Congregation KTI

05/24/2026

04/01/2026

Chag Sameach! Best wishes for a sweet, joyous, and kosher Passover!

The symbolic foods of Passover, matzah chief among them, are an inexhaustible source of commentary and meaning-making.

The standard explanation of matzah, which I heard many times last week from our young students, is that it symbolizes the haste with which we left Egypt in the middle of the night. This is indeed one of the explanations offered in the Torah (Exodus 12:39) and quoted in the Haggadah (toward the end of Magid, with Rabban Gamliel’s explanation of the three main symbols of the holiday).

One of the problems with this, however, is that the people were commanded to eat the first Passover sacrifice (the one whose blood was painted on the doorposts the night of the Exodus) with unleavened bread and bitter herbs before they actually left (12:8).

Might there be another explanation of the symbolism of matzah? And beyond that, one that can explain why there is such a stringent prohibition on eating leavened foods during this holiday?

Dr. Tova Dickstein, who researches ancient foods, offers an explanation of why unleavened foods are connected to remembering the Exodus.

Dr. Dickstein explains how leavened bread was characteristic of Egyptian culture. The Egyptians were a settled, agricultural society, with fixed plots of farmland watered by the reliable and abundant Nile. The Joseph story preserves the historical memory of Egypt as a source of abundant grain. Furthermore, the Egyptians perfected the method of leavening dough and baking it in large, permanent ovens that could maintain a consistent temperature. Used as a form of payment, measure, and in religious worship, bread became the foundation of Egyptian society —a rich, hierarchical society that, not for nothing, relied on slave labor to sustain its wealth.

By contrast, consider the nomadic, shepherding lifestyle of the Israelites, both in the days of the patriarchs and also once the people returned to the land. They were constantly on the move, following the flocks. They could not carry heavy ovens with them or wait around for hours for dough to rise. So instead, they would eat matzah, bread that can be cooked quickly in lightweight or improvised ovens and fires. To this day, the nomadic Bedouins across the Middle East bake unleavened bread in these simple, portable ovens.

We now understand a further level of the symbolism of matzah and hametz. Hametz, leavened bread, is the bread of settled civilizations that rely on slave labor. Matzah, unleavened bread, is the bread of free shepherds who work for themselves and go wherever they need to.

Eating hametz on the festival of freedom, when understood this way, becomes nonsensical. We could not possibly eat the food of our enslavers on a holiday that celebrates our freedom.

With this in mind, we can savor the matzah even more, understanding how this simple food is the food of free people.

Best wishes to you and your families for a sweet and joyous Passover.

03/27/2026

Shabbat Shalom!

This week, I began discussing with our seventh graders the final monthly theme of our school year, which is shalom, or peace.

Peace is always sorely needed, if highly elusive, and recent weeks (and years, frankly) have only underscored how desirable and how difficult it is to achieve peace. I know they are somehow doing it, but I cannot imagine how anyone in Israel is preparing for Pesach while having their days and nights constantly disrupted by sirens and by running to shelters and protected spaces.

But in truth, the word “shalom” means more than the absence of conflict; it is related to a sense of wholeness and completion, or well-being. Indeed, in both Biblical and modern Hebrew, when we want to know about people’s well-being, we ask: “What is their shalom?” (See, for instance, Genesis 37:14).

Our Torah portion this week, Tzav, uses shalom in this broader sense when referring to the zevach hashlamim, the sacrifice of well-being.

One peculiarity of this sacrifice is that all of the pieces were elevated or waved by the person bringing it; the non-priest bringing this sacrifice would meaningfully participate in the ritual (Leviticus 7:29-30).

Rashi, based on a Talmudic source, explains that this waving of animal parts (like that of the lulav) would move in the four cardinal directions and then up and down, symbolizing God’s sovereignty over everything on earth and beyond.

Perhaps, as Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch noted, including this ritual in the well-being sacrifice suggests that an important aspect of well-being is the acknowledgment of the sovereignty of God.

True well-being comes to us when we understand our proper place within the order of creation. We, as human beings created in the Divine image, but not ourselves God, are both of ultimate significance and of no significance in the grand scheme of things, depending on how you look at it.

Acknowledging God in this way offers us a balanced sense of our own importance and worth. We can sense, as the Hasidic teaching puts it, that for our sake the world was created and also that we are but dust and ashes.

Having that proper sense of the world and our place within it contributes greatly to our inner sense of peace and well-being.

As we anticipate sitting at the seder table, hopefully surrounded by friends and loved ones, let us strive to find some sense of peace this holiday.

03/20/2026

Our Torah portion this week, Va-yikra, kicks off the book of Leviticus with an in-depth description of various sacrifices.

One of these is the hattat, or purification offering, which would be offered in response to unintentionally committed sins, helping to spiritually counteract the error.

The Torah presents various scenarios based on who committed the sin.

Rashi, based on an earlier source, notices a slight difference in how these are phrased. Concerning a sin committed by an anointed High Priest, the priest would dip his finger in the animal’s blood and sprinkle it in front of the curtain of the Shrine—a part of the sanctuary known as the Kodesh, or Holy Place.

Yet later, when describing the response to an unintentional sin committed by the entire people of Israel, the priest would sprinkle the blood in front of the curtain; the word for Holy Place is omitted.

Rashi notes a parable comparing the two situations.

The sin of the priest is like a rebellion against a human king undertaken by only part of the kingdom. In that case, the king would continue to relate to his loyal followers in the normal manner. So, while the sin of a priest is serious, it does not impact the status of the sanctuary, which can still be called the Holy Place.

However, the sin of the entire community is like a rebellion undertaken by the majority of the kingdom. In that case, the king would no longer bother to meet with any remaining loyalists. He would simply abandon the kingdom. By comparison, the sin of a community is so serious that it can even remove the holiness of the sanctuary. Thus, in that case, it cannot be referred to as the Holy Place.

The actions of our leaders matter. It is a big deal when they err—even unintentionally.

And yet, what ultimately matters most is the behavior of the community as a whole. Our collective decisions have the biggest impact on the holiness of a place.

This week, I continue to think about all of the Israelis who have spent the past several weeks running in and out of bomb shelters as the war with Iran continues. I don’t know how this will all unfold, although I pray that it will end in a positive way.

What I do know is that this is a moment for collective action: beyond what any leaders choose to do or not do, and whatever mistakes they may or may not make, what will ultimately matter most is how we as a Jewish people behave in these circumstances.

As we face threats in Israel and across the diaspora, will we continue to show up for each other? Will we think carefully about what this moment demands of us? Will we find sources of Jewish “joy” to balance out all of the “oy”?

All that—and more—is up to us.

03/13/2026

This week brought unsettling news for me and, I imagine, for many of you.

The war with Iran has continued, sending Israelis running to bomb shelters, often multiple times a day, and raising concerns about how this round of fighting will conclude.

Meanwhile, on the home front, the attack yesterday on a Michigan synagogue left me, and I imagine many of you, saddened, concerned, and afraid, even as it could have been so much worse.

All of this has left me wondering where, as a Jewish people, we might find safety and a sense of connection.

With this in mind, I thought about the conclusion of our Torah portions this week, Va-yakhel and P’kudei, which conclude the entire Book of Exodus.

Moses sets up each piece of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary the people built, and, lo and behold, it works!

The people witness God’s presence, in the form of a cloud, taking up residence within the Mishkan, and only moving to signal the people that it was time to continue to their next waystation.

What a sense of safety and peace our ancestors must have had, to be able to see that God was accompanying them throughout their journey, which was not always easy.

Alas, we do not have our own visible signal of God’s presence like that cloud.

And yet, we can still encounter the Divine within our own sacred spaces even today.

This week, I encountered it in meaningful conversations among members of the congregation, sharing their own experiences and thinking together about the meaning of God, Torah, and Jewish practice in our own lives. I saw it in young people encountering some of the best ideas and stories in our tradition. I saw it in our Early Childhood Program students playing nicely together and starting to make their Passover crafts.

Our sacred spaces as Jews, both in Israel and around the world, may be under threat. We can and should take reasonable steps to protect ourselves.

But we also have to remind ourselves at times like these that the risks are worth it, and that the transcendence and connection to the Divine and to each other that these spaces enable are worth fighting for.

I look forward to continuing to see you around KTI.

03/06/2026

One of the most precious pieces of Torah to me occurs in this week’s portion Ki Tissa.

In this portion, the people famously build a calf of gold to worship, in their anxiety about Moses’ absence. They dance around this idol, proclaiming, “This is your god, O Israel” (Exodus 32:4). I always imagine them pointing at it when they say that.

The golden calf was solid, defined, clear, certain. They could point to it and declare clearly what they considered it to be.

But of course, this was a false deity, the worship of which had dramatic consequences for the people.

Compare this to a later passage in this portion, which describes God encountering Moses “face-to-face” in the Tent of Meeting, indicated by the presence of a pillar of cloud.

A cloud is formless, untouchable, uncertain, transient—all the things the golden calf was not. The moment one tries to touch a cloud, it slips through one’s fingers.

Understanding God through this image means a great deal to me. So often, when it comes to the Divine or anything else that matters, we want certainty, surety, stability, the ability to point at something and say clearly what it is.

But, this portion reminds us, God, and most other things that matter, often aren’t like that. They are cloudy, murky, uncertain and constantly changing. Any certainty that we’ve got it all figured out is actually idolatry.

Rather, we hold truth lightly, like a cloud, having faith while also being open to deepening or changing what we thought we knew.

I’ve been thinking about these two images this week with respect to the war that broke out last Shabbat between the United States and Israel with Iran.

As is to be expected with such a major development in this climate, there was an immediate rush to declare what this was and to pass judgement on it, both positively and negatively—to point at something and say definitively what it is.

I have no great expertise in such strategic considerations and I’ll let those who do bring it to bear.

But what seems wise to me in this moment, at least, is to resist the temptation to come to grand conclusions about what this all means and how it will all work out.

Big things will likely emerge from this war. But what they will be, I think, is too early to say.

I pray that this attack will result in safety and peace for Israel, for the people of Iran and other countries in the region, and for our own country.

For now, I am mindful of those in harm’s way, of those stranded by flight cancellations, of the Israelis who celebrated Purim in bomb shelters and lost their homes to Iranian missiles, and of the US servicemembers who gave their lives during this mission. I pray for the leaders of our country, Israel, and the other involved nations to be blessed with wisdom and strength as they navigate this situation.

Perhaps by next Purim, something clearer will emerge from the cloud.

01/28/2026

Next week, we will acknowledge Tu Bishvat. This date on the Hebrew calendar began as a new year for trees, essentially for tax purposes in ancient times.

Over time, it became an occasion to consider our relationship with nature generally, with the land of Israel specifically, and to use the abundant natural imagery in our tradition as an opportunity for spiritual growth.

In this respect, I’ve been thinking about a phrase that appears in Gvurot, the second section of every Amidah. In it, we acknowledge God’s saving might, in sustaining life, healing the sick, releasing the bound, and in other ways.

At the paragraph’s conclusion, we praise God as מַצְמִיחַ יְשׁוּעָה (matzmiah yeshuah): the one who causes deliverance or redemption to sprout.

The imagery is inspired by the words of the prophet Isaiah: “For as the earth brings forth her growth and a garden makes the seed shoot up, so my Sovereign GOD will make victory and renown shoot up In the presence of all the nations” (61:11).

I’m struck by the implicit comparison between deliverance (which might also be understood as rescue, victory, or redemption) and a plant.

When we plant a seed and cover it with soil, it appears as if nothing is there. But slowly, beyond our notice, something is slowly changing. Then, one day, as if by miracle, the first shoots push through the soil and eventually mature into a beautiful, useful plant.

Perhaps the deliverance we seek in this broken world is just like that plant: something that needs human involvement to set in motion and sustain, but that also grows quietly and miraculously until the time comes for it to reveal itself.

In this way, life is coaxed from the solid, dead-seeming ground, with effort, the right mixture of sun and water, and a prayer.

It doesn’t always work. But when it does, it is miraculous.

We cannot expect deliverance to just magically appear. Rather, we plant the seeds and trust in the One who makes things grow.

01/26/2026

We hope this message finds you safe and warm as we recover from yesterday's snowstorm.

Today, we received the bittersweet and long-awaited news that the remains of the final hostage, Ran Gvili, were recovered by the Israeli military and returned to Israel for a proper burial.

With this week's news, this terrible chapter of the October 7 hostage crisis has concluded after 843 days, as everyone who was taken hostage has now been accounted for.

Ran Gvili, 24 at the time of his death, was an Israeli police officer who bravely gave his life defending Kibbutz Alumim and rescuing Nova attendees on October 7. Despite recovering from a broken shoulder, Ran rushed to defend the Gaza envelope communities.

We pray that this development brings some sense of comfort and closure to the Gvili family, to Israeli society, and to the Jewish people worldwide.

At KTI, we have prayed for the return of the hostages at every Shabbat service since October 7. Our prayer has evolved with the situation, and in recent weeks we have been specifically praying for Ran's return.

While we no longer need to pray for the return of hostages, Israel remains in our hearts and our prayers. So much needs to be rebuilt and healed in the coming years: the physical and mental health of the returned hostages and their families; the damaged and evacuated communities in Israel's north and south; the strain that this war has taken on much of Israeli society.

Meanwhile, even as much has been accomplished as a result of the war, Israel continues to face significant threats from its neighbors both near and far.

We continue to pray as a community for safety, healing, and peace for Israel. As we read in Psalms: "May strength be granted to GOD’s people; may GOD bless this people with peace."

With prayers for better days ahead,

Rabbi Ben Goldberg

Cantor Alexis K. Sklar

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Ran Gvili, the last hostage, is brought home after 843 days 💔

Ran Gvili, the last hostage in Gaza, has been brought home.

First to enter. Last to return.

Staff Sergeant Ran (Rani) Gvili from Meitar was a YASSAM Negev fighter in the Southern District of the Israel Police. Ran took great pride in being a police officer and wearing the blue uniform.

On the morning of the Black Saturday, Ran was at home recovering from a motorcycle accident and suffering from a fractured shoulder. Upon learning of the terrorist infiltration, he immediately put on his uniform and went out to assist his fellow unit members in the fighting. On his way, he encountered terrorists and fought with courage and determination on the front line at the entrance to Kibbutz Alumim. Members of the kibbutz community later gave him the name “Ran, the Defender of Alumim.”

After several months, assessments concluded that following a fierce battle, and only after his ammunition had run out, Ran fell in combat and was abducted to Gaza.

Ran, with his broad shoulders and radiant smile, was all heart. A true friend, loved by everyone. He loved life, was a young man of deep values, always spoke at eye level, and carried a powerful yet calm presence. At 24 years old at the time of his death, Ran is survived by his parents, Talik and Itzik, his brother Omri, his sister Shira, and an extended family.

Ran Gvili was the last hostage.

The Hostages and Missing Families Forum bows its head in sorrow and shares in the profound grief of the Gvili family.

There are no words to express the depth of this pain.