‘Hope never dies’: Ukrainian pastor seeks unity for Russian-speaking congregation in Texas

PLANO, Texas – They came from everywhere. Ukraine. Russia. Uzbekistan. Some spoke in Russian, others English.

But last Sunday in this North Texas church, they were united as they spoke into a microphone against the Russia-Ukraine war, their shaking voices and heavy sighs echoing across the sanctuary.

I can’t describe the pain.

My heart is broken.

This is a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

Pastor Leo Regheta lifted his glasses, wiped his eyes and prayed.

He lived under Soviet rule. He knows the fear.

Since the conflict began Feb. 24, the pastor of River of Life – an evangelical Christian church whose members include native Russians and Ukrainians – has tried to hold his flock together through compassion, comfort and prayer for both nations.  

Regheta, like pastors across the country, is also trying to keep peace as political tensions bubble up among his diverse congregation. Several families have left the 100-member church because they didn’t like their Ukrainian pastor talking about the war. Others warned him against being too political. The area’s Russian-speaking social media has blown up with disputes over the war, prompting Regheta to intercede with calls for calm.

What's happening in River of Life Church mirrors tensions playing out at home and overseas. Russians, Ukrainians and Eastern Europeans struggle to cope with what they see on the news: dead bodies thrown into mass graves, blasted apartment buildings, starving adults and children walking toward borders.

Most fear the decades-gone oppression of Soviet rule will return to Ukraine, stealing personal and religious freedoms. Others echo Russian propaganda that Russian President Vladimir Putin is trying to protect nearby Russian republics from Ukrainian aggression.

Regheta tries to walk the line between rallying and ostracizing his congregation.

“I’m torn right now," he said. "I’m trying to be a pastor for everybody.”

The fourth-generation pastor refuses to look away from the carnage in his home country. He brands the war “craziness,” calls out political propaganda and voices more than a few critical thoughts on Putin.

He has used connections to help people escape both his homeland and Russia. His phone constantly rings and dings with calls and texts about the war. He’s shepherded donation drives and helped raise money for Ukrainian and Russian refugees. He's hosted three prayer vigils for the war-torn country.

The 47-year-old married father of four children is up at all hours, running on adrenaline to talk to those on the front lines despite the eight-hour time difference.

“He’s tired all the time,” said Regheta’s 17-year-old daughter, Linnea. “He’s up all the time. It takes a toll.”

When he went to a dentist in early March, his blood pressure was 180/93 – far higher than it had ever been. For the first time in his 12 years as a pastor, he’s thinking about taking a sabbatical.

But not now. There's too much to do.

'I will call what is black, black and what is white, white'

As a child growing up in Berdychiv, Regheta was terrified of the city's administration building.

It was massive, with gray stone, heavy front doors and, worst of all, a 29-foot-tall statue of Vladimir Lenin in front. The architect of the Soviet Union rose up from the red stone, representing everything Regheta feared from the communist regime.

Pain. Violence. Control.

“I think that was the purpose of that thing, with that building with the heavy doors," he said. "It was to make you feel subhuman.”

It was the 1980s and Ukraine was a Soviet republic. Regheta's evangelical Christian family was always in danger because of their religion. Their church was shunned and could not rent space for services, so members met in homes. 

Neighbors were ordered to call the authorities when the Christians met. The police would show up, break up gatherings, arrest homeowners and heavily fine the rest of the group. Regheta's grandfather and great-grandfather were jailed, he said.

But Regheta loved his homeland. There were huge family gatherings with cabbage rolls and tomato paste, pierogi and cottage cheese; soccer games and tag in the park; walks in the forest to collect flowers and leaves that were dried and sold to pharmacies.

Ultimately, the persecution was too much. When he was 15, Regheta's family fled to the USA as religious refugees.

Regheta said he felt called to return to that part of the world. He went to St. Petersburg for some of his college studies and has done missionary work in Eastern Europe and Russia for almost 25 years. His wife, Leanna, is Russian. His children know both cultures.

Regheta has been back to Ukraine 10 times since fleeing the country.

On a trip a few years ago, he and a fellow pastor had lunch in a cafe near the city administration building. Regheta looked out the window and was taken aback.

"Look!" he said. "There's no Lenin!"

He had forgotten the statue was destroyed by a free Ukraine in 2014. His childhood monster was gone.

That wasn't the only surprise. His friend told him that the churches once shunned now partnered with the mayor on social matters and other community issues.

"It was quite a switch," Regheta said.

On Feb. 24, Regheta was sitting on a brown leather couch in his two-story house in Plano, scrolling through Facebook on his iPhone, when he stopped short. People posted that they’d seen planes heading from Russia toward Ukraine in the dead of night.  

Regheta headed downstairs and called his family together to pray. Then he got a text from a friend in Ukraine.

The invasion has started. This is terrible. This is horrific.

Since the war began, more than 3 million people have fled the country, more than half of them running to Poland. The world has largely sided with Ukraine. Countries send money, medical supplies and military aid. They levied sanctions against Russia, and big corporations cut ties with the nation.

Regheta spent the first night of the war scouring news sites for updates until 3 a.m. After three hours of sleep, he climbed out of bed and immediately started texting his friends in Russia and Ukraine.

Is it true? What are these explosions? Tell us what’s happening.

On the second day of the war, Regheta – who has a full-time job in marketing for a radiology clinic – jumped into action, using his connections to help church members’ relatives escape bomb shelters and basements in Ukraine.

On the third day, he wrote a letter to his congregation. He asked members to pray for the end of the war, to rise above politics and to be compassionate to all people, no matter their beliefs. He made it clear that he thought the war was wrong.

“The fact that he is not turning to hate and wants to unite us in the love of Christ – I think that was a very powerful thing to say,” said Amy Kim, an American-raised church member who volunteers in Romania to help refugees.

Others didn’t see it that way. One woman suggested he pray for peace and forgiveness. He said it wasn’t time for forgiveness. It was better to help people suffering. She took offense and left the church. So did several others.

Regheta promised his congregation he wouldn’t dive deep into politics, with a caveat.

“I will call what is black, black and what is white, white,” he said.

Across the country in Manhattan, Pastor Ivan Belets of First Ukrainian Assembly of God works to keep his diverse congregation unified. He has both Russian and Ukrainian natives in his 90-member church. When someone posted a political video on the church chat group, he took it down. 

Emotions are high, even for him. Belets, raised in western Ukraine, fights to remind himself that not everything Russian is about Putin.

The pastor tries to channel church members' anxiety into prayer and acts of charity. Over a few days, the church raised $16,000 and works with its contacts in Ukraine to help refugees. He knows people are grieving, and he urges the congregation to take solace in God.

He refuses to ignore the fact that some Russians stand by Putin.

“I don’t judge Russians who are convinced in propaganda,” Belets said. “But we must challenge denial of the facts.”

'A scared world needs a fearless church'

Regheta stood in front of his congregation last Sundayand repeated the words of American pastor and author A.W. Tozer: “A scared world needs a fearless church.”

This is not the time to be an ostrich, he said in Russian, as a member translated for English speakers wearing an earpiece. Don’t stop coming to church. Don’t stay home because the war has made things awkward or painful. We need each other. We face a test of faith.

“We want to pray for Russia and the Russians, but mostly we want to pray for the Ukrainians because it is so much worse,” he said.

Black is black. White is white.   

Across the rented auditorium – a large, windowless space with gray chairs, gray carpet, a big screen and a stage for musicians – members nodded in agreement.

As Regheta spoke, a man slipped through the entrance carrying several gray plastic bags. He placed them in front of the stage near overstuffed suitcases and boxes filled with donated crayons, markers, coloring books, toys and vitamins for children. All would go to child refugees in Romania.

A few minutes later, a woman quietly walked through the same door, dropped off two Trader Joe’s paper bags of donations on the floor and left.

Since announcing the donation drive for mothers and children days earlier, the River of Life Church had been flooded with offerings not just from members but from strangers in the community. People showed up at Regheta's house with piles of supplies. 

The little church is known for its community outreach. Since the war, its profile has skyrocketed.  

"This," Regheta said, placing his hand on a suitcase of donations. "This is our worship to God."

He is exhausted. He tries to recharge with naps and family time. His great love is gardening and a trip to a nursery to buy plants nourishes his soul for the struggles ahead. He takes joy in seeing his church and Russian-speaking community come together for those in pain.

“I would hate to see this conflict destroy all of that,” he said.

Being the man of faith he is, he rejects his own idea of a lasting division.

Things can change. Lenin statues can fall. 

"Hope," he said, "never dies."