I'm Jewish, so I don't know much about Easter eggs.

The words of Simon Kinberg—“I’m Jewish, so I don’t know much about Easter eggs”—though spoken in jest, hold within them the subtle wisdom of identity, humility, and cultural distance. Beneath their humor lies a profound reminder of how the symbols that shape one people’s joy may be foreign to another, and how awareness of our difference can be both enlightening and unifying. Kinberg, a filmmaker and storyteller, speaks from a place where art meets heritage, where one must navigate the interplay between personal faith and the shared myths of the larger world. In acknowledging what he does not know, he reminds us of something essential: that knowledge begins with humility, and that understanding others often starts with an honest awareness of what is unfamiliar.

In its literal sense, the quote is a light-hearted reflection on cultural symbols—in this case, the Easter egg, a universal emblem of renewal, resurrection, and rebirth within the Christian tradition. Kinberg, by contrast, identifies himself with Judaism, a faith that carries its own sacred symbols, rituals, and festivals, each rich with meaning but distinct from Easter’s imagery. The remark thus becomes a subtle meditation on the boundaries and intersections of culture—how the stories, customs, and celebrations that define one faith can appear mysterious or even strange to those raised outside it. Yet rather than speaking from ignorance or exclusion, Kinberg’s tone is one of gentle amusement, showing that to recognize difference is not to divide—it is to appreciate the vastness of human tradition.

The origin of the “Easter egg,” both in religion and art, traces back to the dawn of spring itself. Long before Christianity, the egg symbolized life’s renewal in ancient Persia, Egypt, and Rome. In Christian belief, it became a metaphor for the Resurrection of Christ—the sealed shell representing the tomb, and its breaking the triumph of life over death. Over centuries, this symbol transcended religion to enter the world of storytelling and entertainment. In modern art and film, an “Easter egg” has come to mean a hidden message or secret detail—something placed deliberately to reward the observant. Thus, when Kinberg, a writer and producer famed for his work on the X-Men and Star Wars franchises, says he “doesn’t know much about Easter eggs,” his words take on a double meaning: both a humorous nod to his Jewish upbringing and a sly play on the cinematic term itself.

Yet beyond its cleverness, the quote carries an ancient resonance. It reminds us that the world is woven from countless threads of belief, each colored by time, geography, and history. To say “I don’t know much” is not an admission of ignorance, but an invitation to learn—to peer beyond one’s own heritage and behold the beauty of others’. It recalls the story of Moses, raised as an Egyptian prince, who only through understanding his own Hebrew identity could lead his people to freedom. His journey was one of cultural awakening, moving between worlds, learning to see with both the eyes of an insider and an outsider. Likewise, Kinberg’s remark, though humorous, captures that duality of modern existence: the ability to belong deeply to one culture while still navigating a global stage filled with others.

There is also a quiet humility in his words. In an age where people often pretend to know everything, Kinberg’s simple confession—“I don’t know much about…”—is a model of sincerity. It reflects the wisdom of the ancients, who taught that true knowledge begins not with mastery, but with curiosity. Socrates, the philosopher who shaped the moral thought of civilizations, declared that “the only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” Kinberg’s jest echoes this same truth. It reminds us that acknowledging the limits of one’s experience opens the door to empathy, learning, and genuine dialogue between peoples.

The lesson within his words is thus twofold. First, that every culture possesses symbols sacred to its own heart, and understanding them is a path toward mutual respect. And second, that identity—be it Jewish, Christian, Muslim, or otherwise—need not confine one’s capacity to appreciate the world. The one who admits what he does not know stands ready to learn; the one who laughs at his own unfamiliarity shows strength, not weakness. In this way, Kinberg’s humor becomes wisdom—it bridges difference not through debate, but through grace.

So let his words be remembered not merely as a quip about faith and film, but as a quiet teaching for the modern age. In a world divided by misunderstanding, may we, like him, learn to speak with honesty and lightness, to admit where our knowledge ends, and to reach toward one another with curiosity instead of judgment. For though we may not all share the same symbols—though some may not know much about Easter eggs, or others about Passover’s matzah, or Ramadan’s crescent moon—we all share the same desire: to understand, to belong, and to create meaning together beneath the vast sky of human experience.