When I wrote my first piece about Nobody Wants This in Jewish News (December 2024), I analyzed its first season through the lens of the Argentine film Transmitzvah. In that essay, I highlighted how the film treated Judaism with humanity — characters who make mistakes, learn, and make difficult choices, yet are guided by belonging, community, and continuity. Nothing was reduced to a punchline. Judaism served as the emotional foundation of the story, even when conflicts were painful.
Nobody Wants This, on the other hand, left me deeply unsettled. Not because it dared to critique or portray imperfect characters, but because of how it ridiculed faith — as if every Jewish practice were an obstacle to “modern” freedom.
When the second season was announced, I’ll admit I hoped for redemption. Maybe the writers had heard the criticism. Maybe the protagonist would grow. Maybe — just maybe — the portrayal of Rabbi Noah would move beyond caricature. I was wrong. The second season keeps its mocking tone and, worse, amplifies its dismissal of what is most sacred in Jewish tradition.
The series continues to push a shallow romantic premise: a “free,” emotionally adrift woman without solid values suffers because she isn’t fully loved by a man who embodies everything she rejects — responsibility, purpose, limits, faith. The protagonist, Joanne, seems unable to see beyond her own longing.
There’s a telling moment in the season. Noah has dinner with his family every Friday night to celebrate Shabbat — something natural, grounding, and essential. Joanne confronts him: “Isn’t that a lot of pressure? Having this commitment every week?”
Pressure? Having your family gathered once a week around a table, with candles, blessings, bread, conversation, and belonging? I would give anything to have my family with me, week after week, around a Shabbat table. What the show portrays as oppression is, for many of us, a virtue — a safe harbor, a root.
This contrast brings to mind Keeping the Faith (2000), directed by Edward Norton and starring Ben Stiller, Edward Norton, and Jenna Elfman. Not because both stories feature rabbis, but because they take opposite approaches to representing Judaism.
Though Keeping the Faith is a lighthearted Hollywood romantic comedy, it understands something Nobody Wants This does not: respect. In the film, Rabbi Jake (Stiller) and Father Brian (Norton) fall in love with their childhood friend Anna (Elfman). The script never mocks their spiritual commitments. The dilemmas are real — faith versus desire, tradition versus modernity — but the humor never comes at the expense of religious dignity.
The audience can laugh and still see that these men carry something greater than personal preferences — they carry vocation. Rabbi Jake’s struggles with faith, love, and community are portrayed with warmth and depth. Spirituality isn’t a prop; it’s part of who he is. The film’s humor arises from human vulnerability, not from belittling religion.
In Nobody Wants This, however, the rabbi is portrayed as confused and infantilized, torn between his “real life” and the woman who awakens his libido. Everything about him is treated with suspicion — but never in an honest or philosophical way. His doubts aren’t moral; they’re comedic. Faith isn’t a pillar; it’s an obstacle. Tradition isn’t structure; it’s a punchline.
Meanwhile, Joanne becomes the “heroine” — misunderstood, victimized by a system that supposedly won’t let her “be herself.” Many viewers side with her by default. That’s the emotional language of our time: “poor thing, she just wants love.”
The rabbi, in contrast, is labeled rigid, radical, or inflexible. Why? Because he chooses to maintain spiritual integrity. Because he believes in practice and boundaries. Because he understands that values are not accessories.
Maybe I’m biased. Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe I’m proudly exaggerating. But I’ll say it: I’m team Noah.
I once gave an interview alongside other rabbis’ wives. When asked about family life, some women said their husbands “worked as rabbis.” I responded, “My husband doesn’t work as a rabbi. He lives as a rabbi.”
That simple distinction changes everything.
Being a rabbi isn’t a costume you wear by day and remove at night. It’s not a job; it’s a way of life — a covenant with tradition, a responsibility to the community, and a commitment to one’s soul. Some choices don’t fit in the “whatever works” category. Some dilemmas can’t be reconciled — not because of a lack of openness, but because certain commitments shape every step we take.
Faith is not a supporting character. It is not the antagonist of love. It is not the villain of Jewish daily life.
When contemporary narratives fail to understand that, they don’t just offend us — they diminish the human and spiritual experience of millions.
I don’t know if another season will come — and honestly, I no longer expect redemption. But I still believe entertainment can portray Jewish life with nuance, depth, and humanity. Nobody Wants This simply chose not to.
Pati Menda Oliszewski and her husband, Rabbi Ari Oliszewski, live with their family in Virginia Beach. They moved to the area in 2023.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of “Jewish News”.