(Beyond Murphy's Law by George and Eileen Anderson; 3rd file)

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.

* * *

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?

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

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.

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.

* * *