

Beyond Murphy's Law

Volume Two of the

### Beyond

### Series

### by

### George and Eileen Anderson
Smashwords Edition

May 2013

Published by Eutopia Press.

Disclaimer by Peter Harris of Eutopia Press:

I am making an exception to my 'Post-Christian' principles in releasing this series onto the Web. All strange opinions (and/or revelations) herein are strictly the responsibility of George Anderson, an old friend who now resides safely beyond criticism, in the Great Beyond.

I feel OK about helping promulgate these entertaining, witty and challenging writings because they may just help someone just like you get free of the god of religion and begin testing out George's theory that the real God is only to be found beyond religion. Which is something I agree with.

So George, this is for you, and for Eileen your faithful partner and wife.

First published in two parts by Small Cords Press. Volume One published 1984. Volume Two published 1985. Reissued in a combined edition 1985. Revised and enlarged 1986. Reprinted 1987, 1989, 1991. On disc 1994. In this format 2006.

Copyright George and Eileen Anderson 1984, 1985, 1986, 1994 and 2006.

Converted to ebook by www.ebookuploader.com , a division of Eutopia Press.
Everybody has had some paranormal experience...

Maybe a premonition, a dream that came true, a series of puzzling coincidences... Maybe even something more serious: a haunting, poltergeists, perhaps a genuine Close Encounter.

How d'you handle the supernatural? What are the do's and don'ts, the rights and pitfalls?

The answer is tied in with Murphy's Law:

"WHATEVER CAN GO WRONG, WILL".

That's life, for many people. The problem is - how to live BEYOND MURPHY'S LAW.

Five years on a Maori settlement, in gaol with a ghost, how to be a no-hoper. The anecdotes come thick and fast from George and Eileen's personal experience.

### CONTENTS

A BIT ABOUT GEORGE & EILEEN

INTRODUCTION BY JOHN HAWKESBY

PART ONE: THE REAL PROBLEM

1. HALLO, MR. MURPHY

2. ... AND GOODBYE, MR MURPHY

3. THE FRUSTRATION FACTOR

4. NUTS, BOLTS AND DOLLARS

PART TWO: MAKING IT WORK

5. IN GAOL WITH A GHOST

6. RAISING THE ROOF

PART THREE: HANDLING THE SUPERNATURAL

7. DAD, MEET A HOOKER

8. HE HAD IT WHEN HE CAME IN

9. PLAYING IT BY EAR

10. REAL ESTATE WITHOUT TEARS

11. DO-IT-YOURSELF FOR NO-HOPERS

12. FROM BOURNEMOUTH TO BROCHS

PART FOUR: CLEARING THE CLUTTER

13. ABSOLUTES AND...

14. ... STILL MORE ABSOLUTES

15. ISRAEL — WHERE ELSE?

PART FIVE: THE OPEN-ENDED KINGDOM

16. THE OBJECT OF THE GAME

17. GATEWAYS AND GRAVITY

18. ABOVE AND BEYOND
A bit about George and Eileen

From the early days of Christianity there have been those who have warned of heresies and of wolves in sheep's clothing, and have sought to turn back the faithful to a direct relationship with God. 'God as dad plus nothing' (this volume, p.437). These reformers have often been shunned and spoken against from the pulpits. Such a one was George Anderson, with his brave and faithful wife Eileen.

I remember standing with my wife Penelope in the Andersons' garage on the Maori settlement some time in the mid-1970's as George told us of his belief that God was going to bring him into his full ministry when he turned forty. We couldn't imagine what that might be – he had already done so much. But we believed him – he was not the kind of guy to make idle predictions.

Sure enough, soon after his fortieth birthday came the radical Small Cords, a hand-printed magazine which put a bomb under organized religion, and encouraged many to trust in their direct relationship with God rather than psychological hype and churchy 'Magic.' And to meet as directed by Him in homes or wherever they happened to be.

Small Cords was the beginning of a fruitful ministry in print which spanned over thirty years and saw over 20,000 copies of the six Beyond books printed on their small offset machine in the spare bedroom, collated on the kitchen table, hand-bound and sent to places 'too numerous to mention' throughout New Zealand and beyond \- mostly sold by word of mouth, apart from a few brave bookshops!

In the nineties, after George had discovered (to his great joy!) that he had Jewish ancestry, George and Eileen had several exciting stays in Israel as volunteer workers under the Sar-El programme, sharing their experience of Jesus as Messiah whenever they could.

Around 2003 the Andersons went on the first of several trips to Fiji, where they proclaimed, in their unique, direct and powerful way, the message you can read in the six books of this volume.

When George found that he had cancer, he carried on a full life with his beloved Eileen, including the 'doing up' of two houses and a motor home.

Everything in the Andersons' life seemed to fit together in wonderful ways, and even in death George's faith had results. HE had wanted a plain wooden coffin, a box with rope handles. I was commissioned to make it, and was running late. Just before the funeral, one exactly fitting his wishes turned up at the funeral home. It had been made 'on spec.' by a young man calling himself 'the Carpenter's son', who was completely unaware of George's request.

George Anderson, a man who did not 'follow a multitude to do evil' and was not afraid to stand as a lone witness to Truth, is now truly 'Beyond Murphy' forever! Read on, and you will find his words will grab and challenge (and bless!) you in ways you may not have imagined...

\- David Foote with Peter Harris, from the Preface to the combined Beyond Series, print version, 2007

DEDICATION

To STEVE, KEVIN, TOM, ALISON who were here when most of this happened.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To John Hawkesby, Anchorman of TV3, Radio Hauraki newscaster, former host of TV's "It's In The Bag", "Top Half" and the Tonight Show's award-winning series "Reflections" - for writing the introduction to this book.

First published 1985 by Small Cords Press, PO Box 946, [now closed – ed.] Whangarei, New Zealand. Reprinted October 1985, Third printing October 1986, Fourth printing June 1988, Fifth printing December 1989, Sixth printing July 1991. On disk April 1994. This printing 2006

Copyright 1985, 1994 and 2006 by George and Eileen Anderson.

ISBN 0 9597816 1 7

INTRODUCTION

The Andersons write as they live...slightly off the wall, at times confusing, but always with vigour, enthusiasm and an unquenchable search for the truth.

In this book they have sought to unearth some of the mysteries and essences that too often are so elusive.

Like me, you may not agree with all they have to say. That may well be the book's enduring strength.

Being prodded into examining and re-examining our own values, attitudes and prejudices is not a bad thing.

George and Eileen write as they live...and live as they write. It's an endearing pilgrimage...one worthy of our attention.

JOHN HAWKESBY
PART ONE: THE REAL PROBLEM

HALLO, MR. MURPHY

Murphy's Law is alive and well. Fat and flourishing. But...

You can live _BEYOND MURPHY'S LAW._

That's the object of this book.

You won't join anything. Or start some elaborate course of studies. Let's explain...

It was our first week in the Cook Islands. We were passing the evening in a Rarotongan cinema. Not in the main centre, Avarua. Where the tourists go. But on the far side of the island. In the makeshift surroundings of a packing shed.

Friday night, so every child for miles around was there to cheer and boo and shout and laugh. The seats were hard, backless benches and our backsides were anaesthetised. Lizards clung to the corrugated iron walls, catching unsuspecting mosquitoes. A large, friendly dog was soundly asleep across Eileen's feet.

It Was One Of Those Evenings...

The film started off with the wrong lens, making Roger Moore a pudgy, overweight blob for a few puzzling moments. Reels two and three were shown in reverse order, so the plot was a trifle obscure. The sound had given up while the projectionist was outside enjoying a quiet smoke. And now we, and a couple of hundred others were sitting in total darkness while someone was sent out to find fusewire.

"Murphy's Law," I thought, wryly. "Everything has gone wrong that possibly can." Which was par for the course, situation normal, in the Pacific islands.

But, I wondered, what about more sophisticated societies? Does all the effort, expense and expertise to make cogs mesh quietly and polished surfaces slide smoothly really achieve better results?

If not, why not?

And having determined why not - how do we get round the problem? Beyond the reach of built-in pandemonium and chaos that afflicts our waking hours.

At that point, the projector flickered into life, and Moore continued to manage masterfully with a hi-jacked oil- rig in the North Sea. Somewhat hampered by his image being split, with head and trunk on the lower half of the screen, and waist and legs striding manfully along the upper part.

We struggled to remember the plot.

But Murphy's Law had begun to ring bells somewhere at the back of our minds. The question was - how to get beyond it.

Okay, it just makes a Rarotongan film show more amusing.

It's different in other situations. Where things matter. Where everything depends on events dovetailing smoothly. And - that's the problem, isn't it?

It's a big con. What is? Life is. Stare at it from any angle. Be honest with yourself. And you'll see it's jacked up. By others. For others. Not for you.

Take any aspect, any scale. Something simple, like pouring concrete for a garage base. Nothing to it - phone up three or four friends, tell them to keep Saturday morning free. Or let you know if they can't make it. Book the readimix. Buy a carton of beer. And you're all set.

Not on your life. Gary - the one who's a wizard with the float - breaks a leg. Ted and Sally think you said eleven. The truck driver thinks you said nine. And at ten o'clock sharp a monsoon breaks overhead.

Switch to the other end of the spectrum. Like political theory. Any party, any system. Freedom. Liberty. Prosperity. All the good words. And the techniques. Building up the nation. Encouraging workers. Sharing benefits. Result - Utopia.

Just one little question dangles. From whence cometh all the yucky pogroms and secret police? Compulsory purchases and political prisoners? Bumbling, mushrooming bureaucracy and laws against any form of initiative? Corrupt, lying politicians and costly development schemes built in the wrong place at the wrong time, upside down.

What goes wrong in that shady someplace 'twixt theory and practice?

Answer: Murphy's Law. But don't forget: you can live beyond it.

Now, before we start getting super-serious and tracking down the archetypal Mr. Murphy and wishing him good morning, let us offer the odd warning or two.

How prejudiced are you?

Or, to rephrase the question, what trick do you use for copping out when the situation starts to get heavy?

Non sequitur? Let's explain. Prejudice - in any area - is a whole different box of bullets from opinion or conviction.

With the latter we are pretty relaxed about the belief in question. We regard it as reasonable. (Well, of course we would.) If we trip over someone who thinks the precise opposite, we'll shrug and say "fair 'nuff". Or at worst, we'll think the bloke must've escaped from the funny farm.

And if someone grabs a pencil to show us we've been off- beam all the time on that belief, we don't up and bash them. We utter a mild oath and have a chuckle at how wrong we can be.

Not so with prejudice.

We have to defend it. At all costs. Anyone whose ideas diverge from ours by a hairsbreadth is criminally stupid. We give impassioned harangues. And throw tantrums if we are contradicted.

Because we are avoiding something. Running away. Insecure and uncertain. Hence the vehemence. The bad temper. The missionary zeal. The offence taken.

So, back to the warning. How prejudiced are you? On what? You see - prejudice eventually grows on you, until you will only read books slanted to your particular views. Only talk with people who see things your way. It's safe. That way there's no danger of having to switch lanes. Or do a U-turn. Like we said, it's a cop-out.

You sit there reading. And after a few pages you slam the book down and exclaim triumphantly to spouse or whatever: "Thought so! The guy's a communist, catholic, flat earthist, transvestite, pentecostal, zionist, feminist..." Or says shit or picks his nose.

Which proves - to your satisfaction - that he, she or it can't possibly have anything worthwhile to say on any subject under the big yellow ball.

Right. If your religion conveniently happens to have it all. Or your politics are the answer to everything from sore noses to sweaty feet. Or if you only listen to people who belong to your arcane little group...

Either don't bother to read on. Or grit your teeth, run a deodorant under your armpits and stay with it for a few more pages. And - note where you switch off or get offended. 'Cos that's where you're wrong. Not because we say so; because at gut level you damn well know it.

And there's a problem with this kind of book. It covers a fairly broad range of subjects - all of which are matters on which people tend to have strong opinions. Some of which have been responsible for impressive bouts of blood-letting in bygone days.

It isn't a tidy book. You can buy any quantity of literature on - say \- successful living. Or psychic research. Or theology. Neat, orderly books, with arguments and examples arranged systematically.

But this book's about real life, the broad-spectrum, untidy sort. Where one moment you're changing a flatty on the car; next moment you experience something totally other. Supernatural, they call it.

And you have to be able to handle both.

Okay, there are philosophies, religions a-plenty. Some are pretty comprehensive. Some are complex. Some - expensive. And they all suffer from the holy huddle syndrome - they produce a steady stream of remarkably similar-looking converts. All giving a similar-sounding party line.

We've been in that scene. Frankly, it's a rather nice ego- trip to organise people to all be, do and think the same. For a while. But we discovered there were problems. Those folk could only handle a limited set of circumstances. They had to keep huddled together to maintain their confidence. Real life scared them.

So what we're trying for in this book is an open-ended system where you can actually handle anything that comes along - from punctures to poltergeists and beyond - without turning into Anderson-type clones in the process. And we're not fronting for any organisation, either.

All we want to establish is how you can live beyond Murphy's Law.

The label has been around for a while. Simply stated, Murphy's Law says: "WHATEVER CAN GO WRONG, WILL".

Savvy? Read it carefully. Memorise it and give yourself a gold star for saying it without peeking. For it is the fundamental law on which everything in life is based.

These five little words give the reason for the systematic chaos around us. From stubbed toes to nuclear holocausts. TV commercials to gang rape.

With a little bit of bloomin' luck we'll be calling up a few prejudices. No?

"Murphy's Law indeed! Young people need the ten commandments. Discipline in the home. When I was a child... Social credit is the answer. Fewer additives, more compost- grown vegies." Et cetera.

Suit yourself. And meantime, try a simple experiment. Plan something. Anything. Say - order something on the 'phone to be ready by Friday. Something you'll need that evening. Drive into town to pick it up. Drive back and use it. Don't make contingency plans. Like "phone me back if you have any problems". Or "I can always get a smaller one at McShingles". Just wait until Friday and watch the foul-up. Listen to the excuses, the reasons why they couldn't do the job. And if they did it, the reasons why they blew it. And console yourself that you have had a personalised demo of Murphy's Law.

Or, for sheer simplicity: light a stinky bonfire. Bonfire smoke blows towards you. Wherever you are.

There will always to those who shrug and say "so?". Those who accept foul-ups as inevitable. Who have learned to live in a 10% efficiency system. If you're one of them, have a deeper look at the implications. Not just the pretty-pretty ideology that hides the gimme-gimme politician. Or the nucleamatic wonder where the plastic driveshaft snaps after running for all of ten minutes. They're just bad jokes.

But then there's life. The 24 hour variety. Where pallid- faced men work from adolescence to senescence in soul- deadening noise and stench; when women trudge with pushchair and shopping bag through tawdry shops and dismal streets. Or worse; where all is glitter and novelty, bright small-talk and conversation pieces, and happiness is a higher credit rating. The pointless existence. Where you exist for them. Where whatever could go wrong went wrong God knows how many years back. Sum it up in the scene behind the "Coronation Street" credits. Row upon row of terraced houses: battery cages for featherless bipeds.

If you don't like it, cheer up. You can live beyond Murphy's Law.

* * *

... AND GOODBYE, MR MURPHY

There's got to be a fair bit more to it.

Being born. Five years of more or less haphazard influence by well-meaning parents. Ten-plus years of the current trends in education. Some sort of job training - depending on the economic and political climate. A few more years. Marriage. Struggling to jack up enough credit for a first home. Children appearing at predictable-or-otherwise intervals. Twenty or so years juggling family, home and job. Learning as you go, and when you've learned, the kids have flown the nest. Fewer responsibilities. Cash and time to spare. But you're set in your ways. Calling each other mum and dad. Living in a neat, respectable house in a good suburb. Making plans for retirement. When the joints begin to seize up and the plumbing isn't reliable. When the lease runs out.

There's got to be more to it than that.

You didn't choose to be born. Did you? That was your parents' bright idea. So there's no obligation to stay on the treadmill. You didn't ask society to organise itself for you. Did you? Previous generations jacked that one up. So you're not obliged to subsidise its inefficiency. There's got to be more to it than a predictable self-perpetuating life-cycle.

D'you ever get the nuttiest feeling that we're sitting in a waiting room? Herded in with the rest of the world.

No end of folk make the best of the situation. Stake out their own little niche. Clean and tidy. Enough light, ventilation, elbow room. While others are downright uncomfortable. For a variety of reasons. Too lazy to bother. Or the big bloke in the next seat sprawls everywhere. Most folk put up with the long wait. Inevitable, they say. An end in itself.

Meantime - people are born. Grow. Die. Between times - twiddle thumbs as best we can. Rearrange the flowers in the vase yet again. Read dog-eared back numbers of magazines. Stare at goldfish in the aquarium.

Or listen to the rumours. Always, the rumours... There's a train due, to take us all to the seaside. The dentist'll stick his head round the door: "Next, please". An exam will start; marks will be awarded for neatness. The Board will begin interviewing the prisoners to decide who is eligible for parole. Heaven. Or Hell.

Nice. Depending on which rumour turns out to be accurate. If any.

Who says we have to sit and wait?

Someone makes a move to another part of the room. Nearer the radiator. Or where it's not so crowded. Instant reaction. "What right have you got to shift? Aren't we good enough for you? Pushing in like that! Get back to your own corner."

Funny, that. Once you've moved, all those little squabbles, the protocol and "in" gossip, so important back there - don't matter a damn over on the other side of the waiting room.

The bluster from those who warn "you'll lose your place in the queue" is meaningless. Because up and down the room, inevitable organisers form and re-form little queues. All facing different ways. Waiting for different things.

Then \- let's say you make a move to the door. That causes it. Hullabaloo from everyone. "Gitaway from that. It's locked. Keep yer hands off. They'll call us when it's time. You trying to push in first? Listen, will you - it's not safe outside."

So you pause, a bit scared even to grab at the handle. The waiting room never looked so secure before.

And, of course, someone might've locked the door from the outside. But... Try the handle. There's always the possibility the door's not locked. And all along we were intended to go outside whenever we chose.

Don't just sit there, waiting. Don't conform to the inertia of the majority of folk in the waiting room. Conform, and you get nowhere. Conform, and you merely reinforce in your mind and in the minds of others the importance of Murphy's Law.

Oh, it's important enough. But what we're wanting to establish is the fact that you can live beyond it.

There are many popular explanations surrounding the origins of the law. They are all wrong. Oh, there may have been a literal 20th century Murphy who first stated the epigram "whatever can go wrong, will".

But the establishment of the law by the primeval Murphy belongs to the era of pre-history. Before Adam ran a speculative eye over Eve and decided replenishing the earth wasn't too much of a chore after all.

Like \- in the beginning.

Rationalists will huff and puff against "a literal Adam" and that sort of thing. In their club, history books aren't valid unless written this century.

Religious bods (not all of 'em, but those at the respectable end of the spectrum) will go twitchy if we bring in a devil with horns, tail and sexy red tights.

Funny, that. Because religion - particularly Judaism and Christianity - is chock-full of supernatural goodies. And at the same time, religion puts it all firmly behind bars, and tells the faithful to get into the ethics business.

Well, it's safer, isn't it. But the simple fact is that when we mention Murphy in these pages, we mean a literal, supernatural, essentially evil being. Maybe not in red tights. But nonetheless real.

Now, we grant you that "the supernatural" (whatever that is) doesn't immediately inspire confidence. Ole Zeke's flying saucers. Daniel's chums outdoing Fijian fire walkers, and lashings of grog suddenly materialising at a party haven't quite got the makings of the neat little stained-glass-and- collection-plates club we know and love so well. Or something.

Pity. The facts don't fit our religion. Perhaps we'd better sing that old hymn "Sumpn's gotta give, sumpn's gotta give, sumpn's gotta give".

We're anticipating things a little. We'll get round to the trick of going beyond Murphy's Law later on. But even at this early stage you'll find things slide a lot smoother if you accept life as it is.

Not as it isn't.

In other words - that life has a whacking great supernatural element. Here and now. For real. Sure, we can lead some sort of a life by cutting out all acknowledgement of and involvement in the supernatural. At best it'll be a sterile existence. And there will be continual frustrations. Disasters, even. At worst.

Try pretending roads don't exist. You can go from A to B across country. Bumpy, but you can. The trouble's on those elongated asphalt ribbons. Odd brrm-brrm noises, loud honkings and soft thud. End of story.

That's life, ignoring the supernatural. It can't be ignored. So the cop-out is to compartmentalise it. Make a little box. Two or three little boxes, in fact. Sort the funny stuff into them. And don't let them spill over into "real" life.

Here's how we do it.

One box is, of course, labelled "religion". Clean, sterile, pastel-coloured. Neatly arranged within is God, angels, miracles, Satan, heaven and hell. Plus a few other goodies that vary from one denomination, cult or sect to another.

Another box has "superstition" stencilled on the side. It's a bigger box. Untidy. Jam-packed with Greek myths, Maori legends, footage from late-nite movies, werewolves and vampires, folklore and quaint customs, Merlin, UFOs and Dennis Wheatley.

There's a third box. Tucked out of sight, behind the other two. Small. Padlocked. No name on it. Inside are things we'd rather not talk about frightened the pants off us. We couldn't explain them, yet we know they were shatteringly real. Or perhaps they were other in a totally different sense. They didn't belong to this world, yet they had an unforgettable quality, a heartbreaking beauty. Something that triggered a yearning for heaven-knows- what.

Only sometimes do we go to this box. Seldom do we betray its existence to others. But it's there. We all have one.

And mostly we live in what we call "real" life. Where everything is explainable in terms of high school physics. Where our behaviour follows a tribal pattern. Where Murphy's Law reigns unchallenged.

Ask yourself this question: What would happen if you kicked down the sides of those three boxes? If you gave the supernatural the same validity as the rest of life?

Apart from the fact that your friends would say you'd gone cuckoo, that is.

Answer: Murphy's Law would have less of a free hand than it normally enjoys. It wouldn't be completely flattened - that's a matter we'll get into later - but at least it wouldn't hold the sway we've currently been allowing it.

But the cost... Prejudices again. We'd have to admit that the weirdoes and mystics and such were right. Primitive natives and superstitious peasants were right. That religions weren't intended to be nice, ethical social clubs, but represent man's struggle to organise the Uncontainable and respectabilise the Totally Other.

For the moment, assume that there is Something - or Someone - "out there". Because we're not trying (in this paragraph, at least) to annoy your prejudices, we're hesitant to glue a label on It. Fairyland, Heaven, another dimension, eternity - hang loose for a while. Just realise that we're not into something ethereal or misty. Vague or imaginary. We're trying to suggest a "world" - a place, a state - that is tangible, palpable, walk-in-and-poke-around-able. But on a different wavelength from this one. Slightly different, that's all. Or, if you want to be technical, on a wavelength that's a multiple of ours - so every now and then, different places, different times, there's a harmonic, an overlap. Double exposure, to change the metaphor.

A point where the two worlds meet. A bridge. Or a Gateway.

Later, we'll go into details. Produce evidence. Plus a few first-hand anecdotes. Although, even at this point, we'll give a word of discouragement to the compulsive sceptic. If you're looking for a supernatural something that'll sit submissively in a laboratory and react with mechanical regularity when you snap your fingers... Give up and go home.

Or read a book on quantum physics. Learn that, even in the universe that science generally agrees exists, there are many wild and woolly variables. To be sure, they are part of, and subject to, umpteen higher laws. But to our Euclid-Newton attitude they have strong overtones of the paranormal.

Even buzz-words like black holes, quasars and masers are tricky beasties to replicate with our Boys Own Chemistry Set.

And "proof" can be another term for intellectual dishonesty.

Prove that that bloke you've been shacked up with for a couple of decades is your awfully wedded spouse. Meantime we'll get into our no-nonsense rationalistic act. Marriage certificate? Could belong to anyone. Wedding photos? Faked. Testimonies by in-laws and friends who were at the ceremony? Well, flippin' heck, how unbiased d'you reckon they are! Case dismissed.

While you jump up and down protesting that he is your hubby for mostly worse, and you know because you were there. So!

You're convinced. Not us - it we don't want to be.

And, ultimately, that's what proof is. Something you know, whether by a flash of insight. Or by experience. At gut level. By intuition. That's proof - for you.

We've got to find out for ourselves.

All second-hand methods (and that includes merely reading these words) are hearsay. Great, as far as they go. For clues in the treasure hunt. For saying "hey, fellas, it's thataway". But not to be trusted. Or swallowed. That's religion. Dead and stuffed, like King Tut's mummy.

That was a digression. What we're going to do now is look at the technique of breaking the Murphy barrier and getting life to function. Smoothly. Efficiently.

Above all - excitingly.

We guarantee: you can live beyond Murphy's Law.

As far as technique goes, it'll have to fit two dramatically demanding standards:

IT MUST BE SIMPLE.

IT MUST COST NOTHING TO RUN.

Unlike (if you'll pardon me) religion.

(Not that I'd be adverse to setting up my own little cult. Be the venerable father-figure, pocket the 10% per week and generally seduce - metaphorically, I assure you - the gullible. No-one's perfect.)

Statistically, though, the bulk of the world's inhabitants are illiterate and stoney broke. So this must function free of charge. With no obscure philosophy.

So for those who want the nitty-gritty in the proverbial nutshell, we'll put it in one, unoriginal sentence. The remainder of the spiel will be commentary, padding, anecdote, and some of the nuts-and-bolts on why the thing works.

To get beyond Murphy's Law takes one step:

YOU MAY HAVE ANYTHING YOU CHOOSE.

That's it. Nothing more. Off you go and do it. Start to live. Make a dubious gesture of farewell to Mr. Murphy once and for all. And don't trip over the snag on the way out.

Oh, it works; you really may have anything you choose. Trouble is, it's too simple. And we aren't. We've got this kinky little perversion that demands intricate circuitry and polysyllabic nonsense phrases, lashings of perspiration and a price tag like the national debt. If it's nice and complex we'll give it a go. Perhaps it'll work.

Simply, the trouble is us. Our mind.

We've dealt with Murphy. (Or, to be honest, we've claimed to.) Now our mind is racing away with its print-out spilling fathoms of objections for us to ponder at our leisure. Before we've had the chance to try and fail. Perhaps even try and succeed.

In effect, our mind doesn't object to being handed the key to the universe. As long as it can reserve the right to discuss it, sniff it, pickle it in formaldehyde - in short, do anything except use it to open the appropriate door.

Herewith, another digression. Later in the piece we'll take a sideways look at the mind and throw up our hands in mock surprise when we find it's nuttier than the proverbial fruitcake. Everybody's mind, not just the few select individuals who are on the receiving end of the shocks and potions doled out by shrinks and things. For now, remember that our mind is less than honest and \- despite its seeming importance in education and "good" jobs - it is only a small part of the natty complex we call self.

So - don't pay much attention to what the mind is saying. Basically it feels threatened and wants to firmly establish its authority. Tough bikkies. It should never have been put in charge in the first place, and the first rule of the game is to tell it to shaddup and behave itself, instead of letting it squall like a spoiled brat. And if the claim that Murphy has been dealt with sounds hopelessly glib - follow us into the next chapter for a bit more explanation.

* * *

THE FRUSTRATION FACTOR

Where were we?

Claiming to have dealt Mr. Murphy a death-blow.

Now \- that's just words. Remember the statement: "YOU MAY HAVE ANYTHING YOU CHOOSE"? Words. Mere words. Unless you, the funny-looking hunk of meat and bones sitting reading this, get your A into G and try it out.

Here's how.

Get firmly into your consciousness the precise wording of the statement. Each word is chosen for the simple reason that no other word would do.

Therefore, make sure you aren't making a few sneaky changes here and there, then looking at us all wide eyed and innocent and saying "see, it doesn't work".

Look \- take the last word. _C-H-O-O-S-E._ Not "want". Not "like". Not "wish". Not "imagine". Choose.

Does it matter. Damn well does. It's possible to fritter away a hell of a lot of time and energy by basing your outlook on the wrong word.

"Aw, gosh. Look at that car. Just look at it, eh. Will you listen to the exhaust! If only I had something like that. Man, some people are lucky. I wish I were."

"One day, I'd like to buy a little place in the country. Nothing flash. Me and the wife often talk about it. Run a few chooks. Get away from the noise and traffic and the neighbours. It'd be marvellous."

"Don't laugh, but ever since I was a kid, I've wanted to be a concert pianist. Silly, I suppose. But I had a music teacher who just sort of inspired me. What? Oh, I never even lift the lid these days. There's no time."

And so on.

Sit with most folk, get 'em in a mellow mood, out pops a shy little daydream.

Listen some more, and see how pale and thin the dream has become. Hear the wistful tone of voice. Then see the half shrug as it is send off to bed and the subject changed.

Think through your life. Or the lives of people you know. How many real choices do you or they ever make.

"D'you want to watch the play tonight?" "Er - yes. There's only a talk on the other side." That's not a real choice. Somebody called it electronic valium. Fair comment.

And your job. Did you choose it? Would you choose it now if you could stand back and think things over.

You know - in the Middle Ages there used to be violent controversies, pitched battles and highly holy homicides over the question of whether mankind has a free will, or whether life is irresistibly fated to follow a predestined path. People took sides on the issue. Passionately.

Popularly, the free-will brigade won the debate. Most people imagine that they have free will. But you wouldn't think so, to watch how little use is made of it. We lap up conditioning and programmed responses in a way that must gladden the hearts of advertisers and politicians.

Eileen and I had a valuable lesson early on in our marriage. We needed some ready money and began doing part-time work - evenings, weekend - for a swimming pool contractor. He had contracts to build school pools in several major English cities. We were a little awed by his expertise.

I wondered aloud how he started in such a specialised trade. He sat us down on the bucket of his bulldozer and explained.

"Listen, you two. I knew nothing. Absolutely nothing. But I've always reckoned that anybody can do anything. So I rented some floor space at one of these flash exhibitions. Got a few concrete blocks in a bit of a circle, and draped polythene over them. Filled it up with water. Went to a local nursery, asked to borrow ferns and stuff with the promise that they could have free advertising. Got ornamental paving slabs the same way. Bingo! Instant pool. Looked quite neat. The brother-in-law loaned me enough cash for business cards and brochures, and there I was, in business as a swimming pool contractor."

At the exhibition he got his first order. The school that placed it was a well-known one, so our friend's bank manager was happy to loan enough to provide materials.

And experience?

"Every book in the library, pretty much. It's surprising how much information you can pick up. Plumbing, excavation, reinforced concrete. It wasn't easy. But I was doing something I wanted to get into. Then it's just a matter of keeping at it."

Anybody can do anything, he claimed. Or at least - they can if they choose to.

Don't wish. Don't like.

(I'd "like" a new pair of shoes. I seldom wear the things. Weddings and funerals, mainly. But I wouldn't dislike a new pair, so I suppose I'd "like" to have them.)

By extension anyone could "like" a holiday in Paris, a better job, a thousand dollars, or any equally empty phrase that's not obviously nasty. We "like" sweets, and "don't like" having teeth filled.

And, because such liking is ineffective, we build up a pattern in our mind that strongly links what we like with what we don't, can't and won't have.

Don't "like". Choose.

When you think about it, choosing isn't something we're encouraged to do.

We were born, kicking and screaming, into a world that is already well established and going its own merry way. There's not even a take-it-or-leave-it option built into our contract: the survival instinct is too darn strong for that.

And we grow up being taught that life is the way it is, like it or lump it.

Sure, there's some pretence at offering us a choice now and then. Parental pressure v. peer group pressure. We have to choose.

Big deal. Often means little more that dropping a previous generation's prejudices and picking up this generation's ignorance.

Which job will we take? Out of the limited range available. Which candidate will we vote for? To parrot the party line, come hell or high inflation. Which religion will we join? From a selection of solemnly ritualistic, clinically intellectual, and fervently emotional.

Tick the appropriate box. Pass on to the next question.

Hang on. Life isn't a multiple-choice exam paper.

Leastways, it is. Because "they" say it is. But there's no reason why it should be. To hell with "either...or". Rhubarb or plums. Why not both?

Or neither. Instead, something outrageously exotic.

Perhaps you didn't know there was anything else, other than rhubarb or plums. You'd be surprised what's in stock.

Just make sure it's your choice.

Try it. Find something that pings with you. Something that means just a bit more to you than whatever else comes to mind. Don't go all noble and heroic, and look for something "worthwhile".

Be honest. Mebbe you've been eating sensible, balanced meals - and you'd love a packet of gooey Syntha-pops.

Or it could be something wildly ambitious. Crazy. A real change of lifestyle. Quitting the nine to five and watching the grass grow. Or whatever.

And whatever it is - make it a conscious choice. If it's something simple, like eating those luscious meaningful Syntha-pops, buy a packet, sit and enjoy them. Don't worry what others will think. "Fancy you eating that rubbish! Thought you'd have more sense." That's your little furry friends sensing something's up, trying to drag you back to the predictability of Murphy's Law. Ignore them.

At this stage - don't explain to them.

If it's something a bit trickier, like walking out on twenty years of being a junior button-pusher's assistant with Universal Strangleholds, the principle is the same. This time, break it into steps. Take the steps. Enjoy yourself. Sure, you could do it in one big jump. But that takes a bit of practise. Or, more accurately, courage.

You see - until you've had some experience of this, there'll be the tendency to chicken when things don't go as you'd expected. Don't chicken.

Apparent setbacks aren't Murphy catching up with you, demanding back rent. It's a pure, "good" (if that's not too religious a word) phenomenon that Murphy siphoned off for himself some six-plus millennia ago, and that you're just restoring (at least, a weeny bit of it) to its correct function.

Call it "the frustration factor".

Just enough resistance to weed out those who aren't really prepared to see the thing through to the bitter end. And to make those who mean business more determined than ever, come hell or high water.

Because the cliche "easy come, easy go" is a fact of life.

Doting parents give spoiled offspring a glossy new car for his or her sixteenth - the vehicle accumulates rust and scratches, contracts a nasty dose of piston slap, and generally dies of early old age. Youngster doesn't give a hoot - the olds have plenty of cash, let 'em buy another.

So a parent with any gumption complicates things a bit, works alongside us. So we understand what's going on. So we get a sense of values.

Here's an example. From real life, folks!

We run a small (very small) craft business. The opportunity opened up a hairsbreadth for us to do the same type of work on a trial basis in the Cook Islands. We knew we wanted to go - George, Eileen and our handicapped adopted son Tom. So we chose to go.

So far, so good. Our business had made enough to pay the fares, and we calculated that in the intervening two months until we flew, enough work would come in to keep us in spending money on our tropical paradise. At that point, events became interesting.

Everyday life is always a mite complex to describe in a few lines, so I'll gloss over all the minor quirks of fate and trivial catastrophes that queued up at our door, and tell you about the two biggies.

That evening we were staring moronically at the telly, only to be jolted awake by an announcement that Air New Zealand had just upped its fares to the Cook Islands by an insignificant 25%. Bless 'em - it was the third price hike that year, and the largest had to be where we were heading. Nowhere else. At times like that you expect a bloke "...and it only applies to the Andersons". Then, next day in the mail, came the advice that our work permits were going to cost untold.

Disaster. Leastways, it would have been if Mr. Murphy had been driving the bus. Like I said, though, if you choose something, it stops being his little show. Events may look funny (funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha), but it'll work. Grit your teeth and stay with it.

Recognise the frustration factor.

Financially, we were in the poo. Even with what we had hoped to earn before we flew, we weren't going to make it. Yet we had chosen.

So we drove into town to see our travel agent. And whad'ya know? Air New Zealand hadn't notified him of any ups in the going rate to Raro, C.I., and he was still in the business of issuing old-price tickets. Legally.

We bought three.

That left the question of the work permits. We could afford them, just, and posted off a reluctant cheque.

But. Those next two months saw an all-time low in the history of craft businesses. We lived somewhat frugally.

However. Came the great day when our plane thwacked down at the airport in Rarotonga, and we learned that there had been an ambiguity in the work permit rates. Our quote had been for a year, whereas we only needed ones for ten weeks. Whereupon a cheque for the difference was pressed into our travel-stained mitts.

Spending money. Which would have been used up in the preceding lean months if it hadn't been annexed in the meantime.

Get it? The system works, if you ignore the facts and stick with it. Don't chicken.

(By the way, it helps to grin while you're gritting your teeth. Eileen says I'm to be honest and admit I don't. She claims I get pretty scratchy when we're going through the tricky part. I think she's exaggerating - you know what women are like. Rather nice.)

Oh, if you want to know how the Cook Islands thing turned out - sorry, we can't tell you. We're writing this bit after only a couple of weeks there. Sitting on the blindingly white coral sand, surf breaking on the reef, waves plashing at the lagoon edge. Eat your heart out. The system works.

Let's extend the explanation a bit.

Say you're going shopping. There's the usual range of goods. Different prices, different specifications. Perhaps what you're after is also available second-hand.

So you set out in your usual way. If you're a careful type you might go for the pre-owned goody. If you like to skite to your mates, you'll make eyes at the biggest, boldest and best.

But \- at the same time, keep a eye open for a gut-feeling suddenly surfacing. One moment you're checking costs v. quality; next moment you somehow know the blue one is for you. Just like that.

All quiet like. No compulsion. No obsession. You don't have to. But if you buy it, it'll prove to be the perfect one. For you.

Experiment. In a small way at the start. Build up confidence. Watch out for the pseudo-Murphy symptoms partway into the situation. Keep a sense of humour. Don't get intense about things. Life's too important to take seriously.

Remember what I said earlier? All this is merely black marks on white paper. Worthless until you do something about it.

Perhaps you're wondering how it functions.

Not willpower. Not positive thinking.

They work, after a fashion. They can manipulate folk around us in all kinds of jolly little ways.

You see them in action in those door-to-door salesmen who appear on the doorstep with an armful of encyclopaedias or a shiny Hoover. Tastefully dressed (you've been cleaning the septic tank or something), oozing confidence (you're puzzling over what they're pushing, if the jam is boiling over, and why Gavin is screaming) and radiating a force-field that says their product is exactly what you always wanted.

Positive thinking works. Ten million insurance agents can't be wrong. But it works regardless. In the same way as a .22 works ideally for drilling cute little holes in woodwork. Irrespective of who might be standing on t'other side of the stud.

We're not really wanting that sort of blunderbuss effect. It might be nice in an amoral way to have everyone jumping when we snap our fingers. But merely to achieve our purpose despite the consequences is a bit tough on others. And what if the consequences boot us in the backside? It'd be like all those fairy stories where the fairy's three wishes carry a sting in the tail. That's the difference between the positive thinking- willpower trip and choosing.

The things you choose originate at a different level.

Not from your mind. From your spirit. (Sorry if that sounds religious. Or mystic. Or whatever turns you off. Call it "level 3" if you would rather give it a neutral label. Meanwhile we'll call it spirit. It's our book; you go write yours.)

You see, us humans break down into three major parts.

One: body. That's the easy part. All the butchers' shop business. Hands, knees and naughty bits. Five senses. A preoccupation with shovelling food into and unloading rubbish from. And having it off, whatever that means.

That wraps up the body. Sure, there's a brain. But that convoluted grey matter isn't the big deal that popular mythology makes it out to be. "She's quite brainy." "For goodness' sake, use your brains, lad." Crap.

The brain isn't an organ that originates very much. Medical researchers have found many instances where hydrocephalics have a dramatically tiny brain because of pressure of fluid in the skull - yet, in a significant number of instances, these people have been capable of normal lives, looking after themselves and holding down responsible jobs, where one would expect them to be cot cases.

You see, the brain is (in computer jargon) an interface. The left lobe links the body to the soul. The right lobe to the spirit. Cross connections between the lobes preserve a balance from each output source.

On to the second part.

Two: soul. This is the source of rational thought. Reasoning. Good/bad, for/against. Intelligence. On this level we closely resemble a computer. Murphy's level. There's a swag more to the soul than that, but for now it's enough to be getting on with.

Three: spirit. In a word - the area of intuition. That's an oversimplification. But we're trying to avoid developing a pseudo-mystical jargon to impress. If you need impressing, go grab a guru. We're writing for nerds, nitwits and no-hopers like us.

Intuition isn't a woman's exclusive. Just that they're not too embarrassed to mention it. At least, they weren't in the bad old days when men were men and women were glad of it. If the feminist thing has downplayed intuition, it'll lose far more than it gains from shucking its sexist shackles.

Intuition - gut feeling - "revelation" - ping - vibes is a matter of becoming aware that you "know" something. Just like that. No reasons offered, no perhapses.

Take a stereotype situation. Wife and hubby meet someone. Small talk. Good time had by all. Later, "I wouldn't trust that guy an inch," says wife. Intuition. Spirit.

"But why? He was interesting. What did he do wrong?" says hubby. Reason. Soul. And we'd bet on the wife any day.

But, as we said, it's not a woman's exclusive. There are enough top businessmen around who've made the peak by playing hunches. Hiring and firing. Investments. New projects. Flying y the seat of their pants. Okay, using reason, intellect and experience for what it's worth. When nothing better is available. But when the gut-feeling strikes - that's it.

There's a nugget of truth in the cynical phrase "I've made up my mind; don't confuse me with the facts". As long as the decision comes from the spirit, not from a good old made-in- Murphyland prejudice.

At the start, you'll probably tie yourself in knots wondering if such-and-such a bright idea is from the soul or the spirit. Don't get intense. It's not the end of the world if you blow it. Chalk it up to experience and have another go. We're all a teeny bit neurotic, hesitating to make a choice because of the "what-ifs" that lurk in the shadows; wallowing in a sumptuous spa-pool of self-pity afterwards. "I knew it. It was all my fault. Oh, the shame and ignominy of it all. How can I live with myself after this!" Background music by Mantovani.

Whereas, in fact there are very, very few mistakes on this path. Not _mistake_ -type mistakes. Like - _bad_. Trouble is, we expect perfection to be a sterile straight line. It isn't. It's the untidy one-step-forward and two-steps-back of a runny-nosed toddler. That's life. Or did you teach your brat to walk by giving it a demo? "Watch me. Left foot first; right arm to counterbalance. Then right foot, left arm. One two, one two, one two. Off you go." With a smart skelp on the bum if the hapless kid goes base over apex at the first try.

No way. Learning to walk is a series of sprawls and tumbles, tears and chuckles. "Darling, junior took his first step, broke his first tooth, and said his first word."

Perfection. Untidy. Scruffy. Real life. That's spirit.

And if disaster strikes - don't chicken. There can be a neat twist if you hang on.

Tell you a story. Friend of ours - call him Ian - was approached by a family who'd gotten themselves in difficulties. Ian had helped folk before. Didn't take him long to get them somewhere to stay. Bought them enough food to keep them going for a while. Then started to straighten out their finances. They were in a mess. The easiest way was to pull a hunk out of his savings - he'd gone through this with others, bailing them out until they were flush enough to repay him.

Ian had dropped in to say hi to us. All of a once, for no reason whatever, I had a clear conviction that the family he was helping were a bunch of confidence tricksters. Or, at least, the husband was. So I told Ian, and it pinged with him.

Well, he - perhaps unwisely - went straight over to where the family were living, and laid it on the line to the husband. "George says you're a con man. So that's it. No more money." Needless to say there was a reaction. Angry scenes, threats: our phone was red-hot for the next twenty-four hours. Slander actions, physical violence. Taking bread out of honest mouths. And, as Eileen knows, little me in a state of mild depression at having boo-booed.

One day later, in walks a long-lost chum from Invercargill. Spies my woe-begotten visage and asks the origins of my misery. Choking with emotion, I tell all. Including the name of the aforesaid husband. Chum from Invercargill roars with uncontrollable merriment. "That's the bloke who took a bunch of businessmen to the cleaners last year and left town with their savings. He's an expert."

Chortling gleefully, George leaps into the van and drives to give the husband a piece of his mind. Alas, he was gone. That morning he had made a valiant attempt to seduce a plain- clothes detective and was "helping the police with their enquiries". Poor chap was AD/DC as well as on the graft. Last we heard, he was enjoying free board and lodging. All sorts of skeletons had come home to roost; know what we mean?

Like we said - don't chicken partway through. Practise trusting your intuition. Okay, it'll be exciting. But the more you use it, the more you'll just know at the right time and in the right place. It's a bit disconcerting, though, the first time you get a burst of intuition. A detective described how it happened to him.

"There'd been a robbery from one of Whangarei's shops. A clean job - no clues whatever. Except a telephone operator on night shift happened to cut in on a call where someone was saying 'it all went smoothly'. She knew the caller's number began with an eight. Nothing more." That narrowed the field down to ten thousand subscribers. Not exactly much help.

"Anyhow, I was sitting in among all the other detectives being briefed on this case, and suddenly - well, it was stupid, really. I knew the phone number. All five digits. So I scribbled it down, then interrupted whatever was being said, saying this is the number you want." There was a moment's shocked silence. Then a burst of good-natured leg- pulling. Nobody took him seriously.

"But I couldn't shake off the feeling of certainty. Even when I checked the name and address of that number, and found the person was a stolid citizen with a blameless reputation. So I decided to follow it up. Drove round to the house and knocked on the door, prepared to give some sort of story to get the bloke talking. Never needed to, though. The guy opened the door - and over his shoulder, there was all the stolen stuff piled high on the kitchen table. Funny that; he'd always been straight before. There was no logical reason for my knowing his phone number."

Intuition isn't logical. But worth cultivating.

* * *

NUTS, BOLTS AND DOLLARS

But, you may ask - which is an excellent start to a chapter - how does it work? The business of "YOU MAY HAVE ANYTHING YOU CHOOSE".

We're glad you asked us that.

It's simple. But slightly mind-blowing. We'll give the answer first, then dither around with the buts and ifs afterwards.

We've been saying that what pings with you in a deep, gut level way, comes from your spirit. Right?

And if you then choose to do that thing, it works out. Often in a crazy sort of way. But it works. Without Murphy fouling it up. Right? Because...

Our spirit is a little bit of God.

Get a beer and have a think about it.

One hundred per flaming cent perfect. Complete with the resources and powers to swing a nebula through space, or design the friendly features of an African wart-hog.

So your body is too podgy or bony or whatever? So your mind is all screwed up because of environment or education or parents? so what! Quit using them as excuses. Your spirit is a segment of God.

Go create something.

We're not kidding. Some simple type'll do just that. But for the rest of us, let's get into the ifs and buts.

Like heresy for starters. 'Taint, really.

It's basic teaching in most holy books. Particularly in the Bible, where it's spelled out in so many words.

Trouble is, in one fell swoop it makes religion obsolete. So the priests and pastors and whathaveyous drape elaborate camouflages around it.

Like \- you don't get it until you join us. Then you don't really get it. Only in embryo form. That'll mebbe grow a bit as you work your way up through the ranks. Pay your subs regularly. Discipline all those naughty and undignified habits of yours. Stand up if you've hairs on your palms.

And one day - in the Millennium - or after a couple of dozen reincarnations - you can live happily ever after.

That's religion. Never-never land. Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow, never jam today. And if it sounds a bit like our Mr. Murphy, you're starting to get the idea.

Religion is Murphy as his best. Soul level.

(Contradiction? Using "Murphy" and "best" in the same breath? Hang on - there's an explanation in chapter five.)

Keeping the peasants busy. Giving the intellectuals something to argue over. Channelling the dollars into useless buildings and greedy pockets. Making out that only those who toe the party line will get promotion after they snuff it.

And woe betide the pimply youth who dares to blow a raspberry at the system and claim he's arrived.

That's the surefire way to upset a few million good earnest folk who have invested cash, sweat and time in prettying themselves up to meet God.

You can't do it. Pretty yourself up for God, that is. Because all the glamour hints have been written by Mr. Murphy. He runs the beauty parlours. Metaphorically speaking.

That doesn't turn God on one little bit.

Approach Him with reverence, we're told. Claptrap. Approach Him like a kid. But - a real one. If one of our kids came and stood solemnly before us, tarted up in his best clothes, hair slicked back, cleared his, her or its little throat and intoned "O parent, it is indeed a privilege to speak to you today. You are cleverer than I, taller than I, much heavier than I..." - we'd get a fit of the giggles. If the brat kept it up day after day, we'd trot him to a shrink. Or fan his pants with a strong left-hander.

A kid like that might be a wow as a Mormon missionary. But perhaps you'd rather be raising human beings.

Real kids wait till dad is engrossed in a book, or is changing the oil in the car, then bound into his lap, snotty- nosed, wetly nappied, cleaning jammy fingers on his shirt.

As is, where is, that's kids for you.

Never pretend to know what God's likes and dislikes are. Try and find out. From Him. That way, He gets to modify us on His terms. Which mightn't be terribly couth. 'Cos God isn't human. And He isn't a gentleman. Religious folk go on about "the One who formed the wonders of creation". Let's be specific: He designed clitorises and orgasms.

_Now_ sing the doxology.

If we don't take the trouble to say hi to God and get on first-name terms with Him, we're going to waste a hell of a lot of time up blind alleys. Doing "good" things. Being altruistic and unselfish and dedicated. Or giving up on the saint trip and being yuckier than we really are.

Knocking the dedicated bit may bother you. Sweat not. A simple guideline was laid down a while back. Unfortunately, it's too simple for the eggheads. Still...

LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR

Trite, ain't it.

Means what it says. The families either side of your section. Don't bug them more'n you want to be bugged. Lend your mower when their's gives up. Baby-sit.

Unspectacular. You'll never make the New Year's Honours that way.

But think of the feudin', fightin' and fussin' that'd be cured if neighbours stopped chucking their rubbish over the fence. Or playing the stereo full bore at two a.m.

And we'd extend the neighbour bit to embrace (in a purely figurative sense, dear) someone you stumble across in your travels. Get grease under your fingernails and make yourself every bit of ten minutes late tow-starting someone's old bomb.

That's all.

You see, religion has done a hell of a lot of harm - in partnership with Murphy, of course - by conditioning us to accept its own brand of double-talk.

"Father."

That's an obvious example.

Millions of mugs meet to mumble the magic word week after tedious week. And never stop to think that they are making Dad more and more remote by so doing.

Jesus never, ever called God "Father". He couldn't have.

He never, ever told us to call God "Father". He couldn't have. There wasn't such a word in Aramaic or Hebrew.

"Father" is one of a bunch of English words to label one's paternal relative. From the cheeky "Pop", through the normal family "Daddy" and "Dad", past the affected upper-class "Pater", to the cold, abstract "Father".

When Jesus spoke, he didn't have that range of choices. He had only one word; the word that a child would use in the relaxed intimacy of home. And our English equivalent is "Dad" or "Daddy".

Ask yourself what word is used in your home. Not when someone's being smart. Or when a bit of heavy discipline is doled out. Just in some normal, relaxed situation.

Mostly, nowadays, its "Dad" or "Daddy".

Funny, isn't it, that where Jesus was telling us that God is someone intimate and family, the Church of St. Murphy substitutes a label straight out of the deep freeze.

I wonder why? Not enough dignity, I suppose.

Using a word like "Daddy" might start us speaking and acting naturally. Being ourselves.

Murphy'd hate it. Dad'd love it. Because that's how He wants us. Real. Grubby. BO and halitosis. Talking the way we talk to our cobbers over the fence. Shooting our mouth off. Arguing. Inquisitive.

F'rinstance - the young fellow wheeled his motorbike to our gate. "Trouble?" I called.

"Out of oil," he replied. "Could you sell me some?"

It was one of those fancy two-strokes that have the petrol and oil in separate tanks. He'd noticed the sightglass was empty and had killed the engine before it seized. I came up with a container of 20/30 which he thought was near enough. He said he was up from Auckland, planning to sleep rough on the beach over the long weekend.

There was an airlock. The oil wouldn't flow to the gadget that mixed it with the petrol. He spread out a few tools and worked on the bike while we talked about anything and everything.

The conversation got round to communication with Dad. The lad looked at me sideways. "Pull the other one," he said. I said I wasn't kidding. And I wasn't selling him a religion. Just direct contact that worked.

He flung down the ring spanner. "Okay, then. I've got this airlock." He waved a grimy hand at a row of bolts. "One of them needs slackening to clear it. Go on - ask Him which one it is." I shook my head.

"No way. If I asked - and if He tells me - you'll just think that I'm a bit spiritual. Won't help you any. It's your bike. You ask Him."

The young fellow gave a suspicious look, then made to shut his eyes and put his hands together, now-I-lay-me-down-to- sleep style.

"Oi!" I said, sharply. "Cut that out. That's a religious trick. Nothing in the Bible about shutting your eyes."

He was staring, puzzled.

"Funny", he said. "It's that one. I - just know".

With the spanner he eased off a bolt. There was a faint hiss as the airlock cleared. "It - it works. Like you said." I nodded.

"How much for the oil?" he asked.

"Forget it," I said. "Just keep talking to your Dad. See what He says." And he kicked the bike into life and was off with a wave and a crackle of exhaust which quickly faded away.

The incident faded away almost as rapidly with the arrival of a religious and pernickety friend. We endured a weekend of "I don't know what young people are coming to. I'm thankful that I was brought up to be Godfearing and churchgoing. When I was a girl..." That sort of thing. Just as well we're the patient sort. Ask anyone.

It was Monday lunchtime. Eileen, religious friend and I were making stilted conversation when a motorcycle drove up to our house. There was a perfunctory knock at the door, which was thrown open before I could make a move.

Our bikey stood there, a big grin on his face.

"Gidday, George. Gidday, Eileen. I been out on the beach like I said. Talking to me Dad. Fantastic." He caught sight of our guest, sitting with primly pursed lips.

"'Scuse me, missus. But it looks like it wouldn't do you any harm to get to know Him. Makes all the difference. See you!" And he was off, leaving us suppressing our amusement at our friend's indignant splutterings.

Loving your neighbour has some cute little side-effects.

And watch out for religion putting the bite on you.

"What about Giving?"

(Here it comes - the Murphy-backed hard sell.)

Like tithing. Handing over ten percent of your takings.

"To God." Who, by a strange coincidence, looks awfully like the vicar of St. Auschwitz-on-the-hill.

No way.

Tithing screeched to a halt two thousand years ago. (Or would have, if the Murphibank directors hadn't been active.) Until then, okay; one shekel in ten went to phatten a pharisee or rotundify a reverend.

But if you care to check the part of the Bible known (wrongly - do your own research; this book has enough digressions) as the "New Testament"... You'll find that virtually every mention of giving is...

To the poor. The _POOR_.

There are the odd few exceptions. But nowhere, not nowhere, are there any building funds or retainers for local clergy. Even Paul, who could be a religious sort of lad when he tried, goes on record to state that he worked for a living as an example that reverends and things should follow.

Giving is to the poor. No wonder it doesn't get a mention from the pulpit, eh. It's unspectacular. Nobody gets rich or builds a White Elephant. It doesn't need organising.

But, like we said... It only applies to the bunch next door. Or someone you trip over.

"But," say you, quivering with indignation, "What about the poor starving natives in the lower reaches of Upper Ghumtri?"

What about them? They - don't - exist.

I know you saw them on the TV documentary last night. Swollen bellies, fly-blown sores, living skeletons.

They don't exist. You saw coloured lines on a cathode ray tube. Heard vibrations from the cardboard cone of an elliptical speaker. You don't know if that situation ever happened. If it was specially posed for the film unit . (It's been done before; it'll be done again.)

You don't know what'll happen to the dollar "they" want you to send. How much does the charity cream off for its take. Non-profit-making, "they" say? Doesn't stop the top brass getting fat on tax-free expense accounts. How many kickbacks to international agencies and government officials? How many cents, how many spoonsful of powdered milk actually reach the Lady in the Loincloth?

Forget it.

And if you can't forget it - sell up and go there.

We're not kidding.

You'll damn well know if that pings with you or not. Don't trot out the heavy old excuses about "I'm not brave enough. There's the children's education to think of. The embassy wouldn't give me a visa. We don't speak the language. Who'd sponsor me?" Choose it. It'll work. We know from experience.

We did it for five years. Earned our keep. Had four (count 'em - four!) children to hassle us. And had more excitement than a double dose of epsom salts.

And there's the fringe benefit that if you go out under your own steam, nobody can haul you back if you start being unorthodox. Nobody hires you, nobody fires you. Go with a missionary society, you have to spout the party propaganda. Go with a welfare agency, you mustn't query the financial shenannigans. Mr. Murphy had it all sewn up years ago.

Just go. Through any opening. And wait for the excitement.

In fact, whatever you get into, from munching Sythna-pops to succouring emaciated indigents, keep one eye open and one ear half-cocked for the unexpected. Once you stop playing Mr. Murphy's game on the soul level and move up to the spirit, anything can happen. God isn't stodgy. He didn't invent terraced houses, assembly lines and TV programmes.

When you're into the intuition thing, make sure you stay on the alert for the impossible and the unbelievable.

There's more to this universe than meets the eye. And we'll look at that - in practical, no nonsense terms - in the next section.

* * *
PART TWO: MAKING IT WORK

IN GAOL WITH A GHOST

The supernatural's a bit like sex.

They make films about it, write books about it.

Moneyspinners. Very popular.

But precious few folk'll ever sit you down and tell you how it happened to them.

Too embarrassed, they are. But if you get someone in a corner (we're talking about the supernatural now, not sex) and make it clear you're not a sceptic, ninety-nine times out of ten they'll tell you their own paranormal story.

Matter of fact, you'll seldom find someone who doesn't say "funny you should mention it - something weird did happen to me once. Probably a simple explanation but, look, this is what happened..."

Odd things in the sky. Dreams that come true. Things that went bump in the night. Multiple co-incidences.

Tell you a story.

This one goes back into the dim, dark days of ancient history.

To be precise, a couple of years after Eileen and me were legally spliced.

We were living in a caravan on the edge of England's snooty Bexhill-on-Sea. Orchard, apple blossom, all rather pretty.

Evening. Number one son mercifully asleep in his cot. Eileen and George playing chess by the light of a pressure lamp.

Sound effects: knock on door. Noise of George opening door.

Couple of men outside. Said one, "We understand your caravan is for sale." George said it was. We were planning to go all civilised and buy a house. Cash from the sale of the caravan to be the deposit.

The men asked if they could look round. We stood courteously aside.

They might have been twins: identical clothes, identical appearance. They carried gloves. Wore long, beltless black coats with white silk scarves at the neck. Their hands were long, tapering. Like musicians. Their faces were oddly elongated. Expressionless, with the livid pallor of a corpse.

To say they were polite would be the understatement. Their manners were impeccable. Which didn't explain the atmosphere of utter evil they brought in with them.

George caught Eileen's eye. We were both equally scared. Her expression read "get 'em out of here, quick".

They admired the caravan and the fittings. And mentioned a third friend who lived with them, who would have to see it before they could make a decision.

Then they left.

No departing footsteps. No car engine.

And the evil feeling hung around us.

We huddled together for security, and tried to understand what had been happening.

"How did they find us? Even our friends have problems locating the orchard in broad daylight." "Why didn't we hear them arrive?" "Their complexion! That dreadful atmosphere they brought with them." "I hope to goodness they don't come back with that friend of the theirs. They - they weren't human"

We hadn't any real belief in the supernatural. Our belief in God was largely a matter of upbringing. But we prayed a high-quality prayer that those whatever-they-were wouldn't be allowed to come back.

With a perfect sense of timing, a bloodcurdling scream lifted the hair on our scalps. It speaks volumes for our self-control that there wasn't an untidy accident.

"That came from under the caravan," whispered Eileen.

Another scream. Then we realised.

"Tom-cats fighting!" Our laughter held a fair percentage of hysteria, but the evil feeling had evaporated. We went to bed.

The men in black never returned.

For years we never told anyone about them. If we mentioned them among ourselves, we called them "our undertakers". Only recently we found that such men - or, rather, appearances of men - occur throughout the world. Scaring folk, often for no tangible reason. And showing the people they meet that the universe isn't quite as straightforward as one is led to think.

In which case - how d'you handle a non-rational universe?

Fairy tales may be okay for kids - perhaps. But myths and legends and folklore belong to every age and culture. And have been told by adults for adults. Usually woven into "legitimate" history in such a way that warp can't be separated from woof without wrecking the whole tapestry.

Historians do it, of course. Edit out the magic bits. Doesn't leave much, often enough.

Here's something you can try, just to get an idea of how much the supernatural is part of our surroundings.

Go on a conducted tour. Anywhere. Listen carefully to the guide and keep count of the times he links some place or person with odd, paranormal happenings.

Then perhaps you'll understand why millions huddle in the concrete safety of cities. In something man-made and predictable.

How do you handle a non-rational universe?

Our men in black hadn't really taught us. Okay, we prayed. Even in our most cynical moments we were happy to connect their non-return with our prayer. But in no sense had we been masters of the situation.

It was soon time for us to learn some more. Slow fade to denote the passage of time.

For all the best reasons our family now numbered two incredible children. We had moved to Devon.

A few kilometres outside Exeter is the old village of Kenton. Powderham Castle dominates it; Lord Devon lives there and, before death duties exacted their toll, used to own the village. Lock, stock and pub.

We'd bought the gaol. An honest to goodness seventeenth century lock-up where villains and serfs once languished, poachers regretted their failure to square the gamekeeper, and excessively friendly ladies received society's disapproval of their gregariousness.

The cells had arched brick ceilings. The windows were heavily barred. The gaoler had once lived above. We began to make the whole building our home.

It was fun. Although, looking back, the four of us had more than our fair share of nightmares. And friends who came to stay usually left after only a day or two.

We put it down to our makeshift chemical toilet.

One thing bugged us, though. An annoying - something that kept catching our attention out of the corner of our eye. A black shape, that was gone when we turned to look.

Anywhere in the house. You learn to live with these things.

Until one bright summer afternoon.

Sunlight streaming through the bars into the cell where I was working. Birds sang outside. Frank Ifield remembered yoo-hoo on the tranny. Then something changed.

I (George writing this bit...) felt scared. Something was in the cell with me. Nothing I could see. It was just - there.

The one thought that went through my mind was "it's either me or it". If it didn't go, I'd have to.

And houses aren't cheap enough to walk away from.

I scrabbled around for the right words, then said loudly: "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost - begone".

Technically, it was the wrong formula. No matter. It was like clicking a switch. The thing had gone. The day returned to being a good one and Frank Ifield finished his song.

It - whatever it was - never came back. After a few days I told Eileen. "Which cell were you in?" she asked.

"The rear one in the far corner of the house."

She smiled. "Funny. I've always given the window of that cell a wide berth whenever I've gone to put out the milk bottles."

Not the most spectacular exorcism of all time. But for all that, it worked.

The question is - how? Why?

Like most answers in this book, the answer is a simple one. But this time we'll do a bit of explaining first.

Perhaps you've noticed we've a certain bias against religion. There is the odd anti-organisational phrase of two?

No? Yes. That's just so you know we're not being religious in what follows.

Right. Then on with the answer.

The reason exorcism works is that Mr. Murphy and his paranormal pals were dealt with a little under a couple of thousand years ago.

The business of Jesus on the cross was not - repeat: not - a solemn, tragic event to be commemorated once a year in tones hushed and phrases sepulchral.

It was battle strategy, no less. It was successful. It ought to be celebrated with a gigantic party. It ought to be exploited to the nth degree.

Let's backtrack.

Mr. Murphy had jacked up some sort of rebellion of this planet against God.

Man wasn't the real rebel. Murphy was. But the effect on man was somewhat devastating.

Because the rebellion had been based on facts and reasons furnished by the obliging Mr. Murphy...(accurate facts, sound reasons, we stress. Lies contrast with truth; lies use facts, truth is above facts)...the result was that man's soul took over the function of Ultimate Authority.

Fair enough? No way.

Old chronicles describe the act of rebellion as "eating the fruit of the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil".

Don't get side-tracked into debating whether that was literal or symbolic. If you weren't there, you don't know. Get the point of the narrative.

It wasn't "the Knowledge of Evil". As if Adam had been given a handy alphabetical guide to simple sinning. Arson, Burglary, Car conversion, Drunkenness, Envy, Flatulence...

Nothing like that.

The Knowledge of Good and Evil. To which you retort "what's wrong with good?"

Fair question. Have a cliché.

THE GOOD IS THE ENEMY OF THE BEST.

It's slightly inadequate. "The good is the enemy of the truth" is better.

But that's by the way. The "Knowledge of Good and Evil" is the obsession with categorising everything into two classes. That's okay, that isn't. That's right, that's wrong. For and against. Pro and con. Us and them. Good and bad. Black and white - figuratively and literally.

Instead of living in truth. Revelation. Intuition. Gut feelings. Vibes. Hunches.

A neat ploy on the part of our Mr. Murphy. In one move he'd caused our race to accept its own reasoning powers as adequate for any situation, to become preoccupied with constructing codes of behaviour, and to be paranoically suspicious of spontaneous enlightenment.

Quite simply, Murphy became the god of this planet. _De facto et de jure._ Which, translated, meaneth "like it or lump it".

Not that anyone couldn't bypass him and appeal direct to Head Office. Mostly, though, they didn't. For two reasons.

First, because it was (and, for that matter, still is) generally thought that Murphy Mansions is Head Office.

You see - Murphy isn't all bad. Let's explain.

To be technical, Murphy is a front man, nothing more. Everybody's personal devil, the snarler-up, the spanner- thrower, the introducer of sand into the works.

Okay, that's suitably nasty. Irritating. But it doesn't account for the highly organised way in which the human race has been channelled into religious groups, all expressing some of the highest thoughts of which people are capable, and yet tragically failing to link ordinary folk direct with God.

Don't expect Murphy to be forever pulling wings off flies and helping little old ladies under a bus. Murphy's middle name is Lucifer. Means "the bearer of light": a nice name. Noble ideas, lofty sentiments, high motives are equally his stock-in-trade when he's dressed in his best white suit, looking all squeaky-clean and freshly shaven for people to go ooh and ah at.

This is why so many fall for well-organised religion. It's got something. Certainly it's got enough good to cause even the seasoned grumblers to think that God wants things that way, because of all the virtuous bits.

I mean - when the church in the Middle Ages had managed to lock the Bible away in cupboards; when bishops and priests had an exclusive on being linkman to the Great Beyond; when you paid to have sins forgiven (and, if rich enough, you paid in advance and kind of anticipate what you'd get up to) - even then monks and nuns provided a basic form of social welfare, and rudiments of education, medicine and hospitality, welcomed unquestioningly by those who had to cope with the rigours of that age.

That's the Lucifer aspect. Don't think for a moment that every ecclesiastical dignitary was a medieval Jim Jones intent on staging another People's Church mass suicide in the jungles of Guyana. Far from it. Okay, the top brass juggled around with the writings which went into the anthology we call the New Testament. Okay, they mistranslated certain key words. Okay, they made baptism, exorcism, the love-feast, the giving of the Holy Spirit into elaborate rituals that only bishop or priest could perform. And okay, they burned and tortured "heretics" who differed from the ruling majority by even a hairsbreadth... But often their motives were pretty high.

It was the Lucifer connection making sure that as religion evolved and expanded, so it achieved anything except the purpose for which it claimed to exist...

Access to God.

In other words - Lucifer is the high-technology side of Murphy's Law. The ultimate sophistication.

The noblest, most magnificent, captivating misdirection of them all.

And the second reason why folk didn't go over Murphy's head and chat up God direct was that they didn't think they were good enough. Goodness and badness had acquired a spiritual snakes and ladders status. Loved my neighbour - forward three squares. Loved my neighbour's wife - back ten squares. Helped lame dog over stile - forward one square. Got thoroughly pissed - return to start.

Sometimes, though, folk saw through Murphy's little game.

You mustn't imagine God had locked Himself away in His seventh heaven and conceded defeat. Not nohow. He was using quite a repertoire of little tricks to help people call Murphy's bluff.

The crudest - but, admittedly, most effective - is the "Scare 'Em Gutless" method. Us humans like things quiet and comfortable. Or at least static. The good old status quo. So every now and then, God sends disaster to jolt us out of our rut. Like a tap on the shoulder, only louder.

At times like that, nobody stops to tot up whether they've been good enough to get through. Whether it's reasonable to expect anything to come of it. Or what the best phrases would be in that sort of situation.

There's nothing like a nice emergency for bypassing Mr. Murphy.

* * *
RAISING THE ROOF

We were saying about emergencies being a gentle form of encouragement to by-pass Mr. Murphy.

My one was. (George writing this bit...).

We'd only recently arrived in New Zealand, Eileen, me and Nos 1 and 2 sons. Bought a little house on the edge of Whangarei and begun to settle and make the metamorphosis from Pom to Kiwi.

As families go, we looked pretty good. Hardworking, clean- cut, church-going. Very church-going.

While privately, we were going through A Rough Patch in our marriage. Nothing new. I'd left what the adverts call "a promising career" so's Eileen and I could work things out together. And emigrated to N.Z. for the same reason.

We were running out of options.

Enter, one bright February morning. Hurricane Colleen.

It's rather traumatic to watch the roof lift off your house, and see nothing but open sky above. The accompanying shriek when hundreds of nails are simultaneously withdrawn as timber parts from adjoining timber is a memorable sound.

So is the complicated thud as a rotary clothesline, wheelbarrow and garden fence are flattened when the roof lands.

I'll say this for the Whangarei fire service. They answer incoherent phone calls at speed. Didn't take 'em long to tie the roof down (with a bit of excitement as the hurricane snapped one set of ropes and flipped the roof over) and wrap the house in tarps borrowed from Winstones. Neat surprise when the kids came home from school.

There are two parts to the punchline of this story.

It was a week and thirteen inches of rain later before I could examine the wreckage. With the hammering the roof had taken, I reckoned it'd be fit only for dumping on the tip. One doesn't expect 24ft long-run iron to survive rough treatment.

I tore aside the breather paper. A couple of six-by-twos were broken. They could be spliced. The end of one piece of long-run iron was slightly buckled. It could be reshaped using hammer and dowels.

The roof went back in place for the cost of some new nails. And a few miles of high-tensile wire in case it felt like going flyabout again.

Funny. No great expense. No lasting damage. Just a swag of inconvenience and a dirty great fright.

All rather precise.

The tap on the shoulder type of disaster that God sometimes uses to get his problem kids' attention.

But it's one thing to know that He's trying to catch our eye. Getting the message - when you haven't been on speaking terms with Him before - is something else again.

Does a moving finger spell it out in letters of fire? Or a voice boom from the clouds? Not usually. God has other ways...

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, life wasn't too easy for us. Our little valley seemed to attract every gale for miles, and the tail-end of the recent trauma necessitated a diet of Valium, p.r.n. Our marriage was achieving bigger and better problems, despite all our efforts.

We kept the old plastic smile intact for church appearances. But it was only a matter of time before we came apart at the seams.

The fateful day arrived. Can't remember if there was anything in particular to trigger it off. Just that I decided that was it.

All the hard work we'd put into making a go of things together had been so many kilowatt hours down the plumbing. It was time for a clean break and a fresh start.

There was one final gesture I wanted to make. Religion - meetings, preaching, Bible study, resolves, prayers, re-dedications and decisions - hadn't helped us one little bit.

I wasn't only going to stalk dramatically out of Eileen's life. God would have to manage without me as well.

I went into our bedroom and said firmly: "God, I give up religion. It doesn't work".

Perhaps I had intended to pack a suitcase or something. It never got packed.

At that moment, I met God. No vision, no trumpets, no echo-chamber voices. I just knew He was there.

And that He accepted me as I was. Without the careful techniques I'd developed to please Him - which had in fact been merely a barrier between the two of us.

So I told Eileen what'd happened. She'd had a similar encounter a while back and understood. Which is more than I'd done when she had told me. Some sort of evangelical commitment was the label I had put on it at the time.

But now...

"Had you never met God before?" Eileen asked. I grinned ruefully.

"Never realised anyone could meet Him. Ah, well - it'll be nice if it lasts."

It lasted. Not the emotion of the event. Certainly not the encounter itself. But the awareness that reality was a Person who likes to keep in touch.

Bit by bit our marriage came right. We must've made every mistake in the book and then some. It didn't much matter. Big problems stopped having litters of little problems and began having answers.

Mr. Murphy had been bypassed.

Now, God's been using the disaster method ever since Murphy started his tricks. To good effect, too.

And of course there have always been the simple types who didn't know any better than to approach God without any fuss or preamble. Often because they knew they didn't have a show of smartening themselves up, even if they lived to be a hundred.

Great. Another bypass around Murphyburgh. But not enough people came that way for God's liking.

God decided to put things right. It's a matter of history, now.

First, a bit of judo. Using the opponent's strength to beat him.

Murphy was majoring on right and wrong. Being good enough. Okay - God would go along with that for a time.

He selected a husband and wife, Abraham and Sarah, who would produce intensely religious children.

Then He waited a few generations to check that they had bred true. They had. Frequently. By then there were millions of them, and the judo was about to be applied to Mr. Murphy's organisation.

God set up a brand-spanking-new religion. The one we know as Judaism.

It was a humdinger. The original package deal. None of your once-a-week meetings and a dollar in the plate. The concept included a complete system of jurisprudence, by-laws and building regs for the Local Authorities, and a Pure Food Act that covered kitchen and cafe alike.

That was for starters. The piece de resistance was the sacrifice system.

In effect, God was saying: "Okay, the vast majority of you don't think you're good enough to approach Me direct. I won't argue. Here's a schedule of all the naughty things you're likely try. Do 'em, and it'll cost you. Big sin - kill a big animal. Little sin, little animal. Plus times when you want to thank Me for something. Or you're not sure if you've been bad or not. It's all there. More permutations than the football pools."

Neat. Three cheers for God.

Murphy was uneasy. Playing poker with God is like sitting opposite someone who's got a marked deck, deals from the bottom and keeps spare aces in His shirt. Doesn't help you to relax, somehow.

Not that Judaism upset Murphy. He knew it could be fixed. But he trod carefully, looking for the catch.

It wasn't hard to reorganise God's religion to suit Mr. Murphy. Mostly changes in outlook. The sacrifice system drifting from wow to ho-hum. The categories of sins and things being minutely subdivided and re-classified, giving endless scope for debate and philosophical nit-picking.

Plus the introduction of straight-out idolatry. Which was totally against the rules, of course. But held a certain appeal if the particular minor deity threw a bit of cruelty or sexual acrobatics into its worship. You'll always find people who need an excuse for their little aberrations.

Murphy waited for God's next move.

In came the weirdies. Anyone who chats to God and doesn't mind doing what He says, is. These folk had the job of pointing out that Murphy had deflected Judaism down a side road. For that, they had to act crazy.

Ceremonial striptease. Marrying a hooker. Teleporting hither and yon. Forever saying "I talked to God last night, and He said..." (It's all in the Handbook.) Mostly they were an embarrassment. Mostly they got themselves killed for upsetting the establishment. People didn't want to listen to them. Too negative. Mustn't be negative, must we!

But Murphy listened, picking up clues.

There was a showdown coming, scheduled for High Noon.

Murphy played his cards carefully. Manoeuvred the Romans into conquering and occupying Israel. Made everyone preoccupied with politics and every likely lad trying his hand at overthrowing the status quo. And dangled enough bait under the noses of the religious top brass to ensure they would jump whenever their new lords and masters snapped their fingers.

Enter Jesus.

He and Murphy had known each other for a long time. If "time" is an adequate word. Murphy had been expecting him.

There was no surprise. Except for the fact that he didn't arrive. He was born. The firm of Murphy and Murphy, Barristers at law went into a huddle.

They had no hassle with Jesus having a virgin as a mother. Or who was fairly low down the social scale. But why on earth go through a human life-cycle at all? Wasn't the obvious method to enter through one of the Gateways, announce he was God's final representative and challenge Murphy to a fight?

This baby business would just delay matters. With the likelihood that Judaism's religious leaders wouldn't recognise Jesus as the one who'd been given advance publicity by a long series of prophets.

Let's cut a long story short.

Naturally enough, the ecclesiastical hierarchy wouldn't give Jesus the nod. Oh, the bulk of ordinary folk knew in their bones he was the dinkum goods. But when has the common herd ever had a say in the running of state or religion? (Did someone say democracy? Ha, Ha.)

And the Romans got into the act and celebrated the first Good Friday.

A few seconds after the lifeless body had been lowered from the rough wooden stake overlooking the Jerusalem city dump, on a different wavelength Jesus and Murphy were facing each other.

"Game, set and match, I reckon," said Murphy, pleased with himself. As he had hoped, human nature was human nature. Judaism hadn't even authorised Jesus to organise a revolt against Rome, much less recognised Him as the accredited ambassador from Head Office.

Jesus nodded. "I guess so," he agreed pleasantly.

Murphy decided to press his advantage. "A short while ago, I gave you the chance to join our organisation. The offer stands. I don't bear grudges; it was a fair contest."

"I hoped you'd feel like that," Jesus said. "It makes things so much easier. But I'll have to refuse your offer."

Murphy's eyes narrowed. He had a nasty feeling that the story was about to take an unexpected twist. He was right: game, set and match it was, but for Head Office. Not Murphy. "Perhaps you'd better explain."

"Certainly," Jesus said. "We'd always known that there was no point in dealing with you by direct force. Oh, there'd have been no technical problems, as you well knew. We had all the resources to transfer you to some suitable - ah - quarantine area. Without too much disruption to life on this planet."

Murphy shrugged. "I could have demanded a court hearing. My rights to this planet were legally acquired. But even if I'd lost the action, you'd still have had the problem of the human race. I'm the only one they'll obey. Remove me, they'd continue as before, perpetually trying to become good enough. 'Good enough' is always nicely out of reach. Unattainable."

"Correct". Jesus considered his reply carefully. "But not truth. It was always your failing, dealing in facts. Now you've made the fatal blue of believing you own sales pitch."

"I can't see it," protested Murphy. "I'd considered all the permutations. You couldn't have annihilated the human race; that would have been an admission of defeat. You could have punished them for working for me, but that wouldn't have changed them. And then, let's face it - God has some responsibility for the situation on this planet."

Jesus raised his eyebrows. Murphy continued quickly.

"Look at it this way. Okay, Adam knew what he was doing when he disobeyed God. You could punish him with a fair degree of justice. But what about his descendents? They're born into a world run by me. They are taught to think in terms of good and evil, to function on soul level. They don't have a chance. For God to allow this to continue, makes Him an accessory after the fact. Before, too, if you count His foreknowledge."

Murphy folded his arms defiantly. His confidence was returning.

Jesus was smiling. "You're so right. You always are. Head Office takes full responsibility for what happened. And, for what they're worth, your legal rights to mankind have been confirmed. The soul realm is yours. That's why I had to be born as a human being, instead of making a more dramatic entrance.

"I had to demonstrate whether or not it was possible to live as a typical person on this planet without using my mind as the ultimate authority. So I had a body which was essentially an extension of Mary's cell structure, and a mind that was a product of my environment and upbringing. Plus, of course, _me_. Spirit.

"Head Office had reckoned it wouldn't be a pushover. As I grew up, I was amazed at the bombardment from my mind. That continual running commentary. Suggestions, reasons, criticisms, all at high volume. You did a good job, Murphy.

"But you couldn't touch the spirit, could you. Whenever it mattered - at the oddest times, by human standards - I knew what to do. What to say. That's why I'm asking you to hand over the keys, Murphy. The first Adam blew it rather badly. If you'd bothered to ask Head Office for a copy of my credentials which authorised my coming here, they'd have told you I was the new guardian. The last Adam.

"Because I'd always been motivated by the spirit, I'd never been under your authority. Thus I never did anything that Judaism counted as wrong. So, when I was killed, that made me the perfect sacrifice. Once and for all. It's the end of religion, Murphy - you can't argue with that one."

Jesus held out his hand for the keys. "Thanks. Excuse me while I report to Head Office. Don't go away - I'll be back."

* * *

PART THREE: HANDLING THE SUPERNATURAL
DAD, MEET A HOOKER

Jesus never started Christianity.

He lived, died, and lived again on this planet for the purpose of stopping something. Not starting something.

And folk who switched on to what he'd been telling them were intended to go charging out into the streets, yelling "Okay, fellas. Knock it off; you can all go home."

Knock what off? Religion. Any sort.

And go and start living.

Which is what happened, at first. And pretty startling it was, too.

As you can imagine, once you actually realise what your rights are. Like - to tell Murphy to get lost. To write your own ticket. And when you run out of ideas, to ask God to surprise you.

You see, although all religions make some claim to bring you to God, that's the precise opposite of what they achieve.

Take Christianity. For starters it teaches that you can't just amble up to God and say good morning. Depending on which particular group you strike - from bells 'n' smells to happy- clappy - you'll be told to "give your life to Jesus", go through some form of baptism, attend lectures that lead up to confirmation, sign an elaborate doctrinal statement, take part in a quasi-military ceremony involving flags and uniforms. The combinations are endless.

Utterly fascinating. And as phoney as a three-dollar bill. There's not a skerrick of justification for any of the hocus pocus.

Except that religion - Christianity included - doesn't trust God.

'Cos He's invisible. Unpredictable. And man wants everything neat and tidy, to be sure converts progress along denominational lines. Believing the "right" doctrines, dressing neatly, talking politely, keeping the cash-flow rolling. Whereas folk who go it alone, go funny. Shame, eh? Because that's the way God wants it.

The whole business of Jesus on the cross was to give everyone direct access to God. And when Jesus died, there was a neat demo to prove it. Perhaps it's hard to get the impact after a couple of thousand years, but for the folk in Israel at the time...

The temple in Jerusalem was divided into three main sections: outer court, inner court and Holy of Holies. (Corresponding to body, soul and spirit, and worth a bit of research if you're interested.)

The Holy of Holies housed the literal, palpable, visible Presence of God. Once a year, after elaborate precautions, the High Priest ventured inside. God and man were kept safely apart at all other times.

But at the crucifixion, an earthquake hit Mt. Moriah, and ripped the ponderous gold-embroidered curtain from top to bottom that for centuries had closed off the Holy of Holies to ordinary folk. There was now direct access. Okay, kids. Go say hi to Daddy. And it works. Except religion'll try and talk us out of it.

A year or so ago, we went back to Britain to see old faces and places. And were on the big car ferry that plies between Oban and Mull.

A woman got talking to us in the bar. Started telling us family problems. I suggested she had a bit of a talk to God about it. She laughed like a drain.

"Look, love, I couldn't. Oh, I believe in God. I was brought up Church of Scotland. But I'm on the game in Glasgow. The men pay bloody well there. Especially for the variations, know what I mean? So I couldn't pray, could I! I'm not good enough."

We knew what she meant. Whores evoke tight-lipped disapproval from the church. And she would have been expected to renounce all her activities and lead an utterly blameless life before religion allowed her near God. Funny, though, how Jesus chose many of her profession as friends.

I shook my head. "You're wrong," I said firmly. "Everything bad you've ever done, and everything bad you're going to do, was paid for when Jesus died. If you wait until you make yourself respectable, you're hinting Jesus didn't do his job properly, and you've got to chip in your four- penn'orth.

"So \- I can pray to God about my family?" she asked.

I said: "Don't use the word 'pray'. Sounds like you must talk polite and pan-loaf to Him. He's your Dad, remember."

"What about being on the streets? That's not right, surely?" she demanded. She'd said it. Not me. There's never any need to moralise. Eileen answered. "Ask God. Find what He wants. And what you want, too."

As is, where is. Dad, meet a hooker. Hooker, meet Dad. Okay, you two, get to know each other. It works. End of story.

Religious folk get all upset at the thought of future sin being forgiven. Isn't right, somehow. And, of course, it's not.

Justice, despite volumes of theology on the subject, has never figured very high on God's personality profile. He's unjust. Which is bloomin' lucky for us. The last thing we need is justice. "Grace" is the technical term used in the Bible for the unfair attitude God has to the human race. He's not a divine debt collector. He's - without even a trace of sentimentality - a highly imaginative, inventive, resourceful parent who wants us to stop flaunting a "poor me" complex, a masochistic "go on, hit me" obsession, and get into the business of really living.

After all, "sin" is an overrated word.

Religion has got it confused with ethics.

Whereas, technically, "sin" is missing the point. If your Dad wants you to live in a shack in the Coromandel and be an artist - and you insist in being a public servant driving a desk in Auckland... That's sin.

Sure, there are certain ethics God has built as absolutes into the human race. We'll look at 'em later. But they're no big deal, nothing to make much of a fuss about.

At which, some highly holy type will creep from his crypt and croak: "So you don't believe in eternal punishment, then. Or in Hell. And the lake of fire."

Let's spell it out.

Everybody (well, we're not too sure about Adam and Judas, but unless you're them it's largely academic) has been forgiven. Regardless. Because of Jesus.

So everyone is free to go off and start living, despite any murky quirks their character might have. (If they go off and start living on the spirit level, their behavioural problems'll automatically be modified. More about that later.)

But, just occasionally, there's the odd bloke who isn't content with being himself and doing his own thing. He wants to hang something on everyone else.

It varies... There's the religious despot who controls his little - sometimes not-so-little - kingdom and has everyone dancing to his tune. The political heavy who misuses his power. The pimp. (Not the girls who work for him.) The pusher. (Not the junkies who buy from him.)

Murderers. Folk who sell out to supernatural beings. And those who infect others with fear and doubt.

...For all who exploit others...who stand between people and God...who restrict their liberty - there is the lake of fire. Not automatically. Not if they make a fresh start. But for those who persist, that's it.

Incidentally, it's the religious leaders who get the closest scrutiny from God. Jesus upset no end of those types by warning that they qualify for the three-tier clobbering system: stripes, bulk stripes and mincemeat. Those priests and pastors who genuinely don't know what they ought to be teaching, get a smallish beating. Those who do, but don't want to upset the system, get the big beating. And those who use their followers, build their empires, stop folk cutting loose and meeting God direct - the phrase Jesus used was "hack 'em in pieces and put 'em with the rest of the hypocrites". Dangerous business, religion.

Don't get us wrong, though. None of the qualifications we've listed (well, it's not our list; actually we cribbed it from John's "Revelation" and Luke's gospel) are unforgivable in the sense that God blows the whistle and says "no way; you've had it now for doing that".

But they're brinkmanship. Get into them, you tamper with your personality, make it harder for God to get through to you. While the harm you do to others makes it vital He does get through.

So if His little nudges get more and more urgent, and all the time you're getting less sensitive in the ticklish areas... Eventually either He gives up,. or He pokes you in the ribs so hard He kills you. And He's not squeamish. As we said, get into some of these things and you make problems.

Basically - they give your mind one hell of a psychic charge. An overload of condemnation. In effect your mind says "that's it; you've done it now; that's what you are. Nothing you do can ever change what's happened".

Take murder. Not because it's sensational; because it's so darn commonplace. Society mouths off about the rising tide of immorality and drunkenness. And gets full of disbelief that the taking of human life is a social problem. Warfare. Driving accidents. Abortion. Gang violence. Self-defence. Domestic disputes. Sheer bloody-mindedness. Euthanasia. Okay, there can often be some justification for taking life. Sometimes it can be legal. But the trauma is always there.

A man appeared at our front door. We'd met briefly before. He came indoors, we made polite conversation. It's a feature of human nature that people stall dealing with problems until the last possible moment. Eventually he looked at his watch and blurted: "I've got to leave in five minutes to catch a plane. Er - d'you think God can forgive a murderer?"

"You?" He nodded. "Kenya. During the Mau Mau trouble. It was a case of him or me and my family. But - I never guessed the effect it would have on me. After all these years." He'd confessed to his priest, been absolved, prayed and fasted, tried to pull himself together, rationalise, forget. He was still a self-condemned murderer.

There was no time to talk around the subject. "You've got a pretty clever mind," I said. "Congratulations."

He looked surprised. "What do you mean?"

"You've managed to catch God out. You've found something He forgot to send Jesus to die for."

He was annoyed. "That's silly," he said. "I know as well as you do everything was dealt with at Calvary."

"You don't," I replied. "Your mind tells you and God your feelings are superior to what you know is the truth. Take your choice: tell your mind to shut up, or tell God He's a liar." Something clicked. He saw it. Saw that he'd allowed himself to be swindled for years by accepting his mind as the ultimate authority.

A smile spread across his normally serious face as he looked at his watch again.

"Of course. That's it. In three minutes flat, would you believe." And off he went to catch his plane.

* * *

HE HAD IT WHEN HE CAME IN

Sometimes you hear odd stories.

Whispers. Rumours that off-beat things are happening. Not always bad things. Strange, yes, but intrinsically _Good_.

There was this one doing the rounds of Whangarei. Something about a little lad who was dying. Then, unaccountably, he was improving. We heard the word "miracle" being used. It was interesting. We hadn't realised that sort of business went on anymore. Except on American TV programmes, where a pathetically beautiful girl rises from her wheelchair to take those first faltering steps. Week after week after perishing week. You can keep it.

We just happened to stumble across the family who had triggered off the whispers. Later we were to become close friends. This was their story. Only the names are changed.

Harry and Jean were typical New Zealand parents with a trio of typical children. Unaccountably, their four-year-old began falling over, moving clumsily. One eye turned in. His speech was slurred.

The paediatrician made urgent arrangements for them to see an Auckland specialist. The result was pessimistic. X-rays revealed a large tumour at the base of the brain. Their son needed an investigative operation.

The parents moved into a flat near the hospital to wait. For Harry and Jean this was a turning point in their life. "It didn't make any sense at all," explained Harry. "Each visit to the hospital, there was our son deteriorating before our eyes. Yet, somehow, we knew he was going to be okay!"

Their confidence was untypical. Friends described them as "good, respectable main-line church members - not given to flights of spiritual fancy".

Jean said : "People we knew called at the flat to sympathise with us. And there we were, relaxed about the whole affair."

Then came the exploratory operation. The parents sat patiently in the waiting room, the surgeon opened the little boy's skull.

The operation lasted for eight long hours. Painstakingly the surgeon cut and probed, cleaned the incision, then cut and probed again, until at last he could see the source of the trouble. In layman's terms: a malignant tumour which had grown into the spinal cord at the point where it enters the brain. In a word: incurable.

The surgeon carefully began closing the incision. He finished the operation, then went to tell the parents.

They heard him say "I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done for your son. At the best, he has only six months to live."

Jean thanked him, then quietly added: "I want you to know that Harry and I believe God said he's going to be all right." As Harry said later: "You don't go telling surgeons what God is going to do. But when you know, you know. What else could we say?"

Five days later, the surgeon was in touch with them.

"I've already told you that your boy's tumour isn't the type we can do anything for," he began, "But the people in Pathology have been examining the biopsy we did during the operation, and they are recommending radiation therapy. I'm accepting their recommendation for your sakes, although in fairness I must say I can offer no hope of success." He explained how side effects of the treatment would affect their son: nausea, anorexia, irritability adding a burden to his already weakened condition. The outlook was bleak.

Medically, that was. Because not only did Harry and Jean still have that certainty that their little boy was going to be well, but already they had noticed small improvements in him. His behaviour was beginning to normalise.

The radiation treatment began. Again the unexpected. There were none of the side effects which are usually part and parcel of such therapy. And within a short while, their son was well enough to be sent home.

That was twelve years ago. Harry and Jean's son has led a totally normal, active life since then. As we write these words, he's with his parents in Canberra, studying for his School Certificate with the application of any typical youngster.

God is in the business of doing the unusual. Capable of letting His kids know what He's up to. Loud and clear.

Until then, we'd never given much thought to asking God to fix us up - or anybody, for that matter - when we were crook. Sure, we'd read about the goings-on in the Bible. But in church, those sort of stories are either explained away as symbolic legends or neutralised by someone saying "of course, that was for those days; nowadays we have all the benefits of medical science".

Religious garbage. Praise God for aspirin.

The incident with Harry and Jean's son encouraged us to talk to our Dad about healing. The first time proved downright embarrassing. One of our kids charged out of the house, tripped over the cat and landed ker-splutt as his head hit the concrete path. We were watching. He appeared concussed. Semi-conscious, feeling sick. We piled him into the van and high-tailed it for the hospital, asking God to fix him as we screeched round corners.

The house surgeon in the casualty ward was puzzled. "Why have you brought him?" He squeezed and prodded No.2 son's head, trying to find a tender spot. There was none. He turned to us patiently.

"Parents often worry about nothing. He hasn't hurt himself. Probably got a fright, that's all."

There are some things that can't be proved. Not to others.

The next incident was slightly more straightforward.

Our adopted son Tom had been a battered baby. Among his legacy of handicaps was the problem of being blind in one eye. Mr. Bowden, eye specialist for Northland Base Hospital, examined him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's a macular cyst. Permanent, I'm afraid." That was bad news. Leave a door ajar or a cupboard open, Tom would walk into it. Accidents were distressingly frequent.

Eileen was thumbing through a copy of the Bible one day and came across an account of Jesus healing a blind man. "Look at this, George." I read it. "So?"

"Well, it also said He's the same yesterday, today and forever. D'you think that means anything?"

"Like - if He did something then, He's likely to do the same sort of thing now?" I suggested. We asked God about it. Briefly. Once. Because...

Either He hears us or He doesn't. Either He's going to answer or He won't. There's no need to labour the point. He's not thick.

In fact we forgot about the whole affair. Until two or three weeks later when we went off to the optician to be fixed up for new glasses. Tom was with us while our eyes were being tested. On an impulse we asked the optician to peer through his whatsisname at Tom. He obliged.

"Both eyes seem reasonable enough." "We were told that the right eye was blind." He looked again. "Who said that?"

We told him, and explained the bit about asking our Dad. He listened, then quietly said: "I suggest you go back to Mr. Bowden and tell him something's happened."

We did, and waited in the semi-darkness of the consulting room while the specialist dilated Tom's pupils and busied himself with his lights and instruments. Finally he swung round in his swivel chair.

"There's a slight staining at the back of the eye where the cyst used to be. But the cyst itself has gone."

We gave him our version of the story.

"That's outside my province, I'm afraid," he said. "But it's fortunate for Tom, whatever the reason."

And of course the irony of the whole thing is that while Tom can see well enough to build a complex Lego house and play a wicked game of swingball, us two are blind as bats without our goggles. Hey ho!

Then there was the occasion No.2 son was admitted to hospital for observation. He had all the symptoms of appendicitis. This time we had the clear feeling that we were to accept the situation. Within a few days he was back home. The symptoms had vanished.

Then the phone call came.

"Do you mind if I ask what sort of religious cranks you folk are." said a woman's voice without preamble.

We minded, but our innate curiosity overcame the natural urge to recommend the caller go jump in a lake.

She explained that our little bungle of love had been put in a hospital bed adjacent to her pride and joy. We made vague remembering noises.

It seemed our lad said to hers "I've got appendicitis. What've you got?"

The mother had tried to shush him, but wasn't about to achieve instant success where we'd had years of failure. So she tiptoed round and said in her best _sotto voce_ that he'd cancer of the abdomen and hadn't long to live.

Our progeny was out the day tact was issued. No.2 son piped up "Well, he doesn't have to die. We always pray when there's something like that" - and told her a dramatised version of Tom's eye. Hence the phone call.

We said we didn't wear any religious label and weren't fronting for some organisation. Just we were learning to talk to God about problems and expect answers.

The upshot was that she asked us to go and pray for her boy. Frankly, it was a bit of a disappointment. We're not "good" at praying publicly. I mean, it's a bit like turning to a bloke at some formal do and getting him to publicly ask his wife something. People who are really close don't know how to talk formally to each other.

But that wasn't the point. What mattered was that instead of the lengthy series of operations which the mother had been told to expect and which held no guarantee of success, the operation scheduled for the next day turned out to be the last.

The cancer, together with a small part of the intestinal wall was completely removed and never re-appeared.

The last we heard, the boy was playing in the first XV.

Now, don't get us wrong. It's not a matter of snapping your fingers and a whole hospital goes out of business. (At least, not the way we understand it - if we're off beam, we'd be glad to know.)

You see, illness never just happens. There has to be a reason. Not germs and viruses and long-legitty greeblies. They're real, of course. But not the cause. Even after your annual bath there are enough germs on your skin to infect a battalion.

There are reasons why one bloke goes down with the dreaded lurgy and another doesn't. Attitude to others, diet, and God's tap on the shoulder to name but a few.

All of which can mean the reason we don't always get our own private miracle is we're not prepared to get off our backside to deal with the cause of the problem.

Like a couple who came to see us. We felt uneasy. No reason. Just good old negative vibes.

The husband was going deaf and they wanted us to pray for him. We said no, they said why, we said dunno. Which didn't make for a sparkling relationship. They took off in a bit of a huff.

Afterwards we found that hubby worked in the decibel equivalent of a rock band trying to blow fuses. He wouldn't wear the standard issue earmuffs, and worked all the hours there were because of a fondness for money. Then expected God to sweep up behind him.

If you're ill, use a bit of the uncommon common. Smoking eighty a day makes your lungs go tatty. Swilling gallons of the hard stuff causes protests in the liver department. Eating meals between meals makes you fat.

Deal with the obvious.

Then have a yarn to your Dad. Don't take no for an answer. Find out what He's up to. It's not for your humility. That's meaningless.

Make sure you know what's going on. After all, you're His kid, aren't you?

* * *

PLAYING IT BY EAR

Direct access to God is the right of everyone. Not cap in hand, ever so 'umble. We're not slaves. Not servants. We're sons, and don't settle for anything less.

Don't get all awe-struck by the theological superlatives that religion hangs on God. Omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, immutable. Humans are too easily impressed by vastness. So Dad's a bank manager or heavyweight boxer? Sure, He packs a fair bit of power and it's fun to be a fly on the wall when He's in action. But you're His kid and not going to ask for overdrafts or go fifteen rounds with Him. Life's different in the family. Direct access. Because of Jesus. And, for the same reason, the right of exorcism.

It was after the fun and games with our roof. With the addition of a daughter, there were half-a-dozen of us. And we'd gone to live in the middle of a Maori settlement. We'd had one of those nudges in our spirit that happens in a relationship with God.

We'd both known to go find an empty house there and buy it. Frankly, we were reluctant as hell. Not racism. Just people. We're hermits. We like next-door neighbours tucked a few kilometres down the road. Any noise to be our own. Whereas the settlement meant goodbye tranquility and privacy, hello communal everything.

We bought a house, moved in, set up our craft business. It was fun. Not the noise, the constant stream of people. But the lack of European hypocrisy; the basic involvement in living. And things that went bump all around the clock.

We' knew Maori people were more aware of the paranormal than your average Euro. We hadn't realised how aware, until one night we were jolted awake by what sounded like every dustbin being belaboured, tom-tom style, with sticks.

Eileen's a wee bit nosy. She peeked through the curtains. "Every house has lights on, inside and out," she reported. "Kids and adults charging around like cut cats." "What's the noise that sounds like people banging on dustbins?" I groaned. Eileen peered up and down the street. "People banging on dustbins," she said.

Next morning, neighbours kept out of our way, not wanting to discuss the incident. But there were always children taking short cuts across our flowerbeds. We intercepted one and used bribery. A biscuit.

"Lots of noise last night, eh?" I began. A nod and biscuit-munching sounds. "People banging on dustbins," I persisted. Further nods and munchings.

"What was it?" Little innocent looked around for another biscuit. I appeared one rapidly. "The _kehua_." My knowledge of the language was abysmal, but I could guess. "Ghosts?" Nods and munchings. With no more biscuits forthcoming, the interview ended. Eileen gave a look that read: "Let's hope we were right in coming here. And let's hope we can handle the situation".

Casually we dropped the word _kehua_ into conversations with our neighbours. Making it obvious we regarded such gremlins as an intrinsic, yet undesirable, part of the landscape. Our new acquaintances were cautious, yet curious. What did Europeans know about ghosts? We had to be honest. Precious little. But there were the men in black - "Our undertakers" - and the thing in the gaol.

"And you got rid of it?" "Yes." "Did it ever come back?" The query was so offhand as to be almost inaudible. "Never." The bush telegraph buzzed the length and breadth of the settlement. In a short while people began to ask us for help.

There were doors that flailed wildly open and shut on the calmest day until told stop in the name of Jesus. Curses applied by a distant _tohunga_. Spirits that had taken up residence in photos of deceased relatives.

One fellow got gloriously drunk at the hotel. On his way home he stopped for an urgent wee, failing to notice he'd blundered into a graveyard and was directing his aim at one of the headstones. Such an incident would have been undignified in a European cemetery. On Maori land, guarded by _tapus_ , it was dynamite. A _kehua_ appeared; our friend took to his scrapers. _Tapus_ \- spells, if you like, but more accurately paranormal security devices - are inexorably effective.

The man reached home in record time. Stone cold sober and wishing he wasn't. He went straight to bed.

Later the settlement was awakened by shouts, screams and the noise of breaking furniture. For no visible reason he had left his bed, gone to his parents' room and tried to bring mum and dad to a sudden end. Fortunately he was one of a large family and was rapidly overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. We heard the row and knew precisely what to do: we pulled the blankets up over our heads and hoped it would all go away.

Next morning found me mending the furniture from the previous night's fun. "If you don't mind," the parents said. Why should I mind? I often did odd jobs for them. "Because it will happen again."

That's what I feared. Not repairing chairs. But the nagging hunch I was to deal with the root of the situation. You see - the person concerned was noticeably bigger than me. Cowardice is a virtue I cultivate.

I stalled as long as I could. Then wandered reluctantly to their section. Teri was in his garden. Holding a carving knife. One of those days. He looked about three metres tall. I tried the direct approach. "Teri, er, look. You've got a demon. Put that knife down and come to our place. We'll cast it out."

He stuck the knife in the grass and followed like a pet lamb. "I know I have", he said. "I was thinking of killing myself before that business of last night happens again."

We went indoors. Teri sat on our sofa, as nervous as I was. Briefly we explained about Jesus on the cross. Then, with no histrionics, told the evil spirit to go in the name of Jesus. There was an abrupt change we all felt, as if an extremely irritable person had just left the room.

That was all there was to it. To make conversation, I pushed across one of the plaques we made. It was copied from old Maori designs of _Taniwha_ , the odd, skeletal creature with Pluto-type head, ribcage, and what could variously be described as kidneys or ovaries.

"What's that thing, Teri," I asked. He grinned. "You fellows don't know?" "No. Only a design, as far as we're concerned." "That's a spirit of violence, same as the one you just got rid of."

That ended the Maori souvenir aspect of our craftwork. For all the carefully drawn creatures on our plaques - _Tiki, Taniwha, Koruru, Weko et al_ \- were Mr. Murphy's New Zealand representatives. We could scarcely advertise the opposition. So our craftwork turned to blander channels.

And our neighbours began to understand and use their rights of exorcism.

Any questions? You should have. A great big one. Like - how come, if Mr. Murphy was defeated at Calvary two thousand years back, he's still going strong today?

The answer, basically, is - bluff.

You see, religion has worked hard on two opposing areas. One is to suppress the fact of Murphy's existence.

The other is to say well, if he does exist, he's blooming dangerous. One little slip, one itty-bitty sin and he's gotcha. So, when Murphy comes bounding in saying he's the king of the castle and you're the dirty rascal, you believe him.

Start to rattle at the patellas. And that's what he feeds on. Fear. Disbelief in truth. Murphy has no more power than you choose to give him.

Gone are the heady, halcyon days when babies were hurled into well-stoked furnaces, and gore-bespattered butchers hacked the hearts out of queues of village virgins. (They've always been an endangered species. For one reason or another.)

Once, Murphy had everything going for him. Now, Murphy can be dealt with by anyone aware of their rights as a son of God. Murphy will run rings round anyone who is trying to be good enough or "right with God". And anyone who ventures into the use of garlic, pentagrams and the technique of magicians must ultimately come a cropper, for he fights Murphy in his own realm, with his own weapons.

However, in fairness, there is a technique that appears to have a limited success against Mr. Murphy's more basic tricks: unbelief. "Oh, those races believe that sort of rubbish. Superstition! Old wives' tales! There's always a scientific explanation for anything."

It involves rationalising and explaining away every paranormal event without regard for consistency. And when all else fails, there's the ultimate cop-out - hallucination, mass hypnotism. Unanswerable.

Unfortunately, there's a backlash. One: unbelief doesn't stop Mr. Murphy dead in his tracks. Instead it makes a smokescreen for him to operate behind. Two: unbelief generates static which fogs the smooth functioning of the spirit. That's no recommendation.

Jesus ran up against it when he tried - and failed - to perform miracles on home turf. The old records claim 'he could do no mighty works because of their unbelief'. "Oh, him! Known him since he was so high. What can he teach us?"

Humanity in bulk creates a similar psychic barrage. Cities contrast abruptly with the peace of unspoiled native bush. Go talk to a fantail and see what we mean.

* * *

REAL ESTATE WITHOUT TEARS

You can almost hear the click when you move from the soul level to the spirit.

Events start to mesh. Dovetail. Make a wacky kind of sense. You find yourself in the right place at the right time without any sweat. It's almost illegal.

Like when we were in Britain, we'd spent a few hours - highly pleasant hours - holding out an olive branch to end a feud that my family had set going before I was born. (Daft things, people.)

Finally we said our goodbyes and reached the station to catch the last train to London. Fifteen minutes late, we were.

Now, I know the jokes about British Rail. But fair's fair. We'd bought bargain-basement passes, and covered a mere 8000 miles, mostly on their vaunted 125 services. Which really do belt along at 125 mph. Punctually, we'd found.

Except this time. Fifteen minutes late, us. Fifteen minutes late, the train.

As we walked across to the edge of the platform, there was an apology on the speaker system, and our train slid to a halt. We climbed aboard, to find the carriage full. Apart from two adjacent seats.

Nice, after a heavy day. Unspectacular, but nice.

And sweatless.

Like our holiday in Turangi with the aforesaid Harry, Jean and brats.

'Twas a baking summer evening. We tiptoed hand in hand away from the house where the eleven of us were living in comparative harmony.

Down to the river. We're a romantic pair.

Unfortunately we weren't allowed to be alone. Some young fellow had got there first and was sitting on a rock beside the swirling water.

We waited. He waited.

"Make polite conversation," Eileen whispered. "Perhaps he'll go away."

I went over to where the person was sitting, and found to my surprise the bloke was a girl. Must be a sign of old age and senility. Time was when I could identify a member of the opposite if-you'll-pardon-the-word sex at fifty paces on a dull day. Denim is a great leveller.

She was crying her eyes out.

Eileen came and joined us and offered her one of those useless postage-stamp sized hankies that women specialise in. One good blow and they're soggy.

Bit by bit she told us her story.

She had been going steady with a local boy and they had talked about marriage. Then she found she was pregnant. It happens. Goodness knows how or why. Told her boyfriend - he promptly shot through to Auckland. Told her parents - they thrashed her and turned her out of the house.

So she had come to the river to commit suicide. But we had arrived before she could pluck up courage.

We talked until the moon had risen high above the trees. Suggested that to kill herself and the baby was far more hazardous than her present problems. Asked her if she really wanted to ring down the curtain, or whether it was just Murphy's idea of a quick way out.

And did she want the baby and the boyfriend?

She did - sniff - but it all looked impossible. How could she ever find her boyfriend?

Did he have any relatives in Auckland? He did.

Two phone calls and she was speaking to him. He was sorry he'd panicked, and would be back on the next bus. To marry her.

In the meantime, she could stay with friends of ours.

No sweat. Perfect timing.

Life, on the spirit level, turns out to be one continual jack-up. In a good sense. With never a dull moment if that's the way you like it. Better than a soap opera.

Trouble is, people get their priorities wrong.

They want a tidy, respectable, safe life. Furniture tastefully arranged. House nice and middleclass. A comfortable routine, an assured income.

Then they bellyache that they're bored.

"How come," they say, "that so many exciting things happen to you Andersons?"

D'you really want to know?

It's the way we choose life to be. We won't settle for anything less. There's no virtue in a dull life.

Or does that evoke all your puritan prejudices?

"We can't all run about enjoying ourselves. How would it be if everyone was like you?"

The straight answer is that it would cause the collapse of civilisation as we know it. Which might just be the best thing since sliced bread.

And you can all run around enjoying yourselves. Not copying us. Finding what turns you on and talking to your Dad about it. Telling Him your bright ideas; seeing if He can suggest improvements.

We'd had our fair share of money problems. Mortgages with heavy penalty clauses if paid off too early, would you believe. Overdrafts that were called in rather abruptly. Never quite enough cash to cover all the repayments, the unforeseens, and our expensive habit of eating. Insurance policies whose fine print excluded all the little disasters we thought we had covered.

There'd been one memorable occasion before we emigrated to New Zealand, when we were more accident-prone than usual.

Took a shiny new SWB Landrover on the beach and thoroughly bogged it on a patch of quicksand.

Two tides went over it before it could be extricated. Then we had to listen to our friendly insurance company mouthing the escapist nonsense on which its multi-million profits were founded.

"The incident was below the high-water mark? Pity - that's where Britain ends, for our purposes at least. Now, seeing you took the vehicle out of the country without notifying us, it follows that you were uninsured at the time of the - ah - incident. Sorry about that, Mr. Anderson."

So were we.

Our roof yielding to the tender advances of Hurricane Colleen was another object lesson.

We'd had what the brochure called "fully comprehensive owner's cover." But there was an economical little clause which washed the insurance company's hands of all responsibility if there was "work in progress" on the property concerned.

Like re-washering a tap. Or any similar mammoth project that weakens the structure.

Seems the company sold "builders' cover" as well.

And seeing we were dividing a large room into two and whacking up gib board everywhere, our policy didn't pay out. As we said, the roof went back on for little more that umpteen manhours, a few blisters, and a part-box of nails.

But that wasn't the point. We decided to stop financing insurance companies. Which liberated a bit of cash. Not enough, though.

Then one day, someone said to us: "God told me to tell you to _GET OUT OF DEBT AND STAY OUT OF DEBT"._

Have a word of advice. If anyone says "Dad says to tell you..." don't, whatever you do, believe them. It can be the genuine article. A mix of fact and fiction. Or straight-out superheated imagination.

Put it on the shelf. Say to your Dad that if that's from Him would He kindly confirm it. His way. But until He does, you're going to soldier on as before.

He'll get through in His own good time.

In our case, the _"GET OUT OF DEBT AND STAY OUT OF DEBT"_ turned out to be authentic.

It seemed hopelessly idealistic, but we decided to give it a go. There's only one way to do it, whether bit by painful bit or in one sudden step. That is - downgrade.

Murphy's propaganda says everything should be bigger and better. Get a new car. Your furniture looks old-fashioned - it's time you modernised. Nobody has wooden windows and an iron roof any more: move to somewhere with alu-joinery and Monier tiles. While the Murphinance Loan Company is waiting to advance the cash and sign you up for the new low 'n' easy payments of a lifetime. Thank you, sir or madam. Do come again.

Don't.

Buck the system. Swim against the stream. Unless you enjoy being an ant in an anthill.

Keep your furniture. The kids'll beat hell out of it until they leave home, anyway. If you have to change - go to an auction. Or a garage sale. So the stuff isn't new? Neither is new furniture once you've had it for a few weeks.

And don't buy a better house. Buy a worse one. Humans are mucky things, and often sell a place because they've let it go tatty. At umpteen-thousand below true value.

Move in with a shovel and start to enjoy yourself, without being greatly in hock to Murphy.

Mind you, husband and wife need to see eye to eye on this one. It's no good one spouse wanting to get into the simple life, while the other has delusions of grandeur. Talk it out; reach a compromise.

Well, we tried it.

And it's a funny feeling, the day you find you've become debt free.

It's your house. Doesn't matter that it's a trifle crummy. You can walk over every inch of the section, run the dirt through you fingers, pat the weeds. Make a few changes.

And every dollar that comes in is yours. Murphy isn't waiting on payday for his percentage.

It's surprising what it can mean in terms of real wealth. In adrenalin conserved and ulcers sidestepped. And, if you're self-employed, there's the added bonus of not needing so much money in order to live. Therefore not working so hard. Therefore having more time to watch grass grow. Therefore slotting into a lower tax bracket.

You gain all round.

If you don't play the game according to Murphy's rules.

Trouble is, Murphy has given us a preoccupation with money. Until we have forgotten what valueless stuff it is. All the time it sits in our pocket or bank account it does nothing. Only when we swap it for goods do we receive anything.

Money merely wastes away as the government take its share and inflation works its magic.

Whereas if God owns everything - that makes Him incredibly wealthy, doesn't it?

And if He's really our Dad, don't we get to share in some of that? Or has some old Scrooge adopted us, who's too tightfisted to let His kids have any?

No way.

There's no limit to His plans for us. Except that we've got this tendency to want things to happen Murphy's way. Not His. To have nice, solid cash "just in case", inste having Him jack up our lifestyle.

So things tend to be a bit limited. A bit ordinary.

As we found when we came to move away from the settlement.

We'd guessed from the time we moved in that the house would be tricky to sell. With all respects to the Department of Maori Affairs, the houses they used to have built were triumphs of bureaucratic unimaginativeness. And when they laid out the settlement, it was with no thought for the way people like to live.

Every agent had our house on his list. We did a bit of advertising ourselves. Found sources of finance if anyone wanted a second mortgage. Dropped the price until it was some 25% below market value. We tried every trick in the book.

Buyers stayed away in droves. For the best part of a year.

Eventually we got the message. We'd been trying it our way. The sensible way. It wasn't going to work. Hands off was the name of the game.

Which is blooming hard if you're an activist.

But there wasn't much alternative. So there we sat, patiently drumming our fingers and biting our nails.

And on the following Saturday, a big car purred up our drive. One of those expensive jobs that lurk in the background of cigarette adverts.

An old man emerged carefully, then with short steps made his way to our door.

"Ninety if he's a day," I said.

"Probably going to buy the house," suggested Eileen.

She was joking. But the old man wasn't. He said his name was Gubb. He'd somewhere heard the house was on the market and knew the price we were asking. Didn't remember who'd told him. Could he see round?

His inspection was no-nonsense thorough. No enthusing over new paint and paper. No polite approval of flowers.

He knew what corners to poke into. Where the spouting was likely to fail. The location of the electric water pump. The condition of the oven. Whether the floorboards bounced. He missed nothing.

We finished up in the livingroom. Eileen offered a cup of tea. He accepted.

Then he pulled out his wallet and pushed ten ten-dollar bills at me.

"I'll have the house," he said. "It isn't bad. This'll do you as a deposit. Now, go on, write me out a contract."

I blinked and made burbling noises. You just don't sell houses that way.

"There's no need for that," I stammered. "The solicitors can fix things up on Monday."

He shook his head impatiently.

"Write me that contract. I've been caught before. Someone could offer you a higher price the moment my back's turned."

I suppressed a mirthless laugh. The chance would be a fine thing.

"Er \- well - excuse me a moment."

I had a couple of calls to make. One to someone with contacts in the finance world. We had this old gent (I mentioned his name) wanting our house. Was he okay financially? The mellifluous voice on the other end assured me that our Mr. Gubb was well-known and had money in the same way as chickens have fleas.

The other call wasn't by phone. It was an SOS to Dad about writing a contract. Those things are for professionals.

"What d'You reckon?"

Go ahead.

"But I don't know what to do."

You will as soon as you write it.

"If You say so."

I returned to the livingroom with pen and paper and started. It took a time, and there was one copy for him, one for us. Mr. Gubb read both through, grunted, then signed.

"That's that. Now, you've got my address there. Call in if you're passing. I'll give you some beans. I grow all my own veges. Totally different from the rubbish you buy in the shops."

His car purred out of our drive. Eileen and I hugged each other.

"Things don't happen that way," she said. "Or do they?"

That wasn't quite the end of the tale.

Someone did come and offer us a higher price as soon as Mr. Gubb drove away. A person with relatives in the same street. Transferred up from Auckland. Whose firm were willing to provide all the finance. It was a luxurious feeling to say "No - sorry. You're five minutes too late".

Monday we sheepishly pushed the home-made contract across our solicitor's desk.

"Don't laugh," I said. "Mr. Gubb insisted."

He read it in careful silence, then looked up.

"Don't ever do that again, Mr. Anderson. You've no idea the problems it could cause." He paused. "However, this seems adequate. Quite competent, in fact."

Somewhere, Someone would have been having a little chuckle.

The last loose end was the estate agent's commission. We made a tour of their offices, telling them our house was sold and asking if they were the ones who had sent Mr. Gubb.

They all said an emphatic no. One explained: "Yours wasn't the quality of property that would have interested him. He buys for investment, but only in - well - better areas. Where he can rent out to professional couples."

The commission stayed in our hot little hands. And when we looked back through our old diaries, we found we had spent five years on the settlement. Exciting, informative years.

Five years - to the day. Sometimes our Dad is rather precise.

DO-IT-YOURSELF FOR NO-HOPERS

Let's get all negative. Think about problems and things. People who don't quite make it.

So we say our spirit is a small chunk of God. Then quote an anecdote where summat cooky turned out okay. What about failures? There are always Two Sides To Every Question.

If you didn't know about the failures, you soon will. As soon as you tell anyone that you plan to be different. Talk to God. Follow intuition

Out'll come the stories.

Folk who've "gone funny". Heard voices. Never been the same since. Got into b-i-g trouble.

All of which, your informant will tell you, started when they took the precise step you're planning to take.

Rather like the letter we received from someone telling us that we'd "go into serious error" if we let ourselves be led directly by God instead of following a certain church's teaching. Then spent another couple of letters saying he hadn't meant us to take that the way he'd said it.

Fact is: people who cut loose, do their own thing, play hunches, follow up clues, listen to their Dad...

Do go funny. Don't slot neatly into society. Aren't yes- persons. Won't do as they're told.

Here's a bit of valuable advice.

Pick your friends with care. Watch out for your husband/wife/kids being got at.

You see, folk are fearfully insecure. They need to know that everyone's doing it, everyone has one (One what? Don't be vulgar!), everyone will be dressed that way.

If you come along, not giving a stuff about what other people think, yet enjoying yourself, their security collapses.

So they get all catty. Snipe at you. Try and get you back on the straight and narrow.

Drop 'em, if they get too heavy. Because sometimes they won't attack head-on, but sidle around to your nearest and weirdest when you're out and do an I'm-only-telling-you-for- your-own-good act.

Doesn't mean you only have friends who agree with you. No way. Try and pick up those who enjoy a good fight.

As long as they know what they're talking about. Prepared to listen, disagree - and remember what you said in case it makes sense later.

Relatives can be just as bothersome as friends. In a different way.

Relatives care for you. You're family; you belong. They want to see you right. Which, alas, means they advise caution. The look before you leap, cash in the bank, don't rock the boat attitude.

Together with the you-won't-do-anything-to-embarrass-us- will-you outlook.

All of which generates a bit of pressure. A Murphyish quality. Making it tricky to do anything because you choose to do it.

There's a tendency to go under; or react against friends and relatives; over-react. Look - love 'em and leave 'em, 'til you get your act together. Why make difficulties?

Incidentally, one difficulty you might stagger across in getting into the spirit area is pseudo-intellectualism.

Let's explain.

Intellect is soul level. Murphy level, of course, but part of life as long as it's kept in its place. But the pseudo- intellectual (who may be an utter whizz-kid or covering up for being a few bricks short of a load) has developed a tricky line in mental immorality.

He is programmed to come up with the points for. And against. Alternately. _"Let's go fishing. But it might rain. Be neat, though - I could use my new rod. Maggy'd prefer going for a drive. The car needs a warrant, so we can't go anywhere. Better paint the shed. If it isn't going to rain."_ With a bit of practice it becomes automatic.

Guaranteed to drive those in the vicinity up the wall. Which is the whole object of the exercise.

The game can be played another way. As a form of conscience.

Have a sandwich, Doris. I really couldn't. Oh, do. No, it's the last one. Go on, take it. Someone else might want it. We've all had enough, thanks. What about the children? They had theirs before we started. I don't like to deprive anybody. Oh, stick it in your cakehole and shut up, you stupid old bag.

And everyone is righteously indignant at everyone else. Properly done, it can be kept up for hours, with late arrivals being called in to take sides.

Keep your mind in its place. Sure, consider alternatives. Be aware of your motives. But don't get your knickers in a knot over every possible permutation.

And never use an argument you know is dodgy to stall a situation for a moment.

In other words - don't let your mind be anything but a servant. A few paragraphs ago we used the word "conscience".

Herewith a bit of a footnote for religious types.

There ain't no such thing as a conscience. Not nowhere.

Rustle those india-paper leaves, sister. Stab an accusing forefinger at inspired chapter and verse, brother.

We'll still say it's not there.

We grant you, the word is. But it's a mistranslation. Not accidental, either.

You see, sometimes the Bible says "the conscience" is an evil thing. Needs dealing with. At other times there are dire warnings against ignoring "the conscience".

Fact is, it should have been translated "judgement". We don't "have a conscience", but we do come up with judgement. Sometimes - on soul level - it's damn stupid; especially when it's based on our tribal taboos and Victorian ethics. At other times, when it's from the spirit, it's spot on.

But you can't build a religion on that. So the good, devout, godly translators stuck tongue firmly in cheek and wrote "conscience". And religion has been developing the blasted thing ever since.

Don't do that...don't go there...don't eat this...don't read, think, touch...because we say so. (And, if you'd like to do your own research into mistranslation, try the words "church", "baptism" or "Easter". Follow their evolution. Quite an eye-opener.)

Where were we? Oh yes, keeping our mind in its place...

Perhaps you wonder if some folk won't make it. If there are any who haven't got a show of functioning on the spirit level.

In a word: yes and no. Anyone can make it. There's a wee bit of bias in favour of thick types - because there's not so much to get in the way...

But some people can make themselves into no-hopers. It takes a bit of working at, but it can be done. Take some time off and see where it applies to you. We're all more or less dishonest with ourselves at certain times and in certain situations. Which is okay in small quantities, but has a tendency to get out of hand and take over.

Here's how to be a no-hoper...

Find yourself a problem.

Some little moral or ethical hassle. A worry or fear. An obsession or two. A quirk of character or personality.

That's all. Then - get help. All the help you can. As often as you can.

Pour your little heart out to your friends (... _just in confidence, Sidney_...), to strangers in bus queues, to doctors, to welfare agencies. To every minister, priest, reverend, pastor and curate you can find. And (of course) to the opposite sex who can be so kind and understanding in situations like that.

With care, you can build up a roster of shoulders to cry on. Your problems will grow from an abstract Shortcoming to a bonny bouncing Difficulty with a will of its own and hairs on its chest.

And you will have enough good advice to keep you occupied over the longest wet Labour Weekend. You'll discover prayer lines and altar calls. Some churches - usually ones set towards the whoopin' and hollerin' end of the spectrum, but there are exceptions - give an invite for people to come to the front after the lecture and get prayed for. Out you shuffle. Head humbly bowed.

Try and be first - you receive more attention. And that way, you can beat the other regulars by a short nose.

Now, the funny thing is that all the sources of help I've mentioned - doctors, ministers, friends - really can and do make a difference to some people. Why, then. am I suggesting that they won't work?

They're okay as a one-off.

But a no-hoper makes a career out of his problem; collects counsellors; has boxes full of advice; feeds - or fights - his difficulty to find new angles to talk about.

There is no hope for a no-hoper.

Because the last thing he wants is to be deprived of his darling little raison d'être, his moment of glory. Something to shock sweet old ladies, to evoke instant sympathy in strangers, earbash the longsuffering and patient listener far into the night.

Not perhaps the most satisfying of careers. But a career.

How do you measure up? Guilty?

There is a way out if you're one of the rare birds who comes to their senses and feels like a change. Unfortunately it's a brisk, crisp solution with none of the cosy hours of chit-chat you've grown to love.

Take an example. A respectable one.

Let's say you're a compulsive nail-biter. For years you've bewailed the fact, castigated (eh?) yourself for lack of willpower and generally annoyed everyone within cooee.

Now \- forget it. Grin and bear it.

Don't make the slightest attempt not to.

That's all. Well, not quite. You see, for years you've poured untold psychic energy into your nail-biting problem, feeding the brute. It thrives on attention.

It grows visibly on condemnation and discipline. Cold showers and willpower.

Forget it. And, meanwhile, get into something that grabs you. Something you choose. And the nailbiting (or whatever) will fade away like a politician's promise after an election.

Don't try and chart progress. " _Ooh, I'm improving_ ". Or " _oops, I slipped back a bit yesterday_ ". You can't assess how things are going in the murky, goblin-filled caverns of your soul. Don't try.

And that 's the way to quit the ranks of the no-hopers.

Trouble is - society in general (and religion in particular) demands an instant, total, irreversible reformation. No lapses, waverings or longing

So the normal technique, dealing with Problems, is to turn the old willpower knob up to maximum, grit your teeth and hope you don't bust a gusset.

It doesn't work. We've had too many pillars of church and society drive up to our door after dark and admit to a whole Pandora's box-full of sordid problems they'd been sitting on.

The price of respectability, no less. Problems feed on respectability. Don't believe us: read your local paper.

"I'd never have thought it of her. Brought up so well, she was. Lovely husband. The children were so polite, too. And all the time, there she was... Makes me feel ill, really it does." No it doesn't. Just insecure. Waiting for your turn.

If you want to fail, be a Lady or Gentleman. Discipline yourself. Smile politely. Control your temper. Dress neatly, unostentatiously. Shake your head sadly over the waywardness of others. Move through life like a duck over the tranquility of a pond... While underneath, your little feet are paddling faster'n hell. And you're hoping that old age and impotence will ease the pressure before the boiler bursts.

Let's carry on being negative.

Imagine, say, you've started looking for prompts. Hunches. " _God speaking to you_."

And you get the impression you should do something - and you don't do it.

Don't get condemned and remorseful. Woe is me and all that jazz.

Ask your Dad to play it through again. He can. And will. It's quite fun, sometimes.

And if you do something that turns out a total fiasco, ask Him why.

For one thing, mebbe you didn't blow it. It might just be taking a little longer than you'd reckoned to sort itself out.

Or, say it was a real clanger. He'll tell you why. But He might have to teach you a heap more before you can grasp the nuts and bolts involved.

Anyhow, don't go getting intense about mistakes and all that. Keep a sense of humour. God's got one. After all, He made you. Didn't He?

And maintain a low-key, controllable scepticism. It'll save going down the odd, elementary blind alley.

For example - one of the Objects of the Game is to get into a thoroughly supernatural, spirit-level, paranormal way of life.

But some folk bog down early in the piece because they're too polite and gullible.

I'm anticipating a bit, talking about close encounters with Beings from Beyond...but never, ever forget who you are.

A son of God. Which makes Him your Dad. And Jesus your brother. Not a bad position to be in.

Don't let anyone or anything hang one on you. Even if it comes in a UFO, glows in the dark and stands ten cubits high. You're still a son of God. Scruffy. But the greatest.

Where were we? Oh yes, being gullible.

An elementary clanger is the good old spiritualist seance.

All sit in a ring, hold hands, and the medium will bring a meaningful message from your dear departed.

Breathless 'ush. Someone's stomach plays faint organ music.

"There's a person here, concerned for a loved one... Perhaps you've a choice to make, that'll affect your future... Maybe health has caused you anxiety..."

A good, blunderbuss approach. There are endless variations. Headaches, money problems, bad backs and wayward offspring.

Then the show gets more specific.

"Someone is here for the first time." Big deal - you were asked that as you came in. "The spirits can sense you have doubts in your mind." One look at your face would tell a blind man that.

"But my spirit guide brings a message for you." Things are warming up.

"You had an uncle who tragically passed away overseas." That'll be old Bill - drank himself silly and drove into a creek somewhere in the South Island last year.

"He remembers you loaned him money." True; to buy the grog. No-one knew except you and him. Aunt would've skinned you alive if she'd known. So how does this thing work? Mental telepathy?

"And he tells you to look under a loose board at the back of the shed and you will be abundantly repaid."

You go and look, and whadyaknow! A treasure trove of pearls, sovereigns or diamonds that even Aunt didn't know about.

Oooh and ah; it really was Uncle Bill. And you return to the seance convinced the astral telephone exchange has guaranteed person-to-person calls.

Piffle. Codswallop, even. If there is a spirit world (and we maintain there demonstrably is) it doesn't follow there's any information known only to dear old Uncle Bill. Any ghosties and ghoulies, not to mention angels and demons, can know everything Bill ever knew, plus a whole lot more.

There is absolutely no reason to imagine astral messages originate from anyone you've met. Unless you want to be fooled.

Unfortunately, there is a kink in human nature which comes out in the form of chronic gullibility in the occult department.

Maybe because seances, ouija boards and tarot cards work. More or less. And we're so taken by surprise that we fail to apply even an elementary degree of caution.

This is why the Bible hands out a rather sane piece of advice. "There is one mediator (or medium) between God and man, and that is the man Christ Jesus".

It is decidedly unsafe to use any lower spirit (or any living human) as an intermediary between you and your Dad.

Okay, we realise that in one simplistic fell swoop this cuts across the entire guru trip, the organised religious scene, and most aspects of spiritualism. But think about it for a moment...

If there is something "out there" (and at this stage in the book it's reasonable for us to take it for granted), then it's a pretty complex set-up. With good guys and bad guys. And they are - usually \- invisible.

Ask yourself this question: what would you get up to if you had the gift of invisibility? Pause for a bit of wink- wink, nudge-nudge. The fact is that if we (or you) had the gift of invisibility, we'd get up to all sorts of tricks. Elaborate practical jokes. Utter mischief.

So? Think of all the folk-lore. Legends from the Pacific Islands. Tales from Europe. Of imps and elves, sprites and pixies. Mischievous spirits. Then ask someone genuinely involved in spiritualism about the trustworthiness of their spirit guides. You might be surprised at the answers, if you probe deeply enough.

But it's easy to be satisfied with a reasonable fifty-fifty reliability rate. With the wrong answers explained away as static or something.

The problem though, is because we approach the astral realm from the wrong angle. The conventional way is to regard it as a "higher plane". Which it indeed is, if we view it from the material level.

But God's intention was to make us realise the part of us called "spirit" is actually joined with Him on His level.

Therefore we are located as a point of fact in a position above the astral plane and we should regard that area as effectively beneath us. So it doesn't matter what rank any particular spirit being might hold. (Different religions use different labels, but familiar terms include angels, archangels, principalities, powers, cherubim...) Our position is above them. And any contact we have with them should arise from our relationship with our Dad and be continually referred back to Him for verification.

Now, maybe that's not quite as gimmicky as pushing a tumbler across a polished table or shuffling a pack of cards. But if we experiment at getting something going direct with Dad, all the rest of the "spirit world" falls into place. It doesn't become a no-no; only the techniques which will mislead us will be banned.

The main thing is to communicate with our Dad direct. Not to be satisfied with anything that keeps Him at a distance.

That's what religion does.

And spiritualism is just another religion.

Just a word of caution.

Beware of any religion. Beware of organisations.

Beware of anything that isn't open-ended. Regardless of the publicity. The brochures. The come-hither.

Ask questions. Look for wrigglies under the stones. Talk to folk who've been in it for years. Because anything organised must petrify. Or putrefy.

And because truth - Truth - isn't a thing. Or a concept. Or something you "believe".

"Believe" is a word which the Murphyfarm Veterinarian Services efficiently gelded to make it docile. And sterile.

Originally it was a spirit-level word. It meant though something was totally invisible and other, you'd put your last dollar on it, risk everything, lean on it, walk on it - because you knew. Nice word.

But dangerous to the Murphy Motivation and Management Bureau.

So creeds were written. Apostles, Nicene, Athanasian, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all...

Catechisms. Statements of faith.

"I believe..." In God and Pontius Pilate and Murphy and the inerrance of the holy scriptures and the quick and the dead and all sorts of things because I learned it at my mother's knee (pause for old joke) and if I didn't I'd be a heathen who believes in nasty things.

Belief became assent. An abstract acceptance.

A soul-level, Murphy-dominated word where we assent to certain propositions...

And don't do one damn thing with them... Don't bounce up and down on 'em to see if they break... Don't take 'em along to Dad and say "hey - do these things ever work?"

In other words - "belief", in today's strict usage - is unbelief.

So beware of believing something.

Because, as I said - Truth isn't a thing.

Truth is a Person.

So some book, some bloke, some organisation can say words at you.

But only what you experience has any value.

Why do clergy go on about the beauty of prayer, the majesty of God and His self-sufficiency? Why is theology taught in Bible Colleges. Along with counselling techniques and the divine art of sermon making?

Wouldn't it be refreshing if a reverend leaned over the edge of a pulpit and said "Okay. That's it. I've taught you all I know. Off you go. Try it out. It's between you and your Dad from now on."

Or if a sermon on faith closed with the bloke telling you to go move a mountain, uproot a fig tree or walk across Taupo. (The lake, not the city, stupid.)

Instead, the bottom line tends to be an exhortation to put another dollar in the dish 'cos the roof's started having a leak. All of which seems more Murphy than Dad.

\- Keep in an open-ended system.

\- Because Truth is a Person.

\- So is Life.

\- And so is the Way.

Technique tends to slow things down. It's usually a fossilisation of the route that some other bloke went. Which mightn't do for you at all.

Just imagine big. Expect the oddest things. Keep a sense of humour - especially about yourself. Don't be stuffy. Look for clues. Don't be self-conscious if Dad treats you with a bit of favouritism.

Friend of ours got "the treatment" while he was in the army.

He was overseas with heaven-knows how many other conscripts to prove a point a few politicians and generals had made.

Ordinary sort of fellow, he was. And one night he had a dream. An odd 'un.

Which neatly, systematically, flawlessly told him how to desert. (Ooh, naughty!) Every step. The documents he would need. How he should cover his tracks.

And how to begin a new life with the missus and kids.

He woke early in the barracks. Surprised to find every detail of the dream was clearly etched on him memory. He made up his mind to give it a go, although as far as he could remember, no dream had ever seemed even mildly important before.

And it worked.

Under the noses of the military police he took the complex route which led from the barracks to the docks. All the papers he needed for a new identity were obtainable by the methods he had been told. At the docks his documents were cursorily inspected and he was directed on board a troopship returning to Wellington.

Within a short time, he and his family were happily re-united (everybody say "aah") in a cottage on a farm out in the back-blocks.

No snags. Funny, eh.

Like we said - expect a bit of favouritism.

* * *

FROM BOURNEMOUTH TO BROCHS

Rationalism is having a rough time.

It was easier last century.

When progress was steam and machinery. Industry and mass production. The tangible world of the merchant and the engineer. Where Darwin evolved man in his own image. And the gods shrank between the covers of poetry books or lay flat and lifeless on an artist's canvas.

While Murphy nodded his approval and said "my will be done".

Not so today.

Although school textbooks drag their feet and parrot the mechanical dogmas of a bygone age, scientists who are pushing further and further the boundaries of knowledge are beginning to learn that only the incredible is to be expected.

The universe may be ordered, but it is scarcely orderly.

Subject to laws, but with no legalism.

In other words - a neat place to bring up the kids.

Kids \- the littler the better - seem designed to handle life the way it really is. They can have an invisible playmate whom they talk to, confide in. Without embarrassment. Or blether happily for hours in a nonsense language.

Their world runs alongside another which we cannot see. Which we are only beginning to admit to. Which eventually only the most intellectually stubborn will be able to deny.

Our trip back to Britain underlined how the world of the paranormal (good as well as bad) is becoming part of our world.

Even before we left New Zealand we noticed that the off- beat stories were taking a different twist.

Once it was UFOs. Now - close encounters: the special edition.

People claimed to be picking up hitch-hikers who would deliver some mystical message. Then dematerialise at 80kph.

Disconcerting, they said.

Sane and stolid Taihape cockies found themselves making a journey from A to B in a few minutes - that for years had been a good hour's trek.

And two Whangarei housewives of sober and honest repute...

Were driving to Onerahi late one night. Talking non-stop as was their custom.

And, more intent on talking than driving, they put their largish car in the ditch.

They were unhurt. The car was unbent. But well bellied down and undriveable out. They scrambled clear and wondered what their spouses would say.

A young fellow ambled along out of the night. Asked if he could help. The women said would he go to the nearest house and ring for a tow-truck.

"No need," he said. "She'll be right."

And \- according to these good ladies - picked up the front end of the car and set it on the road. Did the same with the back end. Said a courteous "God bless you", and walked off into the night.

Try it with your own car sometime.

Well, we arrived in dear old Britain and began travelling round.

And it would be fair to say everywhere we stumbled over people with their own first-hand paranormal story...

There was the air-traffic controller who constantly has to file reports of objects whose speed, size and manoeuvrability corresponded with nothing on civil or military schedules.

The family living in an old rectory who were annoyed by a horse and cart which disturbed their sleep by driving endlessly around the house at night. Invisibly.

The tough, no-nonsense ex-army type who had grown used to a white figure appearing in his bedroom. Wasn't his missus. Or anybody else's, as far as he knew.

And a classic example to which every daily paper gave pride of place...

Most of Britain was enjoying a heatwave. Most. But not one particular house in Abbott Road, Bournemouth.

The couple there were shivering in their own personalised winter. The family Labrador was unhappy, barking incessantly.

Off to work as usual went the husband, somewhat startled to see the dog take off ahead of him as soon as the door was opened, streaking into the dim blue yonder like a bat out of hell.

He was even more surprised to receive an urgent message from his wife to come home. She explained that all the furniture and crockery in the house had gone berserk.

The husband was dumbfounded to return to the chaos. Any natural explanations which might have occurred to him were rudely disturbed as he watched an oil heater tip itself over. Unaided.

He picked up the phone and told the police to come at speed. Then shuddered as something plucked the receiver from his hand and smashed it against the wall

The police arrived. Notebooks at the ready. But there was no time for the standard "Now then, what's all this there 'ere" of the British bobby.

As they went from the blaze of summer to the unearthly chill of the house, a large kitchen cabinet lurched towards them and topple over. Any china left intact was hurtled to the floor. Handcuffs don't work awfully well in situations like that. But British policemen are wonderful; P.C. Graham Joyce was no exception.

He recommended an exorcism. And in no time the fun and games was ordered to halt in the name of Jesus. The poltergeist left, the chilly atmosphere with it. The family dog returned. Abbott Road, Bournemouth, was back to normal.

There's a problem in this sort of happening. Not unbelief.

You don't have much time for doubt when the Royal Doulton is whizzing round your ears and the three-piece suite is rapidly reduced to matchwood.

The problem is dealing with the thing.

Because religion has worked 'eavens 'ard at making people reluctant to mention Jesus. Religion - by a lengthy process of sentimentalising and innuendo, phoney piety and hypocritical awe - has managed to invest him with a gooey, effeminate image.

Downright inaccurate, whatever angle you study the record from.

But the slander has stuck, nevertheless.

We'd reached the Island of Mull after the encounter with the prostitute I was telling you about.

And settled in a wonderfully comfortable guest house a few hundred metres to the left of the jetty. This is an unashamed advert - the breakfasts are superb.

Eileen and I changed, and went downstairs into the lounge.

An American archaeologist and his wife were already there. They explained that they had been sent by a Californian university to do a dig in a hitherto undisturbed broch.

Despite much-boasted Scottish origins, I raised ignorant eyebrows. He elucidated:

"They're strange structures, brochs are. Imagine a stone beehive standing as high as a two storey house. Double walls, with galleries running between the two. The interior is one large hall."

"What were they for?" asked Eileen.

The archaeologist smiled. "Your guess is as good as mine," he replied. "There are as many theories as there are books on the subject. Chieftains' houses or communal dwellings. Places of worship. Strongholds. Burial chambers. There's evidence at one time or other some brochs have been used for all those purposes and more. But there's no consistent pattern."

His wife took up the explanation.

"Some never seemed to have a clear use. All we know for sure is that more than two thousand years ago, great numbers of these structures were built."

"That's not quite all we know," said the husband. "There are some odd tales about these brochs. Apparently it doesn't always do to disturb them."

"You believe that?" I asked.

"I wouldn't have," he admitted. "Except that we have - or rather, had \- a good friend who came here from the States a few years back. Doing much the same as we are. Locals warned him to be careful, not to disturb things or take any stone samples away. But research is research..."

He paused.

His wife said flatly: "Within the year his wife and all their family were dead. All separate incidents. A car accident here, an illness there, a fire someplace else."

The husband looked enquiringly at us.

"Tomorrow we get to open one that hasn't been disturbed since 'way back. Okay, how do we avoid burning our fingers?"

He wasn't kidding.

"There's an answer." I began. "On the cross, Jesus -"

The archaeologist cut me off, flat.

"Sorry, pal. No offence meant. But we're not interested in joining anybody's religion. We're from California, remember? We grow religion like most folk grow grass."

"Steady on," I said. "This isn't religion. No more than you'd get all religious over a spade if someone gave one to you."

Briefly we told him of some of the experiences we'd had on the Maori settlement. Explaining that because Jesus defeated Murphy, there was no need for curses and spells to have effect. As long as one relied totally on the effectiveness of Jesus, not on any technique.

The American and his wife were genuinely interested. They questioned us late into the night to know reasons why exorcism worked, the function of intuition, relationship between themselves and God. The embarrassment which they had associated with religion was gone.

The next morning as we entered the diningroom in our usual breakfast stupor, they called across to us:

"Hey, so there you are. Look, George and Eileen, before we go off, let's just check that we've got it right. Okay?"

To the fascination of the other guests, the couple went over point by point what is theologically labelled "the doctrine of redemption". But with no hushed reverential tones, only the muffling effect of eating bacon and eggs at the same time.

And off they went, eager to begin excavating their broch.

As we moved around Britain, we were struck by the similarity of paranormal events there to those in New Zealand.

In Inverness, Eileen explained to some people we met about the Maori "death light".

"It's a large globe of light - rather like ball lightning", she told them, "that sometimes drifts into a Maori home. The oldest person there is supposed to look into it. If he or she does, they see the face of a relative or friend. Then they know that person

There had been several occasions when we'd seen neighbours piling mattresses and clothes into the back of a ute. We'd asked them where they were going. And They'd said something like "Oh, we're off to Kaitaia, eh! It's the old lady, she's dying."

No phone calls. No telegrams.

They'd arrive in time for the last farewells. Then stay for the funeral.

As Eileen told the Scots, one said: "This has happened here in the Highlands and Islands for centuries. The crofters would be after seeing the light, and they'd always know whose house they were to make for. Even if it meant a walk of several days through the glens."

From the north of Scotland we made our way down into England, then changed trains to reach the western edge of Wales.

Haverfordwest may sound a clumsy, unromantic place name. But a brisk walk out of the town brought us to a magical spot called Merlin's Bridge.

At first glance there was nothing unusual about the district. The bulk of the Kraft cheese factory overshadowed the grey houses around it, filling the air with a cloying stink. Sorry, Kraft - you make a good product, but it's no fun being around when you do it.

We stayed in the area for some time, exploring the surrounding villages, wandering the lanes, talking to the people we met. There was a peaceful relaxed atmosphere. Everyone was friendly.

And everyone we came across - with no exceptions, apart from those who had no time for more than a hi and 'bye - had had firsthand, frequent contact with something that was totally other.

A few years before, there had been what UFO enthusiasts call a "flap". They define the word as a dramatic increase in unusual sightings. A brief upsurge of paranormal events.

As we listened to stories told in shy lilting accents, confirming all that we had read of the "flap" and more, we came to realise the ufologists definition was partially wrong. In this part of the world, at least.

Doubtless there had been increased media interest in unusual happenings. Normally reticent villagers had come forward into the glare of publicity.

But these events were still taking place.

There is no point in my trying to re-hash what goes on in that corner of the United Kingdom. Randall Pugh has set down a well-researched set of stories in his book "The Dyfed Enigma".

It was the sequel to those and other stories that grabbed us.

The Welsh are religious. Painfully so.

Chapels abound.

And although the singing of the hymns has a fervour unmatched in the northern hemisphere, chapel-going has a stubborn legalism rather than spontaneous enthusiasm.

But the unusual happenings were changing people. Abruptly. Informally. On a highly personal, one-to-one level.

After all, if you sit by the fire one evening and feel the entire house shake, then run outside to investigate, and find an object about two kilometres square passing overhead - you're not likely to put on your best black suit next Sabbath and sing _Cwm Rhondda_ in the choir, indeed to goodness.

Especially as you've been singing it since your voice broke.

Either you flip. Or else you catch up on your conversations with the Creator.

And \- the folk around Merlin's Bridge weren't flipping.

So, in the chapels it was business as usual. While at home the people were learning to handle their off-beat environment. Direct, with Dad.

Unlike the people of Warminster.

Funny how atmosphere can change from place to place. Peaceful and relaxed at Merlin's Bridge. Antagonistic in Warminister.

It would normally have been unremarkable that the couple opposite us in the train began a humdinger of a quarrel as we approached the station.

Then as we walked to the guesthouse, along the streets were small groups of people arguing, jostling. For no reason that we could discover.

We reached the guesthouse. And watched with awe a pair who were leaving. They made what sounded to us like a reasonable and moderately worded complaint.

The proprietress took umbrage and began swearing at them.

They reacted in kind.

In a matter of moments the situation trembled on the brink of physical violence. And the police were summoned. Not an auspicious introduction to Warminister.

Again, as in Wales, we talked to as many people as we could. They, too, had their own stories to tell.

Of lights. Of unearthly beings. All the traditional UFO stories. At first hand.

There were professional people with reputations to maintain, garrulous housewives, school-children.

And while the odd events happened anywhere in the locality, one spot - Cradle Hill, on the edge of town - seemed to be the focal point of these appearances.

Still we couldn't understand the way the atmosphere contrasted with the peace of Merlin's Bridge.

Until we met a particularly enthusiastic researcher in Warminister.

We swapped stories, then Eileen told him about our thing in the gaol. "What a pity," he said, shaking his head sadly.

"Pity?" queried Eileen.

"Yes. Getting rid of it like that."

"But \- it was an evil spirit," I said.

"No," he replied. "You don't understand. What you experienced was not evil. There is no such thing as evil. Everything is good, because everything is God. You would know if you came and stood with us on Cradle Hill on a night when the beings come down. Then you would be bathed in light. They talk to us of many things".

"Do they ever mention Jesus," I asked.

He thought carefully.

"No, I don't think they ever do. But it doesn't really matter, does it?"

We got the picture. He, and others we talked to in Warminister, had fallen for a standard ploy of Murphy's - the half-truth.

It is correct that everything originally was and ultimately will be God. Creation, as the theologians tell us (and they should know...) was ex nihilo - meaning God hadn't much to start with except Himself.

But. And it's an important but.

When Murphy made his Unilateral Declaration of Independence, his use of the soul level was a mis-use of something God had made out of Himself.

That, essentially, is a definition of sin.

Murphy didn't run round saying four-letter words or smoking joints or exceeding the speed limit. Or any of the other actions that earn public disapproval.

He merely (...or appallingly, depending on your understanding...) isolated an area of life from the perfect, direct and low-key control of God. And made it an intense, introspective, pro and con set up of his own.

Hence the built-in failure of everything under Murphy's Law.

So our Warminster acquaintance made a fundamental gaffe when he swallowed everything up on Cradle Hill.

Trouble is, some spirits look impressive; one hestitates to quiz them.

("Well, love, he was such a nice man. Told me not to bother with the fine print and all the questions. Just to sign the form and he'd fill it in later." Add mood lighting and a bit of ectoplasm and who's arguing.)

We come to Murphy's some-of-the-people-all-of-the-time department.

This was where Joseph Smith and Ellen G. White (who kicked off Mormonism and Seventh Day Adventism) took a wrong turn.

(Leastways, if events happened as the official handouts say. Because pious followers have been known to edit, modify and even re-write the lives and works of their illustrious leaders. A few examples for your own research: John Wesley's "Journal" has a recurrent theme of supernaturalism and miracle cut out in modern editions; Mrs. Jesse Penn-Lewis's "War On The Saints" (an account of the paranormal during the Welsh revival) was deliberately edited to make Murphy win by ten goals to nil and scare the simple into looking under the bed o'nights; and the biography of Sadhu Sundar Singh has been brutally castrated of every outlandish story, including meetings with a several-hundred-year-old hermit, and his own vanishing into thin air.)

(That was another of these digressions.)

So, assuming the accounts of Smith and White are pretty close to what went on - their mistake lay in taking every spirit at face value. Mustn't.

It's a recurrent feature of the Bible that beings from the spirit world form a regular part of our landscape. But must be taken with a pinch of salt.

It's only difficult if you're religious.

Religious types imagine that God and the angels are frightfully serious fellows. Talking earnestly in low voices. Never a golden hair out of place. Never a wrinkle in their togas.

Oh dear. What if God enjoys a yarn with His cobbers over a glass of home brew? There's more than a hint in scripture on those lines. Remember, He used to drop in on Adam and Mrs. when they were stark in the park. (Before they'd had a proper church wedding, too.)

Didn't worry Him. Didn't worry them.

In fact it was Messrs. Murphy and Haute Couture who set them a-draping fig-leaves over their functional bits. Not Dad.

Murphy. To be copied by all the screwed-up Victorian missionaries who spread their own guilt complexes and neuroses across Africa and the Pacific. Preaching that sex is bad for one - and omitting to add that it's better for two.

Sure, we know that Dad went along with Adam and Eve's modesty trip. Even made 'em fur coats. But God has often gone along with man's dumb ideas. Sometimes just for a bit of peace, sometimes so man could discover his dumbness for himself.

Israel insisted on a king. Nice and visible, unlike God. God warned them of the consequences if He didn't rule the nation direct. Tough, said Israel. Okay, said God. And helped them select a ruler who proved the perfect pain in the arse, as prophesied.

Israel insisted on a temple. Status symbol, same as Ashtoreth and Moloch had. Not a portable badger-skin tent. I don't feel like settling, said God. Tough, said Israel. Once again God said okay and dictated the specifications. And now the Arabs have pushed them off the chosen site (...chosen by man, not by God, please note...) so they can't have a temple, so they can't get through to God.

Sometimes it's best to do it Dad's way. Which involves finding out what He's like.

And (to return from yet another digression) challenging anything and everything that flashes an ID card and claims to be His accredited representative.

The phoney, Murphy-minded spirits put quite a stress on love and light and peace, Jesus is ignored, or down-played to the level of just another prophet, spirit guide, medium, adept or whatever.

There will be no mention of the blood of Jesus. And antagonism if you refer to it. You see, technically, it was the actual outpouring of the blood of Jesus that made Him the literal final sacrifice to render man acceptable to God. Murphy can handle crosses (crucifixes, especially, because they freeze history at a point before the resurrection, i.e. before Jesus had demonstrated that He had won) along with all other religious impedimenta.

But the blood is the focal point of Murphy's defeat.

However, in other matters, Murphy can confuse us with orthodoxy. He can on occasion (depending on the grade of spirit he's using) be surprisingly accurate and polite about Jesus.

The demons that pop up from time to time in the Gospels, were usually more clued-up than the venerable St. Peter himself. They, early in the story, acknowledge Jesus as the messiah - the Christ, the anointed - the holy one of God and the son of God.

Didn't make them okay, though.

One test for dividing good and evil spirits gets spelled out at length in John's first epistle, chapter 4. It's clearly written although the inherent importance might not be instantly obvious.

The passage starts with a statement to the effect that spirits can be from God or Murphy. You don't ignore them, you don't worship them, you check them out.

How? Simple. A spirit from God will be prepared to offer you the information that "Jesus Christ is come in flesh". A Murphy-type spirit will deny it.

Anticlimax? The phrase "Jesus Christ is come in flesh" is terse, economical, legal language.

First, what it doesn't say. It doesn't say Jesus did come in human form two thousand years back. Murphy seldom denies this with much conviction. He and his henchmen fully acknowledged that Jesus became human when he was living on earth.

What the phrase does say is Jesus Christ is come in flesh.

_"Is"._ Present tense.

Meaning that He - Jesus - is in us.

Important? Vitally.

The Bible states that the "mystery" - God's secret weapon, unpublicised until after the resurrection - "Christ in us". People became one spirit with him.

In effect, instead of Jesus being limited to one body in one place, he is now living throughout this world. In individuals.

His work on the cross complete, he - in you, and me - can get on with the job of living. Swamping Murphy.

Little wonder that Murphy will never, ever, state that "Jesus Christ is come in flesh". He wants us to continue being religious. Waiting for the day when "everything will be okay".

That day's been around for a mighty long time. Live it.

Listen to Murphy, you'll miss out.

Follow the bland teachings of religion and you won't know how to handle off-beat, paranormal situations.

Religion's failure can be clearly seen throughout the Pacific. As we found in Rarotonga. Almost everyone - barring a few inevitable reprobates - belong to one of the four major denominations - CICC, RC, LDS and SDA. On Saturdays and Sundays the faithful crowd into church buildings dotted around the island.

So what? Don't look at the numbers in their best clothes with Bibles under their arms. Follow the _Ara Metua_ after dark.

There are two roads around the island. An outer, tarsealed road of comparatively recent construction.

And an inner, metalled road whose origins date from before the present islanders arrived on Rarotonga many hundreds of years ago. The _Ara Metua._

By day, a winding track which fords the occasional stream and meanders between coconut groves and taro swamps. As you phut along on the inevitable motorbike, you are forced to pull to one side and let an overladen horse and cart pass you, led by a mischievous eight-year-old.

But by night?

There's no danger. Just the possibility that the person you meet will turn out to be more insubstantial than you would feel easy about. As you watch, he will fade away, even in the light of a full moon. Ask the locals - all churchgoers - how they handle the situation. They have no answer, because their churches have no answer.

Or listen to the stories about the Black Rock. The way a woman stands at night to direct travellers down a road which doesn't exist by day. A road which fails to follow the curve of the island and leads straight into the sea.

And talk to the grader driver who was taken ill and sent to the well-equipped hospital set high in the hills. Every test was run, to no effect. Blood samples were flown to Auckland for further analysis. Again, nothing. The man continued to deteriorate. Then, one of the old people came to see him. Quietly asked if he had been working in such-and- such an area when he became ill. Yes. What exactly had he been doing; exactly. Grading this stretch of road, see, where there's a bit of a corner. And, well, there's this big stone that sticks into the road a way. So I go and angle my blade, eh, and push the stone, careful-like, until the stone isn't in the road any more. Then I start to feel sick, see.

The old person explained that the boulder is an ancient marker and should never have been moved for any reason at all. The driver was told to get out of that bed, out of the hospital and by fair means or foul on to his grader. He scarcely had the strength, but somehow managed to manoeuver the stone back to its old resting place. Within the hour he was fit and well. Back at work.

He was one of the lucky ones.

And the churches on the island continue to provide an earnestly ineffective European Christianity which - to quote the Bible's evaluation of religion - has "a form of godliness, but denies the power thereof".

Remember - you don't need a professional around to handle a heavy supernatural situation. You can deal with it. Even if you don't feel all that confident.

We got to hear of a Whangarei family who had been plagued by all kinds of odd hauntings. Ornaments went walkies around the mantelpiece. A brand-new video recorder would turn itself over to the regular broadcast programmes at each exciting moment in the tape it was playing. Doors swung around, and the Zip heater regularly switched on with nobody nearby.

Wife and kids were upset. Hubby pretending that's the way things are, these days. Until one teatime.

Lovely domestic scene. The whole family are sitting around the table, winding in the calories. Suddenly - chaos. Behind one of the kids is standing a blurred but menacing figure. Wife and children see it. Not hubby.

He sees the distraught family. Mutters something about "bloody spooks". At which point his plate of piping hot tucker lifts into the air. Turns upside down. And lands with a soggy splosh in his lap. Lots of fun.

Through a friend of a friend we were asked to call in. Quick. We went along, and found the couple to be your Mr. and Mrs. Average European. Just normal middle-class. Not the bug- eyed type. But the atmosphere in that house was something else.

So - we explained briefly to them that, because of Jesus, everyone had the right to take authority over annoying spirits.

Then, in a few unemotional words, we told whatever-it-was to go away in the name of Jesus. The husband looked doubtful. "Is that all? Will that be sufficient?"

"No. That one's gone. Often enough another will try and start up in a few days."

"Will you come along here and get rid of it?"

We refused. We told them it was as easy for them as for us. Okay, we had the advantage that we'd done exorcisms before. But for us or them the reason exorcisms work is because of Jesus. Nothing else.

So, off we went. And a couple of days later, all the turmoil in the house began again.

According to our friend-of-a-friend, the husband was home when it happened. And apparently the memory of dinner ruining his best jeans was still a sore point with him. The exorcism he did might have been low on politeness but it was high on emphasis and sincerity. There's been no trouble since. Nor any dependency on us. But a steadily developing relationship with their Dad.

Now, in practical terms, this means that for anyone, there's no panic in a situation where you find yourself face to face with somebody or something totally awe-inspiring.

Check it out. Deal with it. Even if you feel scared. Don't let it hassle you. And don't worship it, even if it's bigger than you.

Keep that for Dad.
PART FOUR: CLEARING THE CLUTTER
ABSOLUTES AND...

Ethics are largely bunk.

It is socially okay to use Latin- and Greek-based words to describe organs and actions connected with wees, poos and nooky.

_Not_ Anglo-Saxon words.

Saying those sort of words with sufficient emphasis in certain public situations, one runs a fair risk of legalised retribution.

Murphy and his smokescreens.

Hopefully, the generation that made so much of "correct" behaviour is fast dying out. It has done a lot of harm, obscuring essentials under a marshmallow of good manners and social taboos.

There are essentials. Absolutes. But be warned. They're not intended to get you very far. They ensure you don't burn your fingers too badly. Or burn anybody else's. Make it easier for everyone to get on with the business of living. Unfortunately they carry such heavy religious overtones that we hesitate to mention them. You've guessed it - it's those original stoney oldies, the Ten Commandments. Sorry about that.

Let's see if we can dust 'em off and get down to what they say. Because they are highly relevant for avoiding basic pitfalls when making the quantum leap from soul level to spirit.

Give a deep sigh, and we'll start.

YOU SHALL HAVE NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME:

Most people have a God.

We aren't talking metaphors. This is nothing to do with "idolising a new car", or the latest boyfriend, singer or whatever.

No matter how abnormally highly you regard them, you'd never actually worship 'em, pray to 'em.

We're talking about actual Beings that people treat as gods or Gods. Who's yours?

The command means what it says. There is one God. He is the only one with the right to enjoy a Dad/son relationship with you. Up to this point, nobody disagrees. We'll keep trying.

He is not the Buddhist's god.

He is not the Moslem's god.

He is not the Christian's god.

Now we've lost you. Hang in there.

God is not the god of any system. Religious systems claim they do it God's way. And they all claim differently.

Let's look at the Christian gods. The Baptist god doesn't smoke or drink alcohol. The Exclusive Brethren god drinks alcohol but won't have a meal with outsiders. The Catholic god never uses contraceptives. And so on. "Gods many and Lords many," the Handbook says. Each reverend, each denomination, has its own. Great. If you like secondhand goods - or gods.

Okay \- so we're saying "This is what God sez". But we're also adding "Don't believe a word of it, 'til you've checked it with Him."

And there is the vital question: what is God for?

When Murphy dresses up in his Sunday best and summons the faithful, he wants flattery, adulation, uncritical awe as a matter of routine.

Murphy wants things regimented. Disciplined. We did it this way last week; we'll continue to do it this way world without end, amen. As per the book. Read your prayers to Murphy. Find the page in the script that says you are all miserable sinners and tell him there's been no improvement since the previous time.

That's what Murphy's for. God is different.

What's Dad for? To get down to His kids' level, involved in their games and hassles, at the same time ever-so-subtly teaching them to be the spittin' image of Himself.

No awe? No reverence? Be careful with this one. There can be genuine times when you are in the presence of God and just about come unglued. But show us a home where the children grow quiet and still as their father walks in; where they have to watch the way every sentence is phrased...

Worse, where they may not approach him direct, but need to cajole mother to get round him...

...And we'll show you a cruel, paranoid man, obsessed by importance and fearful of inferiority. One day the authorities will act on the neighbours' complaints, knock on the door, and take the children to a place where they can begin to learn love.

Murphy makes a lousy father.

Trouble is, the reason people get hoodwinked into worshipping Murphy instead of God is that they fall for a rather clever little trick.

Murphy takes some minor characteristic of God, isolates it, gets all the reasons why it's important - then imitates it himself.

Illustration: when one of our brats got a splinter in a sensitive part of his or her anatomy, us two extracted the thing. Gentle as possible, wincing in genuine sympathy - but holding the wriggling limb, ignoring protests, inflicting minor surgery.

Dispassionate? Wrong. We actually cared. But there was a superficial "Got to be cruel to be kind" thing there.

Now \- apply that to God.

There's justice. Power. Majesty. Inscrutableness. All part of His makeup.

But people, groups, denominations, religions that make these qualities too important actually play into Murphy's hands.

Unfortunately us humans get our priorities all wrong. In practice, that is. Okay, we know the theory, but in practice... We admire the bully. The aloof, cold character. The tyrant. The capricious, grasping dictator. Check the characters in your TV programmes.

And countless numbers of religions are based on some minor characteristic of God. Sure, He made laws. There's a place for them. A minor place. Home's not home because of rules and things. Dad isn't Dad because he throws his weight around.

Let's try another absolute.

YOU SHALL MAKE NO GRAVEN IMAGES:

(There must be an exemption clause for Catholics here somewhere...)

Fact is, the ban isn't on all graven images. It's on images (watch the wording carefully) of things in the heavens above, in (not "on") the earth beneath and in the waters under (not "on") the earth.

God isn't getting uptight about carvings of butterflies, moles and kippers.

We grant you that "heavens" can be ambiguous. Can be argued to mean "sky". Doubtful, though. It's in the context of things in the earth and thing in the waters under the earth.

Talk to any Maori. Ask where Taniwha lives. Mostly in subterranean pools \- the waters under the earth. Where is the abode of evil spirits? In caverns within the earth.

Thus the command is dealing with likenesses of spirit beings from three areas. Because these likenesses can and do attract demons to them. And cause much mischief until the objects are removed.

"It's only a souvenir I brought back from India; they make 'em by the thousand."

True \- but it often proves to be the source of nagging illnesses and accidents. Even more so if kept as a good-luck charm.

YOU SHALL NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD YOUR GOD IN VAIN:

Don't, please don't, confuse this one with blasphemy. It has nothing to do with the use of the Deity's name in moments of mild anger or surprise.

Grammatically it is as much a statement as a command. It could read: "Whenever you use God's name, it won't be in vain".

British legal history bears this out. Back in the Good Old Days, there were no laws against or punishments for perjury. A witness took the oath: "I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me, God". And that was that.

Anyone giving evidence with tongue in cheek and fingers crossed would cop instant retribution from above with no assistance from the local judge. Perjury laws and penalties came in as religion made God appear more remote, and lawmakers lost confidence in God's ability to take care of the situation.

Invoking supernatural judgement works. Which is why Jesus strongly recommended we didn't. "Let yes and no be sufficient for your purposes," he stressed. And the Quakers took him seriously enough to have the laws modified so an oath never has to be given for legal purposes. It is adequate to "make an affirmation" instead \- although you might have to insist, if you're dealing with an official who doesn't know his job.

Jesus also advised caution in the matter of straight-out curses. His followers were once refused bead and breakfast and wanted to call down fire from heaven on the establishment concerned.

He didn't ridicule their idea. He stopped them on the grounds that they didn't understand the powers of the paranormal. Curses work.

And, conversely, so do blessing. Try it. Useful in tight situations - for example, if your fear of being beaten up in a dark ally overcomes your fear of sounding a bit of a twit. Out loud, deliberately command God's blessing on the shambling gentlemen who wish to do you over.

It's worth it.

Two quickies: if you break a curse in the name of Jesus, bless the bloke who pronounced the curse, otherwise the thing boomerangs back on him. And in situations where an exorcism is inappropriate, but something is getting out of hand, it can be pertinent to say: "the Lord rebuke you".

Use sparingly. Never to impress.

REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY, TO KEEP IT HOLY:

Nevah, as Sir Winston Churchill might have said, has so much been snarled up for so many by so little. Or something. Religion has had a ball with this one.

As a child in Edinburgh I (George writing this bit) once travelled across the city (for a penny - makes me feel ancient) by tram to attend a Wee Free Church.

At the door, my way was barred by a stern and righteous elder. "And how was it that you arrived?" he demanded. "By the tram," I piped, pre-pubescently.

"No-one enters the House of the Lord if they have caused a manservant or maidservant to labour on the Sabbath day," he replied, turning me away. He meant I was responsible for the sins of the tram driver in his wee cab up front operating the regulator handle, and the broad-beamed conductress who gave me the ticket.

Much later I wondered why the church was lit by electricity which demanded technicians to oversee its generation. And whether the highly holy elder enjoyed fresh milk in his tea on Monday as he read the morning paper. From cows milked on Sunday and presses that rolled on that day.

Let's clarify. The command tells us we have a built-in mechanism that gives optimum performance when we run six days on, one day off. Most people expect five days on, two days off. Okay. We're even good for bursts of non-stop activity, though it's not to be recommended.

However, the sabbath business has nothing to do with going to church. Would you believe God made it impossible?

You see, when the Israelis moved into their land, the Tabernacle (later the Temple), was the only place of worship. And a cute little law restricted travel on the sabbath to only a few miles.

So the majority of the population couldn't get to the Temple each week even if they'd wanted to.

Some bright spark'll say they went to the local synagogue. Not on your nelly. At least, not at the start.

Synagogues (from which our so-called "churches" have evolved) were never, ever our Dad's idea. Murphy gets the credit for them - and still collects royalties from the patent rights.

When the Israelis were defeated and carted off to Babylon, they were scared of losing their identity, being away from the Temple ritual and all that. So they set up schools to teach their youngsters about Judaism. Once a week, on the sabbath, the oldies and wrinklies joined the kids in a get- together. Songs, lectures, prayers.

Nice \- except that when they finally got back to the presence of God in the Holy of Holies, they kept the synagogue thing going.

Murphy loves tradition.

And Christianity pinched the idea.

Just one thing. Don't get uptight about observing the "correct" day. We grant you the Christian Sunday is not the Judaistic Sabbath. Nor did the church have any right to change the day of rest.

But especially round the other side of the globe in New Zealand, days are named solely for convenience and with reference to the International Date Line. Which, as every schoolboy knows, is located bang opposite the Greenwich meridian. Fixed by order of the mighty British Empire, by gad! Not by Dad.

So don't get all Murphy-minded about your day off. And remember, "Holy" just means "different".

HONOUR YOUR FATHER AND MOTHER:

Family is an absolute. Dad, mum and the kids. Get it together in a family context and it'll work out in the Big Smoke.

Note one thing - the word is "honour". Not "obey". Sure, your kids should obey you. Thump 'em if they don't.

Up to a certain age. After that, let 'em make their own mistakes. You aren't empire-building or founding a dynasty. Your job is to produce brats who can stand on their own two feet. Raise their own litters. Handle the wide and wicked world. And treat you as an equal. Ouch.

You'll get no medals if you succeed. But a lot of smug satisfaction.

Which is what honour is all about.

* * *

... STILL MORE ABSOLUTES

We're half-way through the schedule of absolutes.

Sorry if it's heavy going. But it's Dad's way of making sure you don't thump your head against too many brick walls.

YOU SHALL NOT KILL:

Sometimes translated "you shall do no murder".

Our life is our life. God's the only one who has the right to re-locate it. Before you say governments can decide when it's okay to defend your country - read a few war histories and see the cock-ups made by politicians and generals. Other aspects of killing we've already mentioned.

YOU SHALL NOT COMMIT ADULTERY:

Marriage is an absolute. One bird, one bloke, for life.

We're not being stuffy. Or super-holy and censorious to those who are trying some other permutation or who are into it the second time round. We don't get shocked at people who divorce, "live in sin", or, for that matter, are single. Let the religious judge. But any variation on the one man, one wife theme has built-in, long-term problems.

The Bible has always had a nice earthy attitude to marriage. No ceremonies laid down. Just an announcement so lads and lasses of the village know that those two are no longer on the waiting list.

And marriage is for sex. Not for having children. Sure, children tend to follow (as Eileen and I found out). But primarily for the purpose of Getting It.

Even old Paul says if a couple are randy they're asking for trouble to wait until they can afford a flash ceremony. Go to it, he says. Get spliced.

Before you disagree, think of a few incompatible marriages you know.

They seen to start off all smoothly, but after the couple hatch a batch of brats, one or other partner shuts shop. At best, sex is "permitted"; at worst - that's it, no more naughties for you, chum.

What went wrong?

Nothing. Or everything.

Just that one partner was never interested in sex except as a means of producing a family. And once the kids were there, sex became unnecessary. Which is tough if the other spouse feels differently.

Remember - a person can be homosexual, lesbian, or frigid as an ice cube and still want a family.

Be honest about your motives; be sure your beloved is honest about his or hers.

Sure, there's more to marriage than that. Lots more. But until you grow into it, it's nowt but words. And the religious have overworked terms like love and companionship and sharing until you could spew when they're mentioned.

And all the "liberated", "explicit", "frank" attitudes that are proudly paraded today are still religious and inhibited. They describe novelty and adultery.

And are too coy to admit that anyone who can keep one spouse satisfied for a quarter of a century [currently 50 years. Editor] must have a few tricks up their sleeve. We speak from experience. And look forward to the next thirty years. And then some.

Before we get off this delightful subject - a comment directed at bachelors and spinsters.

Dad does give some folk "a gift of celibacy". And it's genuine, hallmarked, 24-carat celibacy. Not singlehood.

Which means, apart from the hassle of well-meaning friends who either think you've gone gay/lesbian or try and marry you off to whatever's handy - you've no problem. You're not bothered. Or missing anything. Or trying to justify your state to yourself. If you have the "gift". Not otherwise.

Unfortunately, "celibacy-as-a-vocation" can be a big religious con. Which is tough on those with the normal get- up-and-go. They get swept along on the crest of a soul-level high, with the applause of their horny inferiors ringing in their ears.

Then spend the rest of their natural under a cold shower.

And if you're a bachelor or spinster and suspect you're on the shelf, here are a couple of don'ts.

#1: Don't blame your looks. #2: Don't say you've never met anyone good enough.

Both statements are excuses. Meaning that either you chicken when it comes to the crunch, or you're looking for the unattainably idyllic, and don't realise that most people fart in the bath.

YOU SHALL NOT STEAL:

Seems an obvious sort of absolute, doesn't it.

Look at it, though. See what's behind it. Then try it on for size.

In the first place, it shows God isn't all that communally or communistically-minded.

Stealing pre-supposes ownership.

Sure, everything comes from God. But he appoints us as trustees of various goodies. Woe betide the bloke who tries a bit of clandestine of forcible re-allocating.

Hands off.

Now \- apply it to yourself. Do you take people's property?

Tell you what we mean: have you ever come up against some Big Business or government department or local authority where the rules - made by them - were stacked hopelessly in their favour. You protest to the clerk, who gazes at you blankly. "Don't blame me," says she. "I don't make the rules."

Or the inspector - and there are swarms of them in this bureaucratic paradise - who insists on the letter of the law, even though the reason for the law is totally absent in your case. But he would never ask his masters to grant him discretion in times of genuine exception.

Who's guilty. If the rules are unfair - who's to blame? Don't pass the buck. If you work for a firm or department that uses undue pressure (legal or otherwise) against individuals - you are implicated.

If you make your money by applying harsh and unfair rules - you are responsible.

Murphy's system keeps going because normal, decent people compromise their principles in return for a pay-cheque.

Why not? If I didn't, somebody else would. Everybody does it. So it must be right. Mustn't it?

YOU SHALL NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST YOUR NEIGHBOUR:

Truth is an absolute. As a normal

Doesn't mean you can charge round telling folk "the truth about themselves".

Nor painfully and neurotically ensuring the utter literal accuracy of every detail of all you do or say.

After all, take the stories in this book. Most of the characters did say something close to what we've written. But it's only an approximation. Normal, spontaneous speech makes well-nigh unintelligible reading if transcribed word-for- word.

"We're having, er, a bit of a problem - oh, yes, two sugars thanks, Eileen. A problem with - no, no milk. I prefer it black. My wife will, though. A problem with, I suppose you'd call it poltergeists. Not that I would be so specific. Well, ah, anyway, we \- you know our house, don't you? Yes, of course, you came to see it when the McNaughtons were visiting us. She's had another baby since then. Girl. No, that's right, dear, a boy. And an, er, ornament, one we bought in Hamilton..."

Accurate reporting is akin to madness.

But false witness is something else. Lies, damned lies and statistics.

"I'll fix it in no time, better'n new."

"Her? No. She'll do her best, but..."

It's built into the fabric of society. Not always the straight-out back-to-front whopper.

The innuendo. The half-truth.

That is hard to pin down. That relies on the tone of voice. The half-lowered eyelid.

That is against your neighbour precisely because it is so intangible. So hard to hit.

Elusive. But effective in putting him down. Or you up, which amounts to the same thing. And carries with it your self-destruction: it is addicting.

Play politics, manipulate people, always have a get-out for not keeping your word, and sooner or later it becomes a reflex. Feeding the soul, strengthening the psyche.

Until the spirit is encapsulated. Inaudible. And virtually inacessible.

There's a variation on the theme. Might seem unconnected with false witness until you realise that some types (...not you, of course; others...) construct their lives around chopping and changing their plans to suit themselves. Regardless of what promises they've made. Or what they've implied. Or what others are expecting.

They rationalise their actions. In fact they have their story rehearsed and polished before you confront them.

It's suspicious that they're never taken by surprise. They never lose on a deal. Nice, they are. With bags of charm.

And here's a variation on the false witness thing.

Guarantor.

A common enough business. Someone's getting finance and needs a bit of a signature to back it. "Just a formality - you don't mind, do you?" So you sign a simple sentence saying you'll take over if your life-long chum falls on hard times.

Great. Don't. Unless when you sign you're prepared and able to make a gift of that money. Because acting as guarantor is an open invitation for your friend to rationalise his way out of his responsibilities.

Help the poor jerk. But look at the price tag first.

There's no virtue in trusting people.

Take calculated risks. Be prepared to make a present of untold. If you choose to. Or say a hard-hearted no.

But only a nit trusts people. Despite pouf-like pulpit publicity to the contrary, this is precisely what the Bible teaches.

YOU SHALL NOT COVET:

There's a long list tacked on the end of this one. Including your neighbour's house, his wife (in that order in those chauvinistic days), his manservant, maidservant, ox, ass, "nor anything that is your neighbour's".

Covetousness. The basis of civilization. Murphy Marketing Board in action.

It means wanting someone else's lifestyle.

"Ooh, I'd love a house like theirs!" "If only my husband was as suave as Robert Redford." And so on.

Look around. How much your life is you? How much of your dissatisfaction with life is because you don't measure up to how your friends lay it out?

You'll kick yourself for being all kinds of an idiot if you discover they're actually aping one of their friends, won't you.

Don't pine for something that's not you. If you do, bang goes a helluva lot of emotional effort. And if you buy the wretched item, you've traded in so many hours of your working life for something that deteriorates as soon as you get it home.

Don't be hassled into living someone else's life. Don't stick with a wrong decision if you find you've made one. Or had one made for you.

So you were born in Godzone. So what? We like it - but then, we chose it in favour of dear old Mother England.

Can't you do better? For yourself, that is.Don't parrot your parents' attitudes. Don't be stuck with their religion. Or their ambitions for you. _"Dad and mum would be terribly upset if we didn't go to church." "They'd never forgive Roger if he gave up that job of his." "Darling, you know they like us to bring the children over to see them once a week."_

Parents may know better. Sometimes. Friends may be wiser. Sometimes.

So listen to advice - if it's fairly low-pressure. Then do your own thing.

There's something pathetic about a person who says "our church teaches this" or "we were brought up to do that".

If it's any good, make it your own.

If not, flush it down the loo.

And that was the Ten Absolutes, that was. If you stayed with it to the bitter end, ta!

Despite the prolixity, that was nothing but a flying visit. In fairness, read the thing for yourself at the end of "Exodus" (the one by Moses, not the other also not-to-be-missed best-seller by Leon Uris).

Because we missed out a few of the sticks and carrots. And if there's anything that's a bit obscure... Or if you disagree with what we've said...

Just ask Dad. They were His idea in the first place.

* * *

ISRAEL — WHERE ELSE?

Israel is quite something.

Our time in Britain was almost over. We'd outstayed our welcome with every friend and relative in our address-book.

Eileen calculated that in three months we'd slept in 43 different beds. "If", she explained, "you count floors where there were no spare beds".

But we had almost two weeks before we were due to fly back to New Zealand.

There was no question of how we would while away the time. I looked at Eileen, she looked at me, and we said in unison:

"Israel!"

This isn't a sun-setting-slowly-in-the-west travelogue, so I'll spare you most of the details. Sufficient to say that if you ever go anywhere - go to Israel.

Rob a bank, sell your house - but go to Israel. Don't bleat that it might be dangerous. Think of the number of people who die in bed. Riskiest spot on earth, and you go there every night.

We are and always have been unashamedly pro-Israeli and pro-Israel. We're not about to argue the merits or otherwise of the Zionist cause. We've no doubt that PLO propaganda must have a few grains of fact scattered among the chaff of the rhetoric.

But our bias is based on this: our Dad chose the Israelis, and Dad put 'em on that bit of turf at the east end of the Med. That being so, we won't argue with Him. History says you can't win.

We wanted to go to Israel to meet Israelis. And - unaccountably - we wanted to go to Bethel. No reason, just a feeling we both had that we weren't bothered about the commercialised holy places. But if we had the opportunity - Bethel.

The spot where Jacob dreamed of a direct link between this world and another, with non-human beings passing to and fro.

As it turned out, we saw Bethel.

And never met Israelis there. But Arabs.

We were off the tourist routes. Following the herd doesn't appeal.

On an Arab bus. No glass in the windows. Sacks, boxes and bundles of live chickens in the aisle. Music that jarred our Vera Lynn-type conservatism.

Ramallah was the end of the run. We wandered curiously along the main street. Months later we were to see a newsreel shot of the same street with armed troops pouring along it, and a TV newscaster describing the town as a PLO stronghold.

The day we were there we saw no political unrest. At a card-table on the crowded pavement a bespectacled Arab was furiously typing a letter which an old lady dictated to him in whispers.

Behind him the bus office. We edged around the table and entered. Slowly, loudly, we asked the way to Bethel.

The Arab - educated in America and speaking better English than we - sat us down and ordered a lad lounging in the doorway to bring turkish coffee.

Over the thick, syrupy drink he gave us instructions for find the bus stop. Then wrote something in an incomprehensible flowing script on a scrap of paper which we were to hand to the driver.

Probably said "Heave these two out at Bethel. No questions asked - you'd never understand 'em".

Anyway, we got there. To a barren hillside with the odd house dotted around.

A young Arab boy appeared. We explained that we were looking for the site of Jacob's dream. Mercifully he understood us and, telling us to follow, he scampered off over the rocks. We followed more sedately, Eileen clutching her skirts around her for fear of the multitudinous reptiles that lie in wait for innocent Europeans who venture into the Middle East.

The boy stopped at a heap of shaped stones. "Here you are, sir. Ya'akov. Where he dream." This was what we had felt impelled to visit. It was an anticlimax. I took an obligatory photo.

"Now, sir. You come home with me. Meet my family."

I look dubiously at Eileen. Nothing comes cheap out east. This would be expensive. But there was no point in staring at a spot whose magic seemed to have long-since departed.

The boy's home was close by. In the garden we were gravely introduced to his mother, a bevy of gloriously attractive daughters and a little afterthought of a younger brother.

We were led inside into the shadowy coolness of the house.

The rooms were spotless, the possessions simple and few. In one corner was an ancient treadle Singer. The oldest daughter was making elaborately ornamented Arab festal garments to be sold in the Ramallah market. These were not the cheap gaudy copies foisted on tourists in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, but ones which faithfully followed the tradition of countless generations, and which would be worn at celebrations and ceremonies far removed from the slick commercialism of the package tours.

The mother spoke no English. Firmly she took Eileen's arm and led her away.

There was a silence. At such times, foreign countries seem awfully foreign.

And Eileen returned, superb in the finest of their garments. Richly coloured. Lavishly embroidered. A cluster of coins - they were gold \- about her neck. And a demure headpiece. The effect was magnificent.

Quickly the mother spoke to her son. He translated for us.

"The dress is not for you to buy, sir. I am to tell you to take the photographs. Then we shall eat."

There was much laughter as the whole family posed with Eileen. Then we sat down to enjoy mint tea and fresh figs while we told the family about ourselves.

It didn't matter that the boy's school English was somewhat limited in vocabulary. An extravagant, extrovert ability to pantomime is all that we needed - although I confess it is hard to act out the concept that our children arrived variously by caesarean section, forceps and adoption, without being somewhat vulgar.

At last it was time to go. The embroidered dress had been folded away. Only much later did we learn that the little dressing-up ceremony had represented a serious mark of favour, not often given. Never lightly bestowed. Our prejudices were being eroded...

We said our goodbyes.

The mother took our hands deliberately and said something her son never translated. There was no need. She was blessing us. Into that room came the conscious presence of God. Not the god of the Moslems, not the god of the Christians.

God.

We walked away down the path. The boy trotted beside us.

At the gate I paused and pulled a handful of shekel notes from my pocket. The boy gazed at me gravely. "Sir," he said. "Put that money away, please. I have my own."

He led us to the highway and ordered us to wait. He called to another boy and ran off with him up the road.

When the bus appeared, the two lads had already boarded it. Our boy called us on board, sat us behind the driver, then jumped off, waving farewell. His friend sat across the aisle, clearly told to take care of us.

I reached in my pocket. The second boy tugged at my sleeve and shook his head.

"No," he said. "Is all paid."

We arrived back at Ramallah, and the second boy passed us into the care of a third, a teenager to whom he gave a careful explanation in Arabic.

Briskly, the youth led us through the town. Down side alleys. Across a crowded market square where the air was heavy with the smells of spices and cooked delicacies.

Deftly and energetically he fended off the beggars and hawkers who attempted to crowd round us.

Then in a narrow way between two shops he stopped.

"My name is Ramadan," he said.

We introduced ourselves and shook hands.

His brown eyes were questioning us. Finally he asked: "This land - is it Israel, or is it Palestine?"

We are, and always have been, unashamedly pro-Israeli. But something had happened during that blessing in the Arab home in Bethel.

I shook my head at his question.

"No, Ramadan. Not Israel, not Palestine. There is only One God. This is His Land."

For a moment the young man stood there. Then he nodded, satisfied.

We were taken to the Jerusalem bus. In a few minutes we were pulling away from the curb, waving goodbye to Ramadan.

Bethel had not been a disappointment.

For us, as for Jacob five thousand years before, a glimpse into a Gateway.

At the cost of losing the odd prejudice along the way.

Sure, I'm as convinced as ever that our Dad has favourites. But not in the way humans have favourites.

We spoil one at the expense of others. One kid gets extra, others go short.

Not with God. He has a motive behind His unfairness: jealousy.

Dad sees one of His kids - perhaps a whole nation of them - dragging their heels. Getting rather so-what towards Him. Flirting with one of Murphy's synthetic substitutes for Him. Generally dipping out on the goodies that God's jacked up.

Now, He could wave the big stick. Sometimes does.

But often enough He pretends He hasn't noticed. And instead, makes a whacking great fuss of someone else.

Which was what He did with Abraham and all his descendents, of course.

The object of the exercise was - and is - to make all the others so abominably jealous that they come charging up to God and say "Hey! I'm your kid too, remember?"

And hold their hand out for a lolly.

Trouble is, human nature is cussed. When one 'erbert gets a touch of the preferentials, the others scream and bellow - and try and clobber little blue-eyes, instead of running along to Dad. Pity. Wouldn't be the need for half the wars and feuds and things if folk realised there was more than enough to go round. Cash. Food. Land. Excitement.

Anything. Because He arranges the details in our lives. In such a way that things slot incredibly into place if we're living on the spirit level.

We had proved this in our first few hours in Israel.

Some days before our flight there, we'd been in Inverness, a lovely city set in the Highlands of Scotland.

One of those _no-real-reason-but-I-think-we-should_ prompts that our Dad sometimes uses had sent us to knock on the door of a local minister and say hi.

As we talked with him and his family we mentioned our forthcoming visit to Israel.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

We shrugged. "Don't know yet. We'll find somewhere cheap when we arrive."

He rummaged through papers, copied out an address and passed it over to us. "A couple of girls stayed with us recently who live in Jerusalem. Look them up, see if they can help. People who know the locality can put you on to something better than you'd find for yourself."

We appreciated the help. But finding the place was another matter.

The bus from Ben Gurion Airport to Jerusalem was no problem, once we became used to being pressed against rifles and belts of ammunition carried by the soldiers.

The local bus from the main Jerusalem terminal across the city to the Damascus Gate was a mite trickier to find.

And from there - we were hopelessly lost. We still had the address. Written in English, though. So the passers-by we accosted would study it carefully, listen to our execrable pronunciation of the words, and shake their heads sadly.

Night was falling. The streets emptied rapidly. A piercing chant from a nearby mosque called the faithful to prayer.

A white Mercedes taxi stopped beside us. The driver studied our scrap of paper and nodded enthusiastically.

"You get in. Thirty shekel. I take."

No problem. Until Eileen said unless Jerusalem was built on an exceedingly regular pattern, we were merely circling the block time and time again.

I told the driver so. The good man was miffed at having his bluff called. He trod on the brake outside an imposing mansion and dumped our bags on the pavement. "American Embassy," he announced, pocketing the shekels. "You ask. They tell." And drove off into the night.

The embassy was closed and in darkness. I peered at the gate. The number of it was one digit removed from the street number we wanted.

"I'll try the house next door," I told Eileen, exuding the confidence that men turn on for their wives when they haven't a clue how to handle the situation. "They'll be the same number as the people we're looking for, so if we're in the right suburb they might just happen to know them."

The wrought iron gate of the next house was locked. We rang the bell set in the wall and waited. Dogs barked. A door opened. Voices. Light streamed down the drive.

"Can I help at all?" Once again we did our best with the unpronouncable address. There was a smooth click as the gate was unlocked.

"Come on in. How on earth did you manage to find us?" Bullseye. Thanks to our bewildered taxi-driver and a little help from Dad.

Within minutes we were being welcomed and introduced to everybody in the house. And assured that because the people they had spent time with in Inverness had been so hospitable, we would be just as welcome to stay with them in Jerusalem. Free.

* * *

PART FIVE: THE OPEN-ENDED KINGDOM

THE OBJECT OF THE GAME

Life...

It's like those computer games. That no geriatric over thirty seems to understand.

Life...

It's as if you sat in front of the screen. Your hands are put on the controls. Someone pops a coin in the slot.

That's all. No explanations. No rules. Unless you count "left-right", "up-down" and "fire". And some incomprehensible printing on a little panel at the side.

Coloured lights are moving down the screen. You jiggle the lever experimentally. A yellow blob moves in response.

Ah - that must be you.

Encouraged, you press the "fire" button.

All hell breaks loose. The other lights break up their orderly progress and begin a whirling dervish act. The machine blares out beeble-eeble-eeble-ee noises.

And you're a hundred points down before you know what you're supposed to be doing.

That's life. Where...

...you find you've begun to play the game before you have the faintest idea of the rules. Or what you're up against. Or what the object is.

Little wonder most folk get scared after a few abortive starts. And are content to sit through the game moving their light in some safe, restricted area.

What is the object of the game?

Now \- you may be fulfilled looking after the kids and growing veges and leaning over a gate watching the sunset. We're not knocking it. No way.

You may be fulfilled putting oils on canvas, building up the outlines, spotting in the highlights, showing a little bit of what you feel to those who study the painting. We're not knocking it. No way.

You may travel. Or study. Or sing. Or have a little job that you're pleased as punch to do well.

And if you're fulfilled - we're not knocking it. No way.

But merely "being fulfilled" doesn't have to be enough. When God's involved, events begin to slide into higher gear.

The thing to remember is that the moment we start to move beyond Murphy's Law into a relationship with our Dad - life becomes a total jack-up.

\- Organised.

\- By Him.

\- For us.

Not in some cosy bluebirds-and-candyfloss sense. Padded cells are safe and comfortable. Regular meals and all that. But that's not living.

When God organises things, they're a bit of a challenge.

We've come to expect this. Okay, there are such things as coincidences. (Though, just to be grumpy and argumentative for a moment - who's to say that even the odd, isolated coincidence is nowt but the product of random, haphazard chance). But for sixteen years now we've been living in the expectation that life is being set up for us.

Doesn't mean we're a "success" by everyone's standards. Our bank balance can squat around the absolute zero mark easy as rise into the telephone numbers. We're happy with body carpet and a walk-in pantry - but we're equally used to living in a shell of a house with nothing (like nothing) indoors: no power, no plumbing, no nothing.

If that's not "success", it's at least satisfying. Take, f'rinstance, this book you're reading. Okay, in printed form it wasn't the slickest, glossiest bit of typography you'd ever seen. Some aspects of it were downright tatty.

But we made it. Like - every bit. From go to whoa. From the first scribbles in old exercise books. The endless discussions on what to put in, what to leave out. The typing and retyping. That's usual, but -

That's not all. There's the printing.

We had this crazy hunch to say to a friend to let us know if he ever saw a little offset press going for peanuts. Just a hunch - and our finances were on the ebb tide. He sort of shrugged. Didn't exactly say that pigs might fly, but you could see he didn't think we'd be inundated with offers.

Pause of a month or two. Phone call from friend. "You two still want a press?" Why not? It's no crazier that anything else we've gotten into.

"You did say peanuts. You'd get a platemaker, fuser and goodness knows how many boxes of chemicals thrown in. It's not exactly modern, but it must be worth more than the asking price." We said okay. And a few days later watched as an odd assortment of machinery and cartons was delivered to our door. We wrote a cheque - a small one \- that left our bank balance close to vanishing.

Now, printing is quite an art. Us - we never got beyond mis-spelling our names with a John Bull outfit when we were adorable little kiddies. Or something.

The handbook wasn't helpful. Translated from the Japanese. Into a variety of English that was mind-bogglingly obscure.

Plus \- the printing press was somewhat neglected. It had been sitting sadly in some southern shed until its rollers had seized solid. And, like my dear old Aunt Beatrice, a press does not travel well. All the jolting on Northlands famous roads had upset the delicate innards. Parallels and pressures (whatever they were) all needed tender, loving care. And our response to small mechanisms was to reach for a larger hammer.

For the first four weeks everything (like everything) went wrong. We produced solid black sheets of paper. The plates disintegrated before our bewildered gaze. The feed rollers would grab great wads of brightly virginal paper, crumple them viciously, then thrust them into the maw of the machine to spit them contemptuously out at the far end a fraction of a second later.

We never actually quarrelled. But there was a cautious politeness during those weeks.

Then, when we'd stripped down nigh on every spring and lever and roller and reassembled it more or less correctly - we started getting results. Words and things. Legible, almost.

Now, normal people would potter around producing a few sheets of headed notepaper for friends' birthdays.

But not us. It had to be a book. _(Not this one. "Beyond Small Cords". That's an advert, if you haven't already read it.)_ With all the fun of folding up hundreds of big printed sheets so the pages came in the right order. Mostly.

Small Cords Press had begun.

The point we're trying to make is that Dad wants to e-x-p-a-n-d us. Get us to try new, impossible things. Leave yesterday's rut; try our hand at tomorrow's excitement.

And see how even negative events can be jacked up by Him. It's all part of what Jesus called "the Kingdom of God".

Take our burglary. (Apologies to any of you who've read this in our first book, but we reckon it's worth repeating).

We'd gone to town for our usual weekly spending spree. Came back tired but happy to find both ranchsliders wide open.

Do you know the sinking feeling? We tiptoed cautiously indoors to find we'd been given a thorough going over. Nothing damaged, but drawers turned out and mattresses up- ended. And a lengthy list of goodies gone.

Kitchen and workshop equipment, mainly. All the usual items that can be sold no-questions-asked in a pub for a few dollars.

It's perishing well traumatic. And it wasn't helped by the gallant police being too busy to come out. Nor by the fact that we kept noticing further things missing for some time after.

Prolongs the agony, that does.

Now, you need to know that we don't have insurance. That's a personal thing with us, but due to a couple of incidents we'd left that sort of business strictly between us and God some years ago. Both times (a brand-new vehicle trapped by the tide, a roof ripped off in a hurricane) we had comprehensive insurance, but the companies concerned wrote the fine print, so all we got was a slow, sad smile. No payout.

So this time, after our reactions levelled out (it takes a while) we said "okay, God, it would have been the easiest matter to get us back home early or something. But you didn't. Over to you, then".

Three months later (to the day; some things are a bit precise) a neighbour dropped in. He wanted to run power cables across our land as a short cut.

We weren't excited. A view is a view. We have nice views.

He pointed out that the cables could go across a bit of swamp that was out of sight from our house. In which case, said we, fair 'nuff. Go for it.

At which remark he pulled out a loaded cheque-book and wrote us one for eighteen hundred bucks: half of what he saved in taking the power wires the short way round.

That cheque replaced our nicked goodies with brand new items. Just like that.

We're not saying don't insure. Mind you - it's usually good to read the fine print and make sure you really are covered, not just bamboozled by a fast-talking salesman.

But what we're saying is this. Life's getting complicated. Maybe you've noticed. And statistics are pretty depressing regarding all the negative things that can happen.

Why be a statistic? In the Kingdom of God, everything is jacked up.

No, it doesn't mean we sail through on cloud nine. Padded cells are safe 'n' cozy, but there is more fun outside, even if there is more danger.

The thing is - the more direct our relationship with God is, the more we find every event is tailormade. By Him, for us.

Okay, some of it's bloomin' uncomfortable. We don't always understand what's going on, not for some time after. But it DOES compute. Always with the personal touch.

Oh, by the way - there's a punchline to the story. Another neighbour (not the cheque-book one) got done over by the same folk who flogged our stuff.

He was fully insured. Current market values and all that. The only snag was - and is - that although he lost almost $4000-worth of gear, he's not going to get one cent from the insurance company.

Something in the fine print, his solicitor informs him.

But let's take life one step further.

Because sometimes...

There's more to the game than even everyday life being jacked up.

And the oddest clues, the strongest hints keep being slipped in.

You must decide for yourself what makes a hint. We can give suggestions, but we're not bothered about proving anything.

Just that, the way we see it, the hints are pointing away from here. Out to there.

Suggesting that there are Gateways. That lead from this world. To a different wavelength.

And as you talk to people, gain their confidence, sometimes they tell you the clues that they've picked up.

He was training for the priesthood.

Which was typical of the young men in his family's circle of friends. But a death warrant in Holland at that stage of the German occupation.

The Gestapo had begun a house-to-house search. It was hopeless to hide from their machine-like thoroughness, but it seemed better than nothing to cower in the cellar under the kitchen. The trapdoor was under a rug, the big table had been dragged from the centre of the room to stand over it.

You delay death by a few seconds and feel you've achieved something.

The air in the cellar hadn't even begun to smell stale when he heard brisk, authoritative footsteps in the room above. There was a word of command. Then the sound of first the table, then the rug being drawn aside.

The trapdoor was flung open with a crash. Two Gestapo officers stood silhouetted in the opening, pistols in hand.

Wearily he climbed out. And watched in utter amazement and disbelief as they tucked the guns into their holsters. One offered him a cigarette.

Their look was of amused disapproval.

"It isn't safe, hiding in a place like that. Get a pencil and paper and write down what we tell you."

His pencil moved briskly at the dictation of the two men. They spelled out details of the search patterns. Of the concealment which was ineffective. And of techniques which would succeed.

Finally they made him take a note of their official numbers.

"After the war, perhaps you can find us and we can talk in more relaxed circumstances."

They left. And the young man gathered his friends and began instructing them.

Eileen and I met the priest concerned. His eyes twinkled as he told the story.

"You know", he said, "we were able to stay one jump ahead of the Gestapo for the remainder of the war. But that wasn't all."

He looked pensive. Forty years hadn't dimmed the effect of the incident on him.

"After the war I made a point of going to the German military records office. I had the serial numbers of those officers, remember. But the numbers didn't relate to anybody of any rank whatever. Those officers didn't exist." He stared down at his hands. "I've always had the feeling that they weren't Germans. That \- they were a couple of angels."

\- Hints

\- Clues

\- Pointers

There are similar straight-faced throwaways woven into the prosaic historical and theological writings of the Bible.

They aren't always used to emphasise a point. Or give prestige to some character.

Jacob is involved in one of his perennial spots of family trouble and is travelling from A to B. On the way, as he goes through Mahanaim, he meets a company of angels.

And? And nothing.

The story continues with no further reference to them.

Or there's Paul.

Meticulous, scholarly. Who breaks off a rather tetchy letter to one of his more unruly groups of converts to tell them about someone he knew a few years back.

Who was "transferred" - whether out-of-body or in it he isn't sure - to an area he labels "the third heaven".

And? And nothing.

Having whetted our curiosity, he says he isn't allowed to go into details concerning what goes on out there. And he gets back to the subject in hand.

Flip the pages for yourself. Tantalising references to Melchizedec. Who wasn't born, who didn't die. To Peter walking on Lake Kinneret as if anyone can adjust the surface tension when they choose to.

Some of the wacky stories have a clearly stated purpose.

Some don't.

Why tell us that Enoch got on well enough with his Dad to walk straight out of this scene and into whatever lies beyond? Why tell us, for heaven's sake?

Is someone trying to annoy us?

Tantalise us?

Say something like "guess what used to happen long before you crowd were born: tough the show closed ages ago. Never mind. You can read about it, can't you".

Like you missed the party but I brought you a funny hat to play with.

God doesn't do that.

Murphy might. Not our Dad.

So what's the guts, then? Why the clever business slid in without comment.

Every religion has angels. Miracles.

Always an essential part of the story.

But how come the Bible throws them in for free?

\- Hints

\- Clues

\- Pointers

Whatever happened to King Arthur? Or Barbarossa? Or Thomas the Rimer?

Where did they go?

What if we have a standing invitation to drop in anytime? To see Dad. To look around His place. Settle, if we like the scenery. Or spend the winter there, if our chilblains tend to play up.

If you've the right sort of wife - and if she's landed with he right type of husband - you can talk about things like that.

Like \- wouldn't it be neat if we could just pop through into another wavelength. Find a Gateway and walk in. Crazy, eh! Why not? Are we good enough? Course we are - we're His kids. That's the only passport that'd be valid for a trip like that.

Problem.

Find a Gateway.

Jacob "just happened" to find one at Bethel. Donkey's years ago. And although we'd experienced something valid there, it was only a pointer.

Not a way in.

It has to be real.

D'you know what we mean by "real"? Ultimately there's no such thing as miracle or magic. Those are only local, dialect words to say "Dunno how it happened, but it did". Because, ultimately, everything is real. The spirit realm is real. God is real. Angels, archangels, principalities, powers, fairies, goblins, Murphy. Okay, the laws they follow may be different from the ones we're familiar with. And in God's case, He's not subject to them, He writes 'em.

But there is nothing ethereal about the spirit world. It just has the disconcerting quality of being largely invisible to our eyesight.

If you dismiss invisibility as nonsense, remember three extremely common substances can be totally invisible. They can only be "seen" by virtue of any impurities in them, or by light refracted off them. What are they?

\- Air

\- Water

\- Glass

Which, significantly, the Bible uses as metaphors of the spirit realm. Ponder that.

So, the spirit level has to be real. Possibly "more real" than this level.

Which suggests that, where it impinges on this world it is likely to make its presence felt.

Okay. How? The answer, unexpectedly, is to be found in Wellington's DSIR - the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research. Now, there's a no-nonsense place for you. The people there, whatever their private foibles and idiosyncrasies, are not given to flights of fancy at the public's expense.

So if the next few paragraphs sound more Asimov that Anderson, don't blame us. Blame the boffins.

Did you know that there are places on this planet where the force of gravity is significantly and measurably warped.

Areas where a pound of butter - or whatever the wretched metric equivalent happens to be - doesn't weigh a pound any more. Less in one spot. More in another.

The DSIR knows. Geologists know. The New Zealand government knows.

And a survey of the entire land system of both North and South Islands has been made. You can buy copies of the results: beautifully printed maps, drawn to several scales, with the variations in gravitational forces shown in glorious Technicolor.

Very clearly on these maps can be seen the points of extreme variation.

The gravitational anomalies.

The "reason" for the existence of these anomalies is unclear. Gravity isn't a force that is easy to experiment with. For one thing it is incredibly weak.

Most of us think of it as immensely powerful. Dates back to when we first fell off our bike.

Weak. It takes the entire mass of the earth to attract an object the size of a one-pound lump of butter with a force of one pound. (I'm serious - compare that with what a magnet can do to a lump of iron and you'll see the difference.)

So, although it is generally believed that gravitational anomalies are caused by vast underground pockets of extremely dense rock or extremely light rock, no-one can be too sure. And sometimes a "positive" anomaly can occur in the same geological type of region as a "negative" anomaly. Tricky.

But they're there.

And dear old N.Z. has one of the most coherent sets of maps of the beasties to be found anywhere in the world. Even the scientists engaged in gravitational research at Britain's South Kensington Science Museum have (at the time of writing) only surveyed a few areas of Britain, and the results are not yet available in map form.

Good old N.Z.

The question, of course, is "so what?"

It's often the only question worth asking.

Let's tell you what happened when we tried to find an answer to that question.

* * *

GATEWAYS AND GRAVITY

Our living room was in chaos.

Gravitational maps were everywhere. Big, colourful, they made it hard for Eileen to reach me with a cup of coffee.

We looked in fascination at the concentric, irregularly-shaped blodges of colour which deepened in tone at the heart of each anomaly.

"That looks an interesting one." Eileen compared it with the scale printed in the margin. "Mm - it's as extreme as anything recorded here."

"Where is it?"

"Wanganui way. Bit to the south. Wouldn't it be fun to go there and see if you felt like floating away."

I snorted. "What if it's the other sort, and you find you've put weight on, all of a sudden?" A realist, that's me.

"There's something printed faintly in the centre of the anomaly," Eileen said.

The word was _Ratana. Ratana Pa._

Either you know or you don't. It doesn't matter, because events connected with that area have been well documented. You can visit the spot. Talk to people. Study microfilmed copies of the newspapers. And whatever evidence you chuck, you are still left with a hard core of facts. Let's spell them out. And remember - we're not fronting for this or any other group. Not nohow.

Back in 1918 a young Maori, T.W. Ratana was sitting outside his home on the coast below Wanganui. A cloud came out of the sea, and a voice spoke to him out of the cloud. Ratana heard the voice say he had been chosen to deliver the Maori people from their bondage to evil spirits. He was to turn them to the one true God, healing them of their diseases, taking neither the credit for the miracles nor the money which would be offered.

And the holy angels would be with him.

It wasn't long before the Maori people were flocking to the out-of-the-way spot to hear and see Ratana for themselves.

There were miracles aplenty. Today a large room is filled with wheel chairs, braces and other discarded appliances left by those who were healed. Dark powers of the _tohunga_ were broken, evil spirits were exorcised, people who had been delivered were taught to avoid further trouble. And from time to time in full view of the gathered crowds, by day and by night - angels would appear.

Check the evidence for yourselves. And when you do, remember this occurred on the site of New Zealand's most intense gravitational anomaly - many, many years before the presence of such a phenomenon had been discovered.

Ratanaism was - at the outset - an extremely pure, highly effective, supernaturally based religion.

Forget the glib get-out "coincidence". The fact remains: a major paranormal event took place at an extreme area of gravitational anomaly. As if the junction - the Gateway - between this world and Elsewhere affects the delicate fabric of forces we call reality.

Compare also Cape Reinga, where tradition maintains that spirits leap off in their journey to the next world. Another Gateway. Another gravitational anomaly.

We wanted to go and see for ourselves. Not at Ratana Pa or Cape Reinga; not somewhere done over by tourists and tradition. Nor at the one near Breaksea Sound. We're not mountaineers.

"How about Pouto?" I suggested. "Pouto?" said Eileen. "Never heard of it. How do we get there?"

Easy. A brisk run from Dargaville to the tip of the peninsula shielding the entrance to the Kaipara Harbour. We arrived late and camped overnight.

The next morning was one of those odd days the north does so well. A westerly blowing strong-to-gale-force, whipping up a heavy sea that kept all small craft well within the harbour. Only two large fishing vessels were working the Tasman on the horizon. Yet the day was brilliant. Sunny. A few small clouds sped across the sky.

Perfect for the five mile walk to the site of the anomaly.

The tide had begun to ebb as we set out. The sand was hard under our bare feet; the beach was a wide, flat expanse. We were soon out of sight of the Pouto settlement and the old identities settling in for a day's fishing on the beach.

The walk was pleasant. Interesting, too, as a distant noisome blob proved to be a large, very dead whale. We passed on, leaving hundreds of seabirds to their banquet.

The day hadn't changed. Blazing sunshine, the strong westerly, a heaving sea, ebb tide. But now we were passing a headland - a long line of cliff - and the mood of the place altered.

"Feels decidedly unsafe," I commented, looking across at the cliff every now and then as if the feeling originated from there.

The cliff ended, giving place to a succession of sandhills. "Look!" Eileen said.

There, set high above the beach, was the squat outline of a disused wooden lighthouse. We had reached the epicentre of "our" gravitational anomaly.

It was an easy scramble to the top of the first sandhill. We climbed and looked around. The beach and the pounding sea was desolate, save for the two boats still visible out in the Tasman.

Okay. But we hadn't come all this way for the scenery. And whatever spacewarp was responsible for jiggering gravity around us just wasn't doing anything to get us excited. If we were standing at a Gateway, the traffic was pretty light.

Eileen, however, is pragmatical. Makes bullets for me to fire, she does. "Aren't to going to do anything?" she asked.

Like what? "Okay," I said loudly to nothing in particular. "We're here. Come and get us."

Eileen's expression clearly disapproved of that last sentence. "Charming!" she muttered.

Pause. Wind. Sun. Sea. Sand. That was all.

We slithered down the sandhill towards the beach and...

"What the heck?" There, in the surf, was a four-metre speedboat coming diagonally in to shore. Directly towards us.

Minutes ago the sea had been empty. Now this little craft, with two men in bright yellow wet weather gear was plunging and rearing through the breaking waves.

In our direction.

"How could they have seen us? We were obscured by the cliff as we came down the dune. And there'd been nothing visible from on top. Let's show 'em we're not in trouble or anything. We'll wave, then walk on."

We waved. Very deliberately first one man waved. Then the other. Then, having made sure we had seen them, the one at the wheel swung the boat ninety degrees to port and headed diagonally into the Tasman. And vanished. Not "went out of sight". One moment it was there. Then there was nothing. The sea was empty, apart from the two fishing vessels on the horizon.

We walked back. Along the stretch by the cliff which had earlier felt so menacing. There was still something there. But this time there was a barrier between it and us. Through which it couldn't pass.

Back at Pouto the same old identities were still fishing on the beach. No, nothing had gone out of the harbour. Something that small would have been swamped in seconds. Across from the other side, perhaps?

A scornful laugh. A weatherbeaten hand pointing out the sandbar in mid-channel. Nothing could pass through.

What, then? Those fishermen all gave the same answer: "It's another world, out by the lighthouse."

We can't prove anything about that day at Pouto. But for Eileen and me, those two men were angels. Not sentimental, effeminate, winged Byzantine illusions. Two dirt-under-their- fingernails blokes in wet-weather gear, who appeared through the Gateway to confirm our search. And - as the guardian variety - to let their charges know they were being looked after.

And the odd feeling at the headland?

Back home a car stopped and we struck up a conversation with the driver. He mentioned he was involved in restoring a wooden lighthouse.

"At Pouto?" Eileen and I asked simultaneously. It was.

We produced our anomaly maps. Told him the story. He didn't laugh; the area was familiar to him. And finally he said: "That feeling as you walked by the cliff. Know what it was?" We didn't. "That's a Taniwha. Lives deep in the rock. The Maori people built a pa close to the spot because of its power. In the old days they would have known how to summon it for defence."

Little wonder we'd felt uneasy on our outward trip. And presumably our two-men-in-a-boat had given it the gypsy's warning on their way through.

Interesting things, gravitational anomalies. But we're not suggesting you write to the DSIR for a set of maps. You can, of course, to check on the validity of our facts. That's never a bad idea. But if we'd wanted you to go anomaly-hunting, we'd have found some way to retail the charts, or conned a boffin into letting us reprint them under licence. Making a buck on the deal. It's not where it's at, though.

Sure we think there's enough evidence that gravitational anomalies are Gateways into Next Door. That's not the point. The point is that those on the maps are the big, static fellows. There can just as easy be little 'uns, temporary ones near where you are.

Finding one of them is just a matter of choosing to, same as everything else. Believing the system works. For no better reason than that God is your Dad. You're His kid. The sky's the limit. And the object of the game is to take a walk through a Gateway - wherever you find one - and take up the invitation to drop in and say hi.

To be accurate, that's the immediate object. But no way is it the end. More like a beginning. As if we'd spent a long time running on the spot at the starting point.

And by going through, we start to head in the right direction.

* * *

ABOVE AND BEYOND

This is the final chapter in this book.

It's up to _you_ to write the next one.

From your experience. From whatever you discover. We've suggested Gateways. Great. But use the idea as a springboard. Don't let it restrict you.

Remember that one quality of infinity is that it (or, more accurately, He) is infinite.

Don't gaze goggle-eyed at someone's diary of paranormal events and think you'll never attain such heights of spirituality. Hopefully you've learned that being good enough doesn't enter into it at all.

Nor do you have to settle for going that way if it honestly bores you to tears. One of the categorical statements made about God says in effect not only is He perfectly able to meet any of your demands - He can also go several steps better than your wildest imaginings.

And if your imagination is anything like our imagination, that could mean you're in for the ride of a lifetime.

Just don't settle for anything less.

Murphy's oldest ploy had been to teach folk the soul level as the ultimate. With the bait that "they would be as gods!"

Big deal. Except that Jesus taught the spirit level - where folk are part of God. Quite a bit better.

So don't let anyone talk you out of escaping the rat-race of normal, soul-level life. Mysticism is too good to be left to mystics.

Look \- up 'till now, the stories in this book have been factual. Written the way they happened, more or less. Only the occasional name has been changed to protect the guilty.

Now, let's try something different. Fiction. Parable, if you prefer. But, like we said, you'll still have to write your own next chapter...

* * *

He'd had the dream again

Oh, there was no question of its being a nightmare or anything. Quite the opposite - as soon as it began, Peter was caught up in excitement and expectancy.

And there was none of the fuzziness, the lack of detail that usually characterised his dreams. This one, this strange recurring one, had a crispness, a clarity, a freshness about it that made him wonder if it could be somehow - real.

Each time, the same dream. One moment Peter was part of the straggling crowd that crosses at the Bank Street intersection when the lights go red and the buzzer sounds. The next moment he stopped. Abruptly. Only half-way across. Staring into the sky.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" An elderly blue-rinse-and- handbag waddled squarely into the back of him. Momentarily he lost his balance and sidestepped, jostling a couple of Maori youths.

"Hey, watch it, will you!"

Peter was scarcely aware of them. He was still staring, frowning, into the brilliance of a near cloudless sky.

"Look," he said. "Look. Up there."

But the lights changed. The traffic surged forward. And a Toyota, impatient to turn down Cameron Street, was blowing its peremptory horn and nuzzling at his heels.

Somehow Peter found the kerb and was swept along the pavement by the passers-by.

"Look," he said again. "Can you see it?"

The man with the RSA badge on his lapel shook away Peter's hand. "Shouldn't be allowed," he grumbled. "Fellow like that, this hour of the day."

"Wha's he on about?" A gum-chewing girl was slouched in the entrance to North Ten. Her companion looked up briefly. "Seen somethin'. Plane an' that, prob'ly." She sniffed. Part habit, part comment, part necessity.

Peter ran down Cameron Street, apologising to trodden toes and bumped ribs. At the corner, where the road becomes a pedestrian mall and traffic swings sharp left into Rathbone Street, he again halted.

There is a clear view to where the near-sheer face of Parahaki stands above the Hatea River.

"Look!" he called desperately. "Will somebody look up there. _Please_."

Heads turned. Eyes followed the pointing finger. "Is he still at it?" "Just a Friendship coming in to land at Onerahi." "Nothing to make a fuss about." "You feeling okay?" "A few clouds, that's all. Carrying on like that."

He wasn't drunk. It might have been easier if he were. Because now it was out of sight, and plainly the hostile faces around him had seen nothing.

Peter flushed as he realised so many people were staring at him. He turned away abruptly and walked on, along Rathbone Street, towards Parahaki.

He had seen it.

One moment the February sun was beating down on him. The next, a sudden shadow spread over the road, bringing relief from the heat of high summer. And with it, the oddest feeling.

Peter thought for a moment, choosing the correct word. It had been a feeling of wonder. Evoking memories of childhood. Memories almost forgotten: sitting nose to nose with his own, his very own puppy, looking into its big brown eyes; running through tall grass and sending up a dance of the tiniest pale blue butterflies; waking in the night from dreams so real and so marvellous, of which no detail remained, only that he longed to dream again.

All this, from a shadow in the street.

Peter had looked up. And what he had seen had made him cry out and behave as if he were drunk. Overhead, moving in silence through the sky, had been a massive, jagged oblong of rock.

The incongruity of it had done quiet violence to his mind.

The rock - he had only seen the underside - had been rough, stratified. A sheer granite mountain face suspended over the city like a ponderous ceiling.

Deep crevices, ledges, cracks and fissures ran upwards into the heart of the monolith. No quarried stone, this; it was natural, if such an object could be described in so absurd a way.

The rock had slid overhead, blotting out most of the summer sky. It had seemed close enough to touch. Which was patently ridiculous. But when Peter had run along the pavement to watched the colossal bulk of the rock swing in silent majesty towards Parahaki, he had realised it would only miss the summit by the narrowest of margins.

Indeed, had it missed?

For trailing from the edges of that immense slab - Peter was thinking of it as being as large as a city - were long fronds. Tendrils. Creepers which hinted at lush vegetation out of sight above.

In his imagination he pictured a little world of hills and valleys, streams and forests on the upper surface of the rock. And the vines which hung from the sides had surely grazed the very top of Parahaki before the immensity of it all was swallowed up by distance and the brilliance of the sky.

Peter began the long tiring walk to the top of Parahaki.

It was late afternoon. Only a few tourists were standing around the monument at the summit. Enjoying the view beyond the parapet or clicking cameras at each other. In a pushchair a toddler grizzled and was ignored by its parents.

Peter stalked up and down, scanning the sky, looking for the slightest sign of anything unusual on the horizon. He peered at every wisp of cloud, pacing from one vantage point to another until his behaviour attracted the attention of those standing around.

"Drugs, I shouldn't wonder." "Don't look at him. Those sort are just exhibitionists." "Could do with the police on duty up here. I mean, it's not right, is it!"

Abruptly, the toddler stopped grizzling, and began to clap sticky, fat hands together. Its mother noticed and went over to the pushchair.

"What did you say, darling? Say it again. What's a pity?"

The child was waving and shouting now. "P'etty, p'etty."

"Oh \- pretty. Yes, aren't they. Nice birdies. Look, Arthur," she turned to her husband. "Quite a large flock of birds. Not migrating, surely? Not this time of year."

Peter spun round. Once again the shadow had fallen, blocking off the summer heat. Above, but now so terribly near, slid the edge of the great rock.

So close, he felt crushed under it. Able to distinguish small cracks and irregularities in the stony nether face. Each leaf, each tendril and fibre of the trailing vines.

"Look't him. Gone crazy." "He'll kill himself. Up on the parapet like that. Stop him, Arthur. Do something." "Knew he was acting funny, moment I saw him. This mist has just made him worse."

The long side of the tremendous aerial slab was directly overhead, cutting through the sky like a knife. The creepers were within his grasp as he stood, arms outstretched, on the low wall. But the vines were too thin, and snapped of as he attempted to grasp them.

"I say - do be careful. Why don't you come down. Perhaps we could talk things over." "Oughtn't to be allowed. Upsetting. Mark my words, he'll hurt himself." "P'etty, mummy. P'etty."

Denser vines swung past. Leaves whipped and stung Peter's face, making it hard to keep his balance. He staggered, arms flailing wildly, and found himself grasping a tough tendril, thick as a hawser. He tightened his hold and was jerked off his precarious perch.

Now he had no choice. He had to climb.

Abruptly Peter realised that he had little idea of what to do. It was desperation and the adrenalin pumping into his bloodstream that gave his legs strength to grip the vine, and to heave up with hands that were slippery with sweat.

He was swinging like a pendulum. Below him the ground was a complex patchwork of houses and paddocks, threaded together by ribbons of roadway. Still he climbed, wind whistling in his ears. And nearly lost his grasp as his head crashed into something unyielding.

The underside of the rock itself. Sparing one hand, he reached out and touched it. Solid, worn, incalculably old and - to his sudden delight - fissured to afford a handhold.

There was a moment of undignified scrambling and near- disaster as he made the transfer from the vine to the security of the rock. But he was there. Heart pounding, each breath a tearing pain in his chest, vision red and blurred. But he was there.

One handhold, one foothold, led to yet others. Climbing was easier now. There was a deep slanting cleft in the side of the rock, an oblique gash that was large enough for him to squeeze into. The wind no longer tore at him clothes. It was a relief to feel sheltered in such an incredible situation.

Still he climbed. The cleft opened out, sloping inwards and upwards in a widening vee. Became a little gulley. A valley with small plants and occasional flowers on its slopes. No longer climbing, he could walk forward with ease.

At last - the head of the valley.

He didn't trouble to look back and down at the earth slipping past below. It never occurred to him. His only thought was of what might lie ahead.

At the brow of the monolith he halted. The vegetation - the vines, the grasses - grew only in the irregularities on the edges of the rock. Before him, the massive upper surface appeared to stretch unbroken into the distance.

There was total silence. Somehow even the air was motionless. Only the accelerated beat of his heart disturbed the stillness.

No visible barrier lay in front of him. But he knew that to go forward had to be the consequence of a deliberate choice. Final. Irrevocable.

It scarcely mattered that he was physically incapable of going back. All that counted was the tremendous decision to step out of the region of space and time and matter as he knew it. And to cross the Threshold.

Quietly he made the choice. Walking forward. Out. And into. Becoming aware of passing from an environment both viscid and enervating, one which he had for a lifetime accepted as inevitable and normal...

To a realm for which he had no words. Where he was conscious of every movement his muscles made, the breath he drew, the feel of the rock beneath his feet. Where his mind could register these sensations, observe the surroundings, think, ponder and question.

Yet above all, he was aware of being far, far more than those sensations and observations.

With a wondrous, growing realisation he strode onward. He laughed, because at last he knew.

Ahead, the surface of the rock was no longer flat. Lines of strata became vast steps running in an arc to left and right until lost in the towering clouds which the slab had entered.

Nor was he alone. All around on the mighty stairway were a throng of beings who acknowledged him as he mounted ever higher. As the air became cooler and thinner, silence gave place to vibrant, constantly-changing music.

And shafts of sunlight which glinted through gaps in the clouds paled in the burst of glory which flowed down from above.

His stride became a run, carrying him upward from stair to stair with unhindered ease, with the expectancy, the sheer joy of a child returning home...

And always, always at that point, Peter had woken up. With a feeling of disappointment.

Whatever...whoever was at the summit of those vast stairs remained unknown. Yet, despite his sense of dissatisfaction, Peter was aware that he had chosen to go forward. He hadn't hung back.

So what ever the significance of the strangely repeated dream, it ought to be possible for him to discover its meaning.

He had a few days holiday owing to him, and rang through to tell his boss he'd be taking the rest of the week off. Peter had determined to get to the bottom of what was happening.

After breakfast he walked up Rust Avenue and, on impulse, entered the library. His enquiries might as well begin there.

It wasn't a question of doubting his sanity. Everybody dreams, he told himself with a wry grin. But mostly people don't talk about it. Too personal, too silly, often as not. And if the same story was replayed time and time again, who would know if even half the worthy citizens of Whangarei had had the same experience?

Peter pushed through the swing doors, walked across the library's central open area, and climbed the carpeted stairs leading to the gallery. Near the very beginning of the arrangement of books he found the section he wanted. The rag- bag, hotch-potch, mystic, thaumaturgic and charlatan miscellany of hopelessly unclassifiable events.

He gathered an armful of books from the shelves. The meaning of the pyramids. Flying saucers. Easter island statues. Folklore and legends. Atlantis. Dreams and visions. Exceptions to the orderly world in which most people wish to live.

Peter carried the books downstairs and spread them across one of the tables. He began searching, flicking from page to page, book to book.

"Can I help you?" One of the librarians had been watching him.

He said no. Rather brusquely. Then apologised.

"It's all right," she said. "What are you looking for?"

"An explanation, I suppose," he said. "Of a dream I keep having. Time and time again."

She picked up some of the books, examining the titles.

"What was it about? Flying saucers, from the look of these books." Peter shook his head. Something in her voice prompted him to tell her, as best he could, what had happened.

"...and always, near the top of the stairs, I wake up."

She looked at him quietly for a moment. Then began sorting the books into some kind of sequence.

"The one thing these books have in common is that they document strange sightings, dreams and visions down through history. There's a clear pattern. Each era records seeing things that are typical of the age in question. Go to the Dark Ages - there are monsters and witches. In the Middle Ages people see vast armies dressed in armour, waving banners as they march across the sky. Later on, when everyone is intensely pious, it is always some saint who appears. Or the Virgin. Last century there are literally thousands of accounts of steamships in the clouds, clanking mechanical devices, crewed by strange beings. And -"

"And this century everyone specialises in flying saucers," Peter concluded for her. "An age of high technology. So people's imagination conjures up something which fits the trend. But..."

"Go on," the librarian said.

"I didn't dream about flying saucers. I might have expected to, but always it's a rock."

She nodded. "Dreams are strange things. Some of these books claim that our normal life is far too reasoned. Too orderly. So at night a different part of us takes over: our subconscious mind, whatever that may be. And it functions in pictures and symbols, with none of the logical restriction that we impose on our daytime thinking. Being narrow-minded would seem to be a very common problem, and our subconscious has to work hard to overcome it. That's probably why your dream keeps being repeated. There's some lesson there that you waking mind is - well - too stubborn to learn."

Peter was thoughtful.

"You could be right," he admitted. I hope I can find what's behind it all."

He thanked her and left the library.

A thought struck him and he found a nearby phone booth. With a stub of a pencil and the back of a discarded cigarette packet he copied addresses from the directory. Armed with them, Peter began walking.

At the first two addresses, he never penetrated past the front door. The housekeepers or whoever regretted that Peter "didn't belong to us", but assured him he would be made most welcome next Sunday.

The third port of call seemed more promising. He was ushered into a small, booklined study and invited to explain his problem. As briefly as he could, he described his dream of a colossal slab of rock which had moved silently through the sky over Whangarei.

The minister's carefully attentive expression never wavered, but his response was immediate.

"I'm, ah, glad you came to me, Peter - I believe you said that was your name? However, I would be totally unable to help you. Your family doctor perhaps..."

"Aren't dreams and unusual things in the sky part of your religion then?" said Peter, annoyed. "I thought that the Bible -"

"You wouldn't be trying to teach me my job, would you?" smiled the minister. "There are many stories we don't understand. Allegories, no doubt. But now, if you would excuse me."

Peter had one more address left.

"Do you believe in the supernatural?"

It wasn't perhaps the most conventional way of opening a conversation on a clergyman's doorstep. The man blinked, then held the door open for him.

"Yes. I certainly do. Perhaps you'd better come in."

Peter was soon telling his story yet again. The man listened carefully. Nodding. Occasionally asking a pertinent question.

"I believe you," he said finally. "Those things happen more often than most people care to admit. Now, I'll tell you what we'll do. I'm going to lead you in a prayer of renunciation."

"A what?" said Peter.

"Oh, it's quite simple, really. I'll tell you what to say. It's a matter of believing that it won't happen again."

"Why?" The man laughed at him.

"Deceiving spirits! Spiritual counterfeits! We're living in the last days - I wonder if you realise that - and there will by lying signs and wonders" he dropped his voice confidentially, "that would deceive, if possible, the very elect."

"I don't want to renounce the experience," retorted Peter. "I want to understand it. It's no good you just saying it's something bad. How do you know? Have you ever seen anything like that?"

"No," admitted the minister. "But as a believer I would be protected from that kind of thing."

"What about Ezekiel?" Peter demanded.

"What do you mean?" The man was getting to his feet, clearly unwilling to prolong the interview.

"Well, how did Ezekiel know that the wheels and things that appeared in his dreams and visions were okay? And not something evil?"

"I'm afraid I really can't spare the time if you aren't prepared to co-operate. And as for Ezekiel - surely you don't regard yourself as some latter-day prophet, do you?"

And Peter found himself out of the house, the door firmly closed behind him.

"Damn stupid, the lot of them," he muttered, trudging back towards the city centre. Down the long, regular slope of Bank Street, down to Farmers corner, where something - some odd familiarity about the scene - began to tug at the corner of Peter's mind. He started to walk to the other side of the street.

And...one moment he was part of the straggling crowd that crosses Bank Street intersection when the lights go red and the buzzer sounds. The next moment he stopped. Abruptly. Only half-way across. The whole scene was identical to his dream.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" An elderly blue-rinse-and- handbag waddled squarely into him. Momentarily he lost his balance and side-stepped, jostling a couple of Maori youths. "Hey, watch it, will you!"

Peter was scarcely aware of them. He was staring, frowning into the brilliance of the near-cloudless sky.

And there was nothing there. Nothing.

And the lights had changed. The traffic surged forward. A Toyota, impatient to turn down Cameron Street, was blowing its peremptory horn and nuzzling at his heels.

Somehow Peter found the kerb and was swept along by the passers-by. Everything was the same as in his dream. The man with the RSA badge. The gum-chewing girl with her companion, slouched in the entrance to North Ten. All the same. But in the sky - nothing. And then he saw. The whole scene changed. Or, to be accurate, nothing changed. Not a thing. It was simply that, for the first time, Peter could see. See clearly.

He saw the street. The people. All as part of a vast, infinite plan. Yet also a deliciously simple pattern. In which each being was a thread, a part of the whole design. And at the same time, part of the Designer.

In an instant, Peter knew - knew in a deeper way than he could have imagined possible - that everything had purpose and meaning. Everything, each event, all natural laws. Everything was arranged for a grand purpose. There was no accident, no chance.

Oh, to be sure, some people would plod through life unheeding and unaware of design and Designer, fulfilling their destiny in ways which would appear to them as but the random outcome of thousands of tiny choices and decisions.

Others would get some slight inkling, some faint suspicion of the underlying purpose of life. And stubbornly try to fight it, to smudge the design. They too would fulfil all that was for them, but often in tiresome and tedious ways that would bring them little joy and little satisfaction.

But here and there - more frequently than Peter would have expected - were those who saw. Who were given a glimpse of the design. Whose eyes responded to the light.

As Peter looked down the street, seeing for the first time, he understood the dream that had come to him so often. That which was at the top of the massive staircase was both the Designer and the view of the design. Of course there was much, much more to understand. What, he wondered, was the Rock which had been the steppingstone from mundane reality to the truth which lay beyond all facts?

He would have to ask the Designer.

Perhaps - the thought welled up from somewhere deep within him - perhaps it was Jesus.

The End
Read the rest of the series as George and Eileen explore the 'Beyond' of some very BIG topics...

George and Eileen Anderson in later life...

The George and Eileen author page with links to all the ebooks:

 www.smashwords.com/profile/view/GeorgeandEileenAnderson
