I entered my first Passover with the preparation of the five foolish virgins and the structural integrity of a wet paper towel. In my mind, I was a theological giant. I had my Bible, a sincere heart, and a very confident—and very wrong—definition of leaven. I thought I was just looking for yeast: those little foil packets that live in the back of the pantry next to the expired spices. How hard could it be? I figured I’d toss a loaf of Wonder Bread in the bin and spend the week in holy, bread-free contemplation.
By day three, I realized I hadn’t just underestimated the task; I had brought a toothpick to a sword fight.
It turns out that leaven is not just yeast; it is a ubiquitous, creeping presence. It is the “sin in the camp” that hides in the most mundane places. I found myself standing in the middle of the grocery aisle, squinting at labels like a conspiracy theorist hunting for a secret code. Cereal? Leavened. Crackers? Absolute betrayal. Every time I picked up a box, it felt like the ingredients list was laughing at me.
The peak of my madness occurred on day four. I had just managed to herd some dangerous carbohydrate contraband into a plastic bag, using a pair of long BBQ tongs, when my teenager wandered into the kitchen.
Teen: “Dad, why are you holding the bagels with the meat tongs?”
Me: (Voice tightly controlled, arms fully extended) “Because, son, this bag is a spiritual minefield. I cannot risk contact.”
Teen: “They’re just ‘Everything’ bagels. They’re good. Put them down.”
Me: “‘Everything’ bagels? That’s exactly the problem! Do you know what’s in ‘Everything’? Everything I’m not supposed to touch. They are puffed up. They are leavened. They are full of ‘old leaven’ and pride and… and Thomas’s recipe choice. It’s forbidden!”
Teen: (Staring, unimpressed) “Forbidden? Dad, you’ve eaten nothing but cardboard-tasting crackers for three days. You look like you’re ready to cry. Just eat the bagel.”
Me: “I cannot! I am honoring the Feast! I found out this morning that even your ‘healthy’ granola bars are basically leaven disguised as a snack. This (I shake the tongs slightly) represents the ubiquity of sin! Now go away, I have to find a place to quarantine these until next week.”
Teen: “Whatever. Can I have your coffee then?”
Me: “No. It’s the only thing keeping me from Egyptian captivity.
After he left, the “Holy Joy” was officially replaced by a very specific kind of carbohydrate-deprived insanity. I found myself wandering the backyard in literal circles, looking up at the heavens. If a neighbor had looked over the fence, they would have seen a man reenacting the forty-year wilderness wandering in a quarter-acre suburban lot, muttering, “Lord, I just need some bread.” I wasn’t even asking for Manna at that point; I would have settled for a sourdough starter and a prayer.
I had months to prepare, yet there I was, caught utterly off guard by the sheer scope of what “unleavened” actually meant. It gave me a profound, if slightly hysterical, respect for the Israelites. They left Egypt in a hurry, with their kneading troughs bound up in their clothes upon their shoulders (Exodus 12:34). I, meanwhile, couldn’t even manage seven days with a fully stocked modern kitchen and a microwave.
In the end, amidst the hunger pangs and the accidental ingestion of a “leavened” crouton that sent me into a spiral of immediate repentance, I saw the truth. The timing of the crucifixion, the precision of the Paschal lamb, and the absolute necessity of a Savior to purge the “old leaven” (1 Corinthians 5:6) became crystal clear.
I learned a lot about the Lord’s Passover—mostly that I am very weak, sin is everywhere, and while I’ll be better prepared next year, I am profoundly grateful that my salvation rests on the Lamb’s perfection and not on my ability to identify hidden maltodextrin in a box of crackers.