Friday, April 25th, 2025

Saturday, April 26th, 2025

Sunday, April 27th, 2025

I read fairy tales to my kids all the time, so I figured I’d try writing one myself. I’m a bit embarrassed to share it—I really want it to be good (or at least decent), but I’m not sure it is.

Here’s what I do know: if I don’t post it now, it’ll probably sit in my drafts until I forget it even exists. But if I share it publicly, I’ll have to own it—and that makes it way more likely I’ll keep editing until I’m happy with it, maybe even write more.

So if you’re up for it, I’d love your feedback. Critiques, suggestions, or just letting me know what you liked—it all helps. Thanks for reading.

One morning, his mother—the Queen—kissed his brow and knelt to look him in the eyes. She wore her cloak of sapphire and silver, and her voice was steady but kind. “I must go away for three days, my love,” she said. “There are matters in the outer provinces that need my attention. While I’m gone, stay within the garden walls. Speak only with the wind, the birds, and those who belong here. Everything you need is here at home. And above all, do not wander into the dark wood.”

Then she rose, mounted her horse, and rode out through the castle gates, her cloak trailing like a ribbon of blue light.

That first morning, after the Queen had left, Peter found himself near the edge of the royal gardens. The trees of the dark woods stood just beyond the wall, tall and still, their trunks fading into shadow.

He knew he shouldn’t. He could almost hear his mother’s voice: Stay within the garden walls, my love... But the air felt different—cooler, quieter. And then, on the breeze, he heard it: a female voice, low and lilting, like a lullaby she was singing to herself, not meant for anyone to hear.

“Give me your eyes, and I’ll show you the stars.
Give me your heart, and I’ll sing you to sleep.
Give me your name, and you’ll never be hungry again.”

Peter stopped. The voice was soft, but close.

“Who’s there?” he whispered. No one answered. Only the leaves stirred.

His feet moved before he realized—one step, then another, as if the trees were pulling him forward. The garden wall faded behind him. The light dimmed. Shadows thickened. And then, between two trunks, he saw her. Cloaked in sapphire and silver, her face just visible in the dappled gloom. It was her—it had to be. His mother.

“Mother?” he called, relief blooming in his chest. He ran toward her.

She turned and smiled. Her voice was soft and sweet, but it clung to him, sticky and strange.

“Dearest,” she said, bending low, “give me your eyes, and I’ll show you the stars. The world is so dark, and you deserve to see its wonders as I do.”

For a moment, Peter wanted to believe her. But something in her face didn’t sit right, like a song played with one wrong note. Her shadow stretched the wrong way, and her breath smelled of rust.

He froze. The warmth draining from his body.

“You are not my Mother,” he said slowly. “And my Father is the King”

Her face began to blur, like the surface of a pond just after something moved through it. The blue of her cloak faded to dull gray, and her eyes lost their shine, darkening to something flat and cold. Then, without a word, she turned and slipped away into the wind, as if she had never been there at all.

The next morning, Peter sat beneath the old maple tree at the center of the garden, staring at the grass, twisting a fallen leaf between his fingers. “Did I dream it?” he asked aloud. “Did I imagine the woods? The Woman? The song?” The garden made no reply. Maybe he had fallen asleep by the wall. Maybe it had all been a strange sort of dream. He was just starting to believe that—when he heard it again. The same strange tune, drifting from the trees.

“Give me your eyes, and I’ll show you the stars.
Give me your heart, and I’ll sing you to sleep.
Give me your name, and you’ll never be hungry again.”

Before he realized it, Peter had stepped beyond the garden wall, drawn deep into the dark wood—as though his feet belonged to someone else, as though another will entirely guided his steps—until he found himself standing beneath the crooked elm, where she waited. Her silver robe hung limp and wet, her hair tangled with leaf and moss. Her hands were folded, and her voice, when she spoke, was barely more than a breath.

“Poor boy,” she murmured, not looking at him. “Give me your heart, and I’ll sing you to sleep.”

Peter felt drowsiness wash over him, tempting him to surrender—but then he shook himself awake, eyes clearing.

“You are not my mother,” he said firmly, “and my Father is the King.”

The witch's gentle expression twisted into a disappointed frown, and without another word, she faded into the shadows, leaving only silence behind.

On the third day, the witch returned, her enchanting song luring Peter back into the dark forest.

“Give me your eyes, and I’ll show you the stars.
Give me your heart, and I’ll sing you to sleep.
Give me your name, and you’ll never be hungry again.”

I recently posted this quotation from Pope Paul VI to Youtube:

“Furthermore, in her rejection of every persecution against any man, the Church, mindful of the patrimony she shares with the Jews and moved not by political reasons but by the Gospel's spiritual love, decries hatred, persecutions, displays of anti-Semitism, directed against Jews at any time and by anyone.”

And, oh man, was the feedback fun. Within minutes, I was accused of everything from cozying up to The Daily Wire to desperately chasing subscribers to—and maybe I shouldn’t be surprised—being under the influence of Jewish money.

But one question kept coming up: What is antisemitism? One commenter put it this way:

“How about having a clear definition of what the word means? Is that too much to ask? Because quite frankly, every time I look it up, it's never really clear. Words have meaning. Or at least they should. If the M word for taking a life was used, and someone is accused of it, everyone knows what it means. But imagine it's not clear what it means. And someone out of nowhere accused someone of it, but the definition keeps changing or is not clear—what then?”

Fair enough. So, to help clarify, I’ve written a Socratic dialogue exploring what I antisemitism is—and what it isn’t.

One quick note before you read on—I assure you, I’m writing this in good faith. I know this topic is deeply important to many people, including my fellow Catholics. This article is simply my attempt to articulate what seems obvious to me, not a middle finger at those who disagree.