On Saturday mornings, I walk through metal detectors on my way into synagogue. I’m aware of why they’re there, and I feel grateful they exist.
My husband, who works at a Jewish day school, is grateful too for the security and cameras keeping an eye on the campus. In 2025, our places of faith require us to invest thoughtfully in safety.
These actions make us more safe, but is that all we need to feel more secure? If you ask me, the way we talk about “security” falls short.
In July, Jewish leaders applauded when Congress approved $274.5 million in federal security funding for nonprofits, including synagogues and Jewish community centers. The applause was deserved. In an era of heightened antisemitism, these dollars matter.
And yet, if our definition of “Jewish security” starts at cameras and locks, and stops with security guards, then it is incomplete. True security must also mean that Jews can afford to see a doctor, put food on the table, and secure a living wage.
The same budget Congress passed in July also cost Jewish households billions of dollars in security, literally. Alongside countless cuts, the administration eliminated more than $1 trillion from healthcare programs that make it possible for millions of Americans to fill a diabetes prescription or access preventative care like a mammogram. The largest of those programs is Medicaid.
I remember when my grandfather’s care needs for his Alzheimer’s ramped up, and I wondered, who was paying for this? For so many families, including mine, the answer in that moment is Medicaid. Today, one in 11 American Jews relies on it. Medicaid is the insurance that provides Holocaust survivors with home health care aids, covers therapy for young queer Jews at Jewish Family Service agencies, and ensures Jewish babies are born without their parents adding the bill to their credit card debt. For more than 650,000 Jews, Medicaid is security. For them, a cut to Medicaid is not abstract; it’s a threat to their lives.
When I read the results of a new study on American Jewish finances, I had to read them again. Twenty-nine percent of Jews say they are struggling or just barely making ends meet, up from 20 percent in 2020. If you’re feeling stretched right now, it is not just you.
And painfully, while 66% of Jews with financial stability believe the community takes care of people in need, only 39 percent of low-income Jews agree. We are a community that prides itself on mutual responsibility, but we are falling short.
For generations, Jews were at the forefront of labor movements, fighting for fair wages and economic justice. Today, that spirit continues with groups like the Network of Jewish Human Service Agencies, which organized for months against the healthcare cuts embedded in HR 1. But the issue seemed to be missing or swept aside from the radar of the broader Jewish community.
Despite our people’s history being marked by our lack of access to assets, I sometimes feel like I’m inside an antisemitic cartoon when I jokingly remind people that yes, low-income Jews do exist and at high rates. I myself grew up in a household that at times relied on government assistance like SNAP and free school lunch. I know how it feels to sit in synagogue and wonder if anyone sees you, and your or your friends’ financial fears.
As a former case manager, CEO of a national hunger organization, and now Jewish poverty expert, I have learned that change does not happen alone. Our rabbis, our philanthropists, our institutions, and yes, our government partners must all widen the definition of Jewish security.
We recently marked Sukkot, a holiday that puts front and center how fragile security can be. We should remember that our ancestors never defined security by walls alone. They defined it by covenant—by the promise that no one would be left to wander alone. As philosopher Michael Waltzer reminds us, “wherever you are, there too is Egypt,” a place where someone is oppressed and burdened.
Waltzer reminds us that a better world is possible, and the only way to get there is by joining together.
When I walk through those metal detectors on Shabbat, I’m grateful. And I know that for many, security requires not just protection but stability. Jewish security means that every person in our community can live with healthcare, access to a thriving Jewish life, and someone to call when things get hard. That is the covenant we renew each time we care for one another.
JTA has documented Jewish history in real-time for over a century. Keep our journalism strong by joining us in supporting independent, award-winning reporting.
