BEING HUMAN

#BeingHuman. #ExistentialHonesty. On December 12, 2025, Ernest Clark (the CTO of Mesa Global) and I participated in the interfaith forum “Called to Freedom” of the Trauma Healing Institute, exploring the theme of Galatians 5:13-14: “You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free.” The Forum gathered over 200 faith-based counselors, advisors, facilitators, and church ministers who provide pastoral care. The two-day event focused on equipping those who walk alongside trauma survivors (particularly those affected by the ongoing full-scale Russian war) with theological and practical foundations for sustainable ministry. Participants engaged with biblical models of presence, examined the balance between compassion and self-preservation, and reflected on practices for trauma-informed pastoral care rooted in faith. Through seminars, workshops, and shared testimony, the forum aimed to strengthen Ukrainian faith communities’ capacity to respond to ongoing collective trauma and constant retraumatization with both truth and grace. This gathering represented a critical conversation about how the Church can embody freedom amid suffering without demanding premature forgiveness or abandoning the call to justice. Trauman Healing Institute is a partner of Mesa Global in developing the resources for faith-based counseling and of Scholar Leaders in the Vital Sustainability initiative. Ernest greeted the participants on behalf of Mesa Global and our partners, and I had the honor of delivering a concluding lecture on the theme of “Theology in Action: Freedom to Hear the Other Without Fear of Losing Yourself.”

The paradox of presence. Dear friends and co-journers on the Path of Jesus, thank you for the opportunity to discuss what is perhaps one of the greatest challenges for all of us who accompany people in distress amid the ongoing Russian aggression. My question today isn’t about methods or techniques; it is about how we ourselves stand before another person’s pain, another person’s story, another person’s worldview.

When someone comes to us with war trauma, they bring their whole way of seeing the world. Their questions to God. Their anger. Their pain. And here we encounter a paradox: to truly help, we must be present in this space, and there is no other choice. But presence in another’s space always evokes in us an existential fear: what if their pain swallows me? What if their questions to God shake or ruin my faith?

This fear is real. I feel it with particular intensity because it is not an abstract topic for me. Six of my relatives have been killed: my nephew Oleksandr was shot by pro-Russian snipers in February 2014, my brother Andriy, a military medic, was killed during the full-scale invasion in July 2024. Five of my loved ones are at the front right now. When I sit with a widow or the mother of a fallen soldier, I cannot say “I understand” without it being true. And that is precisely why I know how difficult it is to maintain presence when you yourself are in this space of bleeding pain.

Because of this existential fear, we often do one of two things: either we wall ourselves off from the other, or we dissolve into them. Neither is true presence. So today I want to examine this question through the theology of incarnation and the mission of presence, a path where we can hear the other without fear of losing ourselves, because our identity is rooted in the One who is large enough to hold both us and the other.

I will explore with you three theological foundations that make this possible: first, the paradox of kenosis – how Christ emptied himself into human suffering without losing his divine identity; second, covenantal presence – God’s promise to be with us in the fire, not to remove the fire; and third, embodied listening – the incarnation as an act of divine listening that required rootedness in the Father. Each of these foundations offers me a way to stand firm in myself while entering fully into another’s pain during the Russian war.

Kenosis: self-emptying without loss of identity. In Philippians 2:6-7, Paul writes that Christ “emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in human likeness.” Notice the paradox: Christ, as the Son of Man, emptied himself of his identity as the Son of God toward human pain without losing his identity as God. He entered the space of human experience with all its limitations, sufferings, and temptations, but did not dissolve into it. The Letter to the Hebrews says: “We do not have a high priest Who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but One Who has been tempted in every way, just as we are.” He wept with those who wept over losses and trauma, yet remained the One who could say, “I am the resurrection and the life.” It is the first theological foundation for me: the true mission of presence does not require me to give up myself. When a caregiver fears that another’s pain will swallow them, it often means their identity is built on fragile foundations, on certainty in answers and a sense of control. But the Christology of kenosis teaches me something different: my identity is in the fact that I belong to the One who is greater than my questions and answers.

Covenantal presence. The second foundation is understanding the mission of presence as a covenant. When God says in Isaiah 43:2: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you… When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned,” He is not promising the absence of water and fire. He is promising His presence. It is a radical shift, because we often think our role is to provide answers, to alleviate pain. But covenantal presence says otherwise: my role is to be there, to remain where and when others have left… And here is what is important for me: covenantal presence does not mean loss of my boundaries. God remains God. The person remains a person. But between them, a bond is established that does not break. In my current ministry in Ukraine, it means I can be present with the pain of others without making it my goal to overcome it for my own comfort.

Embodied listening. The third element is understanding listening as a theology of incarnation. When the Word became flesh, it was an act of divine listening. Voluntarily. God did not send a treatise about suffering, but entered the space of human experience and vulnerability, and lived it fully from within to death and going to hell… even to the hell of our own souls… But notice: Christ entered human experience having somewhere to enter from. He came from the Father and knew he was returning to the Father. His identity did not depend on acceptance or rejection by people, disciples (who left Him alone in the Garden), high priests, and scribes… For me, it means that to truly listen to another, I need to know my own rootedness, my space with the Father from which I can go out into another’s space…

These three theological foundations (kenosis, covenantal presence, and embodied listening) are not abstract concepts for me. They are lived realities I see throughout Scripture in people who stood in the gap between heaven and earth and hell, between their own identity and another’s bleeding pain. Now, let me explore with you five biblical examples of what this presence actually looks like in practice. Each of these figures demonstrates a different aspect of being fully present without losing oneself, of removing your sandals on holy ground while knowing whose you are.

Moses at the burning bush. Moses sees a bush that burns but is not consumed. He approaches, but God says, “Do not come closer; take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.” God says, come closer, but acknowledge the holiness of this space. And notice what happens next: the burning bush becomes a place of Moses’ own restoration. God calls him to enter the pain of enslaved Israel, and Moses responds with five questions, starting with the most fundamental: “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh?” (to the place where I broke). It is my question and the question of every caregiver who fears being consumed: Who am I to enter this burning space? What if I lose myself there? God’s answer is simple: “I will be with you…” Moses’ identity is not in his own strength or answers, but in the presence of the One who burns but is not consumed. The bush teaches Moses what he will later model for us: you can stand close to bleedingpain that doesn’t burn out without becoming the pain yourself. Moses did not become the bush, didn’t try to burn with it. He preserved his identity but was close enough to hear God’s voice, because his identity was rooted in “I AM,” not in “I can fix this…” In caregiving, I encounter countless “burning bushes,” bleeding pain that does not burn out, trauma that continues… I learn to enter another’s space as a guest, with my sandals removed, asking my own “Who am I?” But I can stand there because I know Whose I am. And we are still here, still in Ukraine, still ministering to the broken nation and the children of the same God Who restored Moses.

Job and his friends. For the first seven days, the friends simply sat with Job. In silence. “No one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.” This is one of the best examples of the mission of presence in the Bible. But the problem began when they opened their mouths… Fear of painful bleeding questions made them wall themselves off with answers. But in those first seven days, they were witnesses to pain. They sat in uncertainty without fleeing. They preserved both their identity and their true presence… until they tried to protect God in Job’s eyes and ears.

Jesus in Gethsemane. Jesus tells the disciples: “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death… Stay here and keep watch.” He doesn’t ask them to solve His problem or provide explanations. He asks for their presence… Then He goes a little farther and prays. A lesson for me: Jesus invites closeness, but not too much closeness… People need our presence, but probably not our intrusiveness. They want to know we are there, but they need space for their own struggle, doubts, cry, fears… The disciples fell asleep. Jesus was disappointed but… didn’t condemn them. He understood their limitations. We have a right to limitations, to fatigue. And this does not destroy our identity. And should not destroy our relationships with those who truly love us, and who we truly love, too.

Stephen stands before the Sanhedrin. They “gnashed their teeth at him.” But he looks to heaven and sees the glory of God; he remains rooted in a reality greater than the stones the spiritual leaders are about to throw. Stephen’s entire sermon was one long prophetic rebuke, naming centuries of Israel’s disobedience and resistance to God’s messengers. It is not “soft presence;” it is prophetic faithfulness that refuses to call evil good or silence truth for the sake of comfort. Yet this same man, in his final breath, prays: “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” How is this possible? Because Stephen’s identity was so anchored in the open heaven that their stones couldn’t shake it. He could speak the hard truth without needing their acceptance. He was neither consumed by their hatred nor walled off from their humanity. And it is what freedom is about: the ability to be fully present to another’s sin and violence without losing yourself. And also notice who was there, holding the coats: Saul, the future Paul. Stephen’s witness (his ability to remain himself while being present even to his murderers) planted a seed that would later bear fruit. Stephen never saw that fruit. He died not knowing what his presence would accomplish. But his freedom to be fully present without fear of losing himself became a testimony that pursued Saul all the way to Damascus… Stephen’s presence was possible because he knew who stood at the right hand of God. And from that rootedness, he could offer both truth and grace, neither collapsing into the other.

Paul and Timothy. In his final letter, Paul writes to Timothy, who was afraid and doubting. Paul doesn’t say: “Stop being afraid.” He says: “I am reminded… of the faith that dwelt… in you.” He reminds him of an identity rooted deeper than current fear. Here, the theology of incarnation and the mission of presence reveal something profound: those who suffer more can be compassionate to those who suffer less; not because their suffering makes them superior, but because their rootedness in God gives them freedom to see beyond their own pain… Think of Jesus on the Via Dolorosa. While Simon carries his cross, Jesus (bleeding, stumbling toward death) turns to the weeping women and says: “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children.” He does not comfort the Roman soldiers who mock him. He does not try to reach the spiritual leaders who condemned and decided to crucify him. But he can be present to these suffering women because his identity is not dependent on being rescued or vindicated. Even in His agony, He remains rooted in the Father, and from that space, He can see their pain and speak to it… This is exactly what Paul does with Timothy. “God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and self-discipline.” Paul doesn’t minimize Timothy’s fear but points to an even greater reality, not to deny fears and doubts, but to point to the space in which pain can be endured… And Paul does this from prison, awaiting execution. His suffering is objectively greater than Timothy’s anxiety. Yet he doesn’t lose himself in identification with Timothy’s pain, and he doesn’t wall himself off in bitterness about his own circumstances. He remains Paul (anchored in Christ), and it is from this space of rootedness that he can speak words that sustain. He can be present to Timothy’s lesser suffering without resentment, without comparison, without making it about himself. And it is what inner freedom is about: to suffer greatly yet still have the capacity to witness another’s pain, because your identity doesn’t depend on the hierarchy of suffering.

We’ve explored the theological foundations (kenosis, covenantal presence, embodied listening), and seen them lived out in Moses, Job’s friends, Jesus, Stephen, and Paul. But the real question is: how does this work on Monday morning when a traumatized veteran sits across from you? How do you embody this freedom when a widow’s anger at God shakes your own faith? Let me share what has emerged from my own ministry, not as techniques to master, but as a way of being that flows from these foundations. When I sit with someone in bleeding pain (and being in bleeding pain myself), I feel four temptations pulling at me simultaneously.

The first is the temptation to rescue. When a veteran tells his story, I don’t rush to say “God is in control.” I say “Thank you for trusting me” and remain in the difficulty. When a widow says, “I cannot believe in God’s goodness,” I don’t defend God. I say, “Tell me more.” When a displaced person asks, “Where was God when the missile hit my home and killed my family?” I say, “I don’t know. I myself struggle with this.” This is not rejecting theology… it is rejecting violent victorious evangelical theology imposed at the wrong time. The freedom to hear the other begins here: trusting that your role is to be present, not to fix… This is kenosis, the emptying that paradoxically preserves my identity.

The second temptation is complete identification. “I understand what you are feeling” is often more about me than about the other person. My nephew was killed on the Maidan in 2014, my brother in the Kherson region in 2024 (sorry for being repetitive). Four more dead. When someone tells me about loss, I am tempted to say “I understand.” But I try not to, because this is their time, their space, their story… Like Moses, who did not become the burning bush but stood close enough to hear. This distance gives people freedom to speak. They do not have to account for my pain. I am privileged to enter as a guest, with sandals removed, into their bleeding pain.

The third temptation is abandoning boundaries out of fear that they mean abandoning love. But Jesus withdrew to pray in Gethsemane. He sent crowds away. When you accompany hundreds of people in trauma while having five loved ones at the front and having buried six relatives, boundaries are not a luxury; they are what allow you to continue serving. I have the right to say, “I cannot right now…” My boundaries allow me to be more present. Not constantly, but with quality. This is covenantal presence in practice: God remains God, I remain I, and our bond does not break.

The fourth challenge is speaking from one’s own voice when the time comes. When I sit with my mother, who lost her son (my brother Andriy), and she asks, “Why?” I cannot hide behind clichés. But I can say “Mom… I do not know why… But the God I have met weeps with you and me, and our family… I have seen this at the cross…” It is not an answer that closes the question, but a witness from a real place, like Stephen’s vision of heaven opened even as stones fell. This is embodied listening: you speak from where you have stood with God, from your own burning bush. Your voice has authority not because you have answers, but because you have been present to God, to yourself, to your own bleeding pain.

These four movements are not separate techniques. They are one integrated practice flowing from the theology of incarnation. This is the freedom we seek: to be fully present to another’s burning bush without becoming the bush, to enter the fire knowing my identity is held in Hands larger than the flames…

Freedom rooted in Christ. Let’s return to the beginning: freedom to hear the other without fear of losing yourself. At the start, I named the existential fear we all feel, that another’s bleeding pain will swallow us, that their questions will unravel our faith. And I said we respond by either walling ourselves off or dissolving into the other. Neither is true presence.

But now we have seen a third way. We have seen it in kenosis – Christ emptying Himself without losing Himself. In covenantal presence – God in the fire, not removing the fire. In embodied listening, the Word becomes flesh from a place of rootedness in the Father.

And we have seen it lived: Moses asking “Who am I?” at the burning bush and hearing “I AM.” Job’s friends were silent for seven days before fear drove them to answers. Jesus is inviting closeness in Gethsemane but honouring space. Stephen was so rooted in open heaven that stones could not shake him. Paul, in chains, was able to comfort Timothy’s fear because his identity did not depend on being rescued.

Where does this freedom come from? Not from techniques, though techniques matter… Not from experience, though experience teaches… This freedom is rooted in knowing that our identity is not in our answers, our control, or our capacity to fix. Our identity is in belonging to the One who is greater.

And that is why we can enter the darkest places without fear. Not because we’ll emerge unchanged… We will change… But because we know who we are at a deeper level. We know where we came from and where we return to.

So what have I learned to do? I learn to invest in my own presence before God. It is my burning bush, my space with the Father. I cannot give what I have not received. I cannot witness the fire if I have never removed my sandals… I learn to look for the community for supervision. Moses had Aaron. Paul had co-workers in prison. I need witnesses who can say, “This is holy ground” when I forget… I learn to remember: I am not Christ, I am a witness to Christ. Christ rescues. I accompany. Christ bears the weight. I stand alongside. It is not weakness – it is freedom… I learn to trust the process. My presence plants seeds. Stephen did not see what his witness planted in Saul. Moses did not see the promised land. I may not see the fruit or the end of the Russian inhuman war. But God sees. And that is enough…

Thank you for your work and the ministry of presence. For standing close to burning bushes. For sitting in silence with those whose suffering is very great. For withdrawing when you need to. For weeping with those who weep while remembering who stands at God’s right hand.

May the God who emptied Himself without losing Himself, Who promised presence not escape, Who listened from rootedness in the Father… may this God give us strength to be present for others. Not as those who have all the answers, but as those who know the One who is greater than all our questions. Not as those who never change, but as those whose identity is held secure in Hands larger than the flames… Peace be with you and keep your children away from war, Taras Dyatlik (12 December 2025, Kyiv, Ukraine).