My mom always said that if the Protestants catch a Catholic in

Hear now, O seekers of wisdom, the unsettling yet revealing words of Kate O’Brien: “My mom always said that if the Protestants catch a Catholic in their church, they feed them to the Jews.” Though spoken with the cadence of folklore, this saying carries with it the heavy weight of history—of divisions between faiths, of ancient suspicions, and of the deep scars of misunderstanding that echo through generations. To read this line literally is folly, yet to understand it as a symbol is to unlock the memory of centuries of human conflict and fear.

First, let us note the origin of such words. They arise not from reasoned teaching, but from whispered warnings passed from parent to child. The mother speaks not as a theologian, but as a guardian, offering a tale meant to keep her daughter within the safe walls of her own faith. In her words, we hear the voice of a people long beset by division, where Catholics and Protestants lived side by side in suspicion, and where Jews, too, carried the weight of being scapegoats for the world’s anxieties. This is not truth, but fear shaped into story.

The mention of Protestants and Catholics calls us back to the fires of the Reformation, when Europe was torn asunder by rival creeds. Wars were waged, families divided, and nations split by the question of faith. Each side saw the other not merely as mistaken, but as dangerous. In such soil, tales like this took root—tales meant to reinforce the boundaries between “us” and “them.” It was not the feeding of Catholics to Jews that was real, but the feeding of fear into the hearts of children.

And what of the Jews, named here as the imagined recipients of such cruelty? For centuries, they were cast as outsiders, burdened with false accusations and grotesque myths. They became the convenient vessel into which societies poured their fears. Thus in O’Brien’s quote, we glimpse the triple layering of suspicion: Catholics warning their children of Protestants, and Protestants imagined as handing over their enemies to Jews. Here is the tragic cycle of mistrust that turns neighbor against neighbor and transforms human beings into caricatures of menace.

Consider, as an example, the dark days of the Wars of Religion in France, when Catholics and Protestants spilled each other’s blood in the streets. In that chaos, the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre saw thousands perish. And yet, alongside this violence, rumors and myths grew wild, exaggerating cruelties beyond what the sword had already wrought. Just as O’Brien recalls her mother’s warning, so too countless families told their children fearful tales, not always of what was, but of what might be. These stories endured, shaping hearts for generations.

But let us not end in despair. For though the quote reveals the divisions of the past, it also teaches us the necessity of breaking such cycles. The wisdom to be drawn is this: words given to children shape the world they inherit. If fear is planted, suspicion will grow; but if respect is taught, reconciliation may yet take root. O’Brien’s memory serves as a caution—that we must examine the tales we pass along, and choose carefully what seeds we plant in the hearts of the next generation.

Therefore, let this be the lesson: do not repeat the myths of division, but speak instead of our shared humanity. When you teach your children, let your words be of compassion, not suspicion. Seek friendships across boundaries of faith and culture. Learn the histories not only of your own people, but of others, so that fear may give way to understanding. For in the end, the only walls worth building are those of homes, not of hatred. And the only inheritance worth passing down is truth, not fear. Thus may we heal the rifts of the past, and thus may the children of tomorrow grow free of the chains that bound their ancestors.