Reflection:Easter, Passover, and the Paradox of Time: A Journey of Faith and Freedom

When Time Is Not Linear: Pascha, Passover, and Why the Date Still Matters

Every year around Easter, I find myself reflecting on time — not just dates on a calendar, but how faith understands time itself.

Christians do not all celebrate the Resurrection on the same day. The Western Church follows the Gregorian calendar, while the Eastern Orthodox Church calculates Pascha using the Julian calendar. As a result, Easter and Pascha often fall on different dates, even though we are celebrating the same event. Within each tradition, there is agreement. Between traditions, there is difference.

At first glance, this may seem like a technical or historical curiosity. For me, it is something much deeper.

Why Pascha Matters to Me

What feels most meaningful to me in the Orthodox Church is that the calculation of Pascha remains closely connected to the Jewish Passover — not only in dates, but in meaning.

The word Pascha comes directly from the Hebrew Pesach, the name Jews use for Passover. This is not incidental. It reminds me that Christ’s Resurrection is not detached from history but rooted within it. Christianity does not appear suddenly, fully formed; it grows directly out of Judaism. Christ is the fulfillment of an ancient promise, not a replacement for it.

Because of this, Orthodox Pascha often falls in the same season as the Jewish Passover. That closeness has always felt important to me. To me it is mystical.

A Moment That Made It Real

I remember visiting my cousins in Melbourne, in a predominantly Jewish neighbourhood. As our church was observing Palm Sunday, families around us were preparing for Passover. Seeing these celebrations unfold side by side made something click for me.

Jesus did not live outside Jewish life. He lived fully within it — within its festivals, its rhythms, its history. His earthly family, His teaching, and His final Passover meal were all deeply Jewish realities. This is something Christians can easily forget.

That moment reminded me that faith is not abstract. It is lived, inherited, remembered, and practiced across generations and communities. I also saw the connection of Judaism with  Christianity. What Jesus taught came from Judaism. Sometimes Christians forget.

Time From an Orthodox Prospective.

For me, the Orthodox understanding of time goes even deeper. I recently discovered.

In Orthodox worship, the past is not merely remembered — it is made present.

What happened in Christ’s life is not just something we remember from long ago. In the Church, we experience it again in the present. When we celebrate Palm Sunday or Pascha, we are not acting out history or marking a date on the calendar. We are stepping into the story ourselves.

By keeping the older Julian calendar for Pascha (Easter), I feel the Church is holding on to more than a date. It keeps the deeper meaning behind the way the Easter story fits together — Christ coming after and fulfilling Passover. That sequence matters to me, even if it is less “accurate” by modern astronomical standards.

While Western churches calculate Easter with greater precision, preserving this historical and theological relationship feels essential. Changing the calculation to align fully with the Western calendar would risk losing something intangible but profound — a mystical awareness that binds history, worship, and meaning together.

Freedom, Responsibility, and Love

This closeness between Pascha and Passover feels especially beautiful because both traditions teach that freedom is sacred.

Passover proclaims liberation as a divine gift and a responsibility. Easter continues that story through Christ, revealing that we are saved by Him and freed not for self‑interest, but for love. His life and sacrifice show that forgiveness and mercy are the true guides of freedom.

We are not left to struggle alone in trying to be good. Easter proclaims that we are freed by Christ, called to live responsibly, and invited to reflect His love in the world.

Across both traditions, the moral vision aligns: our actions matter, freedom carries responsibility, and love stands at the centre.

What “Christ Is Risen” Means

In the Orthodox Church, saying “Christ is Risen” is not just remembering a moment in history. It is a declaration that life has overcome death. When I say it at Easter, my heart reacts, it feels joy.

Christ’s Resurrection proclaims that death does not have the final word. Fear, suffering, and loss are real, but they are not ultimate. Life, love, and hope are stronger.

This is why Pascha is not quiet or restrained. It is joyful, loud, and full of light. The Resurrection is not treated as an idea or a metaphor, but as a victory that continues to shape the present. Christ conquers death.

When Orthodox Christians proclaim, “Christ is Risen,” they are saying that even in a broken world, life wins — and that truth changes how we live. It gives us hope in this crazy world.

A Season of Greeting and Gratitude

To everyone celebrating this season:

Χριστός Ἀνέστη! — Christ is Risen!
Καλή Ἀνάσταση! — Have a blessed Resurrection!
Chag Pesach Sameach! — Happy Passover!

These greetings belong together. They reflect a shared story — one lived, remembered, and renewed across generations. 

I love greeting my family and friends in Greek Χριστός Ἀνέστη on Easter Night, and the next 40 days after Easter we greet each with this greeting. Between now and until Easter Sunday next week we greet each other with Καλή Ἀνάσταση! I feel that I am living the easter story from its very beginning.

Easter encourages reflection and gratitude. It reminds me that love, freedom, and faith are not ideas alone. They are practices, relationships, and acts of remembrance that shape how we live now.

Questions for Reflection

In a world where mistrust and division seem to be growing, how can we practice the unconditional love that Christ taught?

And thinking practically: would you like Easter to be celebrated on the same date across all Christian traditions? If so, what should guide that decision — history and tradition, or closer alignment with Passover?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Why Is Womanhood So Contested?

The Principle of Justice and Dignity

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking more deeply about justice and dignity—what they mean to me, and how consistently they are lived out in the world around us. As a Christian, I hold a deep belief in the inherent worth of every person. I believe true justice is not shaped by ideology or allegiance, but by a commitment to fairness, courage, and care for the vulnerable.

I try to hold my convictions with humility. I don’t believe in imposing beliefs on others, yet I do believe we have a responsibility to speak up when people are harmed. For me, the challenge has been learning how to do both at the same time: remaining faithful to truth while acting with compassion and restraint.

This sounds simple in theory. I’m learning how difficult it is in practice.

As Scripture reminds us in Micah 6:8, we are called “to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.” I find myself returning to this often—especially when justice feels uneven or difficult to apply consistently.

Noticing the Contradictions

As I’ve reflected more on conversations around women’s rights, I’ve begun to notice some uncomfortable tensions. Again and again, I see moments where the principles we speak about—justice, compassion, and human dignity—are applied unevenly. Some stories are elevated and defended with clarity, while others are quietly set aside or treated as too complicated to confront.

What has been hardest for me to sit with is the realisation that women themselves can sometimes, consciously or unconsciously, contribute to this imbalance. Often this happens within strong cultural, political, or ideological frameworks that reward loyalty and discourage dissent. Still, the outcome can be that policies, silences, or justifications end up harming other women.

One moment that stayed with me was in the aftermath of the October attacks in Israel carried out by Hamas. Reports described women being taken hostage and subjected to extreme violence. These accounts were widely available, yet in many public conversations—particularly among pro‑Palestinian advocates—the suffering of Israeli women seemed to receive far less attention than the suffering of civilians in Gaza.

I want to be clear: the suffering of Gaza’s civilians is real and devastating. Holding space for that should never be optional. What unsettled me was the sense that acknowledging one injustice required the minimisation of another. I found myself struggling with the idea that compassion could become selective—that some women’s suffering could be treated as secondary depending on the political narrative being defended.

I noticed a similar tension closer to home during the 2022 federal election in Sydney, particularly in the seat of Warringah. Katherine Deves ran as a Liberal candidate and became a highly controversial figure due to her views on women’s sport and single‑sex spaces. She argued that biological sex should remain central in these contexts. Her opponent, Zali Steggall, a teal independent, took a different position, emphasising inclusion and broader definitions of equality.

What struck me wasn’t simply that two women disagreed. Women disagree all the time, and rightly so. What troubled me was how quickly the conversation hardened into opposing camps, as though there were only two acceptable ways to speak about women’s rights—and any attempt at nuance was treated as hostility or harm. I remember feeling unsettled by how easily complexity disappeared, replaced by slogans and certainty.

More broadly, I’ve noticed how these tensions continue to surface in Australian public life around questions of sex, gender, and identity. There is still no shared understanding of what it means to define a “woman” across all contexts, particularly in law, sport, and public policy. Different political leaders and parties approach this question from very different perspectives, attempting to balance biological realities, gender identity, inclusion, and rights.

Watching these debates unfold, I’ve often felt that the lack of consensus is interpreted not as complexity, but as moral failure. Women in politics are frequently expected to stand united on issues affecting women, yet these debates reveal how unrealistic that expectation can be. When women take different positions, disagreement is sometimes framed as betrayal rather than good‑faith argument.

I want to say this clearly: I don’t share these reflections to blame women. I’m increasingly aware of how much pressure—cultural, ideological, relational—shapes the positions people take. Fear of exclusion, desire for belonging, and deeply held beliefs all play a role. Still, I can’t ignore the impact of these inconsistencies. When certain injustices are overlooked, the consequences can include silence, marginalisation, and, in some parts of the world, ongoing harm or violence against women.

Simply noticing these contradictions has been confronting for me. But I’m beginning to believe that this kind of honest awareness is an essential first step toward a more consistent and compassionate approach to justice.

Why Double Standards Persist

I don’t think there are easy explanations. Human societies are complex, and moral clarity is often clouded by ideology, fear, ambition, or group loyalty. Even people with good intentions can struggle to see injustice clearly when it threatens their sense of identity or belonging.

Recognising this doesn’t excuse harm—but it does help me approach these tensions with greater humility. I’m learning that naming injustice and acknowledging human vulnerability must exist together.

A Spiritual Perspective

For me, faith is not about standing above others with certainty, but about being willing to change—starting with myself. Growth, both personal and collective, often begins with discomfort. Even when situations feel deeply unjust, I believe there is still an opportunity to respond with courage and integrity.

As I sit with these reflections, I feel called to speak up for those whose voices are silenced, to defend human dignity without forcing my beliefs onto others, and to remain committed to truth even when narratives are conflicting or inconvenient. I don’t experience this as a call to judgment, but to alignment—between belief and action, conviction and compassion.

Thoughtful Action

I keep asking myself what faithfulness looks like in the face of these contradictions. For now, it means paying attention—especially to the moments that make me uncomfortable. It means resisting the urge to accept easy answers, and being honest about where silence feels safer than speaking.

It also means wanting to defend the dignity and rights of all women consistently and courageously, while choosing dialogue over dismissal and understanding over outrage. I’m learning that conviction does not require coercion, and respect does not require agreement.

Closing Reflection

I don’t believe that respect requires agreement, but I do believe it requires honesty. My own view is that no one can redefine what a woman is without doing real harm, even when the intentions are framed as compassionate or progressive.

What I cannot ignore is this: why is there such fierce controversy over what a woman is, while there is no equivalent debate about what a man is?

If equality is truly our goal, why does womanhood alone seem so open to revision?