Ethics are largely bunk.

It is socially okay to use Latin- and Greek-based words to describe organs and actions connected with wees, poos and nooky.

Not Anglo-Saxon words.

Saying those sort of words with sufficient emphasis in certain public situations, one runs a fair risk of legalised retribution.

Murphy and his smokescreens.

Hopefully, the generation that made so much of "correct" behaviour is fast dying out. It has done a lot of harm, obscuring essentials under a marshmallow of good manners and social taboos.

There are essentials. Absolutes. But be warned. They're not intended to get you very far. They ensure you don't burn your fingers too badly. Or burn anybody else's. Make it easier for everyone to get on with the business of living. Unfortunately they carry such heavy religious overtones that we hesitate to mention them. You've guessed it - it's those original stoney oldies, the Ten Commandments. Sorry about that.

Let's see if we can dust 'em off and get down to what they say. Because they are highly relevant for avoiding basic pitfalls when making the quantum leap from soul level to spirit.

Give a deep sigh, and we'll start.

Most people have a God.

We aren't talking metaphors. This is nothing to do with "idolising a new car", or the latest boyfriend, singer or whatever.

No matter how abnormally highly you regard them, you'd never actually worship 'em, pray to 'em.

We're talking about actual Beings that people treat as gods or Gods. Who's yours?

The command means what it says. There is one God. He is the only one with the right to enjoy a Dad/son relationship with you. Up to this point, nobody disagrees. We'll keep trying.

Now we've lost you. Hang in there.

God is not the god of any system. Religious systems claim they do it God's way. And they all claim differently.

Let's look at the Christian gods. The Baptist god doesn't smoke or drink alcohol. The Exclusive Brethren god drinks alcohol but won't have a meal with outsiders. The Catholic god never uses contraceptives. And so on. "Gods many and Lords many," the Handbook says. Each reverend, each denomination, has its own. Great. If you like secondhand goods - or gods.

Okay - so we're saying "This is what God sez". But we're also adding "Don't believe a word of it, 'til you've checked it with Him."

And there is the vital question: what is God for?

When Murphy dresses up in his Sunday best and summons the faithful, he wants flattery, adulation, uncritical awe as a matter of routine.

Murphy wants things regimented. Disciplined. We did it this way last week; we'll continue to do it this way world without end, amen. As per the book. Read your prayers to Murphy. Find the page in the script that says you are all miserable sinners and tell him there's been no improvement since the previous time.

That's what Murphy's for. God is different.

What's Dad for? To get down to His kids' level, involved in their games and hassles, at the same time ever-so-subtly teaching them to be the spittin' image of Himself.

No awe? No reverence? Be careful with this one. There can be genuine times when you are in the presence of God and just about come unglued. But show us a home where the children grow quiet and still as their father walks in; where they have to watch the way every sentence is phrased...

Worse, where they may not approach him direct, but need to cajole mother to get round him...

...And we'll show you a cruel, paranoid man, obsessed by importance and fearful of inferiority. One day the authorities will act on the neighbours' complaints, knock on the door, and take the children to a place where they can begin to learn love.

Murphy makes a lousy father.

Trouble is, the reason people get hoodwinked into worshipping Murphy instead of God is that they fall for a rather clever little trick.

Murphy takes some minor characteristic of God, isolates it, gets all the reasons why it's important - then imitates it himself.

Illustration: when one of our brats got a splinter in a sensitive part of his or her anatomy, us two extracted the thing. Gentle as possible, wincing in genuine sympathy - but holding the wriggling limb, ignoring protests, inflicting minor surgery.

Dispassionate? Wrong. We actually cared. But there was a superficial "Got to be cruel to be kind" thing there.

Now - apply that to God.

There's justice. Power. Majesty. Inscrutableness. All part of His makeup.

But people, groups, denominations, religions that make these qualities too important actually play into Murphy's hands.

Unfortunately us humans get our priorities all wrong. In practice, that is. Okay, we know the theory, but in practice... We admire the bully. The aloof, cold character. The tyrant. The capricious, grasping dictator. Check the characters in your TV programmes.

And countless numbers of religions are based on some minor characteristic of God. Sure, He made laws. There's a place for them. A minor place. Home's not home because of rules and things. Dad isn't Dad because he throws his weight around.

Let's try another absolute.

(There must be an exemption clause for Catholics here somewhere...)

Fact is, the ban isn't on all graven images. It's on images (watch the wording carefully) of things in the heavens above, in (not "on") the earth beneath and in the waters under (not "on") the earth.

God isn't getting uptight about carvings of butterflies, moles and kippers.

We grant you that "heavens" can be ambiguous. Can be argued to mean "sky". Doubtful, though. It's in the context of things in the earth and thing in the waters under the earth.

Talk to any Maori. Ask where Taniwha lives. Mostly in subterranean pools - the waters under the earth. Where is the abode of evil spirits? In caverns within the earth.

Thus the command is dealing with likenesses of spirit beings from three areas. Because these likenesses can and do attract demons to them. And cause much mischief until the objects are removed.

"It's only a souvenir I brought back from India; they make 'em by the thousand."

True - but it often proves to be the source of nagging illnesses and accidents. Even more so if kept as a good-luck charm.

Don't, please don't, confuse this one with blasphemy. It has nothing to do with the use of the Deity's name in moments of mild anger or surprise.

Grammatically it is as much a statement as a command. It could read: "Whenever you use God's name, it won't be in vain".

British legal history bears this out. Back in the Good Old Days, there were no laws against or punishments for perjury. A witness took the oath: "I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me, God". And that was that.

Anyone giving evidence with tongue in cheek and fingers crossed would cop instant retribution from above with no assistance from the local judge. Perjury laws and penalties came in as religion made God appear more remote, and lawmakers lost confidence in God's ability to take care of the situation.

Invoking supernatural judgement works. Which is why Jesus strongly recommended we didn't. "Let yes and no be sufficient for your purposes," he stressed. And the Quakers took him seriously enough to have the laws modified so an oath never has to be given for legal purposes. It is adequate to "make an affirmation" instead - although you might have to insist, if you're dealing with an official who doesn't know his job.

Jesus also advised caution in the matter of straight-out curses. His followers were once refused bead and breakfast and wanted to call down fire from heaven on the establishment concerned.

He didn't ridicule their idea. He stopped them on the grounds that they didn't understand the powers of the paranormal. Curses work.

And, conversely, so do blessing. Try it. Useful in tight situations - for example, if your fear of being beaten up in a dark ally overcomes your fear of sounding a bit of a twit. Out loud, deliberately command God's blessing on the shambling gentlemen who wish to do you over.

It's worth it.

Two quickies: if you break a curse in the name of Jesus, bless the bloke who pronounced the curse, otherwise the thing boomerangs back on him. And in situations where an exorcism is inappropriate, but something is getting out of hand, it can be pertinent to say: "the Lord rebuke you".

Use sparingly. Never to impress.

Nevah, as Sir Winston Churchill might have said, has so much been snarled up for so many by so little. Or something. Religion has had a ball with this one.

As a child in Edinburgh I (George writing this bit) once travelled across the city (for a penny - makes me feel ancient) by tram to attend a Wee Free Church.

At the door, my way was barred by a stern and righteous elder. "And how was it that you arrived?" he demanded. "By the tram," I piped, pre-pubescently.

"No-one enters the House of the Lord if they have caused a manservant or maidservant to labour on the Sabbath day," he replied, turning me away. He meant I was responsible for the sins of the tram driver in his wee cab up front operating the regulator handle, and the broad-beamed conductress who gave me the ticket.

Much later I wondered why the church was lit by electricity which demanded technicians to oversee its generation. And whether the highly holy elder enjoyed fresh milk in his tea on Monday as he read the morning paper. From cows milked on Sunday and presses that rolled on that day.

Let's clarify. The command tells us we have a built-in mechanism that gives optimum performance when we run six days on, one day off. Most people expect five days on, two days off. Okay. We're even good for bursts of non-stop activity, though it's not to be recommended.

However, the sabbath business has nothing to do with going to church. Would you believe God made it impossible?

You see, when the Israelis moved into their land, the Tabernacle (later the Temple), was the only place of worship. And a cute little law restricted travel on the sabbath to only a few miles.

So the majority of the population couldn't get to the Temple each week even if they'd wanted to.

Some bright spark'll say they went to the local synagogue. Not on your nelly. At least, not at the start.

Synagogues (from which our so-called "churches" have evolved) were never, ever our Dad's idea. Murphy gets the credit for them - and still collects royalties from the patent rights.

When the Israelis were defeated and carted off to Babylon, they were scared of losing their identity, being away from the Temple ritual and all that. So they set up schools to teach their youngsters about Judaism. Once a week, on the sabbath, the oldies and wrinklies joined the kids in a get- together. Songs, lectures, prayers.

Nice - except that when they finally got back to the presence of God in the Holy of Holies, they kept the synagogue thing going.

Murphy loves tradition.

And Christianity pinched the idea.

Just one thing. Don't get uptight about observing the "correct" day. We grant you the Christian Sunday is not the Judaistic Sabbath. Nor did the church have any right to change the day of rest.

But especially round the other side of the globe in New Zealand, days are named solely for convenience and with reference to the International Date Line. Which, as every schoolboy knows, is located bang opposite the Greenwich meridian. Fixed by order of the mighty British Empire, by gad! Not by Dad.

So don't get all Murphy-minded about your day off. And remember, "Holy" just means "different".

Family is an absolute. Dad, mum and the kids. Get it together in a family context and it'll work out in the Big Smoke.

Note one thing - the word is "honour". Not "obey". Sure, your kids should obey you. Thump 'em if they don't.

Up to a certain age. After that, let 'em make their own mistakes. You aren't empire-building or founding a dynasty. Your job is to produce brats who can stand on their own two feet. Raise their own litters. Handle the wide and wicked world. And treat you as an equal. Ouch.

You'll get no medals if you succeed. But a lot of smug satisfaction.

Which is what honour is all about.

* * *

We're half-way through the schedule of absolutes.

Sorry if it's heavy going. But it's Dad's way of making sure you don't thump your head against too many brick walls.

Sometimes translated "you shall do no murder".

Our life is our life. God's the only one who has the right to re-locate it. Before you say governments can decide when it's okay to defend your country - read a few war histories and see the cock-ups made by politicians and generals. Other aspects of killing we've already mentioned.

Marriage is an absolute. One bird, one bloke, for life.

We're not being stuffy. Or super-holy and censorious to those who are trying some other permutation or who are into it the second time round. We don't get shocked at people who divorce, "live in sin", or, for that matter, are single. Let the religious judge. But any variation on the one man, one wife theme has built-in, long-term problems.

The Bible has always had a nice earthy attitude to marriage. No ceremonies laid down. Just an announcement so lads and lasses of the village know that those two are no longer on the waiting list.

And marriage is for sex. Not for having children. Sure, children tend to follow (as Eileen and I found out). But primarily for the purpose of Getting It.

Even old Paul says if a couple are randy they're asking for trouble to wait until they can afford a flash ceremony. Go to it, he says. Get spliced.

Before you disagree, think of a few incompatible marriages you know.

They seen to start off all smoothly, but after the couple hatch a batch of brats, one or other partner shuts shop. At best, sex is "permitted"; at worst - that's it, no more naughties for you, chum.

What went wrong?

Nothing. Or everything.

Just that one partner was never interested in sex except as a means of producing a family. And once the kids were there, sex became unnecessary. Which is tough if the other spouse feels differently.

Remember - a person can be homosexual, lesbian, or frigid as an ice cube and still want a family.

Sure, there's more to marriage than that. Lots more. But until you grow into it, it's nowt but words. And the religious have overworked terms like love and companionship and sharing until you could spew when they're mentioned.

And all the "liberated", "explicit", "frank" attitudes that are proudly paraded today are still religious and inhibited. They describe novelty and adultery.

Before we get off this delightful subject - a comment directed at bachelors and spinsters.

Dad does give some folk "a gift of celibacy". And it's genuine, hallmarked, 24-carat celibacy. Not singlehood.

Which means, apart from the hassle of well-meaning friends who either think you've gone gay/lesbian or try and marry you off to whatever's handy - you've no problem. You're not bothered. Or missing anything. Or trying to justify your state to yourself. If you have the "gift". Not otherwise.

Unfortunately, "celibacy-as-a-vocation" can be a big religious con. Which is tough on those with the normal get- up-and-go. They get swept along on the crest of a soul-level high, with the applause of their horny inferiors ringing in their ears.

Then spend the rest of their natural under a cold shower.

And if you're a bachelor or spinster and suspect you're on the shelf, here are a couple of don'ts.

#1: Don't blame your looks. #2: Don't say you've never met anyone good enough.

Both statements are excuses. Meaning that either you chicken when it comes to the crunch, or you're looking for the unattainably idyllic, and don't realise that most people fart in the bath.

Seems an obvious sort of absolute, doesn't it.

Look at it, though. See what's behind it. Then try it on for size.

In the first place, it shows God isn't all that communally or communistically-minded.

Stealing pre-supposes ownership.

Sure, everything comes from God. But he appoints us as trustees of various goodies. Woe betide the bloke who tries a bit of clandestine of forcible re-allocating.

Hands off.

Now - apply it to yourself. Do you take people's property?

Tell you what we mean: have you ever come up against some Big Business or government department or local authority where the rules - made by them - were stacked hopelessly in their favour. You protest to the clerk, who gazes at you blankly. "Don't blame me," says she. "I don't make the rules."

Or the inspector - and there are swarms of them in this bureaucratic paradise - who insists on the letter of the law, even though the reason for the law is totally absent in your case. But he would never ask his masters to grant him discretion in times of genuine exception.

Who's guilty. If the rules are unfair - who's to blame? Don't pass the buck. If you work for a firm or department that uses undue pressure (legal or otherwise) against individuals - you are implicated.

If you make your money by applying harsh and unfair rules - you are responsible.

Murphy's system keeps going because normal, decent people compromise their principles in return for a pay-cheque.

Why not? If I didn't, somebody else would. Everybody does it. So it must be right. Mustn't it?

Truth is an absolute. As a normal

Doesn't mean you can charge round telling folk "the truth about themselves".

Nor painfully and neurotically ensuring the utter literal accuracy of every detail of all you do or say.

After all, take the stories in this book. Most of the characters did say something close to what we've written. But it's only an approximation. Normal, spontaneous speech makes well-nigh unintelligible reading if transcribed word-for- word.

Accurate reporting is akin to madness.

But false witness is something else. Lies, damned lies and statistics.

"I'll fix it in no time, better'n new."

"Her? No. She'll do her best, but..."

It's built into the fabric of society. Not always the straight-out back-to-front whopper.

The innuendo. The half-truth.

That is hard to pin down. That relies on the tone of voice. The half-lowered eyelid.

That is against your neighbour precisely because it is so intangible. So hard to hit.

Elusive. But effective in putting him down. Or you up, which amounts to the same thing. And carries with it your self-destruction: it is addicting.

Play politics, manipulate people, always have a get-out for not keeping your word, and sooner or later it becomes a reflex. Feeding the soul, strengthening the psyche.

Until the spirit is encapsulated. Inaudible. And virtually inacessible.

There's a variation on the theme. Might seem unconnected with false witness until you realise that some types (...not you, of course; others...) construct their lives around chopping and changing their plans to suit themselves. Regardless of what promises they've made. Or what they've implied. Or what others are expecting.

They rationalise their actions. In fact they have their story rehearsed and polished before you confront them.

It's suspicious that they're never taken by surprise. They never lose on a deal. Nice, they are. With bags of charm.

And here's a variation on the false witness thing.

Guarantor.

A common enough business. Someone's getting finance and needs a bit of a signature to back it. "Just a formality - you don't mind, do you?" So you sign a simple sentence saying you'll take over if your life-long chum falls on hard times.

Great. Don't. Unless when you sign you're prepared and able to make a gift of that money. Because acting as guarantor is an open invitation for your friend to rationalise his way out of his responsibilities.

Help the poor jerk. But look at the price tag first.

There's no virtue in trusting people.

Take calculated risks. Be prepared to make a present of untold. If you choose to. Or say a hard-hearted no.

But only a nit trusts people. Despite pouf-like pulpit publicity to the contrary, this is precisely what the Bible teaches.

There's a long list tacked on the end of this one. Including your neighbour's house, his wife (in that order in those chauvinistic days), his manservant, maidservant, ox, ass, "nor anything that is your neighbour's".

Covetousness. The basis of civilization. Murphy Marketing Board in action.

It means wanting someone else's lifestyle.

"Ooh, I'd love a house like theirs!" "If only my husband was as suave as Robert Redford." And so on.

Look around. How much your life is you? How much of your dissatisfaction with life is because you don't measure up to how your friends lay it out?

You'll kick yourself for being all kinds of an idiot if you discover they're actually aping one of their friends, won't you.

Don't pine for something that's not you. If you do, bang goes a helluva lot of emotional effort. And if you buy the wretched item, you've traded in so many hours of your working life for something that deteriorates as soon as you get it home.

Don't be hassled into living someone else's life. Don't stick with a wrong decision if you find you've made one. Or had one made for you.

So you were born in Godzone. So what? We like it - but then, we chose it in favour of dear old Mother England.

Can't you do better? For yourself, that is.Don't parrot your parents' attitudes. Don't be stuck with their religion. Or their ambitions for you. "Dad and mum would be terribly upset if we didn't go to church." "They'd never forgive Roger if he gave up that job of his." "Darling, you know they like us to bring the children over to see them once a week."

Parents may know better. Sometimes. Friends may be wiser. Sometimes.

So listen to advice - if it's fairly low-pressure. Then do your own thing.

There's something pathetic about a person who says "our church teaches this" or "we were brought up to do that".

If it's any good, make it your own.

If not, flush it down the loo.

And that was the Ten Absolutes, that was. If you stayed with it to the bitter end, ta!

Despite the prolixity, that was nothing but a flying visit. In fairness, read the thing for yourself at the end of "Exodus" (the one by Moses, not the other also not-to-be-missed best-seller by Leon Uris).

Because we missed out a few of the sticks and carrots. And if there's anything that's a bit obscure... Or if you disagree with what we've said...

Just ask Dad. They were His idea in the first place.

* * *

Israel is quite something.

Our time in Britain was almost over. We'd outstayed our welcome with every friend and relative in our address-book.

Eileen calculated that in three months we'd slept in 43 different beds. "If", she explained, "you count floors where there were no spare beds".

But we had almost two weeks before we were due to fly back to New Zealand.

There was no question of how we would while away the time. I looked at Eileen, she looked at me, and we said in unison:

This isn't a sun-setting-slowly-in-the-west travelogue, so I'll spare you most of the details. Sufficient to say that if you ever go anywhere - go to Israel.

Rob a bank, sell your house - but go to Israel. Don't bleat that it might be dangerous. Think of the number of people who die in bed. Riskiest spot on earth, and you go there every night.

We are and always have been unashamedly pro-Israeli and pro-Israel. We're not about to argue the merits or otherwise of the Zionist cause. We've no doubt that PLO propaganda must have a few grains of fact scattered among the chaff of the rhetoric.

But our bias is based on this: our Dad chose the Israelis, and Dad put 'em on that bit of turf at the east end of the Med. That being so, we won't argue with Him. History says you can't win.

We wanted to go to Israel to meet Israelis. And - unaccountably - we wanted to go to Bethel. No reason, just a feeling we both had that we weren't bothered about the commercialised holy places. But if we had the opportunity - Bethel.

The spot where Jacob dreamed of a direct link between this world and another, with non-human beings passing to and fro.

As it turned out, we saw Bethel.

And never met Israelis there. But Arabs.

We were off the tourist routes. Following the herd doesn't appeal.

On an Arab bus. No glass in the windows. Sacks, boxes and bundles of live chickens in the aisle. Music that jarred our Vera Lynn-type conservatism.

Ramallah was the end of the run. We wandered curiously along the main street. Months later we were to see a newsreel shot of the same street with armed troops pouring along it, and a TV newscaster describing the town as a PLO stronghold.

The day we were there we saw no political unrest. At a card-table on the crowded pavement a bespectacled Arab was furiously typing a letter which an old lady dictated to him in whispers.

Behind him the bus office. We edged around the table and entered. Slowly, loudly, we asked the way to Bethel.

The Arab - educated in America and speaking better English than we - sat us down and ordered a lad lounging in the doorway to bring turkish coffee.

Over the thick, syrupy drink he gave us instructions for find the bus stop. Then wrote something in an incomprehensible flowing script on a scrap of paper which we were to hand to the driver.

Probably said "Heave these two out at Bethel. No questions asked - you'd never understand 'em".

Anyway, we got there. To a barren hillside with the odd house dotted around.

A young Arab boy appeared. We explained that we were looking for the site of Jacob's dream. Mercifully he understood us and, telling us to follow, he scampered off over the rocks. We followed more sedately, Eileen clutching her skirts around her for fear of the multitudinous reptiles that lie in wait for innocent Europeans who venture into the Middle East.

The boy stopped at a heap of shaped stones. "Here you are, sir. Ya'akov. Where he dream." This was what we had felt impelled to visit. It was an anticlimax. I took an obligatory photo.

"Now, sir. You come home with me. Meet my family."

I look dubiously at Eileen. Nothing comes cheap out east. This would be expensive. But there was no point in staring at a spot whose magic seemed to have long-since departed.

The boy's home was close by. In the garden we were gravely introduced to his mother, a bevy of gloriously attractive daughters and a little afterthought of a younger brother.

We were led inside into the shadowy coolness of the house.

The rooms were spotless, the possessions simple and few. In one corner was an ancient treadle Singer. The oldest daughter was making elaborately ornamented Arab festal garments to be sold in the Ramallah market. These were not the cheap gaudy copies foisted on tourists in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, but ones which faithfully followed the tradition of countless generations, and which would be worn at celebrations and ceremonies far removed from the slick commercialism of the package tours.

The mother spoke no English. Firmly she took Eileen's arm and led her away.

There was a silence. At such times, foreign countries seem awfully foreign.

And Eileen returned, superb in the finest of their garments. Richly coloured. Lavishly embroidered. A cluster of coins - they were gold - about her neck. And a demure headpiece. The effect was magnificent.

Quickly the mother spoke to her son. He translated for us.

"The dress is not for you to buy, sir. I am to tell you to take the photographs. Then we shall eat."

There was much laughter as the whole family posed with Eileen. Then we sat down to enjoy mint tea and fresh figs while we told the family about ourselves.

It didn't matter that the boy's school English was somewhat limited in vocabulary. An extravagant, extrovert ability to pantomime is all that we needed - although I confess it is hard to act out the concept that our children arrived variously by caesarean section, forceps and adoption, without being somewhat vulgar.

At last it was time to go. The embroidered dress had been folded away. Only much later did we learn that the little dressing-up ceremony had represented a serious mark of favour, not often given. Never lightly bestowed. Our prejudices were being eroded...

We said our goodbyes.

The mother took our hands deliberately and said something her son never translated. There was no need. She was blessing us. Into that room came the conscious presence of God. Not the god of the Moslems, not the god of the Christians.

We walked away down the path. The boy trotted beside us.

At the gate I paused and pulled a handful of shekel notes from my pocket. The boy gazed at me gravely. "Sir," he said. "Put that money away, please. I have my own."

He led us to the highway and ordered us to wait. He called to another boy and ran off with him up the road.

When the bus appeared, the two lads had already boarded it. Our boy called us on board, sat us behind the driver, then jumped off, waving farewell. His friend sat across the aisle, clearly told to take care of us.

I reached in my pocket. The second boy tugged at my sleeve and shook his head.

"No," he said. "Is all paid."

We arrived back at Ramallah, and the second boy passed us into the care of a third, a teenager to whom he gave a careful explanation in Arabic.

Briskly, the youth led us through the town. Down side alleys. Across a crowded market square where the air was heavy with the smells of spices and cooked delicacies.

Deftly and energetically he fended off the beggars and hawkers who attempted to crowd round us.

Then in a narrow way between two shops he stopped.

"My name is Ramadan," he said.

We introduced ourselves and shook hands.

His brown eyes were questioning us. Finally he asked: "This land - is it Israel, or is it Palestine?"

We are, and always have been, unashamedly pro-Israeli. But something had happened during that blessing in the Arab home in Bethel.

I shook my head at his question.

"No, Ramadan. Not Israel, not Palestine. There is only One God. This is His Land."

For a moment the young man stood there. Then he nodded, satisfied.

We were taken to the Jerusalem bus. In a few minutes we were pulling away from the curb, waving goodbye to Ramadan.

Bethel had not been a disappointment.

For us, as for Jacob five thousand years before, a glimpse into a Gateway.

At the cost of losing the odd prejudice along the way.

Sure, I'm as convinced as ever that our Dad has favourites. But not in the way humans have favourites.

We spoil one at the expense of others. One kid gets extra, others go short.

Not with God. He has a motive behind His unfairness: jealousy.

Dad sees one of His kids - perhaps a whole nation of them - dragging their heels. Getting rather so-what towards Him. Flirting with one of Murphy's synthetic substitutes for Him. Generally dipping out on the goodies that God's jacked up.

Now, He could wave the big stick. Sometimes does.

But often enough He pretends He hasn't noticed. And instead, makes a whacking great fuss of someone else.

Which was what He did with Abraham and all his descendents, of course.

The object of the exercise was - and is - to make all the others so abominably jealous that they come charging up to God and say "Hey! I'm your kid too, remember?"

And hold their hand out for a lolly.

Trouble is, human nature is cussed. When one 'erbert gets a touch of the preferentials, the others scream and bellow - and try and clobber little blue-eyes, instead of running along to Dad. Pity. Wouldn't be the need for half the wars and feuds and things if folk realised there was more than enough to go round. Cash. Food. Land. Excitement.

Anything. Because He arranges the details in our lives. In such a way that things slot incredibly into place if we're living on the spirit level.

We had proved this in our first few hours in Israel.

Some days before our flight there, we'd been in Inverness, a lovely city set in the Highlands of Scotland.

One of those no-real-reason-but-I-think-we-should prompts that our Dad sometimes uses had sent us to knock on the door of a local minister and say hi.

As we talked with him and his family we mentioned our forthcoming visit to Israel.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

We shrugged. "Don't know yet. We'll find somewhere cheap when we arrive."

He rummaged through papers, copied out an address and passed it over to us. "A couple of girls stayed with us recently who live in Jerusalem. Look them up, see if they can help. People who know the locality can put you on to something better than you'd find for yourself."

We appreciated the help. But finding the place was another matter.

The bus from Ben Gurion Airport to Jerusalem was no problem, once we became used to being pressed against rifles and belts of ammunition carried by the soldiers.

The local bus from the main Jerusalem terminal across the city to the Damascus Gate was a mite trickier to find.

And from there - we were hopelessly lost. We still had the address. Written in English, though. So the passers-by we accosted would study it carefully, listen to our execrable pronunciation of the words, and shake their heads sadly.

Night was falling. The streets emptied rapidly. A piercing chant from a nearby mosque called the faithful to prayer.

A white Mercedes taxi stopped beside us. The driver studied our scrap of paper and nodded enthusiastically.

"You get in. Thirty shekel. I take."

No problem. Until Eileen said unless Jerusalem was built on an exceedingly regular pattern, we were merely circling the block time and time again.

I told the driver so. The good man was miffed at having his bluff called. He trod on the brake outside an imposing mansion and dumped our bags on the pavement. "American Embassy," he announced, pocketing the shekels. "You ask. They tell." And drove off into the night.

The embassy was closed and in darkness. I peered at the gate. The number of it was one digit removed from the street number we wanted.

"I'll try the house next door," I told Eileen, exuding the confidence that men turn on for their wives when they haven't a clue how to handle the situation. "They'll be the same number as the people we're looking for, so if we're in the right suburb they might just happen to know them."

The wrought iron gate of the next house was locked. We rang the bell set in the wall and waited. Dogs barked. A door opened. Voices. Light streamed down the drive.

"Can I help at all?" Once again we did our best with the unpronouncable address. There was a smooth click as the gate was unlocked.

"Come on in. How on earth did you manage to find us?" Bullseye. Thanks to our bewildered taxi-driver and a little help from Dad.

Within minutes we were being welcomed and introduced to everybody in the house. And assured that because the people they had spent time with in Inverness had been so hospitable, we would be just as welcome to stay with them in Jerusalem. Free.

* * *