Beyond Small Cords

By George Anderson

Several years ago, Eileen and I, with the help of four friends, produced a scruffy little magazine called 'Small Cords'. It was intended to be a dig in the ribs at the pomposity of religion, and to point out a few glaring differences between cosy tradition and the radical teachings of Jesus. But that was years ago. There are few churches which haven't changed a bit since then, and the 'Small Cords' message is no longer as startling as it once was. So - here we go BEYOND Small Cords, beginning where the scruffy magazine left off, and setting out in the direction of the kingdom of God.
Originally this book was a slim fifty pages which a kind-hearted and long-suffering friend produced by slaving for hours over a hot photocopier. It sold out in no time. We hadn't the cheek to ask for a repeat performance on the copier, so we bought an elderly offset press, sort-of learned to work it, and printed a second volume. Which sold out even more quickly. Then we combined the two into a reasonable book of 144 pages... Since then we've lurched into the 20th century with an XT and put everything on disk. And (now) we've entered the space age, and battled the mysteries of burning and stomping onto a CD-Rom. At our age... Welcome to 'BEYOND SMALL CORDS'. It's an attempt to nudge religious thinking out of its comfortable rut. An attempt to ignore orthodoxy and take what the Bible says literally. An attempt to put the teachings of Jesus first and foremost, rather than in second place. Here you are... We hope you enjoy a good read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Harris
• Release date: May 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301119851

George Anderson

About George Anderson and Sophie Brown: Before serving as a tour guide, they were full-time professors working in Auckland University of Technology. After having their first child in 1986, they have decided to pursue their long-hidden dream of exploring the world. Inspired by their life-changing adventure throughout the world, they have decided to serve as a tour guide. This happy couple has been serving as a New Zealand local tour guide for more than 30 years now. In their effort to show the world what New Zealand truly is, they have decided to write a book about it.

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-FOREWORD

Several years ago, Eileen and I, with the help of four friends, produced a scruffy little magazine called 'Small Cords'. It was intended to be a dig in the ribs at the pomposity of religion, and to point out a few glaring differences between cosy tradition and the radical teachings of Jesus. But that was years ago. There are few churches which haven't changed a bit since then, and the 'Small Cords' message is no longer as startling as it once was. So - here we go BEYOND Small Cords, beginning where the scruffy magazine left off, and setting out in the direction of the kingdom of God.

Originally this book was a slim fifty pages which a kind-hearted and long-suffering friend produced by slaving for hours over a hot photocopier. It sold out in no time. We hadn't the cheek to ask for a repeat performance on the copier, so we bought an elderly offset press, sort-of learned to work it, and printed a second volume. Which sold out even more quickly. Then we combined the two into a reasonable book of 144 pages... Since then we've lurched into the 20th century with an XT and put everything on disk. And (now) we've entered the space age, and battled the mysteries of burning and stomping onto a CD-Rom. At our age... Welcome to 'BEYOND SMALL CORDS'. It's an attempt to nudge religious thinking out of its comfortable rut. An attempt to ignore orthodoxy and take what the Bible says literally. An attempt to put the teachings of Jesus first and foremost, rather than in second place. Here you are... We hope you enjoy a good read.

TRESPASSER

We'd hosed down the yard, and Val and me was just off back to the house to get cleaned up. Then I spotted this joker in the lower paddock, sitting on a stump with his back to us.

I whistled Jess, and the dog and me went off to investigate. You can't be too careful these days. Give some folk an inch and you'll have them flogging stuff as soon as your back's turned.

Jess must've got his scent as we went through the gate. She's mean with strangers and was off like a shot. But not her usual run. More like one of her pups. Know what I mean? And never a bark from her.

And as she reached him, it was like he was expecting her. Put out his hand and scratched her behind the ears. Jess can be funny about that. But she just stood there, tail thumping furiously. Then, all of a sudden, sat down at his feet. Just like that.

The fellow half turned as I approached. A Maori in jeans, jandals and tank-top. With a part-filled sack beside him. He grinned affably, showing an irregular row of teeth.

Gidday.

You're trespassing. What do you think you're doing here?

He jerked a grimy thumb down the paddock to the creek.

Looking at that, eh.

Now I'll grant you it's a view worth seeing. Val and me used to take a spell there sometimes. But that was a few years back, when things weren't so busy.

Doesn't give you the right to trespass, though, I told him.

The Maori gave a half shrug. The Boss made it. It's His.

That narked me. I don't need that sort of talk from anyone, thank you very much.

Cut that out, fellow, I told him. Who the hell d'you think you are?

I hadn't intended it as a question. But this Maori joker wrinkles his eyebrows, gives a little smile and says:

An angel.

Cut that out! His cheek annoyed me.

Why? His smile broadened. What bugs you? Skin? Clothes? Then, half to himself. Wasp.

What?

Wasp. W.A.S.P. Stands for White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. The American definition of a Christian. Probably the Kiwi definition of an angel, eh?

Funny, I just knew this Maori joker wasn't having me on. I just knew. But I also reckoned I knew what he was going to say next, and I didn't want any of it. I'm used to salesmen. Don't give 'em an inch; attack!

Okay, fellow, you can leave it right there. If you think you're going to get Val and me all tarted up in our town clothes and off to some church an' that, you're darn well wrong.

I must have said something funny. At least he laughed like a drain. Then he wiped his eyes with the back of a grubby hand and shook his head.

Look pal, work it out for yourself. The Boss's Son used to get a rough time at those places, remember?

Irrationally, I began to argue the opposite way.

"But they're decent folk that go to church, aren't they? What's wrong with that?

He shrugged. Sure they are. But some of them have got it all wrong. Missed the point. Think they've got to work at it. But that's technique, and technique doesn't switch the Boss on. He likes kids.

Kids?

"You know - folk acting natural. Nothin' put on. Look!

He plucked at his rumpled tank-top.

This'll give you a clue, friend, he said. No robes. No shining armour. Not even a halo. D'you know why? Because it'd be phoney, here 'n' now. Be yourself. If you're His child, what does that make Him...? Have a chat to Him the way you really are. Y'know - deep down inside.

And with a final pat to Jess, he ambled off. I didn't even bother to watch him go, or see if he'd vanish or something. All of a sudden it wasn't terribly important. At last I could see that I'd been trying to battle out something that had been fought - and won - a long time ago.

The only barrier between God and me was my own efforts. The door was wide open. All that was necessary was...

Gidday, Dad. It's me...

NO SENSE OF JUSTICE

Parents? Don't talk to me about parents!

They're responsible for kids running wild. Encourage them, they do.

Look - you're a stranger round here, so I'll tell you a story.

There's a haulage firm about ten minutes drive up the valley. Couple of brothers run it. Their old man set it up 'way back and has been a kind of sleeping partner in recent years.

Seems the younger of the two brothers developed a nasty attack of itchy feet. You know, the old grass is always greener syndrome. Couldn't hit it off with the local yokels and wanted to say a final 'hooray' to the valley.

So after a few weeks of being unliveable with - especially to number one son - he fronts up to the old man and spills all.

Look, Dad says he, I want out. There's nothing wrong with the business as far as it goes. But let's face it, you dreamed it up, and it well-nigh runs itself. How about buying me out? Go on - you can afford to.

If anyone asks my advice - which they don't - I'd say a positive don't. Let the young fellow go and you're asking for trouble. At my age, I know.

But - and it still sticks in my throat - that old man nods, says why not? and phones the trusty old family solicitor to shuffle around the necessary papers.

Next thing, young 'un is dashing hither and yon buying airline tickets to romantic places and being measured for travellers cheques, having his photo done for a passport and earbashing everyone who'd listen about where he plans to go and what he plans to do.

Sickening, really. Suppose all that money... Well, he'd been on wages before, ploughing all the profits back into the business, so the novelty just grabs him.

Anyway - grand farewell, off to the airport in something big he's rented from Avis, and the valley settles back into its usual routine again.

Except that everyone seems to drop by at the haulage business to know how the young fellow's enjoying himself.

And the old man produces the latest postcard or letter with all those flashy foreign stamps and reads bits out, while folk go ooh and aah in the right places.

But, sorry, I'm not impressed. You see - I can read between the lines. And the family's little pride and joy isn't content with squandering the dollars on coach trips and conducted tours, clicking his instamatic in the general direction of the ancient monuments.

Not he. The scallywag is into the black sheep business, and working quite hard at the wink wink, nudge nudge aspects of have a Good Time.

If you know what I mean.

You'd think the old man would go burko. Summon said son homeward forthwith and all that. Does he what! Must know what's going on in faraway places with strange-sounding names, and still doesn't turn a hair. And when I start to suggest that a little bit of parental heavy-handedness on little brother seems indicated, he gives me a glance that he must've been keeping in the freezer and tells me to go change round the tyres on the Big Mack, just for practice.

What? Oh, yes. That's what I hadn't intended to let slip, about the young fellow and me being brothers. Still...

So I grit my teeth and keep my nose to the grindstone. You see -I know that kid brother of mine. Doesn't plan things.

And sure enough, disaster strikes. A bit of an overseas economic crisis just happens to coincide with the little lad running out of funds. So one way and another he's stuck abroad with yours truly trying not to say told you so every time the old man walks by. And by all accounts he'll be getting a wee bit ravenous if those foreign gentlemen don't feel generous towards impoverished aliens within their borders.

Which they don't. How do I know? Easy. The odd phone call to our embassy over there evokes untold information. So I can't help feeling somewhat smug to learn that junior is probably doing what other tourists are being forced into - helping out on a farm for no more than his keep. Which, by their delightful rural standards, is probably little more than the rations he's doling out to the beasts.

Tough bikkies, that's my reaction.

Then, suddenly, it's all go.

Telegram from the embassy. The young fellow darkens their diplomatic doorstep, surrenders his passport and is being repatriated on the next jumbo out.

Now, I'm not a vindictive sort of fellow. But I don't mind confessing there's a tiny bit of satisfaction lurking somewhere that looks forward to the day that little brother returns to the valley and asks me if there's any chance of a job around the place.

No problem. Of course there's work. In fact I'm reckoning the lube bay could do with someone full-time doing oil changes right now.

It doesn't work out like that, though. The old man hops into the ute and roars off to meet little brother off the city bus at the south of the valley.

So, me, I miss being around for the next bit of the story. I get called up on the r.t. to come with the four-by-four and drag out a rig that's bogged in a soft patch up the road up north. Great. And in this weather.

But I keep in touch. There's any number of neighbours going past with scraps of news.

He's returned. I know. Wanted a job. Of course. "Your