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The ‘Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret’ movie is a dated view of intermarriage
(JTA) — After watching “Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret” with one of my grandchildren, I’m very concerned that the thousands of tweens and teens who watch the movie will accept, as true, its very negative message about religion in general, and interfaith marriage in particular.
The movie is based on a book Judy Blume wrote in 1970, a long time ago. That date does flash on the screen when the movie begins, but it’s easy to forget that you’re watching a story based on things as they were over 50 years ago. The movie’s treatment of puberty, pre-teens kissing and mean girls ages well, although I’m no expert on those issues.
But the ways people experience interfaith marriage and religion today are very different.
The most dramatic part of the story is how Margaret’s Christian mother’s parents cut off contact with her when she married Margaret’s Jewish father — and had no contact with their granddaughter for 12 years.
It’s true that even today some non-Orthodox Jews react very harshly if their children fall in love with someone who is not Jewish. That definitely happened more in the 1970s, when there was not yet much interfaith marriage and the taboo against it was still high. My mother’s father literally sat shiva when a first cousin of mine intermarried in the 1960s.
When I married in 1974, my parents were unhappy that my wife was Christian, and while my wife’s parents never said anything, we learned much later that her father was unhappy that I was Jewish.
But they all put love of their family over those preferences, and they all had very loving relationships with our Jewish children.
Both of our children married partners from different faith backgrounds; I am pretty sure that our Christian machatunim (their spouses’ parents) were as delighted with these marriage choices as we were. Our grandchildren are adored by their two Jewish grandparents and two from different faith backgrounds.
I am afraid that the tweens and teens who watch the movie will not understand that its depiction of parents cutting off contact with their children for marrying someone from a different religion has fading relevance in our world today. As far back as 2000, an American Jewish Committee study found that 56% of American Jews did not oppose interfaith marriage and 80% said it was inevitable in an open society. The most recent Pew study of Jewish Americans found that only 22% of Jews said it was very important that their grandchildren marry Jews.
Meanwhile, Pew found that the number of Americans who have a spouse from a different religious group than their own rose from 19% who wed before 1960 to 39% who wed after 2010 — suggesting taboos have fallen among non-Jews as well.
Viewers of the movie won’t understand that people realize now that giving up connection with children and grandchildren deprives one of so much love, it’s just not worth doing.
The second largely out-of-date part of the story is how Margaret’s parents do not practice any religion — they don’t celebrate Christmas or Hanukkah — and tell Margaret she can pick a religion when she’s an adult. Margaret is clearly curious about religious matters — after all, as the title says, she’s always trying to talk to God.
I’m afraid that kids who watch the movie will not understand that today it is rare for Jewish-Christian couples to decide not to have any religion in their lives. The recent Pew study found that 57% of interfaith couples raise their children as Jewish only; that may include celebrating Christian holidays in a not-religious way, or it may not. The study found that 12% of parents raise their children partly Jewish and partly another religion. Some 30% do not raise their children Jewish at all; they may be raised Christian only, maybe with or without Jewish holidays, or with no religion at all.
There’s no suggestion in the movie that for Jewish-Christian interfaith families like Margaret’s, engaging in a religious community — whether Jewish, Christian, or both — can be a profound source of meaning and connection. Instead, the message is that religion is boring and confusing. In the movie’s synagogue scene, everything is unfamiliar to Margaret because she had no prior experience, and incomprehensible because all in Hebrew. I’m afraid that kids who watch the movie will have no idea that Jewish worship services can be lively and meaningful — even with lots of Hebrew.
The dramatic climax of the movie is a scene in which the Christian grandparents show up to say that Margaret should be baptized. They’ve had no contact with her for 12 years. The Jewish grandmother’s declaration that Margaret is Jewish because she went to services once is equally ridiculous. In over twenty-five years working with and studying interfaith families, I almost never encountered this kind of conflict. I’m afraid viewers won’t understand that this kind of fighting over a granddaughter’s religious identity — instead of respecting her parents’ decisions about religion — thankfully is very rare.
Fiction seems to need conflict. There is a paucity of positive messaging about interfaith families being happily engaged in fulfilling religious communities with supportive grandparents. Perhaps those stories wouldn’t sell — but they are the reality for so many interfaith families. It is very unfortunate that this movie will leave tween and teen viewers — especially those from interfaith families — questioning that reality.
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A 19-Year Name vs. 3,000 Years of History: Judea vs. ‘West Bank’
The Jewish community of Beit El in Judea and Samaria. Photo: Yaakov via Wikimedia Commons.
Read a story about Israel from almost any major news outlet and you’ll see the same convention: “West Bank,” stated as fact, and “Judea and Samaria” treated as controversial.
In fact, these outlets all treat “Judea and Samaria” as a label used by Israel, often with a caveat that it is “biblical,” “right wing” or even “far-right.”
One term is presented as neutral. The other arrives with a warning. That is not linguistic housekeeping. It is a political choice, often made in a conscious way that reshapes history.
“West Bank” is a directional term. It describes where the land sits relative to the Jordan River. It was coined in 1949 by the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan after its army crossed the river in 1948, seized the territory as part of the Arab League’s declared war to annihilate Israel, and later annexed it. East Bank, West Bank. It is a geographic label attached to a military and political act. Jordan’s 1950 annexation was recognized by only a handful of countries and never produced a Palestinian state.
“Judea and Samaria” are not modern inventions, and they are not merely “biblical” in the dismissive sense often implied.
They are the names by which this region was known across centuries of rule, from antiquity through successive empires. They appear in ancient records, persist through administrative usage, and reflect a continuous historical vocabulary.
Even the 1947 UN Partition Plan — the plan that proposed to create the first independent Arab state in the Holy Land — referred to this area as the “hill country of Samaria and Judea” in describing the territory proposed for this new Arab state.
One can debate the modern implications of that 3,000+ years of history. One cannot plausibly claim it is recent, or invented.
Yet for the media, a term born of a 19-year Jordanian occupation following an offensive war becomes the unmarked standard. A name used across millennia is treated as ideological.
That inversion is not limited to vocabulary. It reflects a broader pattern in how the Arab-Israeli conflict has been framed since at least 1947: history is compressed, revised, or ignored, and cause and effect are routinely severed.
Start with 1947. The UN proposed partition into a Jewish state and an Arab state. Jewish leadership accepted the plan despite its limits and the British creation in 1921 of the Arab Kingdom of Transjordan out of almost 80% of the territory originally allotted after 1917 for the British Mandate for Palestine.
The local Arab leadership rejected the 1947 UN Partition Plan and chose war. That decision matters. It explains why the map did not follow the proposal — and why there is no Arab state today.
Yet in much contemporary coverage, that sequence disappears. The rejection of what would have been an independent Arab state –- in close to 80% of the arable land west of the Jordan River — followed by a multi-state war aimed at destroying the nascent Jewish state — is flattened into a vague “conflict” with outcomes detached from their cause.
Move to 1948–1967. Jordan controlled what it called the “West Bank,” while Egypt controlled Gaza. No Palestinian state was created in either territory. There was no serious effort to create one. That absence is rarely emphasized, though it is central to claims about what the conflict has always been “about.”
Then there is June, 1967. Israel took control of Judea and Samaria, and Gaza, because its neighbors tried to wage a war to destroy it and kill or subjugate all its Jewish residents. However one evaluates the legal debates that followed, the sequence is not credibly in dispute. Yet retellings often begin later, presenting outcomes without any reference to the threats and actions that produced them.
None of this resolves the conflict. But it does something more basic. It restores sequence. It places events back in order and returns language to its context.
That context is what is lost when “West Bank” is treated as neutral, while “Judea and Samaria” is treated as suspect or extreme.
In other regions, imposed modern labels — often by conquerors — are distinguished from older ones. Here, that instinct disappears. The origin of the dominant term is rarely mentioned. Its recency is almost never acknowledged. A label from the mid-20th century is presented as if it were timeless. It is not.
The question is not which term must be used. It is whether the current asymmetry can be defended as neutral. A 19-year name replaced 3,000 years. The least we can do is acknowledge that before arguing about what it means.
Micha Danzig is an attorney, former IDF soldier, and former NYPD officer. He writes widely on Israel, Zionism, antisemitism, and Jewish history. He serves on the board of Herut North America.
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Words of rescue: Yermiyahu Ahron Taub’s new book of poetry
עס זײַנען דאָ פּאָעטן װאָס זײַנען נבֿיאים, ווי למשל משה קולבאַק און חיים־נחמן ביאַליק. פֿאַראַן פּאָעטן פֿילאָסאָפֿן, װי עמילי דיקינסאָן אָדער אַהרן צײטלין. און טײל פּאָעטן זײַנען קינסטלער פֿון אימזאַש, װי רחל פֿישמאַן. זעלטן װען אָבער זעט מען אַ פּאָעט, װאָס איז מסוגל דורך זײַנע לידער צו באַלעבן אָדער באַװױנען עטלעכע פּערזענלעכקײטן, פּאַרשױנען, און דערבײַ אױפֿצובױען אַ גאַלעריע פֿון פֿאַרשײדענע מענטשן־טיפּן.
דער פּאָעט איז אָפֿט מאָל אַ שרײַבער פֿון ליריק, דאָס הײסט, פֿערזן װאָס װערן אַרױסגעזאָגט פֿון אַ געװיסן „איך“ װען לידער זײַנען אינטערעסאַנט, װיל מען הערן אַלץ מער פֿונעם „איך“. נאָר אַ פּאָעט װאָס קען באַשילדערן פֿאַרשײדענע פֿיגורן טוט אױף עפּעס ברײטערס.
אין זײַן נײַסטן ביכל פּאָעזיע, „עלות־הלילה אױפֿן בױדעם,“ שטעלט ירמיהו אַהרן טאַוב פֿאָר סײַ קאָמפּאָזיציעס פֿון לירישן „איך“, אַ נאַראַטאָר װאָס איז אין געװיסע אַספּעקטן ענלעך צו טאַובן אַלײן, סײַ דיכטונגען פֿון אַנדערע װעלטן, גאַסן און געגנטן. דאָס אַלץ טוט ער אין פֿאַרשײדענע זשאַנערס (לידער, פּראָזע־מיניאַטורן) און פֿאַרשײדענע שפּראַכן: נישט נאָר ענגליש מיט ייִדיש, נאָר אױך (אין אײן פֿאַל) ענגליש צוזאַמענגעפֿלאָכט מיט לשן־קודש.
לײענערס װאָס זײַנען שױן באַקאַנט מיט טאַובס װערק װעלן דאָ דערקענען פֿריִערדיקע מאָטיװן, װאָס זײַנען עיִקר־טעמעס פֿאַרן דאָזיקן מחבר. ער איז דער מײַסער־פּאָרטרעטיסט פֿון סעקסועלע דערװאַכונג, אַנטױשטן באַגער (סײַ רעליגיעזער, סײַ קערפּעלערכער), ריסן צװישן דורות, פֿאַרװעלקטער פֿרומקײט. נאָר זיכער האָט מען שױן אין אַנדערע קאָנטעקטן באַרירט די פֿאַרבינדונגען צװישן „קװירשאַפֿט“, אָפּגעפֿאָרנקײט פֿון פֿרומען דרך, און ייִדיש, װי טעמעס פֿון פּאָעזיע און ליטעראַטור בכלל. די דאָזיקע צװישנשײדן זײַנען גאָר װיכטיק פֿאַר טאַובס שאַפֿונגען.
באַזונדערש רירנדיק דאָ זײַנען די בילדער פֿון משפּחה־רײַבונגען, פֿון באַגעגענישן װאָס ברענגען נישט צו קײן עמאָציאָנעלע פֿאַרשטענדיקונגען.
אין אײנעם אַ ליד טרעפֿן מיר דעם נאַראַטאָרס פֿאָטער, אַ פֿרומען ייִד, װאָס סע װילט זיך אים גאָר שטאַרק לערנען זײַן קינד װי אַזױ צו װאַרפֿן אַ בײסבאָל. צום באַדױערן, טױג דאָס קינד צו דעם אַזױ פֿיל װי ער טױג צו לערנען — דאָס הײסט, גאַנץ שװאַך.
די זעלבע פֿיגור, דער פֿרומער פֿאָטער װאָס איז נישט צופֿרידן מיט זײַן אָפּגעפֿאָרענעם קינד, באַװײַזט זיך אין נאָך עטלעכע לידער אין באַנד, אַלע מאָל אין הינטערגרונד, בעטנדיק נאָך אַ קדיש, נאָך אַ בלאַט גמרא, כאָטש אַ מנחה, און אַלע מאָל דעם שטױס נאָך פּרו־ורבֿו. דער נאַראַטאָר, װידער, פֿאַרצײכנט זײַנע פֿאָטערס באַגערן. זײַנע אײגענע באַגערן ליגן אָבער ערגעץ אַנדערש.
טאַוב פֿאַרברײטערט אָפֿט זײַן קוק צו באַקענען אונדז מיט אַנדערע פּאַרשױנען: פֿרױען אין פֿאַרשלאָפֿענע שטעטלעך, ערשטמאָליקע „גײ“־ליבע־באַגעגענישן, אױסשטאַרבנדיקע מנינים. אױך חיות באַלעבט ער אין זײַנע פֿערזן:
די װילדע קאַץ װאָס האָסט געראַטעװעט פֿונעם הינטערגעסל
קאָרטשעט זיך, אומרויִק אונטערן גלעט פֿון דײַן האַנט,
ניט אין שטאַנד אױסצוהאַלטן, ניט אין שטאַנד זיך אַװעקצודרײען פֿון אַזאַ הנאָה.“
אַ באַמערקונג װעגן שפּראַך: װי אין זײַנע פֿריִערדיקע ביכלעך, װערן דאָ אַרײַנגענומען לידער אױף ענגליש און אױף ייִדיש. די ייִדיש־נוסחאות זײַנען אַלע מאָל באַגלײגט מיט פּאַראַלעלע ענגלישע װערסיעס. (איך דערלױב זיך דאָ אַ פּאָר אײדעלע טענות װעגן די גרײַזן װאָס זײַנען אַרײַנגעפֿאַלן אין די ייִדישע טעקסטן, און דאָס, װאָס טײל פֿון די ייִדיש־װערסיעס װערן געדרוקט אין קלענערע אותיות פֿון די ענגלישע.)
מע װאָלט דאָ געקענט זיך אַרײַנלאָזן אין אַ לענגערער דיסקוסיע װעגן די באַציִונגען פֿון די דאָזיקע װערסיעס. זײ זײַנען איבערזעצונגען אײנס פֿון אַנדערן, נאָר אױך אינטערפּרעטאַציעס. די ייִדישע לידער זײַנען (װאָדען?) מער אַדורכגעדרונגען מיט דער דראַמע װאָס באַגלײגט דאָס גאַנץ ביכל: די רײַבונגען צװישן דעם טראַדיציאָנעלן לעבן־שטײגער, פֿול מיטן שטרענגען דין, און דער בענקשאַפֿט פֿון דעם נאַראַטאָר, אַן אָפּגעפֿאָרענער װאָס װיל זיכער נישט זיך אומקערן, און פֿאָרט בענקט זיך אַהין. אינעם ליד „מילך־און־האָניקדיקע לבֿנה־האַרבסטונג“ לײענט זיך אַ ביסל טרוקן די ענגלישע שורה And, in that way, the Day of Rest lived up to its name
בשעת דאָס ייִדישע „און אַזױ טאַקע האָט דער יום־מנוחה אונדז נישט אַנטױשט“ גיט איבער אױף אַ קלאָרן אױפֿן װעגן װאָסער מין רו גײט דאָ די רײד.
איך האָב דאָ באַװיזן איבערצוגעבן נאָר אױפֿן שפּיץ מעסער די טעמאַטיק פֿון די דאָזיקע לידער. כאָטש טאַוב, בדרך־כּלל, גיט די בכורה עמאָציעס און געפֿילן, נישט קאָנסטאַטירונגען און אידעאָלאָגיעס, איז דאָס ביכל נישט קיין אומפּאָליטישע. פֿאַרקערט, די (ענגלישע) לידער „דער אָפּרו פֿון אַקטיװיסט“ און „פּערמאַנענטער אײַנװױנער, אָן קײן גרינעם קאַרטל“ גיבן איבער אױף אַ האַרץ־רײַסנדיקן אופֿן, װי זײערע טיטלען זאָגן אָן, די אָנשטרענגען און קאָמפּראָמיסן פֿון הײַנטיקן פּאָליטישן מאָמענט.
לױט מײַן מיינונג ווערט דאָס ביכל אָרגאַניזירט מיטן דראַמאַטישן בױגן פֿון אַ מענטשלעכן לעבן, פֿון ענגלישן ליד „דאָס ליכט בײַם אָנהײב טונעל“, אין אָנהײב, ביזן לעצטן ליד „צום סוף“, װאָס װענדט זיך צום לײענער אַזױ:
װען איך גײ אַװעק,
רײַס ניט די קלײדער,
און טראָג ניט קײן שװאַרץ,
באַהאַלט ניט דעם שפּיגל….
זײַ נישט קײן אָבֿל אין גאַנצן.
„װען איך גײ אַװעק,“ זאָגט דער נאַראַטאָר, „מאַך פֿאַר זיך אַ שׂימחה.“
נאָכן געזעגענען זיך מיטן דאָזיקן ביכל, װינטשט מען דעם מחבר נאָך לאַנגע יאָרן פֿון דער שׂימחה פֿון שאַפֿן נאָך טיף־גרײכנדיקע און פֿילעװדיקע מעדיטאַציעס װעגן לעבן און טױט, פֿרומקײט און װעלטלעכקײט, סעקס און ליבשאַפֿט, „קװיר“־ און העטעראָ־אידענטיטעט.
אין „געבעט“, דאָס סאַמע ערשטע ליד, װענדט זיך דער פֿאָטער צום נאַראַטאָר: „דער טאַטע רופֿט מיך צו היטן שבת“, צו דאַװנען, צו לערנען, זאַכן װאָס דער נאַראַטאָר װיל נישט, איז נישט מסוגל צו טאָן. קומט דער פּאָעט צום אױספֿיר אַז „נאָר די װערטער קענען מיך ראַטעװען.“
אַ בעסערע װעלטלעכע תּפֿילה קען נישט זײַן. הלװאַי אױף אונדז אַלעמען געזאָגט געוואָרן.
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Israel, US condemn Belgium over planned prosecutions tied to Jewish circumcisions
(JTA) — A diplomatic spat erupted on Wednesday after Belgian prosecutors moved to charge two Jewish men tied to ritual circumcisions, prompting Israeli and U.S. officials to accuse Belgium of targeting Jews for practicing their faith.
Gideon Saar, Israel’s minister of foreign affairs, lit into the country in a post on X Wednesday morning, calling the indictments a “scarlet letter on Belgian society.”
“With this act Belgium joins a short and shameful list, together with Ireland, of countries that use criminal law to prosecute Jews for practicing Judaism,” Saar wrote, later calling circumcision a “cornerstone of Jewish faith” and urging the Belgian government to “act immediately and to find a solution.”
Saar’s condemnation was quickly joined by the U.S. ambassador to Belgium, Bill White, who had previously called on Belgium to drop the “ridiculous and antisemitic” investigation of mohels in February.
“This is a shameful stain on Belgium,” White wrote in a post on X. “The prosecution of these religious figures (mohels), one of whom is American, is WRONG and won’t be tolerated. Belgium will be thought of now as anti Semitic by world. Until this is resolved – there is no way around it.”
White, a President Donald Trump appointee who faced criticism for amplifying social media posts by a far-right Belgian political activist convicted of racism and Holocaust denial, added that the “Trump Administration condemns this judicial action” and called on the Belgian government to “work with the Jewish leaders and communities to find a certification solution immediately.”
The condemnation by White and Saar comes after the Antwerp Public Prosecutor’s Office announced that it intends to prosecute two Jewish men on charges related to performing circumcisions, a practice that is required by law to be performed by licensed medical professionals in Belgium.
Last year, Belgian authorities raided multiple sites, including two in Antwerp’s Jewish Quarter, at the beginning of an investigation into illegal circumcisions. Investigators also requested lists of children who had recently been circumcised, according to VRT NWS, the Flemish public broadcaster.
But the sharp criticism by the two leaders was later dismissed by Belgian Foreign Minister Maxime Prévot, who wrote in a reply to White’s post that it was “inappropriate to publicly criticize a country and tarnish its image simply because you disagree with judicial proceedings.”
“I recall that the proceedings in question were initiated by representatives of the Jewish community themselves,” Prévot continued. “To portray those as a country’s desire to undermine the religious freedom of Jews is defamatory. This freedom has never been called into question and never will be in our country. Our Constitution protects it. And it is not for an ambassador to dictate the government’s agenda.”
In response to Saar’s post, Prévot wrote, “Enough with these caricatures.”
“Since you yourself recently urged against conducting diplomacy via Twitter, I suggest that we discuss all these issues during a meeting in Israel at a time that suits you best, in order to put an end to any misinterpretations,” Prévot continued.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
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