Why do Kyiv’s churches still hold such power in the midst of war? How does the city’s spiritual heritage help its people through their darkest hours? And what can these silent witnesses—standing through centuries of upheaval—still teach us? In Kyiv, churches are more than historic landmarks; they are places of refuge and resilience, shaped by all who enter. Amid the city’s relentless pace, they remain peaceful havens and lasting reminders of a turbulent past. The Ukrainian Week set out to explore how Kyivans experience these sacred spaces today, as spiritual support becomes more essential than ever.
“The church is the only place where I don’t feel anxious,” says Hanna, a 49-year-old teacher we met near St Michael’s Monastery. Her words reflect what many are feeling now: that churches offer not just spiritual refuge, but simple, human shelter. People come not always to pray, but to sit with the silence. With the light. With themselves.
“I believe a lot of people find peace of mind and rest in church. I’m one of them,” says 19-year-old student Oleksandra. “I’m soothed by the silence inside, the absolute faith of the people who come to pray, and the beauty. In a way, it feels meditative.”
So we set off on a journey through Kyiv’s sacred sites, to listen to these silent witnesses of history—and to hear what they’re telling us now, in the hush that follows anxiety. While the city still sleeps, and the morning sun glides across the golden domes, we’re already walking through St Sophia Square.
Photo: Sofiya Yarova
Wisdom through ages
The journey through the capital’s sacred spaces begins with St Sophia’s Cathedral, one of the most significant religious landmarks in Eastern Europe. Commissioned by Prince Volodymyr the Great in the 11th century, it stands at the heart of the square, a quiet witness to Kyiv’s long and storied past.
Today, on the eve of Kyiv Day, the atmosphere around St Sophia’s feels especially charged. Painters sit on the immaculately trimmed grass in front of the cathedral, capturing the golden domes of the bell tower on canvas. A small group of tourists huddle nearby, whispering excitedly as they take in the history. And surrounding it all are chestnut trees—the city’s most beloved symbol—stretching their white blossom-laden branches toward the sun.
Photo: The Ukrainian Week
Inside, the cathedral is dimly lit, the gloom broken by shafts of sunlight pouring through narrow windows. A deep calm settles over you the moment you step in, as though the building itself breathes out peace. The faint scent of incense hangs in the air, like the echo of an unspoken prayer.
Above the royal doors, the six-metre mosaic of the Virgin Oranta—the Mother of God with arms raised in intercession—has gazed out since the time of Yaroslav the Wise. Her eyes seem to meet not just your gaze, but something deeper, reaching quietly into your soul.
As Nelia Kukovalska, Director General of the National Conservation Area “St Sophia of Kyiv,” explains: “Oranta means ‘the one who prays’ in Latin. The Mother of God in St Sophia has stood with her hands raised to the Lord for nearly a thousand years, blessing our Ukraine with peace. Her image has never been damaged or destroyed. There have been wars, turmoil, upheavals—but Oranta’s hands have never fallen.
What’s remarkable is that Byzantine craftsmen designed the cathedral so that at sunrise, light would pass through the windows, bounce off a special stone, and illuminate Oranta’s image. The stone itself is gone, but the slab where it once lay is still there.” Here, in the quiet hush of the cathedral, you feel part of a vast, living history—one that breathes through every mosaic, every shadowed corner, every shaft of light.
Photo: Sofiya Yarova
St Michael’s Cathedral: a symbol of the unconquered
Just across from St Sophia’s, St Michael’s Golden-Domed Monastery rises in a striking shade of sky blue, its gilded domes shimmering as if suspended in the clouds.
For many, it’s more than a landmark—it’s a symbol of resurrection and resilience. First built in the 11th century, the monastery stood for centuries through war and upheaval, only to be demolished in the 1930s by Soviet authorities intent on clearing space for a grand administrative complex. Despite desperate efforts by art historians like Mykola Makarenko to save the site, most of the cathedral and its bell tower were torn down. A handful of its priceless mosaics and frescoes were salvaged and shipped to museums in Moscow and Leningrad, with a few preserved in St Sophia’s.
After independence, Ukraine set about rebuilding St Michael’s, restoring it stone by stone according to its original design. But it was during the Maidan protests of 2013–14 that the monastery took on a renewed and urgent purpose. On the night of 1 December, as riot police descended on demonstrators, students fleeing the crackdown found sanctuary behind its doors. In February, it became a makeshift field hospital, where the wounded and dying were brought after being shot in the square. From a symbol of rebirth, it had become a shelter in the storm.
Photo: The Ukrainian Week
Today, the monastery is more than a spiritual sanctuary—it’s a place of refuge, support and quiet service. Despite the lack of natural light, the atmosphere is unexpectedly warm. Dozens of small candles flicker in the corners, their glow softening the darkness and lending the space a hushed intimacy. The cool air rising from the painted walls brushes gently against the skin—a welcome contrast in this time of year’s rising heat.
“Since the Revolution of Dignity, our motto has been: ‘The Church is always with the people.’ So we try to meet their needs as best we can,” Archbishop Afanasy of Odesa and Balta told The Ukrainian Week. “When it became clear the students needed protection, St Michael’s Monastery opened its doors to anyone seeking shelter. We shut the gates to the Berkut and, in doing so, saved lives. Human life is the most precious gift God has given us—it must be protected.”
The Church, he said, is also active in social work. “Here on the monastery grounds, there’s an organisation called Eleos-Ukraine. It receives various grants and helps those in need—internally displaced people, among others. These days, it’s the Church that goes to the people, not the people who come to the Church.”
Parish of St Alexander: a Catholic sanctuary
Tucked away not far from Khreshchatyk, Kyiv’s main street, amid the city’s hum and bustle, stands the Parish of St Alexander. This Roman Catholic church, built in a restrained neoclassical style, catches the eye with its quiet elegance. Funded by the Polish nobility and consecrated in 1842, it remained the capital’s only major Catholic sanctuary for many years.
Inside, a calm, almost meditative atmosphere prevails. Sunlight filters through stained-glass windows, scattering patches of colour across the walls in a whimsical play of light and shadow. It’s a rare place of stillness in the midst of the city’s bustle—somewhere to pause and gather your thoughts.
Like many sacred landmarks, St Alexander’s has endured its share of hardship. Closed in the 1930s, its rector was executed and the building was repurposed—first as a dormitory, then a planetarium, and eventually a Museum of Atheism. But Kyiv’s Catholic community didn’t give up. For years, they held Sunday mass on the church steps, and in 1991, the building was finally returned to the faithful. Today, it stands as a powerful symbol of perseverance and belief—reborn after decades of silence. In 2001, it even welcomed Pope John Paul II. A poignant reminder, not only for believers but for every Ukrainian, that light returns even after the darkest chapters.
Photo: Sofiya Yarova
Saint Andrew’s Church: a baroque gem of Podil
After visiting the Roman Catholic shrine, it’s time for a stroll through Volodymyrskyi Park, where the scent of blooming acacias mingles with the soft shade of chestnut trees. The winding paths, flanked by thick canopies that offer a welcome reprieve from the sweltering May sun, lead gently down to St Andrew’s Descent. And there it is—the majestic Baroque jewel of Kyiv—St Andrew’s Church, rising above Podil.
The church honours Saint Andrew the Apostle, one of Jesus’s earliest disciples and the first to bring Christianity to Ukraine. Designed by the celebrated architect Bartolomeo Rastrelli, it stands as a stunning example of Baroque architecture. Its elegant curves and golden-blue domes blend effortlessly into the skyline, subtly reflecting Ukraine’s national colours.
Notably, the church has no bell tower. Rastrelli’s original design omitted it to protect the building’s stability on its sloping site—a decision that only adds to the church’s sense of lightness and grace. A staircase, added in 2019, links Artists’ Alley, Volodymyr Hill and St Andrew’s Church, appearing to climb directly into the sky and inviting visitors to enjoy sweeping views of Kyiv from above.
Architectural experts believe St Andrew’s is home to the world’s only Baroque iconostasis crafted by Rastrelli himself. Inside, 69 icons from the 18th century adorn the walls. During a recent restoration of the church’s main icon, art historians spotted a mysterious horseman who bears a striking resemblance to Taras Shevchenko, Ukraine’s revered national poet.
“At the time the painting was made, Shevchenko had been arrested. In a show of solidarity, a friend depicted him as the horseman. The artwork was created in Paris while the artist was studying at the Academy of Fine Arts,” explains Nelia Kukovalska, director of the Saint Sophia of Kyiv National Reserve.
Photo: The Ukrainian Week
A young witness to Podil’s history
We end our spiritual journey in Podil, at the Church of the Nativity of Christ—an Orthodox church under the Orthodox Church of Ukraine. This small but significant place holds a special meaning for many Ukrainians. In May 1861, the coffin of national icon Taras Shevchenko rested here on its way to Kaniv, and ever since, locals have called it the “Shevchenko Church.”
In 1936, the church was demolished by order of the Soviet authorities. Its structure was dismantled, and its treasures seized. But the story didn’t end there. Thanks to the dedication of the local community, the Church of the Nativity was rebuilt between 2002 and 2005, restoring its former dignity. Today, it hosts regular services as well as memorials to Shevchenko on days commemorating the national poet.
Though modest in size, the church’s intimate space exudes a quiet warmth. The interior stuns with its ornate beauty, particularly the gilded iconostasis—carved from wood and gleaming under the light. At the heart of the space hangs a grand, multi-tiered chandelier, casting a soft glow across the room. The overall effect is one of grandeur and serenity—an atmosphere steeped in reverence and calm.
Photo: Sofiya Yarova
Saint Sophia, Saint Michael, Saint Andrew, Saint Alexander, the Church of the Nativity of Christ — each holds a fragment of Kyiv’s soul. These churches stand as quiet witnesses to the city’s turbulent past: war and rebirth, destruction and salvation, indifference and faith. Through them, Kyiv speaks to those who pause and listen. And as long as they endure, so does the city itself. Spirituality here is more than belief; it is the very foundation on which everything else rests. The city’s history unfolds in the faded frescoes and mosaics, in the lingering scent of incense, and in the silent prayers that have echoed through the centuries. But most of all, Kyiv’s story lives on in the memories of its people — those who refuse to let their culture or identity be erased.
