If financial success is your main goal in life, without compunction about how you make your money, then there is good news for you. For unlike in Russia, where you’d have to marry into an oligarch’s family or kiss Putin’s ass (and even then you’d stand a high chance of falling out of an open window in a tall building), there is a way to unlimited financial success in the USA. Just follow these three simple points.

1. Join the Republican Party.
2. Commit any crime or crimes of your choosing: tax fraud, sex with under-aged children, libel—you name it!—and the Republican Party will close ranks around you and support you. It’s that simple! Whatever laws you break or sins you commit (as understood by evangelicals) you’re as innocent as a lamb and pure as the driven snow. But wait! There’s more!
3. When you are caught (and caught you will be, because to join the GOP these days, you can’t be very bright) go on Fox News(?), whine and say “It’s all lies!” Millions of fellow Republicans with more money than sense will send you cash and cheques faster than you can say “I want to speak to my attorney.”

Finally, do remember this important factor: the US Constitution is best left unread. Therefore it can mean anything you choose it to mean. This also applies to the law codes of every state. So wrap yourself in the Stars and Stripes, proclaim family values and then set about fleecing your family, neighbours, employers/employees and most of all, screw Uncle Sam!

The title for this blog comes from an old spiritual, which has at least two different versions. The one I’m thinking of is based on Ezekiel 37, wherein the prophet is whisked by God to a valley of dry bones, who represent the dead and exiled people of Israel, following their defeat by Babylon. If you don’t know the spiritual, then click on this fine recording by The Delta Rhythm Boys.

The song follows the scriptural reference, begging the question asked by God: “Can these bones live?” For anyone who has tried to live a life based on faith–Jewish, Christian or whatever–the question about whether dry bones can live again is as pertinent as ever. Why? It’s simply because most organised, institutionalised religions are, to a great extent, dry bones. Speaking only for my own faith tradition, the scriptures and the vast preponderance of theology, and the dogma which arises from theology, are skeletal remains of other people’s spiritual experiences. Most are written in third person narratives, with the occasional first person account–such as the letters of Paul.

Speaking from personal experience, no matter how much theology, doctrine or dogma one reads, it is a rare person indeed for whom such reading becomes a life-changing spiritual experience. I should also state that the reading of such material won’t prevent one from having a first-hand, genuine experience of the divine. It’s just that all the reading simply isn’t necessary. Like so much in life, I had to learn that lesson the hard way. The problem is that insitutionalised religions want their clergy to be well-versed in their scriptures–yes–and particularly in their doctrine, i.e. their interpretation of scripture. However, far too often doctrine becomes about the ‘right way to believe.’ It tends towards having the right answers to all questions of faith and doctrine. Rigid doctrine and dogma lead to fundamentalism, which then leads to the persecution/condemnation of those with different beliefs. Just consider Islamic State or American evangelicals–their doctrines hold that non-believers (in their judgement) should be eradicated. They hold that there is only one way to worship God. Yet, nothing could be further from the truth! I have found that it is the asking of good and delving questions that will more often lead one into a genuine life of faith. But be careful: good questions lead to other, sometimes better, questions! It is questions that lead us forward. Cut and dried answers lead us into a cul-de-sac.

Rather than go into my litany of the pitfalls of organised religion, I would encourage you to read my novel No Good Deed or Criminal Justice. Both or either will give you an insider’s view into the way the institutional church–to put it politely–can kick the stuffing out of you. Like all institutions, the church seeks to perpetuate itself, with its rules, dogma and doctrines. On a daily basis, these become more important than how we might grow closer to God or love ourselves and others. The teachings of Jesus fall by the wayside. So, am I telling you to stay away from churches? Not really. But I am suggesting that if you have real questions of spiritual life and faith, then find people whose life and faith have been tested; people who have suffered and come through it. There are many of them–but they won’t necessarily be wearing a clergy collar. Faith is about living life fearlessly and lovingly. To do less is to find oneself in a desert of dry bones.

I attended a gathering at our neighbours’ house yesterday evening and found myself in a conversation about ageing with some other 70-somethings. I averred that one of the best things about ageing consisted in not giving a shit anymore. But let me qualify that statement with one word in this blog’s title: “Graceful”. Do I give a shit about the war in Ukraine, climate change and growing inequality in the community of nations? Absolutely! I give a shit about those things and more. That’s where grace comes in. Grace is what keeps me from not giving a shit about anything in this world today. Grace is that momentary clutch in our hearts and brains that keeps us from saying things that are gratuitously hurtful, untrue, deceitful, etc. Grace creates the space for compassion and action for the sake of others.

So what is it I don’t I give a shit about? As I like to keep my blogs on the short side I won’t provide an exhaustive list. Let’s consider the BIG one: I don’t give a shit what other people think about me. Their opinions are worth whatever I pay for them. This is the one quality I wish had developed earlier in life. In any case, it is a welcome change for this man who grew up white, Protestant, in the southern US, where speaking the truth–even with grace–was considered impolite. I spent a lot of my earlier life rethinking conversations and wishing I had spoken the truth that was in my heart…but alas. I certainly wouldn’t have taken some of the jobs I did if I had been true to myself. And I wouldn’t have tried to change myself to fit the jobs I had–particularly parish ministry!–a job in which every parishoner seemingly has a different job description for the pastor. But this was equally true of my academic life. I simply didn’t fit–particularly in England. However there are many other jobs and professions which can equally damage the person we know ourselves to be if we have to live and act contrary to our true selves. If you’re reading this, chances are you know what I mean.

For those of you acquainted with The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, my psychological type is INFJ (Introverted Intuition, person/value-focussed, with decisiveness). In Western society my type comprises exactly 1% of men. In short this means I pretty much forge my own path–something which threatens most institutional types, including the church and university. The psychologist we candidates for ministry had to see as part of our preparation for ministry chuckled as he told me that I worked too hard at trying to appear normal! Ah, if only I had known the real implications of that humorous remark at the time. Instead I went through all the contortions required for becoming an ordained minister and then an academic. How I came to envy people whose passions became their paid employment–artists, writers, true entrepreneurs, etc.

A few months after (finally) leaving parish ministry (which was literally killing me) in 1997, I was awarded a British Academy research grant which entailed going to Israel to work with a scholar at Tel-Aviv University, who incidentally became one of my dearest friends. One day when I was sharing some of my work with him, he questioned why I had stated something the way I did. I think I must have said something about wanting to please or keep on the good side of scholars in the UK (where I lived). Shlomo looked at me and asked “Why do you care about the opinions of people you don’t respect?!” He was exactly right. Why should I have cared–not just about the opinions of others–but opinions of people for whom I had little respect?

At its root, not giving a shit is actually about self-knowledge. It is respect for the person one knows oneself to be–rather than trying to live up to other people’s expectations (a zero-sum game)–or worse–their projections. Finally, the graceful art of not giving a shit is not about holding others in contempt or giving ourselves permission to say or do whatever we like. That’s narcissism. Rather, the graceful art of not giving a shit honours the other person, even if we do not like that person or want to spend time around him/her. We can simply walk away in peace. After all, what’s the point in giving a shit?

My first ‘real’ job after graduating from college was at Guilford Technical Institute in Greensboro, NC. It didn’t pay very well, but it more than made up for that in experience, because it was my first real experience at being a minority. I was hired to work with a team which was working largely in ‘project housing’ in Greensboro. It was funded for only six months. Our aim was to go door-to-door and try to encourage residents to take advantage of nearly zero-cost literacy/numeracy programmes, as well as classes to work towards a high school diploma equivalent. And, yes, I was the only white person on a team which worked primarily in African American neighbourhoods.

One of my fellow team members often went with me to 100% African American areas, frankly to shepherd me. As he put it, “They’ll think you’re a narc.” With Ron’s help I learned the street lingo and salutations to help people get over the shock of this bearded, shaggy-haired white guy at their door. I also learned some intricate handshakes. When Ron was with me, we were usually invited inside to explain what we were offering. As a lone white guy, I usually had to speak through a partially-opened or screen door. In such cases I left my name and phone number and hoped for the best. However, whenever potential clients called our office, they rarely remembered my name. Instead they told the secretary “It was some white guy” who had told them about our courses. With that, the secretary would gleefully call out to me: “Hey, white guy! Phone call for you on line one.” Others in the open plan office would chuckle.

Although it was fifty years ago, I think I can honestly remember that the first time or two of being called “white guy”–and not by my name–brought me up short. I wasn’t particularly offended; rather I was jolted awake. I thought of the middle-class neighbourhood in which I grew up and all of the nameless African American maids who arrived by bus in the mornings as I was leaving for school. For what it’s worth, ours was the only house that didn’t have a maid–mainly because my mother was a house-proud homemaker. When visiting our neighbours, they usually referred to this human person with dark skin as “the maid.” Of course, there were times when she was referred to by her first name–but never, ever given the diginity of “Mrs. ___.” However, for me the moniker “white guy” would always be temporary. Still, it opened my eyes…and my mind.

After some weeks, not only had I become very fond of all the team members, but I played up to the appellation “white guy” by reversing things. As soon as someone called for me, I would jump out of my seat and begin walking in Stepin Fetchit style, saying “Yassuh Boss, here I comes.” They would howl with laughter at a white guy mimicking a stereotyped black actor from earlier decades. How crazy was that? One day, when we were all eating lunch in the office, someone suggested that we write down all of the racial epithets we had heard for each other’s race. The first thing I noticed was that I was still writing when the others had finished. We then shared the results. It hit me between the eyes that most of the black slang for whites was descriptive, but mainly harmless: honky, cracker, Mr. Charlie, etc. However, the list I had compiled was vile by comparison, and no, I will not share it. I remember all of us reflecting on that difference for some moments.

Over the months we worked together, whenever the topic of race came up, we would usually finish by laughing–largely because of how stupid it is to treat people differently simply because of skin tone. When the programme came to its end, I went to each person to give my love and best wishes and to thank them for all they had helped me learn. The oldest member of the team surprised me when she wanted to thank me. When I asked her why, she said that I was the first and only white person around whom she could simply be herself. I was stunned and I was deeply moved; and to this day that remains one of the highest compliments anyone has ever paid me. Would that we could all give that gift to one another: the gift of allowing people simply to be who they are.

Yes, that is exactly the phrase I recently used whilst calling to make a medical appointment. Well…what I actually said was: Puis-je prendre un rendez-vous pour la semaine dernière? (I live in France.) In any case it greatly amused the medical secretary…I think she’s still laughing. It’s nice to make someone’s day brighter. By the way, I did get the appointment—but for the next week. But you had worked that out, right?

In my defence, I would like to say that part of my oxymoronic question was down to my age. You see, I’ve never been this age before. What about you? So most of what I do is being done for the first time since I turned 71. Things both physical and mental take more time than they used to do. Some are damn near impossible. To wit: my wife and I were at a restaurant with friends and we ordered a bottle of cider. We’re all about the same age, and none of us could open it. Then I spotted a workman at a nearby table and voilà, the cork came out with ease. I like to think the four of us had made his job easier…

So here I am, never having been this age before and having to speak and write in French on a daily basis. I hasten to add that French was some way down my list of ‘second languages.’ I had studied German, Hebrew, Greek and ancient Egyptian before I began to study French. And several other (mainly ancient) languages came along later. What I am discovering—at this age I have never been before—is that languages seemingly go into the same file cabinet in my brain. Thus, I can never be completely certain regarding in which language a word will exit my mouth. The top runners are usually German or Hebrew. My brain is well aware that the word for which it is searching is not English, so if in a pinch, it pulls out the correct word, but in the wrong language. But, of course, only I know that I used the word correctly.

In this world of mass migration, I take comfort in knowing that I am not alone in jumbling up my words. Our area in Basse Normandie has a fare number of Turks as well as Africans of various nations, so, when standing at the till in le supermarché, I often earwig to see how they handle French. They usually fare better than I and, in any case, many of the North and West Africans have had French as a first or second language. Such was the case in England about a thousand years ago…but I’m not that old. There’s an English lad in the village, who, at age 8, now speaks French fluently, and with a French accent…but then he’s never been my age before.

I also comfort myself by knowing I have never called a bus driver a ‘squid’ when boarding local transport in Greece. That zinger came from the mouth of an American woman I heard in Athens. She was keen to show off her newly learned Greek by saying ‘Good day’, but her brain dished up the not totally dissimilar sounding ‘calamari’. I thought the driver was going to throw her off his bus. Oh well, I suppose she had never been that age before…

Joab was a different experience than writing any of my other novels for one simple reason: there was only one voice dictating in my head rather than a host of characters. Just after Joab appeared in print, I wrote a blog about hearing voices. As a writer of fiction, I think I might be in the majority as regards hearing voices; but as for the rest of humanity, I suspect most are too engaged in gross stimulation of one sort or another to even be aware of inner voices…but who really knows? I can only speak for myself.

In many ways, Joab was a long time in the making. I first became aware of Joab when, as a graduate student, I presented a paper dealing with keys points in David’s life and kingship. Close attention to the text of 1&2 Samuel brought Joab to my attention–front and centre. It became patently clear that without Joab, David’s kingship would have fizzled out shortly after it began. (Read the books of Samuel yourself, with the focus on Joab and you’ll see what I mean.) Since that time I have lectured about various aspects of the books of Samuel, as well have gone over these texts with advanced Hebrew students. Nevertheless Joab remained patient and quiet.

Then came the time Joab could remain silent no longer. I had finished about 80% of my fifth novel, Dirty Business, when Joab started speaking. I sat up and took notice. His first words to me were: “We all live two lives–the one we are given, like yours, right now, and the life of memory–such as mine.” I jotted these words on a pad and they later became the opening sentence of Joab. The problem for me was the fact that, once he had started speaking, Joab was reluctant to stop. I often begged him to wait just a short while and I would give him my full attention–but to no avail. I also learned that Joab was not inclined to repeat his words, so when he spoke, I had to capture his words immediately. Thus I began Joab’s story whilst finishing my eco-crime novel.

When the time arrived that I could give my full attention to Joab, his story came fluidly; and when he finished speaking, the story ended as quickly as it had begun. As I write these words, it was almost exactly one year ago that I finished Joab–or rather, he finished with me. Since then I haven’t written one word of fiction. I mention this fact because I had five novels accepted for publication in just under three years–a rather ‘writingful’ three years at that. It’s also the case that the inner voices have gone silent and–other than taking note of this major change–I have simply got on with other things, without worrying about it. After all, one can’t force visitors to stay.

I might as well come clean…I hear voices. In fact, many people hear voices, it’s just not popular to talk about it openly. (Have a look at the Hearing the Voice Project, sponsored by the Wellcome Trust: https://hearingthevoice.org/ I think you will find it fascinating).

About two years ago, when I was in the process of finishing my fifth novel, Dirty Business, Joab came a-calling. He would often speak one simple phrase and then vanish–for a while, but not long–as he had a story to tell and I had been chosen as his amanuensis. And so, as I wrote the closing chapters of Dirty Business, I had to keep a notepad nearby so that I could capture Joab’s words. After all, he had held his peace for nearly three millennia. One poignant phrase he gave me became the opening line to the novel, his story, Joab. When such a voice comes to a writer, it is best to listen–or even better–to write it down; because rare are the occasions when they repeat themselves.

Who is or was Joab? I hear you ask. Well, to start, he was the nephew of his more famous uncle, King David. He was also the commander of David’s army and–perhaps more crucially–he was the man David called on to carry out some of David’s more nefarious deeds: such as killing the husband of a woman with whom David had had an affair. In today’s parlance, he would be a ‘fix-it man.’ You know: It’s only business…BLAM!

To hear David’s story by one so close to his king/uncle helps us to re-focus our views of David. I have neither added to, nor subtracted from, the life events of the mature David. In fact, I have gone to great lengths to translate afresh from the Hebrew all of David’s direct and indirect speech. I have not invented the David you will meet. The main difference is in the story-teller: Joab, and the setting: life continuing.

As I write these words, there rages a controversy in the parallel universe which is the US state of Florida, over Michelangelo’s statue of David. So if you really want to see both the man behind the statue, as well as the man behind the many legends, simply step through the quantum curtain into life continuing and let Joab be your guide. Whether or not you are a person of faith, Christian, Jew or atheist, I think you will be intrigued.