The Terrorist and the Baby-Killer

They met outside a Pennsylvania abortion clinic. What happened next took everyone by surprise.

by Doron Taussig

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John Dunkle knows himself to be a coward. It's terrible, but true. If a man is aware that atrocities will be committed against innocents, and he knows who will commit them, and when, and where, he is obligated to go and stand in the way. But every Tuesday morning, when the baby-killer arrives at the Planned Parenthood on Fourth Street in Reading, John fails to stop him. All John does is stand on the sidewalk, and castigate, plead and pray.

He edits a newsletter. "A weak, pathetic response to baby murder," he calls it. He sends it to the martyrs, the pro-life prisoners who had the courage to do what John does not. It includes correspondence over the most vexing question in John's life: whether to use violence in defense of the unborn. Often, to John, the logic of violence seems irrefutable. If each abortion performed in America constitutes a murder — and John knows that it does — then in the aggregate, they constitute genocide. And genocide justifies militancy. Were John the man he wishes to be, he would teach himself arson, then go from one killing factory to the next, setting them aflame. But he's not. So he doesn't.

John is 72. He is, under most circumstances, a highly agreeable man, fond of jokes and stories. He's a retired schoolteacher, a proud father of five, and lives with his wife in a lovely ranch house in a gated community. When people see him driving around town, chaperoning his autistic son, or sitting in a coffee shop, having a decaf and dry rye, they see a happy civic participant, a stranger to lawless violence. And they're right. Probably.

(l) Erich Schmitt, (R) John Dunkle

Erich Schmitt is a recovering alcoholic and a recovering Catholic. The alcoholism he got from his mother: When he was a teenager in upstate New York, she'd have him drive her down to the store to pick up the beer that, a few hours later, would have her flopped on the floor outside his bedroom, banging angrily on the door with the heel of her shoe. His own drinking commenced in seriousness a few years later, at St. Lawrence University. He drank on and off, anything but whiskey, until he was 39, when he woke one morning after a blackout from a night spent drinking alone. He saw himself as an alcoholic for the first time that morning. Holy shit, he thought. This is me.

The Catholicism he got from his father. Every Sunday, Erich was sent to catechism class, where he listened intently as a priest told him about how God was everywhere, and God was good. Then he went back home, where his parents fought bitterly, and where his mother, who had lost a breast to cancer, tried to punish his father's infidelity by turning Erich against him. Erich wondered: If God is everywhere, why isn't He here? Catholicism promised salvation, but it wasn't delivering. Erich began asking questions, reading voraciously and, at boarding school, rejecting the conventions of his peers. He quit religion shortly after his parents split, when he was 16, having decided that man made God in his image, and not the other way around.

Erich is 78. His profoundest struggles are behind him, and he is married to a woman, Mimi, whom he loves dearly. But truth be told, he still carries some anger in his heart. And since he has no outlet for it in his life, he directs it broadly, toward the abstract. The world Erich sees is the domain of frauds and bullies, and the worst of them are religious fanatics. It took him decades to stop hating his mother, and to feel sorry for her instead. The Catholics, Erich never forgave.

It hadn't been something John thought much about, before it was legal — just a whispered half-joke, told when a woman disappeared for the weekend: Sally's having an abortion. Then, in 1970, the state of New York legalized it. John was living on Long Island at the time, teaching English at hard-bitten Andrew Jackson High School in Queens. Almost immediately, he began visiting the abortion provider near his home, beseeching the women who walked in: "Don't kill your daughter! Don't kill your son!"

Generally, John tries not to bear false witness, and he'll tell you right off that he had a selfish motivation for these protests: He was trying to save his soul. A cradle Catholic, John was raised to believe the Church was everything it claimed to be. The Church said abortion was wrong, so of course John had to fight it.

The pickets he attended grew in size, and when Roe was decided, in 1973, John found himself being pulled into a movement. In 1976, the New York State Right to Life party recruited him to run for office; for the next 20 years he ran frequently, often against Republican Congressman Norman Lent. His campaigns were minimalist. A week before every election, there would be a debate on local TV. John would show up, wait for a question, and then, no matter what was asked, say something like: "I'm a one-issue candidate. I want to protect the lives of unborn children."

John believed that simply calling attention to the horrors of abortion would cause people to rise up against it, but he was wrong: With its protests and protest candidacies, the pro-life movement seemed to be marching in place. Then, in 1987, a man named Randall Terry came along. Terry, just 27, said he had the new, big idea that was going to make abortion illegal in the United States. But it was going to involve pro-lifers sacrificing more than they were accustomed to. They would have to go to the "mills," he said, and rather than stand to the side, voicing displeasure, they'd stand in front with locked arms, refusing to let people in.

"If you believe abortion is murder, you have to act like it's murder," he exhorted the John Dunkles of the world.

Participating in "Operation Rescue," as Terry's plan was called, meant risking fines and arrest. John's wife, Margaret, hated the idea. She and John were good citizens — they stayed away from trouble, and trouble stayed away from them. But John had been swayed by Terry's arguments. He moved all his assets to Margaret's name, and joined the blockades.

Here is what a woman trying to get into a Planned Parenthood during a blockade would have encountered: a crowd of several hundred, some somber, some fervent, all intent that she not pass. It was truly, physically the prevention of abortion, and for John, it was thrilling. Of course, before long, the police would come and break things up. But the dirty little secret about that? It was fun. By his own count, John was arrested more than 20 times between 1987 and 1994, and he never really minded. He and his fellow protesters would be rounded up and carted off somewhere, usually together, to have what amounted to a big party. One time, after a blockade in Atlanta, John and his fellow Rescuers were tossed into a chicken coop for a night. They sat up late, telling stories and making friends, secure in the knowledge that they'd get off in the morning with a slap on the wrist.

Things changed with the passage of the Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances Act in 1994. The federal law, which made participation in a blockade punishable by up to six months in jail or a fine of $10,000, drove all but the most committed activists from the project. John himself lost $8,000 for helping to organize a blockade, which the government took out of his back pay for unused sick days. Even if he'd wanted to keep going after that, there'd have been no one for him to lock arms with.

The pro-life movement was losing momentum. So some of the activists who'd been persuaded by Terry's call for civil disobedience began taking his argument a step further: If abortion is murder, they asked, isn't the use of violence justified in preventing it?

Once again, John couldn't come up with a decent reason why not.

This time, however, when a vanguard of pro-lifers began to take up arms — by, for instance, shooting abortion providers, as Paul Hill did — well, John just couldn't bring himself to do it. Yes, the pro-life movement was immensely important to him: He valued his few "saves," when he'd turned pregnant women away from the abortion centers, more than all the work he'd done over the years with the thousands of students who'd passed through his classrooms. But he and Margaret were preparing to leave New York, to be near one of their daughters in Reading. And John loved life too much to spend the rest of his days in jail.

Since then, John has wavered on the use of violence. Some days he believes it inappropriate — that you can't take a life if you're pro-life. Other days, he just settles on the following philosophy: I support the use of violence to prevent abortion. And I am afraid to do it myself.

He's stayed involved with the pro-life movement. Before the itinerant baby-saver James Kopp was on the FBI's Most Wanted List for shooting abortion doctor Barnett Slepian in his kitchen, John sometimes hosted him in Reading (John read in Time magazine that the FBI was going to track down everyone Kopp had associated with; he was a little disappointed when they never came). Today, he visits Kopp, whom he considers "very bright," in prison, and sends his newsletter, Stop the Killing of Young People (SKYP), to Kopp and other martyrs. It gives them a forum to express themselves, and lets them know they're not forgotten.

He's also done his best to fight abortion providers in his area, without actually shooting any. For instance, he's followed Dr. Mary Blanks in her car from the Reading Planned Parenthood, and sent letters to her neighbors, informing them that a baby-killer lived in their community. When Blanks continued to provide abortions, he showed up at her house with picket signs and wrote about her in his newsletter. Eventually, God answered John's prayers, and Blanks gave up her practice.

Finally, of course, John has gone back to basics, protesting outside abortion centers. Now and again, he travels down to Philadelphia, to join actions at the Planned Parenthood on Locust Street; much more frequently, he appears outside the Planned Parenthood in Reading, where women go to terminate their children. John knows he should do more when he sees one of them pass. As it is, though, he just stands there, pleading. "Don't kill your daughter," he says. "Don't kill your son."

Feeder pigs. Pigs that you birth, suckle, raise until they weigh between 45 and 55 pounds, then sell off to some farmer with extra corn. That, Erich decided, was what he wanted to do.

Erich graduated from the University of Vermont in 1952 with a degree in animal science, but had never really gotten a chance to use it. He'd had to make ends meet, and jumped from one job to the next — from driving an electric truck, to working as a scrap analyst, to teaching math. It wasn't bad. He was a devotee of logic, and of facts, those elusive, concrete truths, so anything technical, he could manage. After the kids moved out, though, he and Mimi got to thinking it would be nice to get that farm after all. They had a friend in Berks County, and they liked the area. In 1976, they bought a 72-acre property outside Reading.

Things went well. Erich rebuilt the old farmhouse on the property, basically from scratch, and bought himself some pigs to breed. By visiting other farms, he learned how to climate-control his barn (piglets like to be in temperatures of about 90 degrees; sows, about 65), and how to slat his floor to minimize the stink of the urine and manure. Once he got going, he sold 30-35 animals a week at auction, at roughly a dollar a pound.

He gave it up in 1991, when he began to feel himself aging, and the physical burden became too much. But he had done well enough that, with Mimi's teaching income, the two of them could live comfortably, and even help out, in their small way, the various organizations they believed in.

In 2001, one of those organizations came asking for a favor. The local Planned Parenthood, down on Fourth Street, was a small outfit, but an important health resource for many women in the beleaguered city of Reading. Now, it seemed, the clinic was being besieged by a small group of protesters — Erich would have preferred the term "assholes" — who were making its patients extremely uncomfortable. It was looking for some volunteers to come down and escort women past the crowd, to help them feel less alone as they exercised their right to receive medical care.

Erich was happy to oblige.

At the time, the doctor came in on Thursdays, and when she did, anywhere from one to about a dozen "antis" would be gathered outside, holding their ridiculous photos and talking nonsense about Jesus. Erich observed that most of them were men — he had come, over the years, to think less and less of his own gender — and many of them old. As a rule, he and his fellow escorts (who were usually women) didn't address the hecklers, instead just racing up to arriving patients and saying "ignore them" as they walked past. But Erich had a tough time holding his tongue, so he'd sometimes needle the old fogies by talking about them to his fellow escorts. "Well, here we are at the meeting of the Thursday morning old men's club," he'd say.

Naturally, he came to know some of the protesters individually. There was Father Berard, a priest from a local Catholic Church. There was a man named Miskell, a real mean sonofabitch, who always carried a camera to take pictures of the women as they came and went.

And then there was another guy, the one Erich's fellow escorts nicknamed "The Professor," but whom Erich dubbed "Mr. Monologue." Mr. Monologue did the same crap as the others, harassing women and doctors. Sometimes, he'd stick his head into an alleyway behind the clinic, and shout toward what he believed to be an air vent: "Mothers," he'd say, "you can still save your baby's life ... "

But with the escorts, he engaged differently. As his nicknames suggested, he liked to talk, and he did so with an odd joviality. He would sidle up next to an escort and, despite the fact that he was the only one speaking, have a perfectly friendly conversation:

"Morning," he might say to Erich.

Erich would stand silent.

"Brought my son with me today."

Silence.

"Anything going on here?"

No response.

"Well, I guess I'll talk to you later."

Maybe he was a sick bastard who enjoyed torturing people. Or maybe he was just a guy who, even while doing something barbaric, couldn't hide his friendly nature.

Erich eventually came to know that Mr. Monologue's real name was John, and John, to Erich's consternation, saw Erich's picture in a local paper, and thereby learned his name and former occupation. This gave John what he thought was tremendous Thursday-morning material.

"Erich," he would say, chuckling, "you wouldn't do to a pig what you're helping to do to these children."

On most days, this was their relationship — a sort of flirtatious antagonism. But every now and again, they'd be reminded of how far apart they stood. One morning, Erich was going about his regular needling. "I got a hell of a good idea," he said to a fellow escort. "Why don't we take a clipboard, and put it on the side of the clinic here, and any of these old men that would like to take one of these fetuses and put it in their belly and raise it, they can sign up here and do that?"

He meant it somewhat playfully. But when John heard the word "fetus," he hit the roof.

"Don't use that word!" he shouted, turning red. "Using the 'F' word is just like using the 'N' word!"

John was smaller than Erich, and, one could tell by looking at him, a softer man. But at that moment, he seemed like he might have torn his antagonist apart.

Of course, John could tick off Erich, too. Another morning, they were standing out front of the clinic when a particularly baby-faced girl came walking up. Without ever looking at her, John went into his mantra. "Don't kill your daughter, don't kill your son," he said.

Erich looked at the girl, and he looked at John, and he got this incredible urge to just paste the guy. Shaking with anger, he slipped inside the clinic to calm himself down. The clinic manager was standing by the door.

"That girl looked like she couldn't have been older than 15," Erich said.

"Fourteen," the manager replied. "Impregnated by a 22-year-old man, incidentally."

Erich has a precise memory of the first words he spoke to John. It was about a year and a half after they met, and the Reading clinic, afraid that tensions between escorts and protesters were escalating, had asked the escorts to stop coming. But Erich, by then, had taken an interest in the pro-lifers, and was eager to hear them justify their position (so he could demolish the justification). He decided to ask John to coffee.

The day he went back to the clinic to deliver his invitation, there was a group of parishioners from the Catholic Church present. Erich knew John to be Catholic, but had noticed that, unlike many of his co-religionists, John never carried rosary beads. So Erich walked up to John and said, "John, how come all these people here have rosary beads and you don't?"

John opened his hand. Erich looked down. There were the beads.

John accepted Erich's coffee invite, and they met at a nearby place called Iggy's. Neither recalls much about the first meeting — Erich brought a list of questions, but didn't get any satisfactory answers — so they decided to meet again, and again. At some point, they moved to a little diner two blocks up the hill from the clinic, called Marvel Ranch. It is, as Erich says, where "the plain-bellied people" of Reading go.

The men recall their early debates being similar to their current ones; that is, fruitless. Today, when Erich says to John, "It's none of your business what these women do, and it's none of mine, either," John replies, "Of course it is. We are our brother's keeper."

"Bullshit," Erich says.

Or when Erich brings up some of the horrible circumstances under which a woman might seek an abortion — rape, incest — John says, "I agree, it's horrible. But you can't solve any of those problems by killing somebody."

"They're not somebodies, John," Erich bursts, using John's name, as he often does, condescendingly. Then they'll be off into an argument about whether life begins at conception.

Each has tried his best to show the other the error of his ways. John tries to tell Erich that he is acting as his own God — that if there's no divine standard, and Erich can make his own definition of a human being, then so can Hitler, and so can Pol Pot. Erich, of course, is happy to discuss what kind of standard the Catholic Church offers. He has brought in a Bible and read to John, challenging him to defend the content. Take Job.

"When [God] came knocking on his door, Job says, 'God, I can't give you these visiting men. Let me give you my daughter.'" Erich pauses. "What the hell did they save him for? I'm serious, John. What kind of a guy is he? Is he a keeper?"

At moments like this, John thinks of a game he plays with his sons. If they're arguing, and one combatant makes a point the other can't immediately refute, the winner will say, "Tweet tweet" — as in, it's so quiet you can hear the birds chirping.

Since Erich is a bit quicker on his feet than John, it's probably the case that the birds chirped for John more often when they began. But regardless of who won an argument, neither was ever bothered to the point that he reconsidered his beliefs. The two men just had fundamentally different premises. John was a believer, who had spent his life accepting everything his Church said as truth. Erich was a man of reason and letters, who spent his days scouring his cluttered bookshelves, trying to piece together insights through which he could understand the world.

Still, they kept at it. For some time, Erich convinced himself that he was seeing John because he planned to write a book about the pro-life movement, to expose its idiocy. He even had John write to his contacts in prison, to see if they would submit to interviews. But when the idea fell through — partly because John's friends feared that Erich was FBI, and partly because Erich realized he had nothing to add to the existing literature — he kept coming. And gradually, like a boiling pot being brought down to a simmer, the men began to have conversations beyond their arguments. Erich told John about his various handyman projects, and read to him from books besides the Bible (like Machiavelli's The Prince, for instance). John told Erich about his misadventures, like getting stuck in the snow outside an antagonistic abortion doctor's house.

It's not easy, making friends with a natural enemy. It causes cognitive dissonance. To John, Erich is an accomplice in one of the greatest horrors ever visited on mankind; after John confessed his friendship with a "deather" in his newsletter, one of his imprisoned correspondents wrote to him: "I can no more understand buddying-up with someone either so delusional or so demonically evil that he advocates a 'right' to kill children than I could feel at ease in Jeffrey Dahmer's company." (John has also noticed that, for a man so allegedly disgusted by traditional masculinity, Erich is fairly, well, paternalistic.)

To Erich, John is a dupe and a participant in the ongoing subjugation of women to the whims of men and religion. He doesn't believe all John's talk about violence, figuring him for a "paper tiger." But he still considers what John does to be inexcusable, and, moreover, has noticed that John seems to have a lot of fun doing it. Clearly, he's just fulfilling some psychological need, feeling important, and to hell with what it means for innocent women.

And yet, on Friday mornings for the last three years, the two have taken a table at Marvel Ranch, and had coffee. Neither sees the relationship as some great victory for bipartisanship — nothing would ever be accomplished by a Congress of Erich and John. Nor have they found some philosophical peace in the friendship — they don't think, "I could have been him, if only. ... " They're just two old men, with time on their hands, who enjoy each other's company. They're friends.

Word of John's prosecution arrived last spring. The Justice Department had decided that John's harassment of Mary Blanks, along with his publication of her address and photograph in his newsletter and Web site, amounted to threatening behavior. For now, the government was bringing a civil suit, asking for a federal court order requiring John to remove the material and prohibiting him from publishing "equivalent messages." But the case could easily be turned into a criminal one — and that would easily be the biggest case John had ever faced. He was ordered to appear at the Federal courthouse in Philadelphia, on Sixth and Market streets, on Nov. 8. He asked two people to accompany him: his wife, and Erich.

Erich wasn't sure why John asked him to come along, but on the morning of the trial, he found himself in the back of the Dunkles' car, sitting in traffic on the Schuylkill. John was in the passenger seat. His mood alternated between excitement (he would later admit he was looking forward to a day that would be "all about me") and nervousness: The traffic was pretty bad, and what do they do to you if you're late to be prosecuted for domestic terrorism?

They made it on time. Erich and Margaret took seats in the gallery; John, who, after consulting with a lawyer friend, had decided to represent himself, sat down at a lonely defendant's table. Everyone rose for the entrance of Judge Thomas Golden, and then they sat again.

From the beginning, the trial seemed almost custom-designed to highlight the paradox of John Dunkle — the dangerous maniac on the one hand, the goofy old kook on the other. The first witness to take the stand was Mary Blanks, clad in all black, who testified that she had abandoned her practice because "the intimidation, verbal and written, that Mr. Dunkle heaped on me became too much to bear." She described the terror of reading John's newsletter, which included her name, photograph, and home address, as well as the line: "While it does not sound good to say go shoot her between the eyes, it sounds even worse to say let her alone." That particular phrase was written by an unnamed correspondent of John's, but the associates John named on his distribution list gave Blanks some idea who she was dealing with — people like James Kopp and Olympic bomber Eric Rudolph.

"He identifies Paul Hill as a martyr," she said, "and Paul Hill is a person who murdered a physician."

Blanks talked about seeing John on her forested property, and said that, when she looked outside, she thought back to the murder of Dr. Slepian, shot from the woods outside his home. She told how she became afraid just to sit in her kitchen, and how, out on an evening stroll, a shiver would run through her when a car approached with Pennsylvania plates (Blanks lives out of state). She was, clearly, a terrorized person, and the tormentor she described was both aggressive and threatening.

Then John started speaking — first in a cross-examination, and later on the stand. And while what he said in no way belied Blanks' testimony, it made clear that the tormentor was not seeing his behavior the same way his victim was.

In his cross-examination, John did not, as one might expect, harangue the "baby-killer," or even ask her about her practice. Instead, he wanted to know things like how her neighbors reacted to the letters he sent out. He was curious.

"They were all polite and respectful," Blanks told him, somewhat incredulously.

On the stand, he struggled to recall some of the details of the events that the assistant U.S. attorney asked him about. But when he did, he would respond to accusations — "You wanted [Blanks] to know that she, too, would be stalked" — by confirming them as though they were the most innocent things in the world. "The word 'stalked' ... let's say 'visited' rather than 'stalked.'" He referred to Blanks as "Mary," and seemed certain his methods of protest were perfectly harmless. His most articulate moment came when, in explaining why he mailed letters to Blanks, he said, "I don't send it out to threaten anybody. I mean, threaten physically. I threaten her sense of self-respect."

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Judge Golden approached John with a measured tolerance (he wouldn't allow John to call Blanks a "baby-killer," for instance, but permitted him to call abortion clinics "mills"). After John testified, the judge carefully explained that the defendant had the right to call witnesses, but also the right not to incriminate himself. He was not required to conduct questioning.

"Well, your honor," John said, "I didn't bring any pro-lifers with me, but I brought two antagonists, and I would like to call one or both of them."

John turned around. Erich's head was in his hands.

Much of John's defense rested on the idea that his newsletter contained a debate over the use of violence — he would later illustrate this point by reading numerous "anti-violence" excerpts aloud — and so Blanks was wrong, he believed, to interpret it as threatening. Erich, however, had nothing to say about this. So when John called him to the stand, he simply asked him this:

"Erich, could you tell the court how we met, and became acquaintances, or friends, I hope?"

Erich wasn't eager to be associated, in a court of law, with a radical pro-lifer. He answered as carefully as he could.

"The first time I saw you, I was one of a group of four or five escorts in front of the Planned Parenthood clinic in Reading. ... We made a deliberate attempt not to speak to you because we didn't wish to recognize your legitimacy to be there, doing what we considered interfering with women who came to the clinic to receive services. ...

"We've been having coffee off and on, and getting to know each other. I haven't been able to change your mind about the right of the woman to make her own decisions, and you have not been able to change my mind about the right of the government to interfere in the those decisions. So this is where we are right now. Over the period of time I've gotten to like you, even though I've expressed my view of some of your thoughts and deeds, and I assume it's reciprocal. Even though we're on different sides of this issue we seem to enjoy each other's company."

After Erich stepped down, Margaret took the stand. Her testimony actually addressed John's line of defense: she said that she didn't believe John would ever harm anybody physically. "When you talk about force ... it's been about blockading clinics," she said. The prosecutor, however, soon dispatched this observation by asking her, "Has Mr. Dunkle ever published your name, your telephone number, your address and your photograph?"

Margaret also snuck in one other point. When asked by her husband to comment on his description of her as an "antagonist," she said: "I just have always been afraid that you would be right where you are now."

John hadn't noticed how distressed Margaret was, but Erich had. In fact, during a recess, he had looked over at her, and seen her hands trembling drastically, as though someone were working them with a jackhammer. He went over to her.

"John's really off the wall," he said.

"Off the wall is one thing, but criminal activity is another," Margaret answered.

"You know, if I knew you any better," Erich said, "I'd give you a hug."

Margaret told Erich that a hug would be all right. So Erich put his arms around her, and for about 30 seconds, while John sat in the front of the courtroom, lost in his own logic, he comforted his friend's wife.

Judge Golden ultimately decided to grant the motion against John, saying that his writings "clearly constitute a threat." John was ordered to remove offending materials from his newsletter, and refrain from publishing similar things in the future. The government, it seemed, was trying to put the fear of God in the old man, understanding him as someone who could be dangerous, but could also be easily contained.

In the car on the way back, John, Erich and Margaret debriefed about the proceedings — the thorough prosecutor, the great line from the judge's decision: "This is not an intellectual debate, Mr. Dunkle." Then, Erich got around to asking John something he never had before. "John," he said, "if someone killed an abortion doctor because you told them to, what would you really think about that?"

"I think that'd be great," John said.

Erich paused. "I don't believe you," he replied.

"I don't believe him, either," Margaret said.

Then Margaret asked John what he would think if someone killed Erich — would that be a justifiable act, in the name of the unborn?

It was John's turn to pause.

In the end, he hedged. He said something about Erich being "way down the line" of villains in the holocaust of abortion, and how the pro-lifers had to take care of all the doctors and administrators first. He laughed, to separate himself from the discomfort of the question.

At first glance, it may seem amazing that, when asked whether someone should kill Erich — a man who had just testified to being John's friend, in a trial where John stood accused of terrorism, then held and comforted John's wife when John's preoccupations caused him to abandon her — John was unable to say "no." But when you think about the power that religion holds over some people's hearts, and the desperation with which some men yearn to be right, isn't the amazing thing that he was able not to say "yes"?

(doron@citypaper.net)