Buzz Aldrin - No Dream Is Too High

When we got out there in front of the crowd, I was afraid John would start into some of the moves he made famous in the movie Saturday Night Fever , with his head cocked to one side, his legs spread wide as though he were straddling a bull, and his hand high in the air. Fortunately for me, he did a much simpler routine. I did my best to copy him, but my body wouldn’t move as well as his. We had great fun, though, and raised a bunch of money to help young people learn more about space exploration.

More and more these days, I feel my own mortality. I recognize that I’m getting older; I know that every day is a gift, and something could hit me at any time. I had a stroke in Vienna years ago, and it was a frightening experience. I worry sometimes that I don’t have enough time left.

I’ve never been an overtly religious person, but I certainly understand those who are, and I have the greatest respect for them.

Long before I squeezed inside the command module of Apollo 11, perched on top of the huge Saturn V rocket that would send us racing toward the Moon, I realized that our mission would be fraught with symbolism. That’s one of the reasons why Neil, Mike, and I chose as our mission emblem an eagle carrying an olive branch, signifying our hopes that peace on Earth could somehow be enhanced because of our landing on the Moon.

Once we had landed safely on the Moon, our schedule included time to eat a meal and to rest. As a gesture of my thankfulness, I planned to participate in a personal spiritual experience by celebrating Holy Communion as one of my first actions on the lunar surface.

The idea wasn’t original to me. Explorers such as Christopher Columbus and other pioneers had done similar things when they had first landed in their new worlds. So a few weeks before our launch date, I asked my friend and pastor Dean Woodruff, minister at Webster Presbyterian Church where I attended when I was home in Houston, to help me. Dean provided some Communion wafers and a tiny chalice that I could take with me to the Moon.

Originally, I had thought of doing something more dramatic, celebrating on behalf of the entire world. But NASA had received flak following the Apollo 8 mission when astronauts Bill Anders, Jim Lovell, and Frank Borman had read from the Bible as they orbited the Moon on Christmas Eve.

Millions of people watched and listened as lunar module pilot Bill Anders spoke from space, “We are now approaching lunar sunrise, and for all the people back on Earth, the crew of Apollo 8 has a message that we would like to send to you.” Anders then began reading the Genesis account of creation as recorded in the King James Version of the Bible: “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth …”

The command module pilot, Jim Lovell, picked up the reading from there: “And God called the firmament Heaven …” Apollo 8’s commander, Frank Borman, concluded the reading: “And God said, ‘Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear’: and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth, and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.”

Frank then added, “And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and may God bless all of you—all of you on the good Earth.”

People of every religion—as well as most people who held to no religion—found the astronauts’ readings inspiring. But atheist Madalyn Murray O’Hair filed a lawsuit against NASA, claiming that astronauts worked for the government, so their actions and words were a violation of the separation of church and state. The court eventually tossed out the case, but NASA didn’t want any similar hassles.

So a few weeks prior to launch, when I told Deke Slayton, one of the original NASA astronauts who now ran the Apollo 11 flight crew operations, what I planned to do, Deke balked. “No, that’s not a good idea, Buzz,” he cautioned me. “Go ahead and have Communion, but keep your comments more general.”

I didn’t agree with Deke at the time, but I understood and complied with his instructions. Looking back, he was probably right.

Once Neil and I had shut down the engines and completed our checklist, from my position in the Eagle , now located on the Sea of Tranquility, I radioed Mission Control. “I would like to request a few moments of silence,” I said, “and invite each person listening in, wherever and whomever they may be, to pause for a moment and contemplate the events of the past few hours, and to give thanks in his or her own way.”

My way was with a symbolic wafer and thimbleful of wine that I had packed in my personal belongings pouch. We had little room for extras on board the Eagle , but the Communion elements didn’t take up much space, and this was something special that I wanted to do, not just for myself but as a symbolic act of gratefulness for all mankind.

I pulled out a three-by-five card on which I had written the words of Jesus: “I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me, and I in him, will bear much fruit; for you can do nothing without me.” During the few moments of silence, I read the words on the card quietly, to myself. Then I pulled out the Communion wafer and the sealed plastic container of wine and poured it into the chalice Dean had given to me from our church. Although it was a spiritual moment, I was still a scientist, so I couldn’t help noticing that in the Moon’s gravity—only one-sixth of that on Earth—the wine curled ever so slowly and gracefully up the side of the chalice before finally settling after a few moments. I slipped the wafer into my mouth and then drank the wine. I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing, and Neil looked on respectfully and silently as well. I offered a silent prayer of thanks and for the work yet to be done. Neither NASA nor anyone else in the U.S. government ever let on what I had done during the moments of silence on the Moon.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered if I did the right thing, that perhaps I should not have engaged in such an overtly Christian rite, because we wanted to emphasize that we had traveled to the Moon on behalf of all mankind—Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, agnostics, and even atheists. But I cannot deny history. The truth is: The first liquid ever poured and the first food ever eaten on the Moon were Christian Communion elements.

At the time, I could think of no better way to acknowledge the enormous achievement of Apollo 11 than by giving thanks to God. When I got back home, I returned the small chalice to Webster Presbyterian Church. The church treated it as a special part of its history, encased it in a glass ball, and displayed it in the church library for all to see. Then oddly, for a time, the chalice mysteriously went missing. Years later, the church received a box in the mail. Inside was the chalice and a typed note of explanation. The sender admitted to taking the chalice as a youngster, not really understanding the significance of it or the seriousness of stealing it. Now, as an adult, the person realized that the chalice belonged to the church—and to the world. It was returned, and the congregation continues to celebrate a special Lunar Communion every year. Today, however, they display a replica chalice, and the original is now in a safety deposit box.

Symbols matter, and my hope was—and is—that people of any faith can celebrate the goodness of God and the achievements of mankind. Regardless of how you believe the universe was created, it is there waiting for humans to explore.

Recently, Christina and I were talking about religious subjects and I surprised her by saying, “I think I may be an atheist.”

“I don’t think you’re an atheist,” Christina countered.