Posted on September 24, 2025
“Walking through Fear with Faith”
Erev Rosh Hashana 5786 ~ September 22, 2025
Rabbi Lisa Eiduson
This summer, I was scheduled to fly from Boston to Philadelphia to visit our younger daughter. I was running late, and the parking at Logan was terrible. There was a long line at security. While waiting, I untied my shoelaces. But, when I finally arrived at the front of the line and reached down to take my shoes off, the TSA representative said, “You can proceed through the security screening with your shoes on” (DHS, 2025).
I was shocked – my first thought was: Does he think I am over 75? Then I remembered. On July 8, Americans shed what had become a deeply held airport ritual for nearly two and a half decades. The 2006 “shoes-off” rule was first created because of a man named Richard Reid. Do you remember him? In December 2001 – just 4 months after 9/11 — Reid boarded American Airlines Flight 63, from Paris to Miami with 10 ounces of explosives in the heel of his shoe (Shoe Bomber, 2025). For a generation of us that become accustomed to removing our shoes at US airport security checkpoints, now, suddenly, time and technology was placing the shoe bomber, in the rearview mirror.
Just as it was difficult to get used to taking our shoes off, it felt equally strange leaving them on that day.
I wondered:
Am I safer as an American Jew now than I was 24 years ago? In the skies? On the ground? And, on this threshold of the Jewish New Year: Do you feel safe in America today? Do we still view this country as our immigrant relatives did – as a place of endless opportunity and refuge from persecution? With streets paved of gold?
I am grateful to live in America, but the past few years have been trying. A Yiddish phrase spoken by Sholom Aleichem and used as the title for one of his plays echoes in my mind:
“S’iz shver tsu zayn a Yid – It is hard to be a Jew.” (Aleichem, S., 1920)
To be a Jew in 2025 in America means navigating life with a quiet, persistent awareness of risk. We live in the balance. We are vulnerable. According to the Jewish Federations of North America, a typical Jewish organization spends 14% of its annual budget on security. Recently, this includes the addition of armed security guards and the fortification of our physical buildings. Yet, even with such costly security measures in place, a recent poll reveals that only 60% of Jews actually feel safe in these buildings (Jewish Federation Blog, 2025, July 22). It is something of a paradox: the more security an organization has, the more it seems to need. We live in a world that sells us the illusion of safety. More surveillance. More insurance. More borders. And yet, we seem to be more anxious than ever.
It is hard to be a Jew with antisemitism increasing globally — online, on campuses, in government, even in progressive spaces that once felt like home.
It is hard to be a Jew when being visibly Jewish feels risky.
It is hard to be a Jew when our grief is politicized, our identity misunderstood, our history ignored.
It is hard to be a Jew when the world asks us to choose between our values and our people — as if these were ever meant to be in conflict.
“S’iz shver tsu zayn a Yid – It is hard to be a Jew.”
The last time I visited Israel, I heard one Hebrew word with more frequency than ever before — in the streets, on the news, in restaurants, in Israeli schools and universities. That word is Bitachon – the Hebrew word for safety. And like other words in our ancient language, Bitachon can be understood in two ways: as physical safety and as emotional security (Sinclair, 2008).
in modern Hebrew, Bitachon refers to the extent Israel takes to ensure physical safety for those within its borders. For me, this extends to us – how we feel and fare in the present day; it is our lived experiences as Jews. The need for safety is a refrain that appears in every chapter of the Jewish narrative. Existential threats to the Jewish people are as old as Judaism itself. In recent years, we have witnessed a sharp increase in violence against Jews and Jewish communities worldwide. Synagogues have been desecrated, antisemitic vandalism is commonplace, and hate-filled online abuses threaten Jewish voices. When politics in Israel becomes tense, Jewish communities far from the conflict brace themselves for spikes in hate and the potential for physical harm.
Each generation has managed its physical safety in the face of antisemitism. In the Middle Ages, Jews stayed in their homes and rarely went out into the secular world. In the pre-modern period, Jews did the opposite and ventured into society – sometimes to the detriment of their Jewish identities. In America, assimilation encouraged Jews to explore new ways to practice Judaism and be proud Americans; however, for some, the opportunity to blend into American culture was an invitation to abandon Jewish life, and even convert to other religions. Less than 100 years ago, Hitler’s erroneous and dangerous racial designation of who was a Jew meant that Jews could no longer hide their Jewish identities – even in the absence of Jewish practice or identification. For the Nazis, a person who had one Jewish grandparent was Jewish. Period. In those terrible years, Judaism was no longer a choice or a birthright, it was in one’s bloodline, permanent and immutable.
For some, the Unetaneh Tokef is not mere metaphor, it tells the truth of our precarious lives.
“Mi yichyeh u’mi yamut… mi be’esh umi b’mayim.”
“Who shall live and who shall die… who by fire and who by water.”
A quip, sometimes credited to Franz Kafka and sometimes to Yehuda Amichai captures the sheer chutzpah it takes to live as a Jew: “The world is full of two kinds of people: those who say, ‘I am a Jew’ and those who do not.”
Though we live in a world of freedom and choice, we have seen how a Mezuzah on the doorpost or a Jewish star around one’s neck invite danger. I have spoken with people who have stopped wearing these external symbols of Jewish identity. Fearful, some parents now warn their children: “Do not say you are Jewish at school, especially in the cafeteria, at recess, and on the sports field.”
It takes the courage to be a Jew in a world where being Jewish is difficult.
“S’iz shver tsu zayn a Yid – It is hard to be a Jew.”
Which brings us to the second meaning of Bitachon – one that particularly resonates with us tonight on Erev Rosh Hashanah. In addition to physical safety, Bitachon stands for something different and deeper: it points to a sense of inner security that goes beyond the physical. This security cannot be accomplished through metal detectors, armed guards, or video cameras. Internal security is about trusting that we are protected spiritually in an uncertain world. It is the type of security that turns the notion of “S’iz shver tsu zayn a Yid – It is hard to be a Jew” – from a threat that instills fear, to a challenge that makes us stronger; a mindset that inspires faith.
Bitachon means being strong and resilient from the inside out – even when we may not be feeling it. Bitachon. Security. All Jewish history is contained in that word. We may not be able to see it or touch it, but it’s something to which we belong. This sort of security comes from the deep belief that true protection is covenantal and comes from a power greater than ourselves. Rabbi Asher Resnick of Aish HaTorah in Jerusalem writes:
“Bitachon means living in the world without being terrified of it” (Resnick, n.d.).
Not that our world today isn’t terrifying. It is. But because we choose not to surrender to the terror.
True security is not found in stronger walls—it is found in stronger relationships.
It is not about how many locks are on our doors, but whether we feel known and loved. We belong to a remarkable community. Absolute security is not found in guarding our stuff—but by safeguarding our hearts, our values, and one another. Security is about having the confidence to be joyously Jewish despite our vulnerability.
For 24 years, we felt exposed, unprotected when we took off our shoes at airports. Walking through airport security with our shoes on may not make us safer, but it can help us feel more grounded and self-assured. Shoes help us move through the world feeling complete and intact. They carry us during moments when we are tentative about taking the next step.
Jews and shoes share a long history. The myth of the Wandering Jew, dating back to the Middle Ages, was actually a cobbler who was forced to roam the earth shoeless. In Jewish history, the cobbler has come to represent “the Jewish people who are constantly on the edge of extinction.” The writer Dorit Yerushalmi explains that the shoemaker’s work is sacred: “Cobblers study the imprints of life on people’s shoes and repair them as well” (Yerushalmi, as cited in Lieberman, 2009).
Like our shoes, Judaism can feel heavy, cumbersome from time to time. We carry the burdens of the Jewish past, the collective responsibility, the generational trauma. Sometimes being Jewish embarrasses us. Yet at other times, the power of Bitachon — the inner security that comes from being a people that has survivied from antiquity — delights and animates us.
“S’iz shver tsu zayn a Yid – It is hard to be a Jew.”
No question. Yet, like the wanderer who keeps walking, step by step, we, too, carry on.
And in our movement forward, we find strength. Jewish communities discover strength in the very tension between vulnerability and confidence, between fleeting safety and authentic security. This is what makes Judaism difficult — and also, profoundly meaningful. Judaism is not just about protecting our lives; it is about elevating them.
Rosh Hashanah asks:
Where do you place your trust?
What grounds you when your foundation shakes?
How do you elevate life when your belief has cracks in it?
This is not about blind faith.
This is about the spiritual audacity to choose to be part of a people that never gives up.
To study, to protest, to create, to mourn, to sing, to pray — not because it is easy, but because it is sacred.
“S’iz shver tsu zayn a Yid – It is hard to be a Jew.”
In a sunny room, a wooden shoe rack held shoes of every kind—bright heels, rugged boots, cozy slippers. Each had a story to tell.
Tucked quietly among them was an old brown shoe. Its leather was scuffed, its sole worn thin. Unlike the others, it never boasted. It simply listened.
One day, a new sneaker asked, “Why are you so quiet?”
The old shoe smiled. “Every shoe has its time. I’m just resting now.”
The red heels laughed. “You’re just out of style!”
The old shoe didn’t respond. It remembered dancing in ballrooms, walking city streets, and all the miles it had seen.
Over time, the other shoes began to notice its quiet strength.
One morning, a girl named Emily picked it up. “Who did this belong to?”
Her mother replied, “Your great-grandfather. He wore it when he came to this country.”
Emily held it close. “Zayde’s shoe!”
That night, she gave it a special place on the rack. The other shoes listened quietly, now seeing the old shoe not as worn—but wise.
The red heels whispered, “We were wrong.”
The old shoe said nothing. It didn’t need to.
Its journey spoke for itself.
References
Aleichem, S. (1920). It’s hard to be a Jew. Yiddish Art Theatre, NY; Grand Palais Theatre, London.
Department of Homeland Security. (2025, July 8). DHS to End ‘shoes-off’ travel policy. https://www.tsa.gov/news/press/releases/2025/07/08/dhs-end-shoes-travel-policy
Jewish Federations of North America. (2025, July 22). Federations to Congress: Security costs our community $765 million a year. https://www.jewishfederations.org/blog/all/federations-to-congress-security-costs-our-community-765-million-a-year-496487
Lieberman, R. (2009, Feb/Mar). The Wandering Shoe: Jews and shoes. Bookforum. https://www.bookforum.com/print/1505/the-wandering-shoe-3275
Resnick, Rabbi A. (n.d.). Bitachon Part 1 – Should we always expect the best? OU Torah. https://outorah.org/p/114194/
‘Shoe bomber’ Richard Reid attempts to detonate bombs on Paris-Miami flight. (2025, May 28). History.com. https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/december-22/shoe-bomber-richard-reid-flight
Sinclair, Rabbi J. (2008, November 4). Jewish words: Bitachon. The Jewish Chronicle. https://www.thejc.com/judaism/jewish-words/bitachon-ofi83w4n