Guest of the episode: Father Andriy Zelinskiy — Chair of the Supervisory Board of the Ukrainian Veterans Fund, co-founder of the Ukrainian Leadership Academy, lecturer at the Ukrainian Catholic University, political scientist, writer, public figure, and chaplain of the Ukrainian Greek-Catholic Church.
Transcript of conversations
Nik Lysytskiy:
Hello, I’m Nik Lysytskiy, and this is Archetype of the Nation — a cultural project that explores the foundations of Ukrainian identity: who we were, who we’ve become, and who we can be.
We search for answers in folklore and through conversations with remarkable people who embody the spirit of our nation.
Today’s guest is Father Andriy Zelinskiy — Chair of the Supervisory Board of the Ukrainian Veterans Fund, co-founder of the Ukrainian Leadership Academy, lecturer at the Ukrainian Catholic University, political scientist, writer, public figure, and chaplain of the Ukrainian Greek-Catholic Church.
Good day, Father Andriy.
Andriy Zelinskiy:
Good day. Peace be with you.
Nik Lysytskiy:
And for those who don’t know, you hold three university degrees — in philosophy, theology, and political science. Is that right?
Andriy Zelinskiy:
That’s right.
Nik Lysytskiy:
Excellent.
Each episode of our project focuses on one of the core values that shape the Ukrainian nation — one element of our national identity.
With you, I’d like to talk about prudence — or, as it’s often called, folk wisdom.
To start, let’s look at how this concept is defined.
According to the explanatory dictionary, prudence is the ability to think, reason, and act correctly and wisely.
The Great Ukrainian Encyclopedia describes it as a practical moral virtue that helps a person choose the right means to reach a goal, make sound decisions, and act according to the idea of goodness.
Wikipedia adds that prudence is a moral quality — one of the four cardinal virtues — that means being able to discern where good lies and where evil begins.
While preparing this episode, we explored how prudence appears in Ukrainian folklore and culture in general — and came to the following conclusion:
Prudence is one of the defining mental and cultural traits of Ukrainians. It shows itself in thoughtful judgment, caution in action, and the ability to think strategically.
The Ukrainian worldview has always leaned toward wise compromise rather than radicalism.
Customary law, the community, and the family — all of these institutions were built on finding reasonable and fair decisions, on the ability not to act rashly but to listen to others.
Father Andriy, how would you personally define prudence?
Andriy Zelinskiy:
Let’s start from the very beginning — with the Greeks.
For them, the term was sōphronēsis, meaning “prudent” or “of sound mind.” It comes from two roots: sōs, meaning “healthy,” and phronēsis, meaning “reason” or “practical wisdom.”
So when we speak of prudence, the classical sources describe it as healthy reason or sound judgment.
It’s about the ability to choose between good and evil — that inner clarity that helps a person tell one from the other.
And over time, this “healthy reason” becomes not just the basis for proper analysis, but also the foundation for right action.
That’s another important dimension of prudence — practical wisdom: the capacity to recognize, to discern, and then to act rightly.
When we talk about prudence, we’re really talking about how a person applies their analytical abilities in real life — not abstractly, but as living wisdom.
It’s not about some distant, universal truth — like the Greek Sophia, the cosmic wisdom that holds the universe together.
No, this is wisdom in action — the kind that allows a person, or an entire people, to survive.
A nation must be wise. It must be prudent — because that’s what ensures survival.
Prudence guarantees the ability to push through challenges of any scale — whether it’s an external threat, internal conflict, or economic hardship — because life must go on.
Prudence always stands on the side of life.
It helps a person orient themselves, mobilize their inner resources, and act in the direction of life itself.
And that’s especially important when we talk about identity in today’s Ukrainian public discourse.
Somehow, we’ve reduced the idea of identity to symbols of identity — colors, flags, anthems. But these are just symbols — they communicate something deeper.
A flag or anthem is not the state itself.
They symbolize it — they express an essence, a way of being.
That’s why it’s so important to go beyond the symbols and rediscover the true meaning of identity.
Symbols help a nation recognize itself — to identify with certain principles and a certain wisdom that allows it to endure.
The word “identity” literally means self-being — the ability to sustain one’s existence and reproduce it from within.
That’s identity.
But to preserve it, we must also communicate it — through language, through culture, and through values.
One of the key social mechanisms that keeps our selfhood alive — what both distinguishes us from others and unites us among ourselves — is our system of values.
Values are the criteria we use to make decisions, individually or collectively.
They lie at the heart of our identity and our resilience — they help us remain ourselves, stay united, and protect against outside influence.
That’s why prudence isn’t just a nice word or a poetic expression of folk wisdom.
It’s a practice — a way of being that ensures the survival of the individual, the community, and the nation.
So I would call prudence one of the Sophian — meaning “wisdom-based” — markers of the Ukrainian people.
We’ve survived and remained ourselves because, among other things, we were prudent.
We’ve known how to distinguish right from wrong, good from evil — through reflection, communication, and dialogue — and we’ve always chosen life, even when the price was high.
Nik Lysytskiy:
How is folk wisdom different from philosophical or academic wisdom?
Andriy Zelinskiy:
Well, first of all, there has to be some connection — because wisdom is about being itself, about existence.
Different philosophical and religious traditions have tried to explain what wisdom means.
Academic wisdom, of course, operates within its own sphere — it’s about method and analysis.
Academic discourse follows a scientific approach, a clear analytical logic.
But folk wisdom — that’s something else entirely.
For me, its defining quality isn’t just about gaining knowledge or deepening understanding.
It’s about the ability to survive.
Folk wisdom, as I mentioned earlier, is part of a people’s identity.
And it doesn’t always appear in the form of a written text.
Sometimes it exists as a lived experience — a practice, an intuition, a sense of how to act — even if it goes against scientific reasoning or everyday logic.
But it allows people to be.
And in the deepest sense, to be doesn’t just mean to exist — it means to preserve the ability to give life, to pass it on.
That kind of maturity — the ability to become yourself, to fully realize your own potential in order to serve others — is something I write about in my book Map.
And that transmission of life through the person — that, to me, is the truest expression of wisdom.
Nik Lysytskiy:
In folklore, reason — the kind you learn at school — is often contrasted with wisdom, which comes through life experience.
In your opinion, how much does formal education actually help form true wisdom and prudence?
Andriy Zelinskiy:
I’m not sure academic education was ever meant to aim that high.
It’s really just one part of a larger process — what I’d call formation.
And today, especially in Ukraine, our education system has largely lost that formative component, which is a real loss.
Formation — shaping a person’s inner world — can’t be reduced to analysis or rational thinking alone.
Let’s start with something deeper: why do we need both reason and wisdom in the first place?
Because both are what allow us to truly connect with reality.
We’re human beings — living, feeling, thinking beings — and we exist within a specific context.
Our survival, our growth, and our ability to leave something behind — to pass on a world, a Ukrainian world — all depend on how well we can stay in touch with that reality.
It’s about preserving our integrity while adapting to the times we live in.
Right now, for instance, we’re facing an existential challenge.
Adapting to it means activating everything we have — our technical, intellectual, and spiritual capacities — to strengthen ourselves.
That includes developing our defense industry, preparing our soldiers, supporting civilians, and, most importantly, shaping our consciousness.
We have to stay fully aware of what’s happening around us and respond wisely.
There are two approaches to this.
The first is academic: it measures needs, analyzes data, and proposes logical steps to meet challenges.
But the other goes much deeper — into the parts of the human heart and mind that can’t be captured in any formula.
Those inner dimensions have taken centuries, even millennia, to evolve — they’re what make humanity possible.
And it’s not just about preserving the human being — it’s about preserving humanness itself.
That’s why our connection with reality has to be whole.
It requires reason and analysis, yes — but also compassion, empathy, and moral strength.
Only then can humanity truly remain on the map of world history.
Nik Lysytskiy:
Let’s touch on a topic everyone thinks they understand — politics.
In the past, when communities chose a hetman or a village elder, the main requirement was that a leader be wise — prudent, experienced, capable of analyzing situations and making balanced decisions.
In Ukrainian folk songs and historical ballads, leaders were praised not only for their bravery but also for their strategic thinking and diplomacy.
As a political scientist, how would you describe today’s politicians?
Do you see wisdom and prudence among them?
Andriy Zelinskiy:
You know, we’re already citizens of the 21st century — and unfortunately, politics today has lost much of its substance.
If we look globally, political figures have become… pale, uninspired.
Even now, when we try to make sense of world events, we still turn to leaders of the past.
We quote Churchill.
We reference Reagan.
We look further back in history for examples.
But we rarely quote today’s politicians as moral authorities.
Perhaps that’s because we’re missing something — genuine wisdom.
Sure, there’s analytical skill, the ability to process information quickly and make fast decisions.
But wisdom is more than intellect; real authority comes from lived experience and moral grounding.
It’s built on values — on something that reaches beyond the immediate moment or personal interest.
As I mentioned earlier, leadership isn’t just about caring for people — it’s about caring for humanness itself.
That’s what distinguished earlier generations of political figures.
In their speeches, you could hear a concern not only for individuals, but for humanity as a whole.
That spirit is rare today.
And I wouldn’t even call what we see now prudence — prudence is revealed through actions.
The same goes for wisdom: it can’t be claimed; it must be demonstrated.
A truly wise person leaves something behind — a legacy.
Something lasting, something that grows into authority because it stems from service to the common good, not personal image.
That’s what we’re missing.
Politics shouldn’t be a career path — it should be a vocation of responsibility.
It’s about serving the common good, about shaping a moral foundation that keeps society humane, guided by values that protect both freedom and dignity at every level.
And that’s why these discussions — even through folklore — matter so much.
Some may see folklore as a relic of the past, but it’s not.
It carries archetypes — enduring models of how we think, act, and understand the world.
We perceive reality through them, form our attitudes through them, and act accordingly.
If we look at leaders in our history and folklore, at least three archetypes clearly emerge.
The first is the master of his own freedom — someone who’s aware of their liberty and acts with responsibility.
The second is the warrior — a figure almost erased by Soviet heritage.
But if you open any Ukrainian history textbook, you’ll see: our ancestors fought in countless wars.
Generations of warriors gave rise to generations of warriors.
That’s part of who we are.
And the third is the guardian — the woman who protects, preserves, and passes things on.
Not just tending the hearth, but actively safeguarding what must endure and ensuring its growth.
I mention these three because when we talk about the common good, we’re talking about something that unites everyone — a shared good that strengthens and protects us.
So maybe our understanding of folk wisdom — including its practical prudence — should draw on these three archetypes:
the master of freedom, the warrior, and the guardian.
They’re the moral foundations that can help modern Ukrainian leaders stay connected to the wisdom and legacy of past generations.
Nik Lysytskiy:
That’s about the archetypes of leaders.
But if we look from the other side — from the people’s perspective — could we say that today Ukrainian civil society acts more wisely and prudently than it did in the past? Or less so?
Andriy Zelinskiy:
There’s an old saying that still stands: “The people are wise.”
Full stop.
But then comes the question — where do we draw the boundaries of “the people”?
That’s always made this statement complicated for me.
If we approach it analytically, we’d want to count everyone, collect opinions, analyze data — and yes, modern methods for studying public sentiment are useful.
But they often overlook something deeper — the cultural and historical environment that shapes those opinions.
It’s like studying fish without paying attention to the water in the aquarium.
The water matters just as much.
There’s always a broader historical current — a background of shared experiences, traditions, and memories — that influences how society responds when certain triggers appear.
So yes, it’s important to look at the data and trends.
But we must also recognize the folk wisdom that has guided Ukrainians through one existential challenge after another.
Because somehow, we’ve always managed to break through — to survive.
And that perseverance is wisdom in action.
I truly believe that prudence — the ability to act thoughtfully, strategically, and ethically — has always been one of the defining features of that wisdom.
It’s what allowed Ukrainians to endure — through social upheavals, economic crises, political oppression, and security threats — even while living on lands that were often ruled by others or absorbed into foreign empires.
We had to survive not just as individuals, but as human beings —
as people fortified by humanity,
carrying within us the shared spiritual and cultural legacy of our nation.
Andriy Zelinskiy:
Yes — prudence has always been one of the defining marks of our collective wisdom.
It’s what has helped Ukrainians endure — socially, economically, politically, and even spiritually.
Time and again, we’ve found ourselves on lands claimed by others, drawn into foreign empires and their geopolitical designs.
Yet we’ve always managed to endure — not merely to survive, but to remain ourselves.
To live not just as individuals, but as human beings —
people rooted in humanity,
carrying within us the shared moral and cultural legacy of our nation.
And that, I believe, is the true essence of what we call folk wisdom.
It isn’t only in clever sayings or old customs.
It’s in the quiet, steady strength that has allowed our people to live, adapt, and move forward — generation after generation — no matter what history has demanded of us.
Although the process of nation-building came later, even amid all the diverse geopolitical projects we took part in, we never lost our national and cultural identity.
We always knew who we were. And one of the most important expressions of this national self-awareness was folklore. Because the one truly shared space where our collective self lives—where our common consciousness exists—is language. It’s how we speak. I’m talking here about speech itself as an element of social engineering.
What we went through, we later sang about, wrote down, and discussed. Some of it turned into proverbs and sayings, some into fables, and some into lines of folk songs—sung and re-sung over generations. In those texts we left the soul of the people. We left what can’t be captured by numbers or metrics—something that reveals itself there and shapes our personal perception.
And in this way, we made development possible.
Remember, I’ve said before that it’s not only about survival but also about growth—about adapting to new challenges. These are the true components of identity. One of the major problems in Ukrainian public discourse is that we often equate identity with the past. That’s simply not true. Identity is about existence—about being. Sometimes despite circumstances, sometimes because of them—but being together, being ourselves, and carrying life forward.
That’s why, when I speak about politics, wisdom, and Ukrainian identity, I often turn to metaphors—metaphors drawn from folklore. As I’ve already mentioned, folklore is a kind of text. And a text is like an operating system that enables the functioning of our individual and collective consciousness.
Within those verbal and visual structures lie the algorithms for action.
Today we reinterpret them in a modern way. We may even translate them into English, believing it to be more effective—but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what we understand and identify with, what sustains our ability to act and create as a nation.
That’s why I speak of three essential things—things we have always done, things that helped us endure, and things that can help us again today. Because what we’re really talking about are archetypes—enduring models of action.
In the language of metaphor, they are: to sow the fields, to build bridges, and to light the stars.
And that, too, is about fighting the darkness.
To sow the fields means cultivating the economy of life—learning how to realize an idea or bring a concept into being. Yet every idea, like every dream and every form of freedom, requires resources. This is crucial. Our history repeatedly deprived Ukrainians of their land—and a Ukrainian without land is a difficult thing to imagine.
By “land,” I don’t mean only agriculture; I mean the material foundation that allows one to realize one’s freedom. Freedom requires resources—and so we sowed the fields. The field (lan) is a metaphor, a materialization of my dream that helps me find the means to make freedom real.
The second is bridges. We were constantly divided by rivers. Our history isn’t divided only by the Dnipro; there was also the Zbruch, the Prut, and countless invisible distances in our culture and our history. That’s why building bridges is so vital.
For us, survival has always meant knowing how to build bridges. Bridges are where people meet, communicate, and reconcile their visions—and that’s where life continues. It’s another essential skill for Ukrainian politics: the ability to create institutions that guarantee unity and consolidation.
And the third is to light the stars—that is, to uphold the dignity of every Ukrainian.
Again, considering all our social contexts, the challenges, and the collective traumas—famine, poverty, repression, and much more—these could not help but shape how Ukrainians feel about themselves in a given historical moment.
The ability to light the stars means restoring a person’s dignity—helping them see and believe that there is humanity within them, that they have the right to exist. This is what I call a culture of dignity.
So, if sowing the fields is about the economy of life, and building bridges is about political consolidation, then lighting the stars is about human dignity. And there is a fourth dimension—an ideological one: the struggle against darkness.
In darkness, you can’t see clearly. Shapes blur; meaning fades. This is crucial to understand. I remember back in 2014 and 2015—since I’ve been at war since 2014—I often said in interviews that I could imagine what a Ukrainian defeat might have looked like back then. It would have been “the Russian world under a Ukrainian flag.”
The “Russian world” is defined by the dominance of the collective over the individual. It’s the idea that the “holy people,” “Holy Rus,” or some abstract notion of national greatness always takes precedence over the human being.
But in that worldview, the person disappears.
Even though Russian culture speaks of “humanity” (chelovechnost), the real individual—with rights, vulnerability, and institutions that protect their personal freedom—does not exist.
And that is darkness: when abstraction prevails, and the individual human life loses its dimension, its value.
So, drawing again on our history and folklore, I see these enduring patterns of action—what we have always done as a people and what can still guide us today. They are the very things modern Ukrainian politicians must remember if they want to serve the common good—because this is where prudence and wisdom meet.
To sow the fields, to light the stars, to build bridges, and to fight the darkness—these are timeless Ukrainian archetypes of survival and renewal.
Nick Lysytskyi: So, can we say that fighting the darkness is the historical mission of the Ukrainian people?
Andrii Zelinskyi: Yes, absolutely—one hundred percent.
But again, for darkness not to turn into some abstract ideology, there must be a person. Only a human being can overcome darkness—any kind of darkness, ideological or otherwise. We’ve already lived through all this before. There must always be the human being.
A human being means concreteness—not abstraction, not speculation. And, by the way, our folklore—since we’re talking about prudence—teaches that prudence is only possible at the level of the individual. The people as a whole can be wise only when each Ukrainian is prudent.
Even collective practices can exist only through individual action. What we need is the person.
And I believe this is part of a meta-history—one attempt to define it. I write about this in my latest book, The Map, where I argue that the meta-history of Ukraine—the text that holds the Ukrainian narrative together, because history is always a text, a story that becomes text—is ultimately centered on the human being.
The Ukrainian person—the master of their own freedom—has always, despite countless political and cultural transformations, managed to orient themselves wisely: to discern where good is and where it isn’t, where life is and where it isn’t, and to live and act accordingly.
Prudence makes possible a genuine connection with reality—and that, in turn, is the foundation of every success, of every victory.
Nick Lysytskyi: Let me remind our viewers that today, in the Archetype of the Nation studio, we’re talking about prudence with Father Andrii Zelinskyi.
Father, you’ve been serving as a military chaplain since 2006—almost twenty years now. Based on your experience, what role does prudence play in war?
Andrii Zelinskyi: If there were no room for prudence in our war—and I’m speaking about the period since 2014—there would be no room for us on the political map of the world.
Prudence is personal wisdom. Very often, our breakthroughs didn’t come from having perfectly crafted strategies, but from having prudent people—those who knew how to act at the right moment. This ability to maintain a clear, grounded connection with reality—that’s what I mean by prudence. It’s what helped us survive, not only in 2014 but through all the years since. We’re now in the eleventh year of this war, and these recent years have been anything but easy. We’ve seen nothing like this in the twentieth century, and it’s hard to imagine anything comparable in the twenty-first.
And yet, we’re still here.
We’re still standing.
We see it constantly—in the news, in interviews with our defenders. They all speak about the same thing: about a kind of mental legacy, something embedded in our institutions that holds us back, that resists transformation. But there are also moments of breakthrough—when individuals act with prudence, when people, as masters of their freedom, demonstrate both liberty and dignity. And they don’t just declare those things—they live them.
Prudence is about action. It’s applied wisdom—wisdom that’s lived out. Lived wisdom generates experience. And it’s vital that we don’t lose that experience. Because that’s a deeper, sophianic dimension—a higher form of wisdom. We must preserve the experience of our prudent people.
That requires good communication. Their stories must be told—in fables, in films, in myths, in songs. It needs to be shared well and become part of our culture—a culture of dignity.
Because that’s what defines us: the ability to recognize ourselves in the stories of free and dignified people. Their voices must be heard. They should sound confident—not as a fleeting burst of pride, “today we’ll boast, tomorrow we’ll forget,” but as something that becomes our operating system—our way of thinking, our worldview, our approach to life, and our motivation for action.
Nick Lysytskyi: So can we say that prudence—learning from and applying our own experience—should be one of the guiding principles for developing the Ukrainian army’s capabilities?
Andrii Zelinskyi: Look, everything that exists, exists as a system—or it doesn’t exist at all. Anything that’s not systemic is doomed to disappear or to become part of a more capable system.
When we talk about social systems, we can roughly distinguish three key components: resource, norm, and idea. Every idea requires resources—and rules for how to use those resources to achieve a goal. That’s why it’s so important to systematize the experience of these prudent individuals I’ve mentioned.
Otherwise, it risks becoming just another part of our folklore. We’ll sing about it again, as we have before. This isn’t our first war. We’ve already had warriors, victories, and defeats. But too often, we’ve left it all on the pages of history books.
Folklore preserves us—it serves as a compass, offering moral direction. And that’s why we didn’t scatter or lose ourselves. It was difficult, but we endured.
And we’re still here.
That’s why it’s so important to give this hard-earned experience a systemic form. Because it’s not enough to sing one day about how great we were between 2014 and 2025. It cost us too much. This experience must become part of our institutional and systemic foundations.
And that’s where we often struggle. Institutions seem to exist separately from consciousness and values. We talk about values, but we still haven’t learned how to fully integrate them into daily life.
So when we talk about prudence—as a value, a virtue, a lived wisdom—it’s essential that our institutions, too, become prudent. That people who aspire to positions of power understand that it’s not just about career growth or ambition—it’s about wisdom.
I often say a person can be defined by a simple formula: experience plus language. Experience is what you live through, and language is how you understand it, express it, and communicate it to others. That’s also how you shape yourself.
But the foundation is experience.
The experience of this war—the prudence shown by countless Ukrainian soldiers on the battlefield and by civilians in the rear who keep the country running, who fight darkness by sustaining life amid destruction—this must take institutional form. It must be articulated as a value and woven into our culture of dignity.
We must speak about it. We must express it.
And I’ll add this: many people worry that focusing on values means returning to the past. But that’s not true. Identity is never about the past. It’s about existence—about how we choose to live. That’s how we define ourselves, and that’s how we want to exist.
The past is gone; it can’t be brought back. But we can learn from it. That, too, is prudence—drawing lessons from the past to ensure the future.
And, by the way, I often say the future doesn’t really exist. There’s only the metaphysical category of eternity—and that’s something else entirely. The future is simply the result of today’s actions, the outcome of how we respond to the challenges of the present.
That’s how we create the future—by what we do today.
And that’s why prudence is such a crucial part of the whole structure—our foundation. It’s a virtue that applies folk wisdom to one’s own place and responsibility. It can become a key element in building a new Ukraine—a country of free and dignified people.
Nick Lysytskyi: Archetype of the Nation is produced with the support of the Ukrainian Cultural Foundation and is available in different formats. So choose what you like best—listen, watch, or read our episodes—and share your thoughts in the comments. Every opinion matters in this project. And of course, subscribe to our channels and pages so you don’t miss anything new. All links are in the description of this episode.
Now, let’s talk about faith—about the question of belief. When we speak about Ukrainian identity, it’s worth noting that a kind of syncretism has developed here—a blending of Christian and pre-Christian traditions—even though Christianity was adopted in the tenth century.
The importance of this ancient layer of belief was beautifully expressed by Ivan Ohienko, the head of the Ukrainian Greek Orthodox Church in Canada. Let me quote him:
“The faith of a people lies at the foundation of its culture. And that culture cannot be fully understood without studying the people’s faith. At the heart of that faith lies its pre-Christian roots.”
Understanding the pre-Christian beliefs of the Ukrainian people is essential, because only through them can we fully grasp the nature of our contemporary spiritual culture.
Do you agree with that statement?
Andrii Zelinskyi: Earlier I mentioned three key ways in which both individuals and societies construct reality. First, we perceive—we experience the world in a certain way. There are always shared human filters that shape how we pay attention to what’s important and set aside what’s not. Then, based on those perceptions, we form attitudes—our ethics and value systems that guide decision-making.
And finally, we act. Our behavior, whether individual or collective, grows out of those perceptions and values.
So when Christianity came to Kyiv, it encountered a pre-existing worldview that already shaped how people saw reality. That worldview didn’t vanish—it became Christianized, but it didn’t disappear.
I call this phenomenon Sophia of Kyiv—Kyivan Wisdom.
And by that, I don’t mean the Cathedral of Holy Wisdom in Kyiv, but a philosophical system—a worldview I refer to as “Sophia, the Wisdom of Kyiv.”
It unites two systems of perception—and, ultimately, two ways of constructing reality. And it manifests not just in theological reflection or abstract thought, but primarily in practice—in how values are lived and used as criteria for both personal and collective decisions.
I even identify certain markers of this Kyivan Wisdom—practices that have taken on distinct verbal form in our cultural tradition.
If you analyze Ukrainian folklore—and I’m sure you have—you’ll find these markers everywhere: in songs, in fables, in classical literature. Words like freedom, love of freedom, justice, and heart constantly appear.
The heart is especially important. Hryhorii Skovoroda and the whole tradition of cordocentrism in Ukrainian philosophy make this clear. The heart—serce—is the moral and spiritual center of life. For me, it represents the Ukrainian understanding of dignity.
In Western Europe, the Latin dignitas—dignity—was directly tied to social rank and land ownership. Not everyone possessed dignitas; it was the privilege of the aristocracy.
In contrast, in the Ukrainian tradition—as Skovoroda articulated so brilliantly—divine wisdom, Sophia, lives within the human heart. Therefore, every heart is a place where divine wisdom can dwell.
And that, I believe, is the essence of the Ukrainian spiritual worldview—an inheritance of both our Christian and pre-Christian traditions: the belief that dignity and wisdom are not privileges of the few, but gifts available to everyone.
The word heart appears 1,146 times in the works of Hryhorii Skovoroda. For him, the heart contained an entire universe—a wellspring of wisdom. And since everyone has a heart, everyone carries that universe within.
What does that mean? It means that every person possesses dignity, because the heart is the place where the divine meets the human.
From this comes another fundamental idea—sobornist, or conciliar unity. Sobornist is not just a word. Each of these concepts—freedom, love of freedom, justice, heartfelt sincerity, and sobornist—represents a living practice.
We sing and write about freedom constantly. It always seems just out of reach, like Skovoroda’s elusive bird that you can never quite catch—but the very act of chasing it brings joy to the heart. For Skovoroda, that bird symbolized truth. And freedom, in its essence, is always the truth about human existence—about being.
So: love of freedom, justice, sincerity, sobornist.
Sobornist, again, is an expression of the people’s collective wisdom—it’s the veche of old, the Cossack councils, the maidans. These are moments when the people themselves speak with the voice of wisdom. Sobornist is, in essence, a practice—an embodied form of worldview.
And notice—it still exists today. It’s not some relic of the past. It’s not an institutional mechanism—something formally codified or bureaucratically designed—but a living manifestation of popular wisdom.
When people gather, when they speak collectively, that act itself carries deep meaning. It’s something institutions of power must pay attention to, because it reflects the people’s attitude—and, in doing so, legitimizes political decisions. These two dimensions—the will of the people and the mechanisms of governance—must always remain in dialogue.
Andrii Zelenskyi: Beyond these values, we should also talk about how Ukrainians understand time. This understanding comes from our pre-Christian worldview, later infused with Christianity, and it shapes our entire perception of reality.
Whether a person is religious or not, they are still formed by this culture—by its unique “operating system.”
Time and space—these are key categories.
In Ukrainian folklore, there is something remarkable: we don’t have a rigid division between past and future. Instead, we live through memory and hope.
We always remember what came before—those we’ve lost, what we’ve endured.
Our sense of the past is memory.
Our sense of the future is hope.
On one hand, this is beautiful—it means we never stop moving forward. On the other hand, it reflects our history: we’ve rarely felt that our journey was complete, that we had finally arrived in the land of free and dignified people. And so, we keep hoping.
Here it is: our past and future—memory and hope.
As for space, it too has its own dimensions in Ukrainian thought. It is the space of the sacred—where everything is holy. This is an ancient pre-Christian idea: the sacred is in everything—the willow, the water, the sun, the sky. The ability to perceive transcendence—the divine—within the visible, natural world is what I call Sophian wisdom: the art of reading wisdom from being itself.
This, I believe, is one of the foundations of Ukrainian philosophy—not academic or institutional, but lived. Hryhorii Skovoroda was never an academic philosopher; he was a philosopher of life, of movement, of lived wisdom. He embodied Sophian wisdom in action—prudence as a way of manifesting divine wisdom in human experience.
This Sophian phenomenon operates on both personal and collective levels. It shapes individuals, relationships, and even society as a whole—all grounded in those same values: memory and hope.
Here it’s worth recalling Serhii Krymskyi, who described the archetypal spaces of Ukrainian existence—the house and the temple. The house, in his understanding, reflects the sacred order of the world. The home embodies the Sophian harmony of being.
In folklore, the house—khata—is a sacred space. There’s a place for icons, a place to rest, a place for animals, a place to build. Every corner carries meaning. Even Ivan Nechui-Levytskyi wrote about this in classical literature.
So: love of freedom, justice, sobornist, sincerity, memory, hope, holiness, and home—all form a single Sophian order of life.
And there is one more essential idea that unites both the pre-Christian and Christian traditions—the idea of wonder.
The ability to marvel, to be astonished, gives birth to awe. For me, this is one of the defining qualities of our culture—an aesthetic principle at the heart of our worldview.
Ukrainian, or Kyivan, aesthetics is an aesthetics of wonder.
We could quote many—Lina Kostenko, Taras Shevchenko, Pavlo Zahrebelnyi—and even earlier, Metropolitan Ilarion of Kyiv, one of the first to describe Saint Sophia of Kyiv as “a wonder to all surrounding nations.”
This sense of miracle—beauty that startles, that lifts us out of the ordinary—is central.
All these elements—the markers of Sophian wisdom—remain alive in our culture today. We use these words and ideas almost instinctively, often without realizing their origins, but they all come from the same source: Sophia of Kyiv, the wisdom born from the meeting of two great traditions, two worldviews, two philosophies—even two faiths—into what we may call Kyivan Wisdom, or simply, Sophia of Kyiv.
Nik Lysytskiy: I’m holding a remarkable book in my hands. For those listening rather than watching, it’s titled Semen’s Stars — an allegorical fairy tale published in 2023, written by Father Andrii. I want to ask about the main character: a boy named Semen who dreams of learning how to light stars.
Did you ever dream of lighting stars when you were a child?
Andrii Zelenskyi: Actually, Semen has two dreams.
First, he wants to see his village from a different perspective.
And second, he wants to learn how to light stars.
That’s very important — the ability to step beyond the limits of the reality you know. I think I’ve always wanted that, and I’ve always tried. Because reality, as we perceive it, is built by our own consciousness — by the walls we construct around ourselves.
Think of Taras Shevchenko at the age of seven: one well-known story tells how he ran off to look for the pillars that hold up the sky, until some wagoners from a neighboring village found him and brought him home.
Running to find the pillars that hold up the sky — that’s what it means to look at your world from another side. To realize that there are alternative ways of seeing yourself and your story. That there are other possibilities — ones that don’t extinguish people, but ignite stars in their eyes.
And if history has often tried to put out those stars, then we should seek out the people who rekindled them — who lit up the eyes of others with their love of freedom and devotion to human dignity.
Because these are the people who hold up the Ukrainian sky. They are the pillars that sustain it — Ukrainians who remained masters of their own freedom, free and dignified human beings.
In the story, there are echoes of real figures from our history. I often mention Maria Prymachenko — she stayed true to her ideal of beauty, even when others didn’t understand it. To do that, you have to look at your world from another angle, to clear away the debris and see differently. That’s how you light countless stars — through your ability to wonder, and to awaken wonder in others.
And, of course, Hryhorii Skovoroda — how could we not mention him? “The world tried to catch me, but did not.” His heart was greater than the world and beyond any of its offers. That too is wisdom — that is Sophia.
And Vasyl Stus — he is the symbol of refusing to accept injustice, even when everyone around you has adapted to it, when it’s easier to stay silent. He chose not to compromise with untruth.
This also shows how little we truly know. Our schoolbooks polish historical figures smooth, but we forget the living people behind them. And that’s what Semen’s Stars is about — that same boy, that same Ukrainian who knows how to light stars.
Take Hryts Pipskyi, for example. When I speak to large audiences across Ukraine, I often ask: “Do you know who Hryts Pipskyi was?” Usually, only a few hands go up.
He was the twenty-year-old young man at the Battle of Kruty who, staring down the barrel of a gun, sang Shche ne vmerla Ukraina (“Ukraine Has Not Yet Perished”).
And today, we see that same spirit again.
For me, this is what freedom truly means — the radical, unwavering freedom of a Ukrainian who can look into the face of death and still sing, “Ukraine has not yet perished.”
That is the freedom that conquers fear — the freedom to live in defiance of every possible challenge.
But do we remember Hryts Pipskyi? Sadly, not really. And he wasn’t alone — there were many like him.
Semen, then, is a collective image of that Ukrainian who leads us out of the ruins left by history — to remind us that the pillars holding up our sky are not ideologies or institutions, but free and dignified human beings.
It’s not about ideology, or even abstract ideals like humanity or statehood. Those come later. The true foundation of Ukraine — of our nation — is the existence of free and dignified people.
And ultimately, that is the only reason the Ukrainian state and nation must exist: to ensure that Ukrainians remain free and dignified.
Nik Lysytskiy: Another symbolic figure in your book is the Wise Elder — a classic archetype in Ukrainian folklore. Traditionally, in our culture and in everyday life, elders — grandfathers and grandmothers — were seen as bearers of wisdom. People came to them for advice, to learn prudence and life experience.
Today, with all our technology — Google, Wikipedia, and so on — things seem different. Young people rarely turn to the older generation anymore; they often believe they already possess enough wisdom, even at a young age.
Do you think we’ve lost the tradition of seeking guidance from our elders?
Andrii Zelenskyi: I wouldn’t say that every older person today can keep up with the tools and technologies young people use, but it’s crucial for the younger generation to understand the difference between information and experience.
Information is easy to find — on Google, Wikipedia, anywhere. But no encyclopedia will ever give you experience.
Older people are living witnesses of experience, and that’s something we must remember.
As I’ve said before, a person is made up of personal experience plus language — the way we understand it, express it, and communicate it to others. That’s why it’s worth listening. It’s worth hearing.
In the end, you make your own decisions — using the opportunities and skills available to you — but you must care not only about the person within you, but also about the humanity within your person.
Those are not the same thing. And it’s especially important today, in an age of global digital influence. I often say — we’ve all been hacked. (holds up his phone) This thing here proves it. You can tell yourself you’re free because you get to choose between three pairs of sneakers Instagram shows you as you pass a store — but that’s not freedom, that’s the illusion of choice.
True freedom is realizing that your consciousness is being programmed — that information is being poured into the walls of your mind.
So how do we break through that?
For me, there’s only one way — through wonder.
That’s what Semen’s Stars is about as well — the power of wonder, the capacity for awe. It’s the only force that can break through the system to save individuality.
Wonder cannot be programmed — because if it were, it would no longer be wonder. It’s a spontaneous response of the soul to the world — the ability to notice a small detail, a fleeting moment that can become a source of meaning and strength. That is wisdom. That is experience. And you won’t find that on Wikipedia.
It requires more than knowledge — it requires presence.
Learning to be present in your own life.
Yes, education matters — it gives you the skills to reach your goals. But I know for certain that even on the highest mountain peaks, it can be lonely. Achieving a dream career doesn’t guarantee happiness, maturity, or meaning. Those are the things you can’t afford to lose along the way.
And one of the most reliable sources for them is experience — especially the experience of wise and prudent people.
Nik Lysytskiy: And now it’s time for our traditional segment — a little game we call The Folklore Chest.
Inside are proverbs and sayings about prudence and wisdom. Here’s how it works: I’ll start a proverb, and you, Father Andrii, will finish it. If you don’t remember the traditional ending, feel free to come up with your own. Ready?
Andrii Zelenskyi: Let’s try.
Nik Lysytskiy: All right, here we go. “Measure seven times…”
Andrii Zelenskyi: That’s a tricky one. What comes next? I’d probably finish it like this: “Measure seven times — and then rely on your experience.”
Nik Lysytskiy: “A wise person doesn’t say everything they know, and a fool…”
Andrii Zelenskyi: I don’t believe in fools.
I believe in the unwise. Let’s drop the word “fool” entirely — we don’t need it. Notice that in Ukrainian folklore, there’s no such character as “Ivan the Fool.” You can’t even translate that naturally. They have it in Russian folklore — we don’t. So let’s skip that one.
Nik Lysytskiy: Fair enough. A wise person — a master of their own freedom. Then: “Better to lose with the wise than to find with a fool who doesn’t exist…”
Andrii Zelenskyi: Exactly. And since he doesn’t exist, you won’t find anything with him anyway. So it’s better not to lose at all, but to keep searching.
Nik Lysytskiy: “First, you must reason…”
Andrii Zelenskyi: Always. You must always think before you act, because every action begins with reflection and intention.
Nik Lysytskiy: And now, our traditional lightning round. Seven short — or maybe not so short — questions.
What quality do you value most in people?
Andrii Zelenskyi: Honesty.
Nik Lysytskiy: And which do you consider the worst?
Andrii Zelenskyi: Dishonesty.
Nik Lysytskiy: What inspires you?
Andrii Zelenskyi: People.
Nik Lysytskiy: What frightens you?
Andrii Zelenskyi: Arrogance, superficiality, and awards.
Nik Lysytskiy: What has helped you stay strong through difficult times in your life?
Andrii Zelenskyi: Faith.
Nik Lysytskiy: What is the main goal or mission of your life?
Andrii Zelenskyi: To wake up — and help others wake up.
Nik Lysytskiy: And if you had to choose three words to describe Ukrainians, what would they be?
Andrii Zelenskyi: Masters of their own freedom.
Nik Lysytskiy: Thank you.
Andrii Zelenskyi: Thank you.
Nik Lysytskiy: Friends, today in our studio we had Father Andrii Zelenskyi — head of the Supervisory Board of the Ukrainian Veterans Foundation, co-founder of the Ukrainian Leadership Academy, lecturer at the Ukrainian Catholic University, political scientist, writer, public figure, and chaplain of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church.
Share in the comments what resonated with you most from this conversation.
Do you believe prudence is one of the defining values of the Ukrainian people?
Remember, you can watch Archetype of the Nation on YouTube, listen on your favorite podcast platforms, and read more on our website, magicworld.com.ua. There you’ll also find popular-science essays by folklorist Maryna Demediuk, and recordings of folk songs performed by well-known actors.
Thank you for watching — and until next time.
