0.4 Seconds: Don’t Miss the Moment. Because redemption lives in the moments we refuse to miss

If you step back and look at Pesach, something striking emerges. No other holiday is so obsessed with time. Not just days, but minutes. The precise time to stop eating chametz, the exact moment to burn it, the carefully calculated time to begin the Seder, and the urgency to eat the afikoman before chatzot. It almost feels unusual—why such an intense focus on the clock? Why does Pesach care so much about minutes?

The answer is that Pesach is not just about what happened; it is about how it happened. The entire story unfolds בְּחִפָּזוֹן—in haste. The Jewish people leave Egypt quickly, the dough does not have time to rise, and redemption does not emerge gradually but bursts into history in a moment. Even earlier, the very first mitzvah given to the Jewish people is about time: “החודש הזה לכם ראש חודשים.” As the Sforno explains, this is not simply about marking time, but about owning time—sanctifying it, shaping it, and taking responsibility for it. A free people are not those who simply leave Egypt; they are those who learn to live with intention in the moments they are given.

This idea is captured with remarkable precision in the teaching of Chazal: “מצוה הבאה לידך אל תחמיצנה.” A mitzvah that comes into your hand should not be allowed to become chametz. Chametz is not a different substance; it is the same dough, left just a little too long. The difference between matzah and chametz is not what it is, but when you act. The Sfas Emes explains that “החימוץ בא על ידי שהייה, ומצה היא בחינת זריזות.” Chametz emerges through delay, while matzah represents zerizut—the ability to act in the moment. Pesach is not just about avoiding chametz in our kitchens; it is about not allowing our moments to become chametz in our lives.

The Shem MiShmuel sharpens this idea even further. He explains that the redemption from Egypt had to happen in haste because delay itself was dangerous: “שאם היו מתעכבים עוד מעט היו נטמעים חס ושלום… ועל כן היה מוכרח להיות בחיפזון.” Had they waited even a little longer, they would have been lost. There are moments in life that are not merely opportunities; they are windows. And when the window closes, it closes.

This past week, we saw a powerful metaphor for this idea play out in a completely different arena. In the NCAA tournament, UConn faced Duke in a game that seemed all but decided. At one point, UConn was down by nineteen points, and the sense was that the game was over. But slowly, possession by possession, they clawed their way back. And then, in the final seconds, with the clock nearly expired, something unexpected happened. A loose ball, a scramble, and suddenly, with just 0.4 seconds remaining, the ball found its way into the hands of a freshman, Braylon Mullins. This was not the designed play. He had missed earlier shots. And yet, from about thirty-five feet away, he launched a desperate attempt. And somehow, it went in. UConn wins, Duke loses, and everything changes in an instant. When asked about it afterward, he said, “I can’t even explain how it went in.”

But what is almost as remarkable as the shot itself is what happened after. That one moment has been watched and rewatched, slowed down, analyzed from every angle. You see the faces in the crowd—people convinced the game is over—and then, in a split second, everything changes. And when you watch it in slow motion, you begin to notice what you could not see at first: the positioning, the instinct, the courage to take the shot. What looked like an instant was actually a moment filled with meaning.

That is exactly what Pesach is teaching us. Redemption is not only built over long stretches of time. Sometimes, it comes down to a moment.

We see this throughout Yetziat Mitzrayim. Batya sees a basket in the river and, in a single instant, reaches out and changes history. Moshe sees injustice and acts. Nachshon stands at the edge of the sea and steps forward before it splits. History is not only shaped by years; it is shaped by moments.

We see this in our world today as well. A siren sounds in Israel, and you have seconds. A parent grabs a child, a family runs to a sealed room, a soldier runs toward danger. In those moments, there is no space for hesitation. There is only one question: will you act? I recently heard of a young soldier who, when a siren went off during his leave, ran not away but toward his unit. When asked if he was afraid, he said, “Of course—but there wasn’t time to decide. The moment decided for me.”

And yet, sometimes the most transformative moments are not dramatic at all. They are quiet, almost invisible. My father shared with me a story just before Pesach about a mutual friend, Micah Gimpel, now living in Israel, who was sitting shiva for his mother in Atlanta. He recalled a moment from his youth when he was not yet observant. He would light Shabbat candles, have a small meal, and then go out to a football game. A rabbi, Rabbi Shlomo Freundlich, gently challenged him and suggested something simple: “Why don’t you keep just two hours of Shabbos on Friday night—just two hours.” That was it. No pressure, no grand demand. Just one small, concrete step. And as Micah later shared, that moment changed everything. Those two hours became a life of Shabbat, a life of Torah, a life of meaning. A rabbi who seized a moment, a young man who stepped into it, and a life transformed.

I saw something similar just this past week at a wedding. The couple shared how they met through an app called Loop, built on the idea that your friends know you better than any algorithm. But what struck me was not just how they met, but the moment that made it happen. Someone thought of them, someone acted, someone made the connection. And standing there, I felt a stirring of the soul. I realized that in that room, and beyond it, there are people still waiting—people who have not yet found their partner, not yet stood under a chuppah. And I understood that this was not just a moment to celebrate what had happened; it was a moment to create what could happen next. To think of someone, to make a call, to act. Because just as one moment transformed this couple’s life, so too each of us holds that possibility.

Rav Kook teaches that when a sacred stirring comes to a person, it must be translated immediately into action: “אל תאמר לכשאפנה אשנה… כי ההרגשה הקדושה צריכה תיכף להתממש במעשה.” Do not say, “When I have time.” Because if not, the feeling fades, and the moment is lost.

And perhaps this is the deepest message of Pesach. God creates the circumstances, but we must seize them. Redemption is not only something that happens to us; it is something we step into.

Think again about that play. 0.4 seconds. In real time, it disappears instantly. But when you watch it again, it slows down, and you begin to see the moment that changed everything. That is our lives. Most defining moments do not feel dramatic. They feel small—a thought, a name, a call, a connection. But in that moment lies the possibility of transformation.

Pesach challenges us to live with greater awareness, to anticipate those moments, to recognize them, and above all, to seize them. Because who knows? Maybe in that moment, you will be the one to take the shot. Maybe in that moment, you will change someone’s life. Maybe in that moment, you will help bring about redemption.

0.4 seconds can change a game. A single moment can change a life. And redemption begins the moment we refuse to miss it.