Welcome back to The Weekend Press! Today’s is a New Year’s edition. Suzy Weiss is looking back on the big cultural trends of 2025. Abigail Shrier has advice on how to cope when someone you love is doing something you hate. And Elliot Ackerman tells you how to dress fancy ahead of New Year’s Eve.
But first, we’re handing the mic to R.R. Reno, the devoutly Catholic editor of “First Things”—who has written us a gorgeous essay about his interfaith marriage:
Juliana’s rabbi could not officiate our wedding. This was a few decades ago, and in those days, very few rabbis would marry a Jew to a Christian, or indeed anyone of another faith. So, our wedding ceremony took place in the Church of the Redeemer in Baltimore, the Episcopal parish where I grew up, on a cold night in late December.
My mother-in-law was horrified when she visited the venue the day before the wedding. “How can you be married there?” she asked Juliana. “There’s a huge stained-glass window of Jesus!”
“Mom,” Juliana replied. “I’m getting married at 5 p.m. on the shortest day of the year. It will be dark.”
And so began our interfaith marriage, which is still going strong after 39 years. Juliana and I have both become more religious, more observant, more devout. I won’t pretend that it’s easy to believe different things. But it is a precious thing, a very precious thing, to have a partner who takes religion seriously.
Even if there are some compromises, and a little confusion for our kids.
Some years ago, when Santa paid a visit to our kids’ preschool, our daughter Rachel happily sat on his lap to whisper her gift requests. But on the drive home, she squirmed with worry: “Mom, don’t tell Santa that I’m Jewish.”
Juliana replied: “Sweetheart, if Santa knows when you are sleeping and knows when you’re awake, then he certainly knows that you are Jewish.”
At times like this, I’ll find myself thinking: God can write straight with crooked lines. Perhaps my story will have you thinking the same thing.
—R.R. Reno
When Sydney Sweeney was called a racist for an awkward “jeans” pun, what did she do? She declined to apologize. When Sabrina Carpenter was accused of objectifying herself for posing on her hands and knees, what did she do? She told America: “Y’all need to get out more.” This is the year celebrity apologies died, writes Suzy Weiss, in her roundup of 2025’s big cultural shifts. (It’s also the year every single bit of Oscar bait flopped, and the year Suzy started using AI every day.)
Elliot Ackerman was 30 the first time he put on a tuxedo—and he was so clueless that he ended up using a pair of paper clips for cuff links. Now, he’s written a column to help young men facing the sartorial challenge that is the tux. Read it, delight in it, then send it to your son, brother, or nephew.
This festive season, tell us: Which relative’s life choices do you find yourself most disagreeing with? The sibling who works for a company you think is doing bad things? The parent who votes differently than you? For reader Julia, it’s her brother—who doesn’t believe in vaccinating his kids. She wrote to Abigail Shrier to ask if she should cut him off because of his “unsafe choices.” Our advice columnist did not hold back in her reply.
If, after all this time with your family, you also need some Tough Love from Abigail Shrier—send her a note! If you’re a paying subscriber, write to her here; if not, subscribe today.
We’ve published plenty of other pieces this week that’ll distract you from the in-laws:
How should you spend the last weekend of 2025? Our features editor Dana Schuster has some ideas. . .
👀 See . . . Honestly, don’t see anyone. Don’t go anywhere. Everyone is sick. The flu, norovirus, Covid-19. Save yourself! Become a recluse. You’ll be in fine form for New Year’s Eve.
🍳 Eat . . . My friend recently had me over for a suburban confab and took what looked like whipped cream and sprayed it into my coffee. I was shocked, confused, and, ultimately, enamored. I asked her to text me a photo of the bottle. It was Silk Cold Foam Creamer in the maple brown sugar flavor. I’ve been thinking about it a lot since, have yet to purchase it, but plan to. It’s said to be quite addicting. I feel a little bad cheating on my handy splash of 1 percent milk. (Yes, real milk!) But ’tis the holiday season.
📺 Watch . . . The days are cold and dreary and nothing says pick-me-up like some beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes in beautiful locations. Emily in Paris is a palate cleanser for the winter doldrums, and I personally am rooting for her to land with the charming Italian cashmere heir, because, well, free wardrobe for life, girl!
That’s all, folks! Tell us what you think about this edition of The Weekend Press—or just tell us what you’re doing for New Year’s; we’re at Weekend@TheFP.com.
No, it's not "real milk," that's 4%, whole: "handy splash of 1 percent milk. (Yes, real milk!)." Although I suppose 1% is relatively better than the abominable chalky liquid substance called "skim." If one must be alive, why not actually live--and enjoy eating and drinking as God intended.