April 1–2, 2026. Passover, or Pesach, in Davao — when you aren’t Jewish, it sounds unusual at first. No, I am not Jewish, though I’ve been told that somewhere in our family line, Jewish ancestors found their way to Mindanao long before World War II. Still, this wasn’t about heritage. It was about a quiet longing to understand.
A couple of years ago, I made a simple decision: go straight to the source — the Bible.
In that journey, I encountered a perspective that shifted things for me. Jesus — Yeshua — was not “Christian” in the way we define it today. He was Jewish, a Yahudaeem, raised in traditions, laws, and rhythms that shaped how He lived and taught. It made me wonder: why do we sometimes set aside the very practices that formed Him?
I don’t consider myself religious in the traditional sense. But I do believe in a higher power, in the Trinity, and in seeking truth even when it’s uncomfortable. When human interpretations become confusing or even disappointing, where do you turn? For me, I returned to Scripture. Reading, questioning, comparing translations, and even attempting to learn a bit of Hebrew along the way. My evenings became filled with podcasts and quiet study, like piecing together a story I thought I already knew.
And somewhere in that process, I realized faith is not just something we read. It is something we try to live.
Of course, context matters. Not everything in ancient instructions can be applied directly to modern life. Many of the commandments given to Moses were meant to set the Israelites apart in a specific time and place. But still, I asked myself—what about us?
For me, it came down to remembering the essentials. Keep the 10 Commandments. Yes, all ten. Even the one we often overlook: keeping the Sabbath holy. Not perfectly. I don’t think any of us can claim that but intentionally.
Which brings me back to Passover.
Did you know that the crucifixion of Jesus is closely tied to Passover? That particular year, Passover fell in a way that overlapped with what is called a High Sabbath. He was crucified and died on Thursday, giving Him exact three days. It made me pause and rethink traditions I had grown up with, things like Easter bunnies and eggs. They seem harmless, even joyful. And maybe they are.
But I found myself asking deeper questions about meaning and focus. In a country as beautifully devout as ours, sometimes we risk losing sight of Christ in Christianity. Not out of neglect, but perhaps out of habit.
So, this year, I tried something different.
I spent Passover in prayer. Not elaborate, not complicated — just intentional. I shared meals with my mother, simple but abundant. At the farm, I opened the gates and invited anyone who wished to come. We cooked and served organic food grown from the land itself. For those who couldn’t make it — work, distance, life — I sent food to them. To me, it felt like extending the table beyond physical boundaries.
I also tried observing small practices: offering my “first fruits,” giving thanks for what has been provided, and refraining from leavened food for a week. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about awareness.
There are many aspects of Shabbat and Passover I cannot fully practice, like the 39 prohibitions. These ancient customs shaped by a different time. But I try, in my own way, to honor the heart behind them.
Because at the center of it all is a story we already know, yet are always rediscovering: a story of sacrifice, of deliverance, of grace. The ultimate First Fruit offering has already been given.
And perhaps that’s what this Passover in Davao reminded me of. That faith doesn’t always require grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s found in returning to the source, asking honest questions, sharing what you have, and making space at your table.
Even here. Even now.