“Jews own roughly ten percent of the moon.”
At least, that was the claim of a 2007 Jerusalem Post article reporting that some 10,000 Israelis had purchased small plots of lunar “real estate” through a company called Crazyshop. Each purchased 500 square meters for a modest 250 shekels. International law forbids nations from owning the moon, but private individuals is apparently another story. As the company’s spokesperson explained, some Israelis thought it an original gift and a clever investment, something their grandchildren might one day benefit from. One can easily imagine NASA, decades from now, negotiating landing rights with Israeli grandparents clutching yellowing deeds to moon dust.
Original? Certainly. Absurd? Possibly. And yet, somehow, unmistakably Jewish.
Jews have always been drawn to the moon. Long before lunar landings and space stations, the moon occupied a central place in Jewish consciousness - not as an object of conquest, but as a source of meaning. The moon teaches us who we are and how we are meant to live.
The Talmud tells a striking story. In the beginning, the world was created with symmetry: two great lights, the sun and the moon, equal in brilliance and stature. Then the moon turned to God and asked, “Is it possible for two kings to wear one crown?” Leadership, after all, implies distinction. God agreed - and instructed the moon to make itself smaller. It is a shocking move. Even more shocking is what follows. God then seeks to console the moon and, ultimately, asks for atonement for having diminished it.
The message is unmistakable: smallness is not failure; diminution is not insignificance. There is greatness in restraint, holiness in humility, power in not always needing to dominate.
Unlike the sun, which shines steadily and predictably, the moon waxes and wanes. It disappears and returns. It reflects rather than generates light. It understands darkness and renewal. And that is why Jewish time follows the moon. Our months begin in near darkness. Our holidays arrive only after growth and waiting. Jewish history itself mirrors the lunar cycle: rising and falling, eclipsed and renewed, never linear, never static.
We are not the sun. We are the moon.
That identity is embedded in the very first mitzvah given to the Jewish people. Before laws of belief or behavior, before entering the land, we are commanded to look heavenward and sanctify time: “Ha-chodesh ha-zeh lachem rosh chadashim - This month shall be for you the first of months.” (Shemot 12:2) Judaism begins not with territory, but with time, time measured by the moon.
In ancient times, witnesses scanned the skies and testified before the court to the moon’s appearance. The calendar, and with it the holidays themselves, depended on human eyes and human voices. Even today, with a fixed calendar, Jewish life continues to orbit the moon through the molad (announcing the first appearance of the moon each month), Birkat HaChodesh, and Kiddush Levana. God deliberately entrusted something as sacred as time to finite, fallible human beings.
The Midrash pushes this idea even further. When the angels ask God when the festivals will be set, God replies that He Himself will follow the determination of the Jewish court. “In the past it was in My hands,” God says. “From now on, it is in yours.” Even God abides by our calendar. Even our mistakes, the Talmud insists, do not invalidate the sanctification. Perfection is not a prerequisite for partnership.
This is gadlut ha-adam, the greatness of the human role. Judaism does not happen without us. We are not passive recipients of holiness; we are mekadshim, active sanctifiers. Like the moon, we matter not because we are flawless or constant, but because we show up repeatedly to renew.
Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch highlights that the word mo’ed, which is used as another name for festivals, means a meeting. Not a royal summons, but a chosen encounter. God could have fixed the calendar astronomically, eliminating all subjectivity. Instead, God invites relationship. Commanded, yes, but also animated by willingness. Judaism flourishes not only through obedience, but through consent.
The moon also carries the mandate of chiddush, renewal. Jewish life is cyclical, but never stagnant. Ein beit midrash b’lo chiddush - there is no house of learning without new insight. Each generation must rediscover how eternal Torah speaks in contemporary language. B’chol yom yihyu b’einecha k’chadashim - every day, Judaism must feel new.
Each month, each time we bless the new month, each time we recite Kiddush Levana, or each time we look up at the moon, we declare that Israel is destined to renew itself like the moon. Not to burn brightly and briefly, but to endure, to constantly recreate, and to reflect Divine light even in dark skies.
When Moshe and Aharon first looked up at the moon in Egypt, they were shown more than a celestial body. They were shown a future: freedom coupled with responsibility, holiness shaped by human hands, time sanctified through partnership. Humanity has since walked on the moon, and some have dreams of returning or maybe even settling. Jews, meanwhile, continue to look up - not to own it, but to learn from it and to live proud, passionate Jewish lives by its light.
Long after humanity leaves footprints on the moon, the moon will continue leaving its imprint on the Jewish soul.
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