VILNIUS, Lithuania — Archbishop Visvaldas Kulbokas, the Vatican's apostolic nuncio to Ukraine, arrived in Kyiv six months before Russia launched its full-scale invasion in February 2022. More than four years later, he is still there.
In an interview with Sister Faustina Elena Andrulyte, editor-in-chief of the Lithuanian magazine Kelione, the Lithuanian archbishop opened a window into his time in Ukraine, defined by missile alerts, exhausted soldiers, grieving mothers and, despite the chaos, an extraordinary surge of faith.
The decision to stay in the midst of war
When the Russian invasion of Ukraine began, most diplomats had fled the country, yet Kulbokas made the firm decision to stay. He recounted how a friend of his from the British military "came to evacuate people, then stayed to help the nunciature," saying "that soldier made all the nunciature employees complete military training courses," which included sealing windows, evacuating quickly within 20 seconds, and storing food so it would not spoil.
When word reached the nunciature that Kyiv would be encircled by Russian forces within 24 hours, Kulbokas recalled that most ambassadors had decided to leave, with only Poland and Turkmenistan choosing to remain. "It was clear the city could soon be fully surrounded," he said. "But we stayed."
He described one account of a Ukrainian soldier armed with portable Javelin missiles who had spotted a Russian tank moving through a street near Kyiv. The soldier emerged from cover, fired a missile, and hid again. When a second tank appeared, he fired again. Then a third time.
"It's good that I didn't know there were a dozen tanks there," the soldier later said. The Russian convoy, believing it was facing a larger defensive force after several tanks were destroyed, reportedly halted its advance.
For Kulbokas, the episode illustrated how "even one person's contribution can be enormous" in moments of national crisis.
Living under missiles and the sound of war
As the war progressed, residents and nunciature staff became experts at reading air raid alerts.
"If the signal indicates a ballistic missile, you have to be in a shelter within 10 minutes," Kulbokas explained. "If it's drones or cruise missiles, I go back to bed and try to sleep."
One of the sisters working in the nunciature, he explained, had become something of a missile analyst, reading flight data on her phone to calculate how long the staff had before impact. He recalled one instance when she and the nunciature driver were at a market and an alert sounded. Checking her phone, she announced they had eight or nine minutes, just enough time to finish buying vegetables and return safely. They made it through the nunciature door seconds before explosions were heard near that very market.
The nuncio also shared the story of a seminarian who had taken academic leave to serve in the military. When he returned to his seminary, he could not sleep because it was too quiet. He had grown so accustomed to the sound of explosions that silence had become unbearable. Kulbokas later had him sent for treatment.
Chaplains on the front line
The nuncio spoke with particular tenderness about military chaplains, describing them as filling a void that trained psychologists have largely been unable to occupy. He recounted how a woman running a program to train 25 psychologists to work with wounded soldiers watched 23 walk away after a single session, with most saying "this is not for me."
After a second session, the remaining two psychologists also left. "Then the woman who organized the training said: 'Now I have only one hope left, priests and monks.'"
One chaplain the nuncio knows regularly brings his dog to the front. He rarely discusses religion directly. Instead, he prepares young soldiers for the raw reality of combat. "Don't be surprised, when you first find yourself in the trenches, you may pee and poop out of fear. This is normal. This happens to everyone." He distributes rosaries, prays, blesses, listens to confessions, and stays present.
"Soldiers are more open with a chaplain than with a psychologist," Kulbokas noted. "However, soldiers accept a dog best: There is no need for either words or questions, the puppy comes, snuggles up, and the therapy takes place."
The shortage of chaplains remains acute, with only 60% to 70% of the need being met. The stakes of that gap are painfully illustrated by the archbishop's account of a military doctor describing wounded soldiers who, unable to be evacuated under drone surveillance, decline further medical intervention by saying: "Don't stitch it up, it won't help anymore, better give me absolution."
"When you face eternity," Kulbokas reflected, "forgiveness is the only thing you really need."
Faith rising from the ruins
Perhaps the most astonishing dimension of the archbishop's testimony is what the war has done to religious belief. In Kherson, where Kulbokas said the civilian population has fallen to one-fifth of its prewar size, the Catholic parish has grown fivefold to sixfold. "In Kherson, there are no unbelievers left," Kulbokas said.
He also described how, in the Diocese of Kharkiv-Zaporizhzhia, roughly 30 to 50 kilometers (19 to 31 miles) from the front lines, Auxiliary Bishop Jan Sobilo and his team distribute food packages of bread and canned meat to residents. They use these moments to foster hope and talk about Christ.
Kulbokas said the war has also led people in the region to reconsider their faith. He noted that an Orthodox bishop and two Protestant pastors had converted to Catholicism and later became Catholic priests.
Recalling one story, Kulbokas said a Protestant pastor became curious after hearing reports about a Catholic bishop known for praying the rosary and rapidly building a church. "Don't go, because you'll convert and become a Catholic," a friend reportedly warned him. According to the archbishop, the pastor attended a single homily during Mass and soon decided to enter the Catholic Church.
