The Moon and the Journey Beyond

The moon has always captured the human imagination.

Over the Passover holiday, astronauts broke a new record. On April 1, as we were beginning our Seders, Artemis II launched from Kennedy Space Center in Florida. And while it did not land on the moon, it still shattered the record for the farthest distance human beings have ever traveled from Earth.

To be honest, I cannot say I fully understand the national value of sending human beings back to the moon. But there is something breathtaking about watching people do what no one has ever done before.

But Jews have always been fascinated by the moon.

Long before it was a target of rockets and missions and history-making headlines, it was already one of the first great symbols in Jewish life. The very first mitzvah given to the Jewish people as a nation, while we were still slaves in Egypt, was the commandment to count the Jewish calendar based on the moon.

Before we were redeemed, before we left Egypt, and before we became a free people, G-d told us to sanctify the new moon and build Jewish time around its cycle. This becomes so central to Jewish identity that in the Haggadah itself, we raise the possibility that telling the story of the Exodus should begin not on Passover night, but from the start of the lunar month in which we were redeemed.

That itself is astonishing.

Why begin there? Why would the first commandment to a nation still trapped in slavery be about the moon?

Because the moon carries one of Judaism’s deepest lessons. The moon waxes and wanes. It grows, it disappears, and then it returns once again.

In Judaism, the Jewish people are compared to the moon. We too go through cycles. There are times of fullness and times of concealment. There are times when we shine, and times when we feel reduced, hidden, or wounded. But the moon teaches that disappearance is not the end of the story. Renewal is built into creation.

That was the first lesson of redemption.

Even while we were still in Egypt, G-d was teaching us how to think. Do not define yourself by what you look like at this moment. Do not confuse exile with the end. Do not assume that because the light is smaller, it is gone. The moon’s beauty will still return. And so will you.

This morning, while discussing the Artemis II mission with my nephews and trying to draw a lesson for us from the story, one of them asked a very good question. “But it didn’t even land on the moon, so what’s the point?”

Good question. What is the greatness of a mission that never even lands?

Here is my answer. Sometimes greatness is not defined by where you land, but rather by how far you are willing to go.

That is what made this mission historic. These four astronauts flew around the far side of the moon, reached a maximum distance of 252,756 miles from Earth, and surpassed the record previously set by Apollo 13 in 1970.

You might think, big deal.

Humanity had already broken through the limits of the atmosphere. Humanity had already reached the moon decades ago. Yet even after that, people still wanted to go farther. Not because earlier breakthroughs did not matter, or because those earlier missions were failures.

But because breaking through once does not end the human desire to keep pushing past old limits.

That is the lesson that speaks to me as we come back down to planet earth after Passover.

Pesach is the great story of breakthrough. We left Egypt. We broke out of slavery. We walked away from the place that had defined us for generations.

That first step was enormous.

And that first step is usually the hardest as well.

To leave an old habit is hard. To leave behind our status quo is hard. To leave behind the identity that says, “This is just who I am,” is hard. To step into something freer, holier, and larger than what we have always known takes lots of courage.

So here is the message for us as we return to ordinary life after a beautiful holiday.

Pesach was never meant to be only a memory of one dramatic escape long ago. And it was never meant to be only one moment of inspiration each spring. The Exodus was a beginning. It taught us that we have the power to break through. It taught us that no Egypt is final. With G-d’s help, we Jews can leave even the narrowest places that hold us down.

But then what?

Do we spend the rest of our lives celebrating that we once got out? Do we live forever off one old exodus? Do we then stop moving because we already escaped the gravitational pull of this earth?

Surely not.

A Jew is not meant only to remember redemption. A Jew is meant to keep walking in its direction.

That is why this record-breaking trip around the moon feels so timely.

It is not only about the courage to leave the ground. It is about the refusal to be satisfied with yesterday’s accomplishment. We have already left Egypt, thank G-d. We have already broken through many challenges and obstacles in our lives. We have already grown, changed, survived, rebuilt, and stretched ourselves farther than we once thought possible.

But that does not mean the journey is over.

We do not only grow because we are broken, or because something is wrong.

We keep pushing further and further because life with G-d is meant to keep moving.

Sometimes a person had a genuine spiritual breakthrough years ago. He or she started taking Judaism more seriously, keeping Shabbat more carefully, or seeing Torah as a living source of wisdom and meaning. We became more committed, more thoughtful, more generous, more grounded. Those changes in our behavior and shifts in our mindset are real and powerful. They matter. They should be cherished.

But they cannot become the final orbit.

There has to still be a next step. A new horizon. A next mission where I ask myself: where have I become too comfortable? Where have I confused stability with growth? Where am I still living off old inspiration instead of pushing toward fresh renewal?

That question is not so much for the struggling Jew still in Egypt. It is really the question for the free Jew who has left his old “Egypt” behind.

A person can be decent, observant, kind, loyal, and still no longer be stretching. Still no longer be asking for more. Still no longer be going farther than before.

Which is perhaps why we look at the moon to count Jewish time. Because the moon will not let us live that way.

The moon says keep moving.

The moon says do not panic in darkness, but also do not become smug in the light. The moon reminds us that renewal is not a one-time event. It is the rhythm of Jewish life.

So yes, the world is fascinated by the moon. And so are we.

But not for the same reason.

The world sees distance. We see destiny. The world sees a record-breaking mission. We see the first mitzvah given to a people still in Egypt, learning that darkness is not forever and that renewal is always possible.

Even when we have come so far, we are challenged yet again to ask where G-d is calling us to go next.

Not only to celebrate how far we have come, but to keep pushing farther than we have ever gone before.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Yankie & Chana Denburg