Sobran's --
The Real News of the Month
September 2000
Volume 7, No. 9
Editor: Joe Sobran
Publisher: Fran Griffin (Griffin Communications)
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Features
THE MOVING PICTURE
(pages 1-2)
Compassionate conservatism, as encapsulated in a NEW YORK
TIMES headline: "Cheney Says Church-Based Charities Deserve
Federal Support."
* * *
At a convention featuring lots of women and minorities,
Republican-style -- that is to say, Colin Powell and Bo Derek
-- Junior Bush has formally received his party's nomination,
and I admit he is distinctly preferable to Junior Gore, in the
sense that a chest cold is preferable to lung cancer. The
worst that can be said of him is that liberals don't find him
threatening; they know he won't undo -- or even try to undo --
their achievements. In his own compassionate way, he'll even
enlarge the role of the state in our lives.
* * *
Bush did say that nobody should be taxed above a third of
his income. So far this incendiary proposal has failed to
ignite riots.
* * *
Bush and Gore will be debating how to "fix" Social
Security and Medicare. Neither will mention the correct
answer: abolish these programs, which have no constitutional
authorization (and are wrong in principle anyway). In
Federalist No. 83, Alexander Hamilton reminds us that the
powers of the federal government are specifically listed for a
reason: "This specification of particulars evidently excludes
all pretension to a general legislative authority, because an
affirmative grant of special powers would be absurd, as well
as useless, if a general authority was intended." But
Congress's "general authority" -- i.e., to legislate on all
matters whatsoever, with or without specific grants of power
-- is now taken for granted by both major parties. That's one
thing they *never* debate.
* * *
Exclusive to the electronic version (one entry only):
The Democratic convention was Al Gore's bar mitzvah. He
came of age, announcing himself "his own man," with a Jewish
running mate to lend him the "gravitas" of adulthood. He also
kissed his wife at some length. All this to dissociate himself
symbolically from one of the greatest presidents in our
history!
* * *
Gore's choice of Joe Lieberman as his running mate was a
shrewd move. Unlike Bill Clinton and Gore himself, Lieberman,
an Orthodox Jew, really fools people; his seeming authenticity
makes him the Democrats' answer to John McCain. Eight years of
Clinton have left us hungry for moral authority and men who
transcend the vile contemporary culture; and Lieberman struck
a memorable pose in 1998 when he became the first major
Democrat to call Clinton's behavior in the Oval Office
"immoral" and "intolerable." Never mind that he followed up by
voting for acquittal; a star was born. He will take the edge
off Republican jibes at Clinton's morals. But his Old
Testament "gravitas" is somewhat compromised by his support
for abortion, infanticide, and sodomy. If he didn't put his
party ahead of his religion, he wouldn't be on the Democratic
ticket.
* * *
The selection of Lieberman has been universally seen as
an attempt by Gore to dissociate himself from Bill Clinton's
disgrace. But it's only one sign of tension between Gore and
Clinton. Clinton has been hogging the spotlight by throwing
his own barbs at George Bush; and on the eve of the Democrats'
convention in Los Angeles, he allowed Barbra Streisand to hold
a Malibu fundraiser for his presidential library, upstaging
Gore's big moment and siphoning off a lot of Hollywood money
-- about $10 million -- that might have gone to the Gore
campaign. Proceeds from a second tribute to Clinton that same
weekend in L.A., with an expected purse of $4 million, were to
go toward Hillary's New York Senate race. Gore might echo the
Duke of Buckingham's bitter words about Richard III: "Rewards
he my deep services with such contempt?"
* * *
Twenty years ago, liberals worried about Ronald Reagan,
whom they called, in a favorite putdown of that time,
"simplistic." This meant that Reagan had clear ideas of what
were, and what were not, proper functions of government; the
danger was that he might try to repeal the improper functions.
Which is why conservatives loved him. Alas, liberal fears
proved as exaggerated as conservative hopes. He turned out to
be much less simplistic than he seemed. The huge welter of
federal programs continued to grow throughout his two terms in
office. (I note with misgivings that nobody is calling G.W.
Bush simplistic.)
* * *
David Broder of the WASHINGTON POST, a liberal of
moderate demeanor, sneers that Republicans are "hung up on
sex" because they favor promoting chastity, oppose condom
distribution in schools, and loathe abortion. They "also want
to turn back the clock on sex education," he adds. The weary
clock metaphor should be retired; turning back the clock is
often the best reform. The Sexual Revolution has been an utter
disaster; society was healthy when it was governed by sexual
hangups. Today's kids, having grown up in a swamp, may not
remember, but it's irresponsible for someone of Broder's age
not to remind them. That would be the truest kind of sex
education.
* * *
The Century of the Common Man, when you stop to think
about it, has been pretty tough on the common man. In the days
when kings didn't pretend to rule in the name of The People,
tyranny, though it surrounded itself with pomp and ceremony,
was relatively modest. It was only when rulers began speaking
and acting on behalf of The People that universal terror and
systematic plunder became the norm. We who have survived the
departing century in safety and prosperity should always
remember those who didn't -- the millions who perished in
wars, forced labor camps, and state-made famine -- and how
easily we too could have met their fate.
* * *
What do you call prejudice against homeless people?
Hobophobia, of course!
* * *
After some bitter semi-public infighting, Al Gore
successfully pressured Congresswoman Loretta Sanchez to scrap
her scheduled fundraiser at the Playboy Mansion. Of course
Gore himself has long accepted campaign donations from Hugh
Hefner, and he has been properly charged with hypocrisy. But
the real point is that pornographers like Hefner and Larry
Flynt have correctly recognized Democrats like Clinton and
Gore as deserving of their support. That should tell us
something even if the Democrats rejected their money.
* * *
"Never, in times so complex and chaotic as these, have we
faced two contenders who are so boring and insipid," says
Fidel Castro. Sure, he's a fine one to talk, but he took the
words right out of my mouth. What does it say about our two-
party system that the forty-year dictator of a one-party state
thinks it doesn't offer much of a choice?
TWO GREAT HERETICS
(pages 3-6)
My Shakespeare studies have recently driven me back to
the English Reformation, with special attention to King Henry
VIII (1491-1547) and the great Puritan poet John Milton
(1608-74). The two men, who lived a century apart, could
hardly have been more different; and yet, in a way, Milton
seems to me a natural result of Henry.
Henry, who by denying papal supremacy created the Church
of England, with himself as its head, wasn't a heretic by
nature; his refutation of Lutheran doctrine caused Pope Leo X
to dub him "Defender of the Faith," a title British monarchs
still boast. Even when he broke with Rome over the Pope's
refusal to dissolve his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, he
remained in many respects theologically conservative. To the
end of his life he attended mass and insisted on the Real
Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. His quarrel with the
papacy centered on his own claim to be, in effect, England's
Pope; he dealt sternly with Protestant tendencies in his own
church.
When Henry died in 1547 and was succeeded by his nine-
year-old son, Edward VI, the men around the boy king faced a
problem: What form should English Christianity take? "Above
all," writes the historian Christopher Morris, "could the
social and religious revolution stand still? Was it inevitable
that there should be either conservative reaction or else
further moves in a revolutionary direction? This last point
Henry himself had decided. He had preferred to let the
revolution proceed rather than have his work undone." (Hilaire
Belloc later argued that but for Henry's break with Rome,
Protestantism would have died out in Europe.)
The "new men" around Henry and, later, Edward, Mary, and
Elizabeth were keenly aware of what a restoration of
Catholicism in England would mean for them: they owed their
wealth, position, and power to the massive expropriations of
church properties. There would be no going back. For William
Cecil, later Lord Burghley, the greatest statesman of the
Elizabethan era (and father-in-law of a certain Earl of
Oxford), the Roman Church was always *the* enemy and his
constant endeavor was to prevent, at all costs, the Catholic
powers, chiefly France, Spain, and Scotland, from uniting
against England. He followed a cunning policy of gradually
crushing Catholicism in England; and considering that about
half of the common people still adhered to the old religion
when Elizabeth came to the throne in 1558, he succeeded
brilliantly. Though personally lukewarm in religion, Cecil
would always favor Protestants and Puritans against Catholics.
English piracy, actively encouraged despite official
denials, provoked Spain, and when the English beheaded the
Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, in 1586, Catholic Europe was
outraged. Two years later the great Spanish Armada attacked
England but was defeated by an enormous storm, which English
nationalism interpreted as a sign from heaven, rebuking popish
enemies. The event was a turning point in English religion as
well as politics. When, in 1605, the authorities discovered a
Jesuit-led conspiracy to blow up Parliament and King James I
together, English sentiment against Catholicism hardened and
the Puritan forces were strengthened. By 1642 the Puritans,
led by Oliver Cromwell, were powerful enough to depose James's
son Charles I; in 1649 they beheaded him.
It was against this background that John Milton was born
in London in 1608. His father was a scrivener who had been
disowned by his own Catholic father for becoming a Protestant.
The young Milton was a precocious, headstrong student who
attended Cambridge University (where he suffered a brief
expulsion). By his twenties he was extremely learned, reading
and writing poetry in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, Italian, and
French. Of his genius there was no doubt. He wrote several of
his short masterpieces before he was 30.
Milton was a passionate Protestant. Though he is usually
described as a Puritan, this is a loose label for his
idiosyncratic views. He was always outspoken; during his tour
of Italy in 1638 he courted trouble by animadverting against
Catholicism. (He visited the imprisoned Galileo, whom he
admired.) He interrupted his journey and returned home when he
heard the news of impending civil war; he was determined to
play a role on the Puritan side, against the royalist forces
and the Church of England, which still savored too much of
popery for him.
For the next few years Milton delayed his cherished plan
to write a great poem -- he was undecided between epic and
tragedy, Latin and English; possible subjects included the
legend of King Arthur and the Fall of Adam. Meanwhile he wrote
prose pamphlets, in Latin and English. With great eloquence
and fierce invective, he argued for freedom of the press (for
Protestants), for liberalized divorce (he had married
unhappily), for educational reform (while earning a living as
a tutor), and for regicide (defending the execution of Charles
I). His talents as a controversialist recommended him to
Cromwell, who appointed him his Latin Secretary. His chief
duty was the defense of Cromwell's regime in a succession of
responses to Europeans who had been horrified by Charles's
beheading.
Milton is often accused of inconsistency in his
libertarianism, since he made exceptions for "popery and open
superstition" when it came to freedom of the press; but as
Willmoore Kendall has pointed out in a brilliant essay, Milton
was no John Stuart Mill. He believed that liberty was a
condition proper only to those who had cast off popery and
idolatry: Protestants could be tolerant of each other's
"neighboring differences," but not of differences he saw as
downright evil. In his ideal Protestant commonwealth,
Catholics and pagans simply had no legitimate place. In that
sense, as Kendall notes, Milton was no liberal. His politics
were always theological, never merely secular.
Samuel Johnson, Tory monarchist, later described Milton
as "an acrimonious and surly republican" whose politics were
"founded in an envious hatred of greatness, and a sullen
desire of independence; in petulance, impatient of control,
and pride disdainful of superiority.... He felt not so much
the love of liberty as repugnance to authority." Proud he
certainly was, but he appears to have disbelieved in certain
kinds of authority -- especially royal and episcopal -- on
principle. His belief in liberty of conscience, however
misguided, was sincere.
During the 1640s Milton's unhappy marriage was resolved
by the death of his wife; a second wife soon died, and he
eventually married again. Only his second marriage seems to
have been happy, perhaps because it was brief. He ruled his
wives and three daughters with extreme rigor; Johnson would
comment that Milton "thought woman made only for obedience,
and man only for rebellion" (an echo, perhaps, of PARADISE
LOST, in which Adam and Eve form a small hierarchy: "He for
God only, she for God in him"). It's an interesting detail
that Milton, like Henry VIII, should have broken with
Christian tradition on the question of divorce; sex and heresy
often keep company. His divorce pamphlet -- which argued for
divorce strictly as a husband's prerogative, not a wife's --
caused considerable scandal.
During his years in Cromwell's service, Milton went
blind. The loss of his sight didn't prevent him from
continuing to write, by dictating to his daughters, who, being
poorly educated, hardly understood the words they were taking
down. They also had to read aloud to him books in foreign
languages which they knew only phonetically. He was a severe
man, demanding on himself as well as his unhappy children.
The Restoration of 1660, with the ascension of Charles II
to the throne, exposed Milton to possible execution for
treason. But his great reputation protected him, and Charles
was lenient by nature. Milton, though impenitent about his
role in the revolution, was allowed to live in peace (though
he was heavily fined and his books were burnt), and he began
writing his epic at last.
PARADISE LOST, published in 1667, is a tremendous poem,
but a forbidding one. After praising it adoringly for several
pages, Johnson abruptly adds a hilariously deflating comment:
"PARADISE LOST is one of the books which the reader admires
and lays down, and forgets to take up again. None ever wished
it longer than it is." One pictures the Milton girls nodding
vigorously.
I have always found the poem strangely arid, impressively
thunderous but seldom captivating, less poetical than
polemical; Milton always seems to be grinding an ax. William
Blake made the famous observation that "Milton was of the
devil's party without knowing it." I don't agree, but I
understand why Blake said it; Milton's Satan is more truly
diabolical than his God is divine. Milton's Hell may be
unpleasant, but his Heaven isn't much more attractive. There
is more charm in Dante's Inferno than in Milton's Heaven.
Flashes of delight occur only in his Eden, as when the animals
entertain Adam and Eve:
th' unwieldy Elephant,
To make them mirth, us'd all his might and wreathd
His Lithe Proboscis.
I should add that my feeling about PARADISE LOST isn't
shared by some of the supreme critics of English literature:
Coleridge, C.S. Lewis, Northrop Frye, and Dr. Johnson himself
have held the poem in the highest esteem.
Yet there has always been a minority view, and it too has
eloquent spokesmen. Mark Van Doren says of Milton's God's
self-exculpation, when he denies that his foreknowledge of
Adam's fall makes him in any way responsible for it: "This is
what a theologian should say about God, but not what God
should say about himself." Milton's warrior-Christ is "an
abysmal failure in the role of Redeemer." Milton habitually
commits the "blunder of trying to make us see what cannot be
seen." As for Milton's famous diction, it is "starched with
latinity, as if Milton did not trust his own language, falling
into which might mean falling from the high horse of his
style." All this seems to me right on the money.
Milton's explicit aim is to "justifie the wayes of God to
men." But, as Van Doren says, God himself does too much of the
justifying, and it sounds awfully pompous, not at all divine.
C.S. Lewis may have had a point when he quipped that some
people say they dislike Milton's God when they really mean
they dislike God; yet I find it pretty hard to believe that
Milton's God ever brought any reader closer to God. He may
well bring some readers closer to Milton, whose mouthpiece he
so plainly is -- as in fact so many of Milton's characters
are. If his Satan is more attractive than his divinities and
angels, it may be precisely because, contrary to Blake's
notion, Satan has a life and will of his own and does not
necessarily speak for the management.
In PARADISE REGAINED (1671), Christ is tempted by Satan
but triumphantly resists. The poem is a long and tedious
debate, with little of Milton's grandeur; even his Satan is no
longer his old self, and his Christ says nothing remotely
worthy of the Christ of the Gospels. It was a foolish and
arrogant artistic blunder on Milton's part to attempt to put
words in Christ's mouth; in such an endeavor even the greatest
human genius must fall far short. Paradise is "regained" not
by suffering on the Cross, but by winning an argument with
Miltonic dialectics. Everyone agrees that the poem is a
failure, but Milton resented any suggestion that it was
inferior to PARADISE LOST.
This may have been more than mere vanity on his part. In
1825 a lost work of Milton's was discovered: a theological
treatise he never finished. It reveals him a far more radical
Protestant than had previously been suspected; readers
(including even the shrewd Johnson) had assumed that PARADISE
LOST was essentially orthodox. It was not. Milton didn't
believe in the Trinity, the Redemption, or the soul's
immortality. His version of Christianity was all his own --
and a very dessicated one, devoid of sacrament, ritual, and
most of the doctrines that even Protestants share with
Catholics.
Yet Milton did believe in Heaven and Hell, in the
existence of Satan, and in an active Providence. As I gather,
he really believed that the Puritan revolution was a new
moment in sacred history, leading to a Protestant Utopia in
England; he believed that the English were a Chosen People,
that "God speaks first to his Englishmen." He espoused a sort
of supernatural nationalism. And he must have been crushed
when the revolution fizzled, bringing back the kings and
bishops he despised. The new epoch he had hoped for turned out
to be a historical blip.
It's tempting to see Milton himself in his Satan, whom we
meet just at the moment when his rebellion is defeated, and
who must rally the spirits of his fallen confederates with
proud talk of the mind being "its own place," which "in it
self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n." That does
sound like Milton's own defiant attitude toward his
vanquishers. But Milton didn't see Charles II as God, or even
as God's anointed deputy on earth, but as an unholy pretender.
It's more plausible to see Milton as Samson -- blind,
defeated, the captive of his enemies, yet conscious of his own
power -- in his closet drama SAMSON AGONISTES. Unfortunately
for this appealing view, modern scholars suspect that the play
was written long before the Cromwell regime fell, perhaps even
before Milton was completely blind. If it has any
autobiographical echoes, they may reflect his marital
problems, in the dialogue between Samson and Dalila (accented
on the first syllable), who comes to seek Samson's forgiveness
for her betrayal, only to be rebuffed when Samson discerns
that she isn't truly penitent.
Like most of Milton's highly doctrinaire women, Dalila
might leave the reader who didn't know better wondering
whether her author had ever met an actual woman. Her speeches
have nothing of the feminine about them; perhaps only Milton's
Samson could have been seduced by Milton's Dalila. The
spritely wit of Shakespeare's heroines is utterly alien to
Milton's women, who are all burdened with (I wish there were a
nice way to say it) Miltonic personalities.
All this may suggest that I am deaf to Milton's genius. I
don't think so; but I think his most inspired productions are
his shorter early works: COMUS, L'ALLEGRO, IL PENSEROSO, ON
THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY, several of the sonnets. Some
of these have a Shakespearean sweetness and splendor, and
Shakespeare's influence is obvious in them. The young Milton
had not yet become an argumentative poet.
Johnson's witticisms about the length of PARADISE LOST
have a serious point. I think the poem belongs to the category
of perishable classics -- works that are held in the highest
esteem for a while, sometimes for generations, even centuries,
but eventually lose their power over the imagination. Joseph
Addison's play CATO, revered throughout the eighteenth century
(the American Founding Fathers loved it), but now forgotten,
is another mortal classic. Milton, as they say, no longer
speaks to us.
The feebleness of PARADISE REGAINED seems to me to expose
the essential fault of PARADISE LOST. Both are the products of
the same poetic mind, a mind too abstract for real poetry. It
lacks an earthy capacity for observation and delight, for
seeing, savoring, and laughing at simple things. "The want of
human interest is always felt," as Johnson says. Milton relies
too exclusively on lofty language, which all too often fails
to achieve its desired effect; he shrinks from the common
touch. Despite his mighty aspiration to perform "things
unattempted yet in prose or rhyme," Milton simply doesn't
belong in the company of the great European poets -- Homer,
Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare.
Milton awed English readers for more than two centuries;
he was long considered superior to Shakespeare as a poet. The
quality for which he was most praised was "sublimity" rather
than piety; his effect was never very religious. But such was
his prestige that few readers dared to admit they found his
grand manner tedious and priggish.
Milton's mature version of Christianity is so odd that
few could ever have believed in it, and it seems strange that
even he could have held it so passionately. It has little
connection to traditional Christianity, and is nearly as
remote from Lutheranism as from Catholicism. It's really no
more than Milton's personal creed, tailored to his own extreme
individualism, and it has had little influence. One can't
imagine it as the faith of a whole nation of ordinary human
beings, not even Englishmen. Milton's religion died out with
Milton.
Yet his religion was a natural terminus, in its way, for
the tendency Henry VIII had set in motion. The word "heresy"
of course, comes from the Greek word for "choose." Once Henry
had set the example by picking and choosing among doctrines,
English Christianity became a process of elimination. In his
eccentric way, Milton "reformed" Christianity until little of
it remained. And today the ordinary Englishman -- and perhaps
the ordinary Anglican bishop -- believes in even less of
Christianity than Milton did.
Both Henry Tudor and John Milton made their own
religions; and in both cases their religions were nothing more
than reflections of their own personalities. These weren't
religions other men could possibly adopt, because there was no
stable core of truth in them. Others could follow Henry and
Milton only in an analogical way; that is, by making up their
own religions too, collecting doctrines that suited them and
discarding the rest. This practice has become a modern
tradition; it's probably what most people mean by "freedom of
religion," the supposed right of rolling your own creed. We
now use the telling phrase "religious preference" and are
embarrassed by the suggestion that one religion may actually
be *true.*
Yet Henry and Milton would insist that their one-man
religions were true, true for all men. The obvious vanity of
their creeds may seem obvious now, but it wasn't obvious to
them. Henry had an advantage over Milton in that he had the
power to impose his creed on others, and men who possess such
power, even by accident of birth, are rarely humble enough to
ask whether they deserve it; Henry thought that Providence had
blessed England by endowing the crown on the one man who was
capable of setting the Church straight, namely himself. Once
the king realized the previously unsuspected truth that the
king should rule the Church -- an idea that would have been
laughed at as eccentric if proposed by anyone but the king --
it achieved immediate popularity with his courtiers (with such
annoying exceptions as Sir Thomas More). Lacking such power,
Milton, as far as I know, never managed to convince a single
soul that his religion was true, though his pride was no less
than Henry's.
Yet these two eccentrics -- one distinguished by might,
the other by eloquence -- may be regarded as exemplars of what
modern man understands as religious freedom: the right to take
God on one's own terms.
Nuggets
BONSOIR, MON PERE: The obituaries of Alec Guinness (see
page 12) said nothing about his devotion to the Catholic
Church; but he described his own conversion beautifully in his
memoir, BLESSINGS IN DISGUISE. His hostility to the Church
began to melt away once when he played a priest in a movie
being filmed in Burgundy. At the end of a day's shooting,
still in costume, he was walking back to his quarters when a
small boy greeted him as "mon pere," seized his hand, and
walked with him, chattering happily until their paths parted.
Then the boy bowed slightly, saying, "Bonsoir, mon pere," and
darting through a hedge. Guinness was impressed by "a Church
which could inspire such confidence in a child, making its
priests, even when unknown, so easily approachable." (page 6)
THE GOOD OLD DAYS: Just as a rule of thumb, a tyrant in
ermine is preferable to a tyrant in fatigues. And ordinary
people sense this, as witness their nostalgia for royalty.
After centuries of anti-monarchical propaganda, the denizens
of democracy still sense that life was better, and nobler,
under kings. It's significant that in the Age of Democracy,
"politician" has become a dirty word for those who allegedly
represent The People. (page 9)
WHAT'S MORE: Guinness also quotes one of my favorite lines
from G.K. Chesterton: "The Church is the one thing that saves
a man from the degrading servitude of being a child of his own
time." If there is one thing I dread being, it's a child of my
own time. And isn't that really why we recoil from a man like
Clinton -- because he is so much at home in this age, so
perfectly adapted to it, so happily at one with its attitudes
and prejudices and assumptions? (page 10)
SERVICE WITH A SMILE: The NEW YORK TIMES reports that the
first 830 complaints against the Internal Revenue Service
under recent anti-harassment legislation have been deemed to
be without merit. Of course we have to take into account that
the IRS itself makes this judgment. But the problem isn't
putative IRS "excesses"; it's the IRS's *normal* powers and
activities. These are the inevitable corollaries of a
limitless state whose chief business is using an unrestricted
taxing power to force one part of the populace to support
another part. This parasitic economy is both unconstitutional
and intrinsically criminal. And it depends on having an agency
to collect from its victims. (page 11)
IF ONLY: In 1965, while running for mayor of New York City,
Bill Buckley made the most sublime campaign promise of all
time. Among other things, he offered the voters "the internal
composure that comes of knowing that there are rational limits
to politics." Since then there has hardly been a candidate for
any office, anywhere, who would understand those words, let
alone endorse them. (page 12)
Reprinted Columns (pages 7-12)
* Government and Greed (July 11, 2000)
http//www.sobran.com/columns/000711.shtml
* Wanted: A Juvenal (July 13, 2000)
http//www.sobran.com/columns/000713.shtml
* Hillary's Manners (July 18, 2000)
http//www.sobran.com/columns/000718.shtml
* Home-Run Inflation (July 20, 2000)
http//www.sobran.com/columns/000720.shtml
* History's Yes-Man (July 25, 2000)
http//www.sobran.com/columns/000725.shtml
* Blessings in Disguise August 8, 2000)
http//www.sobran.com/columns/000808.shtml
All articles are written by Joe Sobran
Copyright (c) 2000. All rights reserved.
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