(Beyond Murphy's Law by George and Eileen Anderson; 2nd file)

We're glad you asked us that.

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

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

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

Our spirit is a little bit of God.

Get a beer and have a think about it.

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

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

Go create something.

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

Like heresy for starters. 'Taint, really.

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

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

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

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

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

Religion is Murphy as his best. Soul level.

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

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

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

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

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

That doesn't turn God on one little bit.

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

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

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

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

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

Now sing the doxology.

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

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

Trite, ain't it.

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

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

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

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

That's all.

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

"Father."

That's an obvious example.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder why? Not enough dignity, I suppose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was staring, puzzled.

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

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

"How much for the oil?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loving your neighbour has some cute little side-effects.

And watch out for religion putting the bite on you.

"What about Giving?"

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

Like tithing. Handing over ten percent of your takings.

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

No way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forget it.

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

We're not kidding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

The supernatural's a bit like sex.

They make films about it, write books about it.

Moneyspinners. Very popular.

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

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

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

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

Tell you a story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then they left.

No departing footsteps. No car engine.

And the evil feeling hung around us.

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

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

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

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

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

Another scream. Then we realised.

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

The men in black never returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you handle a non-rational universe?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We put it down to our makeshift chemical toilet.

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

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

Until one bright summer afternoon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question is - how? Why?

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

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

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

Right. Then on with the answer.

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

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

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

Let's backtrack.

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

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

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

Fair enough? No way.

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

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

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

Nothing like that.

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

Fair question. Have a cliché.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Access to God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

We were running out of options.

Enter, one bright February morning. Hurricane Colleen.

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

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

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

There are two parts to the punchline of this story.

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

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

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

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

All rather precise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now...

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

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

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

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

Mr. Murphy had been bypassed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neat. Three cheers for God.

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

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

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

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

Murphy waited for God's next move.

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

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

But Murphy listened, picking up clues.

There was a showdown coming, scheduled for High Noon.

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

Enter Jesus.

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

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

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

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

Let's cut a long story short.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus raised his eyebrows. Murphy continued quickly.

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

Murphy folded his arms defiantly. His confidence was returning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *