Our scamper down the aisle was maybe a bit undignified.

Tough.

We were after the second key to the kingdom.

Now, if you're a non-charismatic-type, you'll be bristling. And if you're already a charismatic-type, this is old hat.

Okay - let's take the antis first.

You've been taught that you "got it all at conversion". To put it gently and politely - that's rubbish. Simple question: if you got it - where is it? The fact is that you received the right to everything at conversion. The potential. After you repent, though, there are two specific steps of obedience: be baptised in water, receive the Holy Spirit.

Now - the pro-charismatic bunch.

Sure, you know all this. But do you know that the baptism of the Spirit was never intended to brighten up the traditionally dull forms of worship? All the fervent singing and handclapping and dancing that means so much today were actually alive and well in temple and synagogue centuries before pentecost. Under the Old Covenant. The baptism of the Spirit is intended to make an impact out in the street. At work. When you're shopping. Or working on the car. Coping with squalling toddlers, know-all teenagers, stubborn parents. In real, real, r-e-a-l, REAL life.

Where were we?

Just about to receive the Holy Spirit.

It wasn't a particularly emotional experience. For some people it is; not for others. Emotion is no more than the way the soul reacts - it's nothing to do with the validity or otherwise of a happening.

Three things occurred. We spoke in tongues. (That's usual, but by no means inevitable - except perhaps if you're against the idea.) Second, we were rocked by the awareness that, there and then, God was setting up a working relationship with us on a permanent basis. Suddenly he became our Dad. And third, we began to lose a deeply rooted fear of man that'd bugged us all our adult life. Not completely, not all at once, but steadily enough to make a heck of a difference to us.

Now, get one thing clear. Gifts aren't fruit. The gifts of the Spirit are completely different from the fruit of the Spirit.

From the baptism of the Spirit you have all the gifts - wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, miracles, prophecy, discernment, tongues, interpretation - as Dad decides the situation is appropriate. Doesn't mean you're mature or spiritual or anything. Just obedient. Which isn't a bad thing to be, eh.

Whereas, the fruit of the Spirit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self -control - takes time to grow. It's a long-term outworking of the life of Christ inside you.

So - it's not awfully spiritual to exclaim piously: "All I want is the fruit, not the gifts". That's a sugary form of disobedience. Nor must you be surprised if there are some rather awkward types with gifts of the Spirit - they just haven't grown up yet.

We never waited to grow up. We were like an accident looking for somewhere to happen. Our diary for the months following our encounter with the Holy Spirit is a breathless, nonstop catalogue of events as we had a go at learning to obey our Dad.

It's an asset, maybe, that Eileen and I are both as mad as each other. Unsuspecting salesmen selling patent medicines would find themselves on the receiving end of an introduction to God. If a person we met admitted to being ill - zap, they were prayed for, there and then. And because what'd happened to us was too good to be kept secret, every evening we visited our former Brethren friends to tell 'em the news.

Now, although the official line was "down with nasty Pentecostalism", we enjoyed a fairly good reception.

Some were glum. One gave us a lecture on dispensationalism - a hard-line doctrine that relegates the work of the Holy Spirit firmly to the past and is designed to prove that you mustn't expect anything to happen now. Most were interested, eager to know more.

And several admitted sheepishly to having had the same experience themselves, but hadn't told anyone because they feared the wrath of the elders. And because they'd kept quiet, they'd come into a fair bit of condemnation as a result.

Look - if some of the bits in the Bible are literal - one day we're going to be standing in the presence of God, going over what we've been up to on earth. "Aw, look, Lord - I just wanted to be tactful!" "Our church didn't believe in that, so I didn't want to offend anyone, eh." "I didn't say anything; I knew they'd be upset if I did."

Somehow we suspect that God might call it "compromise".

We know from experience...

You see, near where we were living was a Maori settlement. We felt drawn to it, but weren't too sure why. So, one Sunday we went along to a little chapel that's set in the heart of the cluster of houses. Thought it might be nice to see how the folk there worshipped.

Surprisingly, no locals turned up. Everyone who went, had travelled from other parts of the city. Mostly they were Europeans.

Only men took part. And the service was deadly dull.

Came the communion. A dismal ceremony that seemed to overemphasise the death of Jesus.

Eileen was given the words "He is risen. He is Lord" to say. From God.

And she - quite understandably - didn't. Women don't. It's against the rules.

Man's rules, that is. (I said we had problems with fear of man.)

Now, you can't ignore what Dad says without feeling pretty condemned. Not by God. By yourself. By Satan.

And condemnation always gives a foothold for Satan to work.

We were home after the service. Had lunch. Over the bangers and spuds Eileen collapsed unconscious.

At Northland Base Hospital, heart specialist Dr. Orpin did tests with a treadmill-like device and an ECG machine and came up with the verdict.

Paroxysmal auricular tachycardia.

Where the heart speeds up, faster and faster, until the sufferer goes unconscious.

Not unusual. Except that it doesn't just start all of a once, and Eileen was the wrong age for such an ailment.

The specialist prescribed pills to control it. The attacks continued to recur. It wasn't a good situation.

Let's jump forward a year or so. Eileen's heart problem was no better. We were invited to a special meeting where Dr. Derek Prince was to teach on deliverance. By that time we were living in the Maori settlement in the thick of hairy supernatural activity, so we went to the lecture.

For an hour, Dr. Prince taught on the absolute and complete work of the Lord Jesus, in his death and resurrection. Then, undramatically, he said he would deal with any evil spirits present, and made the comment that they can cause many kinds of physical problems - including heart trouble.

That rang bells with Eileen. Could it -?

A little voice spoke inside her.

That did it!

"I don't care," thought Eileen. "Whatever happens, you're going."

Next moment - kerrash as she hit the floor. Which was the first I knew of what was going on.

Anxious pause. Then Eileen opened her eyes, gave me a shaky smile and regained her seat. She fumbled amid the collection of goodies in her handbag. Out came the pills.

"Give him these," she whispered.

I went up to Derek Prince. He'd been watching. And accepted the pills.

That was twelve years ago.

Now - there are a few parts to that story that you need to get straight.

One: neither the attacks nor the demon were a punishment from God. Sure, He chastises. That's different. Clean and crisp and in love.

This was straight-out condemnation. Accepting a putting- down from self and Satan.

Two: demons can't cause something where there isn't already a weakness. They just aren't that powerful. They need something to latch on to. In Eileen's case there'd been a bit of a heart murmur. Not much. Enough.

Three: we're not anti-medicine. Don't chuck your potions and lotions "by faith" if you're after a healing. That's a whole different ball game. But in the case of an exorcism, you'll know. And if in doubt, play safe.

The main thing is - obey God in the first place. Don't come under the authority of any group. Sure, that sounds like anarchy.

Actually, it's beyond anarchy. Always be yourself. Keep your own identity. And keep an ear open for Dad to give you instructions.

We're answerable to him. We're diplomats - representatives of another country - without diplomatic immunity. Sometimes he'll bail us out. Sometimes we'll be burned at the stake. Or worse: criticised by our friends.

This is where "church" membership has its problems. There's pressure, psychic pressure to conform. Sign this. I agree to abide by the rules of this organisation. Accept the elders' authority. The doctrines set out as follows. Submission. Covering. God respects tradition. Don't rock the boat. Spoil the unity. That wasn't said in love.

We...you...are answerable to God. Not to man.

Why do we go on about this?

Simply because we've made so many mistakes in this area. Been too polite. Afraid of offending. Awed by the authority of others.

When all the time, we are sons and daughters of God. The greatest. His is the highest authority.

So now we try and do and say what we should first time. Okay, we're still making mistakes. Okay, we're not always smooth and eloquent - we blurt out awkwardly something because we're nervous. So what? If a thing's worth doing - it's worth doing badly.

At least it's a start. We might always improve.

Anyhow, the conviction that we should move into the Maori settlement intensified. So did the feeling that we should adopt a seven-year-old Maori boy, intellectually handicapped as a result of a beating as a baby. Teenagers 'just happened' to receive the Holy Spirit. We were asked to do Bible in Schools and broke some of the rules by doing the odd exorcism or two (fairly quietly; there's no need to shout), teaching kids to handle nightmares, introducing them to God and generally ignoring the syllabus.

We were mortgage-free, but Dad wanted us to be totally debt free. Our wholesalers' cheque for our craftwork was strangely delayed while we raided the kids' piggybanks and larder shelves grew bare. Whadja do when you're down to one tin of dogfood and a bag of flour? Make quite tasty dumplings and try and ignore the bits of seaweed in it. Very good for one's pride, we can assure you.

Then the cheque arrived. We ate properly again. And even bought some two-stroke to mow our shaggy lawn. That was a mistake. Number one son mowed the pipe from the water tank - we were on roof water - and six thousand gallons soaked into the volcanic. Only a few inches remained by the time I applied a bandaid.

First food. Then water.

We found it funny. What did it matter if it was the start of the dry season. We flushed the bog and washed regardless. And a week later the heavens opened up and filled the tank to overflowing. T'aint always easy to live through events when Dad is teaching you that He's the source of supply.

But it's very relaxing if we can learn the lesson.

Dad confirmed that we were to move into the Maori settlement. In about half-a-dozen specific ways. We had to be sure we were in the right place. Otherwise, when the going got rough, we'd want to quit.

It felt funny, having neighbours all round us for the first time in years. A bit like living in a goldfish bowl.

And we knew God had to give us the oomph to deal with anything that happened. That cluster of homes was regularly worked over by all the major religious groups in the city. We couldn't compete - we had to offer something totally different.

As we wrote in "Beyond Murphy's Law", our five years on the settlement was God's little training course for ignorant Andersons.

With much knocking at the knees we learned that the victory of Jesus over Satan is absolute. That in a supernatural situation we have authority to use his name. (And "we" means "you".) Doesn't matter what's going on; how nasty the spirit looks and sounds (most of it is bluff, anyway). And the only time you can't cast a spirit out is if the person wants to keep it. Happens, sometimes.

We learned that technique is a no-no. God doesn't like us to use "methods", or special phrases, or dramatic gestures. They are misleading. And are in fact a form of magic. There's a lot of it about. Sure, it can work. A bit. But it's not God.

We also learned that God is a jealous God. Only his Son's allowed to be mediator between him and others. So although he likes to involve us in introducing folk to him, it's a case of get in quick and get out quicker. Don't hang around and play the guru. Step aside and let the convert or whatever get it together with Dad. He'll call you back if he chooses to. Mostly he manages okay by himself. Sure, there are such things as pastors. But I don't see Kiwi shepherds stuffing grass down sheep's throats. Turn 'em loose, let 'em graze, seems to be the style. In real life, that is.

Speaking about God being jealous - I was in the garage one afternoon preparing some timber for our craft business, when I had a strong mental picture (not a vision, a mental picture) of my parents as they had been when I was a child in Scotland. Together with the words - as if I were saying it - "these are the people who used to look after me".

At first I was puzzled. Then it clicked. When we're young, the parent/child relationship is the deepest that we know.

It is a totally exclusive relationship. Okay, as parents we know the effort of handing our kids over to God. And (when we're honest) it's not that we can't trust him. It's rather that we like to continue the domination thing that was okay, necessary even, when they were young.

And that can go so sour when they come of age.

Little by little, Dad was teaching us that he has a kingdom.

He was giving us glimpses of it. Whetting our appetite.

The actual word "kingdom" wasn't yet in our vocabulary. But we were enjoying having our day's events regulated by him. Our finances controlled by him. Our teaching direct from him.

So - it was time for him to show us the difference between kingdom and religion...

We were enjoying good fellowship with believers throughout the city. From most denominations. Or none. Mainly we preferred to meet folk on a couple-to-couple basis. And we also helped run a broad-spectrum home group with some friends.

Our actual meeting-going was irregular. We'd had an involvement in a daily 6.00 a.m. (a.m., please note) prayer meeting that Graham Pulkingham's teaching had triggered off in the Baptists. We'd borrowed a school pool and baptised a number of Anglicans and Methodists who'd met the Lord. And we even found ourselves at a Catholic group laying hands on several to receive the Holy Spirit.

But our association wasn't with one group.

That - changed.

There was a little pentecostal group that had been ticking over in a traditional whoopin' and hollerin' way for some years. Scruffy. Noisy. A place where youths and maidens could shamble in off the street, try and disrupt what was going on, and shamble out again. Then come back next week and get saved.

Respectable believers from neat, tidy, dead denominations would sneak in to the back pew after their own evening services had ended at the scheduled time, and take in the last few hours seeing how the other half lived.

Some came to add to their store of Pentecostal horror stories.

Some came with a kind of wistfulness.

Some came to see where their kids had got to. Why their dear little brats weren't getting stoned or boozed at weekends.

Then - several things happened at once.

That little Pentecostal group changed pastors. Several "straight churches" outlawed any charismatic tendencies in their own members. So in a matter of weeks, crowds - like hundreds - of fairly staid and stolid believers shifted over to the small 'n' scruffy chandelier-swinging, walkin'-on-the ceiling penties. That necessitated a re-location to bigger premises. And, later another move to still bigger premises. The word "revival" started to be whispered.

It was the time when "submission" and "covering" were the magic words. Submit to your pastor and/or elders - whether they're right or wrong - in everything they say, and you'll have a spiritual covering, a protection. Step outside of that, start to query what you're being taught, go off and "do your own thing" - and God'll get you. Or the devil will get you. Take your pick.

That's strong.

All our friends were getting under the covering. Submitting like crazy. We were pressured to get right in to this mushrooming Pentecostal group.

We got in.

Boots and all.

Correction. Not boots and all. There were three things we drew the line at.

One: membership. Whatever anyone says to the contrary, membership isn't "a formality". It isn't "nothing more than a commitment to a certain group of Christians".

It is a coming under the authority of written regulations - the rules, doctrines and Constitution; and the unwritten regulations - the traditions, influences and inferences. Strong magic.

Membership is divisive. It makes a person belong to one faction and not belong to another faction. It helps to keep going all the religious systems and give them their separate identities.

Two: tithes and offerings. We not only wouldn't tithe, we wouldn't put anything in the collection. Not even buttons.

Tithing is Old Covenant. Under the New Covenant, God owns the lot. (Takes it, too, sometimes. Gets flippin' expensive). And collections are a cop-out. A substitute for hearing the voice of God.

Pop the dollar in the plate, you're living in someone else's vision. Or fantasy. Keeping something going that might be better decently buried.

Three: Eileen and I are one flesh. We've said it before, we'll say it again - we like each other, for goodness' sake.

And church life works 'orrid 'ard to split up the misters and missuses. (Then wonders why they have problems.)

We refused to be separated. Women's meetings, men's meetings we can do without. A bunch of all one sex is funny- peculiar.

Now this made a teensy-weensy little problem. Whether or not it was my good looks, or merely the fact that I own a suit and a pair of matching socks, I'll never know...

But I was made one of the Reference Board. At that point there weren't elders for some involved reason. Instead, a bunch of men labelled the Reference Board. And I was one.

Supposed to meet in solemn and secret conclave now and then.

So...

I took Eileen. "She'll be right, fellas," I said merrily . "Won't open her mouth. Promise you. Might make the tea, though."

There were mutters. Odd looks.

But Eileen stayed.

Well - we're one, aren't we?

We like each other.

* * *

Twelve weeks later, I resigned from the Reference Board.

Eileen and I squirmed uneasily in our chairs in the minister's study as we broke the news.

He was bewildered. "But why?" he demanded.

Good question.

The minister wasn't to blame.

Some are - well - ministerial. He'd been a personal friend to us. Giving us opportunities to speak, confiding in us, channelling problem cases our way.

Why should we back off?

It wasn't the power politics. We'd been around religion all our lives. Every group has its lolly scrambles, takeover bids, military coups and assassinations. Shouldn't be, but it's a fact. Something that hurts for a while, but you learn to live with it.

No, it wasn't that. What, then?

Not boredom. Compared with other styles, Pentecostal services were the best thing since sliced bread.

Electronic organ expertly played, guitars, drums sufficiently up-tempo to sweep the congregation into the appropriate mood in seconds. No "no-we-don't-do-that-here" disapproval of tongues and interpretation or prophecy. In fact it was somewhat disconcerting to find that prophecies were received with a round of applause.

It'd been exhilarating being part of a big crowd, finding that schemes and programmes flowed by sheer volume of numbers. There was enough money in the church kitty to achieve things.

But...somewhere along the line...we'd lost God. Him 'n' us. Somehow there was a distance between us. Slightly beyond arms' length.

When there was "a time of praise and worship", the Person we praised and worshipped wasn't the close, intimate Daddy who'd become part of our lives.

"Christ in you" had become a phrase. A bit of doctrine. Nothing happened spontaneously any more.

And that was the reason for resigning from the Reference Board; after a few Sundays, for quitting the church.

Maybe it's similar when an alkie knocks off the grog.

Or an addict goes through cold turkey.

Would you believe - we had withdrawal symptoms. Came Sunday, we were wandering around like lost souls. Emotionally flat. Drained. A bit bewildered.

Yet - God was there.

Close. Real. Once again totally involved in our life. So why the funny feelings?

Bit by bit we realised. We'd been living on a high. There's a sustaining, uplifting, buoyant power that comes from being part of a group. Especially a large, musically-oriented active group.

It takes hold of the mind and the emotions, stirs them, carries them along week after week. And...isn't anything to do with one's spirit.

...if, all the time, you know that in the New Covenant it's not God. And if, always, you can keep your communication unimpaired with your Dad.

Didn't someone, somewhere, say something about a "still, small voice"? God isn't strident. Or brash.

Nor does he want our mood to be carefully orchestrated before we worship him. Starting with finger-snappin', foot- stompin', roof-raisin' choruses, sliding into a quieter, more devotional tempo, then "musicians only now; let's just enter in as we feel all across the auditorium..."

Sorry. That's not real. It's synthetic. Nice, we grant you. But manufactured. We know. We've helped manufacture some.

Okay, we'll get flak for this. But hold on a moment before you drop this book in a bucket of disinfectant.

Point one. Like we've said: mostly music is Old Covenant. Jesus is recorded as singing one hymn - at the Passover.

Okay, he must've sung more in the synagogues. But not as part of his ministry.

Think how he could have brightened up the sermon on the mount. "Seek yet first - say, how about we all sing that together. If the musicians would come forward, please..."

There is a bit where Paul says "...singing and making melody in your hearts...". That's a bit low-key, if you'll pardon the pun.

Point two. Jesus scarcely used the word church. Paul did - but even that doesn't mean that what we label church today is what Paul was intending backalong.

Point three. Sure it can be nice to be part of a group. Teens and singles love it. Young marrieds with a string of brats enjoy it. That's nice. But religious organisations are divisive. They give one slant. Try for loyalty to one brand-name.

In practice, if you 'belong' to one group you don't find it easy to fellowship with folk who 'belong' to a different bunch. Which isn't good. In fact it's what Paul calls failure to discern the Body and has nasty consequences. Read 1st Corinthians 1, vv 18, 29 - 30 - then ponder over who your friends are. Friends, not just acquaintances.

Now, probably we've evoked a few questions. Like - 'but God uses the churches'.

Answer: he uses anything. We met a bloke saved by winning a raffle. His family were out of meat; he was down to his last ten cents. God said drive round the corner, he'd give him a leg of lamb.

Round the corner was a Jaycee quick-fire raffle. The last ticket was being flourished. The man jumped out of the car, ran up, took the ticket and said to the folk on the stall that he was going to win.

They spun the drum thing, reached in, pulled out the winning number. His.

Back in the car - minus ten cents, plus one leg of lamb - he gave his life to God.

God - uses anything. Doesn't mean there's nothing better, though.

Next question?

"What about submission and covering?"

Good one. We had to face up to that ourselves. Because if that doctrine was dinkum, we were right up the creek without a paddle.

Eileen and I went through the Bible to see what it actually said.

"Sure, there are leaders," I commented. "But they're just people who go ahead, do things first. Not bosses, obeyed unquestioningly."

"And the Bereans are commended for checking out Paul's teaching," added Eileen.

"The fact is, it'd be idolatry to give man obedience that's really only for God," I said. "But where does that leave the 'covering' business? What about the spiritual safety that was supposed to come from being correctly submitted?"

"There never was any such thing," Eileen replied ruefully. "Remember our escapade with the 'Open Letter'?"

I remembered.

We'd had no end of dealings with evil spirits, poltergeists, death lights and tapus as we got to know and help our neighbours on the Maori settlement. We'd deal with the problem, then teach our friends how to handle similar situations.

Telling them about the power of the name of Jesus, and introducing them to God was what was necessary. And we felt it'd be good to give our neighbours some sort of booklet on the subject.

Trit-trot down to the Bible Bookshop.

Nothing. Ouija boards, tarot cards, water divining, colour therapy, pendulums, seances - booklets aplenty, warning, explaining, teaching deliverance. Never a mention of the supernatural element in Maori culture.

So we wrote our own booklet. Based on the things that had happened to us. "Open Letter To Maori Christians" it's called.

Gave the manuscript to several spiritually mature Maoris for checking the details. Got one to translate it so the finished product would be bi-lingual.

Then - in accordance with the prevailing teaching of the church we were in - submitted the whole box of tricks to our minister.

He okayed it. Enthusiastically.

We were officially - and spiritually - fireproof. Except we weren't...

The plan was to type the thing neatly. Get a commercial photographer to reduce the typescript a little (that was in the days before photocopiers had zoom lenses) and get a printer to make plates from the reductions (that was in the days before we had our decrepit little old press).

Simple. Except that when we collected the reductions from the photographer, one page hadn't been done. And one had been done twice.

We pointed out the error. The photographer said the unsanctified equivalent of "Oh, silly me" and took the lot back.

Next day we found he'd done the same again. (For the record, he's a highly competent professional). We made big bold notes on the margin of the originals and promised to return.

Early the following day - phone call from photographer.

"You fellows care to come to the studio? Sort of like immediately. I've got problems."

We motored. You've probably heard the old one about 'come into my darkroom and see what develops'. That was the snag. One page didn't.

There, in the dim glow of the safelight, he told us the difficulty.

"Fresh batch of developer, this. Goes a treat. Just done some wedding enlargements. No sweat. Then I came to your job. That page I missed out. Twice, for some reason."

He jerked a thumb at the screwed up heap of photographic paper.

"I put a little negative of your typing in the enlarger. Adjust the lens so's the size it projects is smaller than your original, according to the measurements you wanted. Put the sensitized paper in the holder and make the exposure. I do this thousands of times each week."

"So?" I queried. "Where's the problem."

"It's uncanny," he muttered. "Next, I put the paper into the developer. Normally I wait a few seconds - and the image appears on the paper. That's all there is to it. Except that with your job, nothing happens when I do this page."

He gave us a demonstration. His wedding enlargements were already hanging up on clips to dry. Proof that developer and paper were - or ought to be - okay.

But the latest sheet of photographic paper was lying wetly in the developer. Totally blank. "What's the typing about, anyway?" he asked. "Evil spirits," I replied. "Oh - sorry! Perhaps that's the trouble. Hang on."

Wondering if the photographer would laugh, I told any troubling spirit to go, and commanded the developer to work in the name of Jesus.

The image promptly appeared on the paper. And the photographer fixed and dried the print and ushered us out in record time.

Next stop - the printer.

He was often did jobs for the Penties. We handed him the reductions, explained how many copies we wanted. And turned to go.

"Hang on," said the printer. He had begun to read some of the booklet-to-be. "Ghosts and things, is it?"

We agreed that it was. "Then you'll stay right here until the job's done."

Whatever it was that he knew, he wasn't letting on, but he wouldn't let us move from the machine until the last sheet had run through.

We drove home to find a car outside our house. In it, a teacher from the I.H. school and our son Tom.

"I don't want to worry you, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, but Tom's been having a whole series of seizures."

Tom, as a result of brain damage, suffers from epilepsy. Controlled by Dilantin.

But not this time. Ten grand mals he'd had. And the school were worried.

So were we. It was too much of a coincidence, the sudden intensifying of Tom's problem. That wasn't just a medical phenomenon. Not on the same day as we printed the booklet on Maori occultism.

That was demonic. And it should never have happened. Not when we were correctly submitted and covered.

If that had been a principle in God - it would have worked. But it didn't. There is no submission to anyone except God. There is no covering apart from the Blood of Jesus.

And, for the record, we weren't able to deal with the demonic aspect of Tom's epilepsy until after we came out from accepting our church's authority.

But (you ask) isn't it wrong to Do Your Own Thing? What about the dreaded Perils Of Individualism? Going It Alone?

Fact is, they're just slogans, labels, designed to sound like something's been proved.

Take a favourite scripture used to push submission. Judges 17. 6 & 21. 25. "There was no king in Israel: everyone did what was right in his own eyes." Oh shock, horror and gasp! The preacher then launches into an attack of individualism.

Wait a moment. Those quotes simply state a fact. You mustn't assume that the absence of a king was bad.

Because - it wasn't. God never intended the Israelites to have a king. If you look at 1. Samuel 8 vv 6 - 7 you find that when the people choose a king, God says that he - God - is being rejected. (And adds that kings come very expensive, vv 10 - 18; but that's another story.)

Now, if you can't trust your own judgement and bright ideas... And if accepting some human leader (whether we call him king or minister or elder) is rejection of God...

What other option is there?

That's the good news: the gospel. Salvation isn't what Jesus calls good news. Which is slightly startling. We've been brought up to look on salvation as absolutely wonderful, fantastic, something we should jump up and down about.

That's - wrong.

Salvation is only a tiny part of something absolutely wonderful, fantastic, etcetera, etcetera.

You see, essentially, salvation is something for you. Or for me.

It's selfish. Not in a bad sense. But restricted to the individual.

Whereas the kingdom of God is a total involvement in the total rule of God. It's big. And it's good news.

Living in the kingdom is the utter opposite of individualism. You become part of an overlapping succession of involvements, where every person, every facet is directed personally by your Dad.

Yet, not only is it the opposite of individualism. At the same time, you become more unique (that's bad English; tough), more yourself than you'd ever have thought possible - or ever would have been allowed under a different system.

Good news, anybody?

Where were we?

Oh yes - out of church and learning to handle the emotional let-down that followed.

Our time on the Maori settlement - five years of nearly non-stop excitement - ended. We sold the house and moved to a rented farm cottage miles away on the metal to catch our breath. Although we missed the involvement in the lives of some fifty or so families, it was nice to know we could sleep all night without an urgent pounding on the door to summon us to the latest problem.

Dad had given us all the strength and ability we'd needed during that time. We had no intention of carrying on on our own once he said we should go.

So we prepared to put our feet up. Look out across paddocks. Wave to the two or three cars that went by each day. Except, as usual, Dad had other ideas. Ok, it was a rest. Holidays were his invention.

But we started getting visitors.

It was the fact that we'd made no secret of dropping out of meetings. And at the same time kept up our friendship with Christians around the city. Where we could, that is. Because it's a fact that when you move from any religious group, there are some folk who don't want to know you.

They're not really snubbing you. Just that they can only relate to those who are doing the same things, saying the same things. It's their little world; they can't understand any other.

Then there are those who are genuinely too busy to say more than hi and 'bye to an outsider. Their group has a programme of full involvement: meetings, activities, preparation, family instruction. Literally they have no spare time for anything or anyone outside their circle.

It's often a deliberate policy.

But then there are those who are bigger, spiritually, than the limitations of their group or denomination. Bigger, even, than their own doctrinal convictions. We enjoyed spending time with those people.

And we derived a sneaky sort of amusement from bumping into folk we'd only been on nodding terms with, back from our meeting-going days.

Conversation would be a wee bit stilted until - quite casually - we'd make some mention of God.

Then they'd do a classic double take. "Oh, I thought you'd, I mean I'd heard, that is, then you're still, er, going on for the Lord?" Or rejoicing or whatever phrase meant to them that we hadn't backslidden.

Some would fix us with a beady eye, clutch us firmly by the arm, and declaim "Forsake not the assembling of yourselves together as the manner of some is". If that quote from Hebrews means sit neatly in rows, in a hall, three times a week - then Eileen and me, we're disobedient. If it means enjoy the company of believers, informally, in home surroundings where conversation can be relaxed, vigorous, free from hype - then we're all for it. And we've more time for it than most.

Oh, and just for the record, we don't mind going to meetings either. As long as we get to teach. Otherwise, it's a case of been there, done that.

So, we made no secret of what had happened - and that triggered off a steady procession of cars doing the 25 or so kilometres of bumpy, dusty road from Whangarei to our cottage.

And not only from Whangarei. From many parts of the North Island.

People who were fed up with the religious system, but were afraid of the consequences if they left.

People whose group had suffered internal strife and struggles for power; they were hurt, disillusioned.

People who had been taught that their denomination or assembly or whatever was God's church. When something had gone wrong in their lives they'd given up it and given up him. Because they'd never been taught there was a difference.

We were startled at the way religion had been substituted for God in not only our lives, but the lives of many others.

We began to see that much religious teaching and activity is humanistic: either God is confined in certain safe, non- boatrocking channels, or there's a feeling that he's not really involved at all and converts need to be jollied along, propped up, kept busy to prevent them drifting off into unbelief.

The time was ripe for a spot of anarchy.

Like an underground magazine. Called "Small Cords".

* * *

If you're looking for entertainment in Whangarei...

Forget the spacies, the cinema or the theatre.

Try Thomson and Bagley Ltd.

That's a free and unsolicited advert for an auctioneer's rooms. Friday morning, week in, week out. Junk and quality, utter bargains and costly mistakes, machine-gun-rapid bidding. And a steady line in dry wit from an auctioneer who knows half his audience by name.

A cross-section of humanity. Hippies after another casement window or damaged gib for their unapproved shack somewhere in Parua Bay. Little old ladies with thick rolls of notes in battered, peeling crocodile-skin handbags. Dealers buying every last stick of furniture to re-sell in their shops at twice the knock-down price. Farmers, executives, layabouts, giggling teenagers, newlyweds setting up home.

And often enough, us.

We'd arrived late, one Friday. Outside the auction rooms was a tangle of trailers and utes and folk pulling, pushing and panting as they struggled with their purchases. Inside, almost nothing. Except, solitary on a long trestle table - "Look, love," I yelled. "That's a duplicator!"

Eileen agreed.

"For a magazine. Just what we need. Wonder if it sold?"

Ben, one of the porters, shook his head.

"Not that thing. Been there for weeks. Nobody wants it. You see - it's a hand-turned one. Can't even get the $10 reserve."

Ten dollars was within the realms of possibility. I bought the duplicator. And staggered out under the dead weight of its ink-covered machinery.

Our plan was to produce an underground magazine: rough, basic, unlovely, that said all the things about religion that people inside the system were afraid to express.

The title was obvious. "Small Cords" - because Jesus had made a whip of small cords to cleanse the outer court of the temple.

The style had to be unpolished. Uncouth. Something that would startle readers into taking notice; something that would offend those who preferred to be offended.

And the magazine had to be free. After all, who was going to pay to be told off!

Another thing on the financial side. There was an idea we'd got after reading the life of Billy Bray. In it, he'd said: "The Lord and me, we've only got one purse. If I gets there first, I takes what's in it; if he gets there first, he takes."

Our decision was to finance the making and distribution of the "Small Cords" magazine ourselves after all our normal domestic expenses had been met, and after any little luxuries had been paid for. I mean, it's too easy to scrimp and economise, cutting back on basic living costs, then with the money saved claim that the Lord has prospered our work for him. We didn't want to keep something going that he wasn't directly supporting.

God had to supply the ready. Even the four friends of ours who helped editorially weren't to help financially.

We sat down and wrote:

* * *

* * *

Within the covers was an article on checking up on ministers, scripturally; a page on giving - saying that the New Testament emphasis is on alms: to the poor; a caustic look at the pressures of church membership; love, spiritual or saccharine; fellowship on a no-organisation basis. And a demolition of the old argument that because the apostles met "daily in the temple", we should stay with the traditional forms of organsation (Look - who went there? Only Jews, never a Gentile, so the bulk of believers never got in on the organisation. Plus the fact that after AD70 the temple was demolished. So even Jewish Christians couldn't get back to their old thing.)

By today's standards, "Small Cords" isn't startling. Challenge Weekly, Shaker, CBA, Grapevine and (overseas) Wittenburg Door are now calling a spade a spade regarding the failings and abuses of religious organisations.

But in 1977 it was stirring stuff.

Eileen typed the stencils. I inked the duplicator. Tom turned the handle. And all six of us collated and stapled and wrapped and stamped and posted off the first few hundred copies to every likely and unlikely address we could lay hands on.

And waited. Like when you light the blue touchpaper on a roman candle. There's a bit of a pause while you stand and wonder if it'll be a fizzer.

It was a metaphorical 5th of November on a spectacular scale. Our mailbox overflowed.

"Small Cords" had set out to cause a reaction. It succeeded.

There were letters threatening us with damnfire and hellnation. Letters that poured out a heartfelt relief that at last someone was saying God was more important than the organisation. Letters querying our motives, wondering what new group we were starting. Letters saying that a person here, a family there, had now recommenced a relationship with the Lord after having quit the church.

A few hated the crude expressions, the slang, but loved the sentiments. Nobody, but nobody was ho-hum about it.

And for every irate missive demanding removal of a name from our mailing list, there was a handful of requests for a copy, several copies, even bulk copies.

In a few pulpits it was denounced. Torn up. Publicly burned. That always triggered off a flood of requests for copies.

We ran those stencils until they disintegrated on the duplicator. Then wrote a second magazine. A third. And a fourth.

Then, because we were all the time receiving requests for back numbers, we took the best (if such a word can be used about such an untidy production) of all the articles and made them into one big combined edition.

By which time, the circulation had risen to two thousand.

Which is good by any standard.

And at that point, God blew the whistle.

All of us involved in producing "Small Cords" just felt clearly that was that. No more issues.

Couple of reasons.

There was a strong pressure on us to start a new group. (The Disorganised Church of St. George or something.) Which is the oldest mistake in the book. 'Come out of your confusion; come and join my confusion!' God wanted prime time in fact as well as in word.

Plus - it was time for us to learn a bit more.

Get a few more glimpses of the kingdom.

Learn what it's like to live outside the religious system all the time. (Except, as we said, when we're invited to speak.)

First thing that happened was a family conference.

As a family, we're non-stop talkers. Trivia, profundities, gossip, philosophy... the lot of us, we talk. Listen, too, if it's worth it.

This time, one of our four dear little kiddies wanted individual attention. Hence the misnomer of 'conference'.

It's always an ominous event, a family conference. Especially when one of our kids initiates it.

Sure, the beginning was innocent enough. Children are marvels of diplomacy. (Guess where they get it from.) But Eileen and I chewed fingernails down to the elbow waiting for the 'but'. There's always a 'but'...

"I'd like to start by thanking you both, Mum and Dad, for the way you've brought me up."

"You've been strict with me, and I feel it's been good."

"But..."

"...I want to get to know God better - to learn in a practical sort of way to hear him and obey him. So from now on, I'm never going to obey you both as my parents. My responsibility will be to the Lord."

Tense silence.

Broken by me making significant gesture with flat of hand and saying "Sounds good; but just make one little mistake, that's all. One little mistake..."

I can be eloquent and sympathetic when I try.

That wasn't the end of the conference, though. We started to talk it over as rationally and calmly as any bunch of parents and kids can when their whole family structure is undermined. We asked what changes offspring was planning to make.

Offspring admitted that nothing particularly sprang to mind, but would just be playing it by ear.

And - to be honest - the aforesaid offspring did make mistakes. Human beings do. But the fury of my strong left hand didn't descend as planned. Because Eileen and I found we were getting on better with that youngster than hitherto.

Teenagers and parents aren't the easiest combination. They - play games. Like annoying each other under some innocent- seeming, almost legitimate pretext.

Go to someone else's home, see it as a glaring example. Then watch for it at your place.

But that stress-making business had stopped with us. Offspring didn't have to defend or justify anything. Didn't feel pressured by us. So no pressure built up. Both sides were free to talk. Discuss. Ask advice, even.

There was - communication.

Parents have a sneaky little tendency to keep their little darlings immature for as long as possible. (No, not you. But think of your friends. And their pampered dependent youngsters.)

I mean! It's nice to feel they need you. To feel they haven't outgrown you. To manipulate only a tiny bit here and there to ensure they stay childish.

God, on t'other hand, has a different programme. He's always believed in training folk by giving them a challenge. Booting 'em faster than they wanted to go.

So he said that a boy became a man at...twelve.

Twelve?

Ridiculous.!

Look - don't argue with us. Complain to Dad about it. A boy became a man at twelve. Old enough to expound the law. Or to marry.

How old d'you think Mary was when Gabriel dropped in to upset her applecart?

Oh - just one more thing on the parent/child theme: the sooner children stop depending on parents, the sooner those parents can start learning from their children. At the very least, children know what it's like to live in the pressures and problems of their generation now. Whereas us, we've only just got the nineteen-sixties morality and finances and music and fashions sussed. If our children can tell us the score without our getting an attack of the vapours, we might build a two-way bridge over the generation gap.

I mean, don't you wish you could have clued up your parents on what life was like when you were a teenager? If you could've been sure they wouldn't have erupted or collapsed or locked you in a nunnery or summat.

Our youngster's Declaration of Independence prompted us to re-examine our own relationship to God.

How much of our lifestyle was genuinely us (either with or without our Dad) and how much was put on us by religious conditioning?

Religion imposes a strong rule of law on the lives of those who attend. Sometimes that rule is spelled out, laid down, the 'official line'. Sometimes it's implied, communicated by vibes, atmosphere. (As we said near the beginning of this book - Eileen had been allowed ice-skating but not cinema; I'd been allowed cinema but not skating. It was a wonder we ever met, eh.)

Now, there's a bit of safety in the rules and no-noes of the denominations. Apparently.

But law carries a couple of snags.

It doesn't change the person inside.

It makes folk pretend they live more puritanically than they really do.

Both are bad.

There's another odd thing about law. Overall, Pentecostal and charismatic groups are more legalistic than non-penty groups. Sure, we've heard all the tales of charismaniac lunacy - and sometimes an odd story or two is true - but more often than not the rules and regulations of spirit-filled organisations are incredibly tight.

What holds true in one group doesn't necessarily apply to another, but that's the general pattern.

There are laws on what music is okay and what isn't; what books are safe; what films have an insidious evil underlying the special effects and stunts. Chuck your ten-cent pieces - pictures of demons on them. Wear second-hand clothes and you cop spirits from the previous owner. And many, many more. All believed and obeyed very seriously here and there.

Now, this isn't a book on the supernatural. "Beyond Murphy's Law" is. But it's necessary to take a look at why penties have such a thing about demons. Often they're more scared of that area than most Christians. Often, too, they cop more trouble from it.

The first reason is that the baptism of the Holy Spirit puts you into events that are intrinsically supernatural. You needn't have been aware of another realm until then. That's not an excuse for steering clear of receiving the Holy Spirit, though. If you just want a quiet life, uneventful, unsupernatural, be an agnostic.

The second reason is that organisations in general don't teach in practical terms that the work of Christ Jesus on the cross is the only defence against demons and the total defence against demons.

That sentence needs to be taken carefully. It's important, and we've put in each word for a purpose.

All groups attach great importance to the crucifixion and resurrection. However, the language and solemnity with which it is usual to surround the subject actually have a negative effect: ordinary Joe Christian isn't being told of the day-by-day purposes of the cross. Add to that the fondness of religion for giving rules and laws - and you get believers who are not trusting in the blood of Jesus in fact, but trusting in their obedience to certain rules.

So if they haven't prayed in tongues for an hour, read three chapters of the Bible and written a cheque for the building fund - they feel vulnerable to demonic attack. If they've had thoughts rude and carnal, said ***** to mother-in-law or not paid their TV licence - they feel vulnerable .

And if they feel vulnerable because of something done or undone, essentially that is unbelief in the adequacy of Christ's death and resurrection as it applies to them - so they are vulnerable to demonic attack.

Satan only has the power that the individual gives him.

So the defence against demons is:

Question: "Isn't there a need to get rid of certain things? What about the story in 'Beyond Murphy's Law' where you two gave up doing plaques of Maori spirits?"

Answer: Yes and no.

Let's start with the easy areas. Some things just aren't on: making representations of demons, f'rinstance, as we had been doing; decorating one's home with such things. Some things are perfectly okay - if your trust in Jesus is sufficient, that is. Paul gives the example of meat that's been offered to idols; quite relevant in NZ where much lamb is slaughtered with suitable Moslem ritual.

What about the grey areas.

For starters, don't get all intense and panicky. "Wonder is there's a demon in these Jim Reeves records?" You're just being neurotic, dear.

"What's special about that?" I demanded.

The friend gave a bit of a grin.

"You felt it, too? That photo was put beside the coffin at my uncle's funeral. It's been bugging me, so I covered it."

In the case of an "innocent" object, simple exorcism will clean it out if it has merely been used in an occult situation (and as a matter of interest, the placing of photographs beside the coffin at some funerals is not to remind the mourners of what the deceased looked like, but to transfer a spirit to the likeness). In the case of a representation of a demon - even a plastic Buddha made in Taiwan - it has to be destroyed.

The whole purpose of the past few pages is to ensure that you live totally free of condemnation.

Totally. TOTALLY. T-O-T-A-L-L-Y.

That's what "Seek ye first...his righteousness" is all about. His righteousness, please note. Not ours.

We can't begin to improve until we are absolutely perfect.

Does that sound odd? Contradictory?

Let's rephrase it.

We can't begin to improve until we are absolutely perfect in God's sight.

Do you know that there is no difference between those two statements? Think about it. Because if God sees you as perfect (...with the imputed righteousness of Christ, when he looks at you he sees Jesus...), what right have you got to say he's wrong?

Look - he will always be making changes in you. But being condemned for what we are (even if we've done something wicked-bad-nasty) is Satanic, not Godly. A denial of the atonement. God says you're perfect - then gets on with the business of growing you up.

Take a family. Pa, Ma, a ten-year-old and a new baby. That baby is hopeless compared with the ten-year-old. The baby is desperately retarded, compared with the adults. Despite that, everyone loves the little perisher who gurgles and coos and poos his pants and, over the years, grows up.

But (you protest) that baby can't help being a baby. He's not to blame for his condition.

Right. Same with us. Now, that is. We are not to blame for the way we are. We're forgiven. Counted as perfect. Free to enjoy ourselves and the whole crazy process of growing up as planned by our Dad.

If you can grasp this "no condemnation" thing, it'll revolutionise your life. Guaranteed. Religion, of course, likes to keep us in a perpetual state of guilt. "We have done the things we ought not to have done and left undone the things which we ought to have done" - week after week.

Mind you, some a bit sinful. That's nowt more than inverted existentialism. Look - emotions are great when they're nice; when they're bad, ignore them. There is no such thing as feeling spiritual. Pre-menstrual tension and male menopause and toddler tantrums are no barometer for checking your relationship with God.

And there's another reason for the preoccupation with guilt in so many believers. Remember the story we told you 'bout the insurance agent explaining the Christian life in terms of Israelites going from Egypt to Canaan?

Quite simply water baptism (crossing the Red Sea) and baptism in the Holy Spirit (Sinai) are wilderness experiences. Sinai, particularly, was a time when the Israelites heard the law read out and glibly said: "All this will we do". Many theologians say that was a major clanger. They should've said "What? You've got to be kidding".

Anyhow, the wilderness represents an abnormal stage. A no- man's land. A highly organised, yet unnatural, existence that God intended to be extremely brief - and which the Israelites insisted on spinning out as a way of life until every last one of them (bar two, plus kids) dropped dead.

They'd been outcalled from Egypt, but refused to be called into the promised land. They regarded the lifetime of being part of a group that was endlessly routemarched over sand and rock as being safer than going into a beautiful and fertile land where God would drive out their enemies without them lifting a finger, and where houses, wells and vines would be provided for the taking.

Thick, Trev!

That - before we get all smug - is a picture of us. Like over the last two thousand years.

Jesus came teaching the kingdom of God.

The people whom he had called out from the world (and 'outcalled' is the proper translation of the word the Bibles print as 'church') became pre-occupied with the identity of their group.

And with the structure of their group.

And with official positions within it.

Which was really nothing more than being content with being called out... But refusing to be called into...

In this case - into the kingdom of God.

You see, the early church listened to the equivalent of the ten spies who brought the bad report. Perhaps they were what Paul labelled the 'Judaisers'. The folk who were happy with this newfound belief in the Messiah, but wanted to put a number of Jewish customs and laws on gentile converts.

Saying gentiles can't be spiritual unless you obey all these things. Don't eat this and that. Certain days are special. Get circumcised.

And at that point in history, nobody bothered to listen to the spies who brought the good report. The first-century-AD equivalent of Joshua and Caleb.

Who were saying: 'Forget the snags; ignore the law. God's dealt with all that. Think about the grapes and the pomegranates'.

Nobody heard them. The church began its pointless two-thousand-year hike.

* * *