My youth was spent running down the long straight roads of the Oregon plains. One mile straight; turn right; one mile and a half straight, turn right; two miles with a few lazy turns, turn right; one mile straight home. Checkerboard theme, with variations.

I ran to the beat of my heart, looking for the convergence point of stride length, heartbeat, and breathing. Two steps breathe in, two steps breathe out. In-two, out-two. At my most natural speed, the miles evaporated in predictable eight-minute blocks. Eight minutes straight, turn right; twelve minutes straight, turn right… No hills to change my stride, the sweat running in measured rivulets, my knees absorbing the shock of a few thousand asphalt strikes, and aching slightly toward the end.

During those years, I read The Way of a Pilgrim for some reason. Perhaps it was a Christmas present given by some well-meaning religious person. Or maybe I had heard of it while reading the Brothers Karamazov, perhaps somewhere in Zosima’s speeches, which burned through my teenage soul like few other texts ever have. “We are each guilty of the sins of the whole world”, said the saintly monk to Alyosha.

In the Russian Pilgrim, I encountered a prayer that transfixed my attention with the mystical afflatus that only a fifteen-year-old can have. Known as the “Jesus prayer”, it is one of the oldest and most beloved prayers in the Christian world, usually translated in English as “Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.”

For a few months, I ran every day saying those syllables in time with my footsteps. I found a syllable rhythm that harmonized with my steps, heartbeat, and breathing. It was in 4/4 time, with a rest on the last beat: “Lord — Jesus — Christ — have — mercy on — me a — sinner — (pause); Lord…” Left, right, left, right… How many miles did I run with those words on my lips?

Thirty years on, I spend my Sunday mornings with Ukrainians. We sing together, we light candles and bow for the blessing of water, we line up to receive the holy oil on our foreheads. We listen to the long homilies in Ukrainian. The older people understand; the children (and the Americans, such as me) do not. But it is not very important. The important thing is to be there, to be together, to cross ourselves and sing Gospodi pomilui, Lord have mercy, and to receive the droplets of blessed water that fly from the priest’s hands. Droplets that cool and invigorate, and give unexpected joy.

Thirty years on, a war began between Ukraine and Russia. It was the fault of the former, it was the fault of the latter. It was Cain’s fault. And Adam’s, and Eve’s. Where is the start of the chain that pulls brother into battle against brother? Who forged those links?

The war began, and the priest invited us to come pray in the evening. He intoned the old song: Oh Gospodi Isusa Christa, sinu bozhi, pomilui nas grishni. At first, the melody had some rust on it. It was a little shaky. The congregation came in, bit by bit, and the melody grew stronger and more stable. A harmonizing voice entered; faltered, then grew stronger. The choir director moved close to me and sang the bass part in my ear, so I could learn it. I did not have the words, and could only make out about half of the text of the short prayer. But I quickly learned the bass part: it was just two notes.

As I sang, my voice gained strength. I grew more confident, and could start to understand a few of the words. Isusa Christa, that’s easy: Jesus Christ. “Oh” at the beginning, rising and falling in a simple four-note minor scale starting on the tonic: that’s easy, just a round sound reaching out, preparing for the second word, Gospodi, “Lord”. I knew that much from singing “Lord have mercy” all the time in church. “Oh Lord Jesus Christ”. That was the first part.

The simple melody repeated on the second phrase: sinu bozhi, pomilui nas grishni. At first I made approximate sounds that approached — but did not quite reach — the exact Ukrainian words. Then all of a sudden I realized what we were singing. It was the Jesus prayer, the prayer of my youth! Bozhi, that must mean “God”, so sinu is “son”: son of God. Then the rest was easy: “have mercy on us sinners”!

We were kneeling in the darkened church. The priest knelt in the center, in front of a cross lit by a few candles. Around the edges of the darkness, the rest of us were singing in this insistent fashion, phrase after phrase, rising and falling up and down the minor scale. Each verse was slow, measured. We took our time. One of the women counted the repetitions on beads. We never stopped, never halted, never changed melody, until we had sung one hundred times through. It took about an hour.

Our voices filled the little church. Some of us began to cry now and then. We were thinking of our friends and families, dying in combat, and for our great countries and cultures, darkened by anger, fear, and hatred. Our tears were tributaries of the great river of tears, the flood of sorrow that starts beyond history with Cain, Eve, and Adam, and reaches all the way to our time. Brothers killing brothers.

With the river of tears, a river of song flowed too from the past into the future, illuminating the present. Our voices, the fragile instrument with which the cry for mercy lives anew. Pomilui nas, have mercy on us.

Tonight, Christians all over the world celebrate the Easter vigil. This night of nights, this night when the light comes forth from the tomb, the night where utter defeat is changed into glorious victory, when failures and hatred, betrayal and cowardice, are overcome with the Love that moves the sun and the other stars. The dross burnt away, the gold remains.

On this night of all nights, our hearts ask for mercy. We weep together, mourning the loss of our friends and our children, the loss of our land, the loss of our honor. And we sing: for peace and for new life.