you speak with traumatized sailors—people who seem completely unable to communicate? That impression is misleading.
People need to talk after trauma. It’s wrong to assume they can’t. I wrote about this on my Facebook. Once, there was a missile strike near—but not directly on—a ship. A day or two later, I visited. The watchman—responsible for granting or denying ship access after checking documents—told me, “What are you doing here? They’re so shocked after yesterday’s hit that you’re wasting your time.” Still, I had already made the trip. I figured, maybe they won’t want to talk. But I boarded the ship anyway—and spent two full hours in conversation. I hadn’t planned that. They didn’t want me to leave.
Later, I returned with the captain and the chief officer. People need to talk. Sailors especially know who we are. They trust us. If it’s a border guard or a port worker with a walkie-talkie, that’s one thing—they’re there for work. But when sailors see us, they know we’re the ones they can trust. We came for them. So no, they don’t shut down—they want to talk. They need to talk. And over time, they do. Sometimes you just need to be ears for a while. People want to unburden themselves. That false impression—that they’re incapable of speech—is just that: false. They can speak. They just need someone to speak to. That’s our role.
Currently, most crews in Ukrainian ports are Syrian, Egyptian, and Turkish. The Syrians in particular have experienced 13 years of war. It may have formally ended, but their reality is still shaped by conflict. It’s powerful to see our war experiences overlap. When we talk, there’s a mutual understanding.
I also want to say something about the interreligious aspect of maritime chaplaincy, because the people we serve come from various religious backgrounds and traditions. Can we engage in proselytism? I understand that we cannot. Our mission is ecumenical in nature.
There is a clear set of rules that governs chaplaincy, and one of the most important is this: proselytism is strictly prohibited. This is particularly challenging in the field of military chaplaincy today, because some newer religious groups, having recently joined the chaplaincy effort, bring with them a strong culture of proselytism. I am speaking especially about some Protestant communities. For them, refraining from proselytism is a major challenge—they struggle to understand what they’re doing if not evangelizing. But our chaplaincy is not about pulling people into our church. It is a social and spiritual mission grounded in presence.
In the ports, we are often misunderstood. People think we are preachers coming aboard to proselytize. Yes, we do preach—but mostly not with our mouths. We preach with our lives. Christian faith is rooted in two essential principles: love of God and love of neighbor. And “neighbor” doesn’t mean only fellow Christians—or even members of our own Church. It means anyone. I’ve been asked more than once by seafarers, “Why are you doing this?” Some view us suspiciously, thinking we’re trying to lure them into our church. But when they realize we’re not, it creates a kind of cognitive dissonance. And sometimes that’s the opening. That’s when I can say aloud, “I do this because I love you. Because I am a Christian. Even if you’re not Catholic, or even Christian at all—if you’re Muslim, or Buddhist, or Hindu—I love you as you are.”
And that might be the moment of real preaching. Not proselytism, but testimony. Another important part of our work is to provide for the religious needs of Catholic seafarers. A significant proportion of seafarers—especially Filipinos—are Roman Catholic. About 90% of Filipino seafarers are Catholic. There are also Polish and other Christian crews. We do what we can to serve them spiritually.
Sometimes we hold Mass on board. One striking example was a Filipino crew we served last year. They had left Odesa, sailed through the Black Sea and Red Sea, and faced the threat of Houthi attacks. When they returned to Odesa, the first thing they did was call me. They didn’t just want a Mass—they needed one. They wanted to thank God for His protection. Interestingly, this same crew had already experienced a Shahed drone attack on their first visit to Odesa, and then the Houthi threat afterward. They understood how vulnerable they were, and they turned to God in gratitude.
Let me tell you more about my work with the Ukrainian Navy. I once joked that my favorite hobby became my full-time job. Before 2014, there was a Western Naval Base in Odesa—a very small component of our Naval Forces. At that time, 90% of our naval capacity was still based in Crimea. The Odesa base was tiny, and it operated out of the port itself.
In 2008, during one of the Sea Breeze training exercises, the command was based in Odesa, and military chaplains from several countries took part. They needed someone to organize a chaplaincy event, but there was no designated chaplain. Since I had already been working in the port since 1999, they asked me to help. That experience launched my more regular involvement with naval personnel. Initially, I worked only with conscripts—not contract soldiers or officers.
From that point forward, I began to be systematically present at the base. Again, I stress that it was a very small part of our Navy. But in 2014, everything changed. That marginal base suddenly became the main base for the entire Ukrainian Navy. Since I already had all the clearances, I found myself—almost unintentionally—at the heart of it all.
I remember March 6, 2014. The frigate Hetman Sahaidachny had just returned to Odesa instead of going back to Crimea. At the same time, the Maidan protests were ongoing, and I had been serving as the spiritual leader for the local Euromaidan community. The protesters chose me to be their chaplain, and I helped support both them and the incoming naval personnel. From that point, more and more of the Navy began to rely on my presence and ministry.
Even while working with the military, I continued my service with the commercial fleet. But then came the full-scale invasion, and life changed completely. Even before it began, I noticed changes at the naval base—everything was being restructured for war. I didn’t have access to classified information, but anyone paying attention could see it. People were preparing for something serious.
I remember asking officers, “What’s happening?” And they just said, “Nothing, nothing. Everything’s fine.” But you could tell from how they lived that something was coming. When the war began, everything about our work changed. Port activities halted almost entirely until the summer of 2023. For a time, we assisted foreign crews stranded by the invasion. Some ships were evacuated quickly; others remained, with Ukrainian crews caring for them and their cargo.
That marked a turning point. From then on, 100% of our work focused on the personnel of the Ukrainian Navy.
From that point forward, nearly all our efforts were directed toward working with Navy personnel. It was, for the most part, volunteer work—about 90% of it. We provided everything imaginable: from disposable cups and plastic forks to more complex technical equipment urgently needed by the Navy. Alongside this logistical support, of course, we also cared for their souls. That part—emotional and spiritual support—was just as demanding.
Sometimes I had to make difficult decisions about my identity: am I a volunteer, a reservist, or a chaplain? To obtain material resources required enormous effort—it was incredibly exhausting. There were situations where the soldiers needed me as a priest. Someone had died. A funeral had to be arranged. There was a family to comfort. There were comrades to console. And I would arrive, worn out, having driven for 10 or 12 hours to deliver supplies—yet still, I had to fulfill my priestly duties. At those moments, you had to make a choice: are you primarily a logistician, or are you here to serve the soul?
That decision was never easy. I had developed expertise in acquiring resources, but I had to set that aside—because someone needed me, not as a volunteer, but as a priest.
There’s also a widespread misconception about what military chaplains do. People assume we only lead liturgies, give blessings, or preach. In fact, that’s only a tiny fraction of our work. Primarily, we are there to listen. And, if permitted, we speak to those who often feel broken—people who believe something inside them is no longer normal.
Because that is the first thing war does: it cripples the person within the person. The chaplain’s function is to help someone stay human in a situation that constantly pushes them toward inhumanity. The worst thing war does is not destroy infrastructure—we can rebuild roads, homes, bridges. The worst thing it does is destroy souls. For decades to come, we will be helping our defenders regain their humanity. Because war forces a person to fall to an animalistic level, just to survive or to protect a comrade. And many—if not most—never fully return from that state.
The trauma often convinces a person that something is wrong with them. I hear this all the time. And I tell them: “You are normal. What you’re experiencing is a normal reaction to abnormal circumstances. You’re okay. It’s the circumstances that aren’t.” These are simple phrases, but they express the heart of our mission: to listen first, and then to speak a few healing words, or say a prayer, or just sit with someone and help them not sink into the pit war tries to throw them into.
It’s hard to sum up our service in clichés. But our motto—printed on our logo—is: “To be near.” And that is what we do. We are simply near to our military personnel—not to depersonalized ‘troops’ or ‘defenders,’ but to people. We are there with them in the most inhuman, terrifying conditions, to help them remain human. Because our humanity is the greatest gift God has given us.
I was asked about my attitude toward priests of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the Moscow Patriarchate. I have had acquaintances among them—people I spoke with out of curiosity, especially as someone from Western Ukraine. I’ve lived in Odesa longer now than I ever lived in Galicia, but my roots are there.
When I first came to Odesa, the Moscow Patriarchate was an unfamiliar and strangely fascinating phenomenon. I spoke with its clergy. But after 2014, after burying several of my own comrades, I no longer wished to. I found myself listening to absurd and offensive statements from some of them. I feared my own reactions. When you’re standing over the coffin of a fallen brother, the emotions you feel mark you forever. When one local priest—himself from Galicia—started saying such things to me, I knew I had to stop communicating with them, if only to protect myself from myself.
As a structure, the Moscow Patriarchate in Ukraine persists, largely thanks to state support. Before 2014, nearly every UOC-MP church had signs with “Moscow Patriarchate” in big letters, and “Ukrainian Orthodox Church” in small ones. Then one day, in Odesa at least, all the signs changed. “Moscow Patriarchate” disappeared. But there are photos—we remember.
Today, they deny any connection to Moscow. But I believe this is a deliberate position meant to preserve their institutional control. I can’t speak to their internal dynamics—I’ve never been part of them. But I think some clergy and laity sincerely believe their narrative. Yet others, including some leaders, are clearly manipulators who know exactly what they’re doing. Even if not all are following direct orders from Moscow, some certainly are. They know they would lose status if they moved to the Orthodox Church of Ukraine (OCU). Their refusal to switch is not theological—it’s opportunistic.
At the same time, I do not support the state’s heavy-handed pressure on them. That kind of suppression actually strengthens their internal cohesion. It turns them into perceived martyrs in the eyes of some. The structure of the Moscow Patriarchate in Ukraine was built through decades of government support. That has mostly ended at the highest levels, but local support often continues. In my view, a more effective solution would be to put all churches on an equal legal and financial footing. Ours is a very competitive religious environment. Give us equal conditions—and I am convinced the Moscow Patriarchate would not disappear, but its power would diminish significantly.
If you remember, before 2014, Odesa had a huge number of pro-Russian organizations. They were thriving—growing aggressively—thanks to external funding. But when that financial pipeline was cut off, they vanished. Some individual sympathizers remain, of course, but those organizations are gone.
The Ukrainian Orthodox Church of the Moscow Patriarchate (UOC-MP) continues to flourish in Ukraine largely due to local government support. That is the problem. We remember how the Transfiguration Cathedral in Odesa was constructed—it was not some historical monument but completed in 2010. Yes, it is tragic and blasphemous that it was struck by a missile, but it is also manipulative when it’s framed as the destruction of a centuries-old national treasure. It’s not the “sacred site of all Odesa”—it is sacred only to a specific church, even if it is a large one.
To solve the issue of the Moscow Patriarchate’s dominance, we must not only put all churches on equal footing but also ensure full enforcement of the law by all relevant authorities. This would reduce the Moscow Patriarchate’s influence and status in Ukraine far more effectively than current efforts. It would become one of many marginal religious institutions. The current policy, by contrast, is ineffective.
Now, regarding the Orthodox Church of Ukraine (OCU), our relationship as the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church (UGCC) is very close. You could say we are “sister churches,” both at the leadership level and among the faithful. There are many joint projects, especially in chaplaincy. But there is a mistaken public perception that unification is imminent.
Some clergy in the OCU even express impatience, asking, “When will you finally join us?” I must disappoint them—that is not going to happen. Perhaps in the distant future, we all hope for the unity of Christ’s Church, but a mechanical unification between the UGCC and OCU would be harmful. We have more than 400 years of separate development. Even though our liturgical rites are practically identical, we have differences in mentality. We consider ourselves part of the Catholic Church, and that entails a different value system and worldview.
We love the OCU. We support its growth and rejoice in its successes. But we always emphasize that we are a different church. When we speak of unity, we do not mean institutional merger or absorption. Unfortunately, in the Orthodox tradition—especially before the Tomos of autocephaly—there was language of “returning to the fold” when speaking of unification. That is a dangerous pattern that still lingers in some OCU rhetoric today.
The OCU is going through a dramatic period of internal formation. It must rid itself of many habits inherited from the Moscow Patriarchate—many of which it doesn’t even recognize as such. This is to be expected, as many of its bishops and clergy were trained in that tradition. Formation leaves a deep imprint. I won’t comment further on their internal challenges, but clearly the mix of clergy backgrounds—from the former Kyiv Patriarchate, the Ukrainian Autocephalous Orthodox Church, and the Moscow Patriarchate—presents difficulties.
As for our parish life: our church in Odesa—the Cathedral of St. Andrew—is the UGCC’s cathedral for southern Ukraine. We have three active communities in the city, and although each is distinct, we function as one spiritual family.
At the start of the full-scale invasion, the number of parishioners dropped sharply. Many fled. For example, we had a wonderful choir that vanished overnight as most members left the city. The number of children also fell drastically. But later, we saw an influx of parishioners from Kherson and Mykolaiv—people who could not return home and found refuge in Odesa. Many of them are still with us today.
Over time, some local residents also returned. So numerically, we’re now more or less back to pre-war levels—maybe a little smaller, but not significantly.
What changed was the character of parish life. Our churches became volunteer hubs. Every free space was filled with humanitarian aid—supplies arriving from abroad or western Ukraine. We had to rent warehouses outside the city to store everything. Our catechetical center became a depot, not a classroom.
Our priests, too, took on different roles. As Fr. Ihnatii from Kherson once said with irony, “I was more of a priest under occupation than I am now. Back then, it was dangerous, and I prayed. Now, I’m just distributing aid to hundreds of people.” He wasn’t complaining—he was describing a shift. We’re still active in humanitarian work, especially helping displaced people and the Armed Forces of Ukraine. Most of our clergy now serve as military chaplains, either officially or voluntarily.
Our former cathedral rector, Fr. Ruslan Ostafiiv, is now a chaplain in the Armed Forces, possibly a lieutenant or senior lieutenant. And many others serve with the National Guard or Border Guard.
We’ve also opened two “Points of Invincibility”—community aid stations supported by our German diocese. One is near Riviera, the other in the Kotovskyi district of Odesa. These prefab centers are equipped with Starlink, generators, and heating stoves, and have since been replicated across Ukraine—about 30 in total. It was a huge effort requiring significant human and material resources, but it matters deeply.
In short, our Church continues to function liturgically and pastorally, but now with a heightened emphasis on social service. That shift brings its own spiritual danger: even in this flood of activity, we must remember that we are, above all, a Church. Our humanitarian work is not separate from our faith—it is an expression of our faith. Not a parallel project, but a direct outpouring of Christian love.
As for the language conflict that erupted on Facebook—I was visiting an elderly parishioner during Lent. It’s our tradition to offer confession and communion to the elderly who can’t come to church. I was trying to park, and a man shouted at me, insisting the spot was for residents only. I explained my purpose, but when he heard me speaking Ukrainian—just days after activist Dmytro Hanul was murdered—he told me I should be speaking Russian in Odesa.
I was furious. I tried to stay calm, but I spoke sharply. It was not a private argument—people in the nine-story apartment block could hear us. Later, I saw that same man’s car with a small Ukrainian flag on the dashboard. I haven’t seen him since. Some urged me to expose him publicly, but I didn’t. That might have led to violence, and I refused.
What do I say to people overwhelmed by war news and despair? I try to prepare them. After the Orange Revolution in 2004–2005, I remember warning people not to expect permanent euphoria. Emotional whiplash is real. Our state made a mistake by not preparing citizens for disappointment.
When people understand what’s happening inside them—not just outside—they cope better. It’s like the question: what’s better, a fish or a fishing rod? Sometimes people need both. You may have to comfort them with kind words first, but afterward, you help them understand themselves.
And finally, what do I expect from the new Pope? I am very hopeful. He is younger, not so rooted in Latin American perspectives. He’s more broadly educated—he studied mathematics—and his early statements have already exceeded expectations. We don’t need a “pro-Ukrainian” pope. We need a realistic one—someone who sees clearly who is the aggressor and who is the victim. So far, this pope has done exactly that. And for that, I am grateful.