Theologies from the Pacific (Postcolonialism and Religions) 3030743640, 9783030743642

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POSTCOLONIALISM AND RELIGIONS

Theologies from the Pacific

Edited by Jione Havea

Postcolonialism and Religions Series Editors Joseph Duggan Postcolonial Networks San Francisco, CA, USA J. Jayakiran Sebastian United Lutheran Seminary Philadelphia, PA, USA

The Postcolonialism and Religions series by its very name bridges the secular with the sacred through hybrid, interstitial, and contrapuntal inquiries. The series features the scholarship of indigenous scholars working at the intersections of postcolonial theories, theologies, and religions. The editors welcome authors around the world in an effort to move beyond and interrogate a historical North American and Euro-centric postcolonial studies disciplinary dominance. The series seeks to foster subaltern voices especially from Africa, Asia, Central and South America, and the liquid continent. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14535

Jione Havea Editor

Theologies from the Pacific

Editor Jione Havea Trinity Theological College Auckland, New Zealand Public and Contextual Theology Research Centre of Charles Sturt University Parramatta, NSW, Australia

Postcolonialism and Religions ISBN 978-3-030-74364-2    ISBN 978-3-030-74365-9 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Talamu‘a

This book joins the “Prophets from the South” project of the Council for World Mission (CWM). Previous publications in that project focused on an influential theologian from different parts of the global south. Thus far, the project has engaged the works of M.M. Thomas of India, Shoki Coe of Taiwan, and Allan Aubrey Boesak of South Africa. This book is the turn of Pasifika (Pacific Islands, Oceania). The invitation from CWM was for a publication on the works of Sione ‘Amanaki Havea (1922–2000), who was born in Tonga and committed to the Pasifika region.

Pasifika “Pasifika” (or Pasefika) is a nativizing of the designations that colonialists gave our region—“Pacific” Ocean and Islands (attributed to the Portuguese navigator, Ferdinand Magellan). This is not because we accept the invasion and colonization of our seas and islands, but in order to appropriate a foreign term to suit our native tongues. In other words, “Pasifika” is our way of doing to the language of others as others have done to ours. Prior to the arrival of European explorers and colonizers, our region was known by many local names. For example, Moana nui a kiwa and ‘Otu motu referred to the waters, reefs and islands that spread in the moana (sea, ocean) between Hawai’i (northeast), Palau and Papua (northwest), Aotearoa (southwest) and Rapa Nui (southeast). This work brings some of the theological insights from this wide oceanic space. v

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It should be noted, however, that regionalization and regionalism are colonial activities. They feed (upon) the imagination of individuals, conglomerations, and governments that declare control over a collective of areas and sovereignties. Overlooking differences and assuming unity give colonizers the license to declare that they have discovered, captured, and own (is)lands and regions. This work resists this colonial agenda, through theological reflection and engagement from Pasifika.

Pasifika Theologies The invitation from CWM was for a publication on the works of Sione ‘Amanaki Havea. However, in the spirit of ‘Amanaki (Tongan name for “anticipation and hope”), this book does not focus on his few publications and many talks (formal and on the slow run, for he was a heavy islander). Rather, this book gathers the insights and visions of present theologians and activists who work in and for the interest of Pasifika. In Pasifika, theology is not the work of a single person but a collaboration among the living (old and young), and between the living with the ancestors who continue to be present in the eyeing (is)lands, in the breaking waters, in the whispering plants, in the humble creatures, and in the unseen mana (power, influence) that continue to give breath to the region. This book is such a collaboration. ‘Amanaki is remembered as an accomplice in waking the waves of local theologies at a time when Pasifika churches were active in seeking self-­ determination and freedom from political and mission colonization. Pasifika was slowly catching its breath in the 1950s after the “Pacific War” between foreign empires, and Samoa was the first to gain independence in 1962. Other island groups followed in the flow to nationhood, with the support and guidance of churched natives, but many island groups still remain shackled. Still. Even today, Kanaky, Ma’ohi Nui, Rapa Nui, West Papua, Hawai’i, Tutuila, Guam, and the 14 clusters of islands in the Mariana archipelago. Until these islands are also free, Pasifika is not free. In the 1950s, parts of the Pasifika islands and waters continued to be raped by the testing of atomic bombs and poisoned with the nuclear waste of the British, French, and American empires. These acts of violence continued into the 1990s, and the radioactivity of nuclear waste will last for several generations. ‘Amanaki and his accomplices theologized in response

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to these struggles as matters of life and justice, rather than as topics for contextual theologizing. They learned the rhetoric later, but theology in Pasifika in the 1950s and 1960s was about life and justice, collaboration and solidarity, rather than theory, methodology, or doctrines (obsessions of the theological academy). The legacies of war and occupation are drowned out in the current attention to climate change—the burden of the carbon civilization and global development that Pasifika too has to shoulder—which is another link on the shackle of colonization. The Covid-19 pandemic adds another link, causing doors and borders to close, gatherings to cancel, economies to flop, and fears to multiply. In other words, Pasifika will not be free for some time. In the meantime, there is space for Pasifika people to free our minds and faiths. For sure, it was not a clean break from the ways of the former masters, who profited from shackling Pasifika (and other regions). Systems, structures, cultures, and ideologies that became normal in over two hundred years of colonial rule are part of the colonial legacy that remains with us to this day. But there is space to contemplate and to chart forward politically, economically, spiritually, and theologically. The reawakening of the peoples of Pasifika to our cultural and indigenous roots, ways and knowledges, religions and identities, has led to significant local alternatives. Among those alternatives are distinctive theologies that natives of Pasifika (at home and in the diaspora) can understand, relate to, identify with, supplement, and negotiate. These theologies initially came to be recognized by symbolic terms such as “Pacific way,” “Pacific theology” and “coconut theology.” Nowadays, we refer to them as Pasifika theologies, noting both their inclusive and incorporating aspect as well as their pluralistic and collaborative nature. ‘Amanaki and the collaborators in his generation (like Setareki Tuilovoni of Fiji and Vavae Toma of Samoa, and many other wise natives with explosive minds) got us started on naming and explaining the theologies in and of Pasifika, rooted in and appropriate for our (is)lands, waters and ways, and this book is our invitation to the generations to come to be “prophets of the south” in and for Pasifika. May the next collaboration include more women and younger authors, born and raised at the home(is)lands and in the diaspora; and authors from islands—free or not free—not (re) present(ed) in this book.

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Finally, to future generations of Pasifika, we plead: collaborate and publish before all of our native wisdoms, ways, and theologies are gathered, published, copyrighted, and owned, by researchers and theologians from outside of the region. Let them come; but let us not be silent. Speak. Talk back. Propagate. Advocate. Push back. Write. Lest Pasifika will never be free.

Acknowledgement

Work on this book was supported by Council for World Mission.

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Praise for Theologies from the Pacific “This is an important collection and collaboration between Pacific theologians, scholars, artists, and advocates who truly understand how to weave together past and present spiritual, political, and cultural concepts and forces shaping the Blue Pacific. They also know what’s missing, and have signaled the need for younger voices, women, and people of all genders to join the talanoa and the movement for a sea of theologies in a liberated Oceania.” —Katerina Teaiwa, Professor in Pacific Studies, Australian National University, Australia “As a scholar of contextual biblical hermeneutics and theology, I have waited for some time for such a volume from Pasifika. Gathering the voices of Pasifika theologians and activists, Jione Havea has put together an anthology which is more than a worthy sequel to the ‘Prophets from the South’ project of the Council for World Mission. Theologies from the Pacific is not only a welcome addition but will make a significant contribution to global theological education.” —Kah-Jin Jeffrey Kuan, President and Professor of Hebrew Bible, Claremont School of Theology, USA “I have longed and waited for a theology emerging from the vast, deep, unpredictable—at times calm, at times turbulent—waters of the Pacific. That day has finally arrived! Like the soaring and roaring waves of the Pacific, Pasifika theologies are now soaring to new heights and roaring mightily to claim their rightful place in history. I welcome Theologies from the Pacific with excitement!” —Eleazar S. Fernandez, President and Professor of Constructive Theology, Union Theological Seminary, The Philippines “Theologies from the Pacific advances the project of illuminating the depths, fluidity, and plurality of the divine (‘otua) this side of the heavens (itulagi). These provocative essays, comprising the second wave of Pasifika theologies, navigate their ‘roots’ to create new ‘routes’ for indigenous

voices and those who must be freed from colonizing impulses. Here is a God who understands dirt and water, impermanence, and life’s inextricability from the created world that sustains us all.” —Elaine A. Robinson, Professor of Methodist Studies and Christian Theology, Saint Paul School of Theology, USA “Theologies from the Pacific takes the reader on a journey where they can engage with the lived theologies of Pasifika. It is a timely masterpiece of incredible scholarship that provides challenging and transformative insights into issues of sexuality, climate justice, postcolonial critique and contextual theology. Each chapter offers prophetic theological engagements through a combination of personal reflection, lived religiosity, historical analysis, biblical hermeneutics, and liberative theology; the book is both engaging and life-affirming throughout.” —Eve R. Parker, Department of Theology and Religion, Durham University, UK “The Pacific islands are still mostly overflown by the airplanes and attentions of continental powers that have long overfished their waters and overdetermined their political and economic fate, leaving an overburdening bootprint both colonial and radioactive. But in this volume, the overlooked culture, faith, and underrepresented theological voices of Pasifika are curated and celebrated. Jione Havea has cast a broad net into this ‘sea of theologies,’ gathering in widely diverse talanoa and practices from this too-long ignored region (once referred to as the ‘fourth world,’ today as the earth’s last wilderness). These essays—both rooted and contemporary—offer deeply indigenized readings of scripture and tradition that challenge an overwrought and overindulgent western Christianity, as well as their own Pasifika churches still hobbled by an overbearing missionary legacy. Like their ancestors—who navigated a vast moana with an eye on the constellations and a hand in the water—the ‘prophets of the south’ represented in this collection are summoning what Bernard Narakobi called ‘the wind and the current that can divert the oncoming storm!’” —Ched Myers, Bartimaeus Cooperative Ministries, California, USA

“The work of the Center of Theological Inquiry on migration and climate change has been enormously enriched by theologians from the world’s liquid Continent, a bellwether of our common future. I commend these communal and prophetic theologies of the Pacific to a global readership.” —William Storrar, Director of the Center of Theological Inquiry in Princeton

Contents

1 Sea of Theologies  1 Jione Havea Part I Roots  13 2 A Dirtified God: A Dirt Theology from the Pacific Dirt Communities 15 Upolu Lumā Vaai 3 Ko e Mana Fakahā ‘Otua ‘o e Fakatupu: Creation as Sacrament 31 Mikaele N. Paunga, SM 4 Jesus Does a Haka Boogie: Tangata Whenua Theology 47 Te Aroha Rountree 5 Kauafua fatele for Christ’ sake: A Theological Dance for the Changing Climate 63 Maina Talia 6 A Pacific Theology of Celebration 77 Gilles Vidal

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7 Naming the Spirit A-niu (Anew): Re(is)landing Pneumatology 89 Sioeli Felekoni Vaipulu 8 Fetuiaga Kerisiano: Church as a Moving Umu103 Matagi Jessop Vilitama Part II Reads 117 9 Scripturalize Indigenous References: An Invitation from Samoa119 Afereti Uili 10 Pasifika Churches Trapped in the Missionary Era: A Case in Samoa139 Feiloaiga Taule’ale’ausumai 11 Failed Promise of Abundant Life: Revisiting 200 Years of Christianity in Oceania153 Latu Latai 12 Taulaga in the Samoan Church: Is It Wise Giving?169 Terry Pouono 13 Unwrapping Theodicy181 Clive Robert Pearson 14 Church as Feagaiga: A Fāiā Reading of Romans 13:1–7193 Fatilua Fatilua 15 O le pa’u a le popo uli: A Coconut Discipleship Reading of Matthew 12:46–50 and 28:16–20207 Vaitusi Nofoaiga

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Part III Routes 219 16 Vaa Culture and Theology: A Mäòhinui Moananui Invitation221 Here Joël Hoìòre 17 From Atutasi to Atulasi: Relational Theologizing and Why Pacific Islanders Think and Theologize Differently235 Upolu Lumā Vaai 18 Mauli Apunamo: A Keakalo Invitation to One-Life251 Koloma Makewin 19 Ol Woman long Vanuatu oli stap brekem bus!: (Vanuatu Women Breaking New Ground!)263 Randall Gregory Prior 20 Intercultural and Interfaith Encounters: A Turo’ Kalog Reading of Luke 10:25–37277 Geraldine Wiliame 21 Fanua as a Diasporic Concept: Rereading James 1:21289 Elekosi F. Lafitaga 22 Weaving Liberation for West Papua305 Rosa Moiwend and Jason MacLeod 23 Sex: Suicide, Shame, Signals323 Jione Havea and Diya Lākai Havea English Index337 Pasifika Index345 Name Index347 Place Index349

Notes on Contributors

Fatilua Fatilua  is Lecturer in New Testament and Hellenistic Greek in the Department of Biblical Studies, Pacific Theological College (Suva, Fiji). He has specialized in Public Administration and Policy and is a graduate of Malua Theological College (Apia, Samoa). Diya Lākai Havea  is a primary school pupil who provided the inspiration for the final chapter on the subject of sex. She is six years old going on sixty. Jione Havea  is a native pastor (Methodist Church in Tonga) and research fellow at Trinity Theological College (Aotearoa New Zealand) and at the Public and Contextual Theology Research Centre of Charles Sturt University (Australia). Here  Joël  Hoìòre  is retired pastor theological animator of the Maohi Protestant Church (Mäòhinui Tahiti), former theological lecturer and Academic Dean at Pacific Theological College (Suva, Fiji). He is former Principal at the Terereatau Theological and Pastoral School (Ûporu, Mäòhinui). He pays special attention in his work to Maohinui cultures. Elekosi F. Lafitaga  is an ordained minister and New Testament lecturer at the Kanana Fou Theological Seminary (Pago Pago, Am. Samoa) where he also serves as the Dean of Studies. His areas of research include New Testament text, Early Christianity, and Pacific culture. Latu Latai  is an ordained minister and a lecturer in church history at the Malua Theological College, with special attention to native mission studies and the place of women in the mission of the church. His current xix

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research includes exploring the nexus of climate change, science, and religion in Samoa. Jason MacLeod  is a community educator, organizer, and researcher of social movements. He is the founder and a co-leader of Pasifika, which accompanies indigenous Papuans in their nonviolent struggle for self-­ determination and liberation. Koloma Makewin  is an ethicist who is a theological advisor for United Church of Papua New Guinea (with emphasis on climate justice and impact on land seabed mining). He taught biblical languages and theological studies at Rarongo Theological College. He is the principal of David Kini School of Theology and Mission of UCPNG. Rosa  Moiwend  is a cultural activist and co-leader of the organization Pasifika, which accompanies indigenous Papuans in their nonviolent struggle for self-determination and liberation. She is West Papuan, working as a social movement educator, organizer, and researcher. Vaitusi  Nofoaiga  is the Principal of Malua Theological College (Apia, Samoa), where he also teaches subjects in New Testament and Samoan studies. His research interests include Pacific hermeneutics, socio-­ rhetorical interpretation, Gospels, Pauline letters, apocalyptic literature, and discipleship. Mikaele N. Paunga, SM  is Lecturer in theology and ethics at the Pacific Regional Seminary (Suva, Fiji), where he is also the Dean of Studies. His research interests include Roman Catholic doctrines and sacramental studies. Clive Robert Pearson  is a Research Fellow for the Public and Contextual Theology Research Centre of Charles Sturt University (Australia). He is the Editor-in-Chief of Brill’s International Journal of Public Theology. His work on diasporic and climate change matters has been widely published. Terry  Pouono  is a theological lecturer at Laidlaw College (Aotearoa), where he teaches at the Henderson and Manukau campuses in Auckland. His areas of research include contextual theology for New Zealand-born Pacific Islanders. Randall  Gregory  Prior  is the former Principal and now an Associate Teacher at Pilgrim Theological College in the University of Divinity

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(Melbourne). His ongoing involvement with the church in Vanuatu now spans more than three decades. Te  Aroha  Rountree is Senior Lecturer in Māori/Moana Studies at Trinity Methodist Theological College (Auckland, New Zealand), where she teaches mātauranga Māori and theological discourse. Her research areas include Tangata Whenua theology and Tikanga Māori. Maina Talia  is an activist on climate justice from Vaitupu, Tuvalu who is completing his dissertation with the School of Theology of Charles Sturt University (Australia). He is the former Co-chair of Global Indigenous Forum on Climate Change (GIFCC) representing the Pacific islands. Feiloaiga Taule’ale’ausumai  is an ordained minister of the Presbyterian Church of Aotearoa New Zealand. She is a Parish minister and also lecturer (Fieldwork Coordinator) at the Knox Centre for Leadership and Ministry. She was a former Regional Secretary for the Pacific with the Council for World Mission. Her current research is on generational worshipping in Samoan communities. Afereti Uili  is former Principal of Malua Theological College and former General Secretary of the Congregational Church in Samoa. He taught Old Testament subjects at the Pacific Theological College (Suva, Fiji) and is currently an independent scholar in cultural and biblical studies. Upolu Lumā  Vaai  is the Principal of Pacific Theological College (Fiji), where he also teaches subjects in theology and ethics. His research areas include the doctrine of Trinity, theologies of relationality, and Pacific indigenous relational philosophies. Sioeli Felekoni Vaipulu  is a theological lecturer at Sia’atoutai Theological College (Tonga), where he is also the Dean of Ministerial Formation. His current research is on contextual (otualogical) ways of rethinking mainline (according to Western) theological teachings. Gilles Vidal  is Lecturer in Contemporary History of Christianity and co-­ director of the Centre Maurice Leenhardt in Missiology at the Institut Protestant de Théologie in Montpellier (France) and Research Fellow at the CRISES Research Center, University Paul-Valéry Montpellier 3. Matagi Jessop Vilitama  is a Minister of the Ekalesia Kerisiano Niue and the Uniting Church in Australia who serves in the Niuean community

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(Synod of NSW and Canberra). His research focuses on the concept of liquid community and liquid church. He is an advocate for the Intercultural Circle of Interest, Uniting Church Assembly. Geraldine Wiliame  is an Old Testament lecturer at Davuilevu Theological College (Suva, Fiji) and her work deals with the theological implications of her Rotuman culture. Her current research is on ecumenism in the Pacific region.

List of Figures

Fig. 5.1

Tenene Nelu, “Iesu fafine (female Jesus)” (2017). (Used with permission of the artist) Fig. 22.1 A noken. (Photo: Rosa Moiwend)

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CHAPTER 1

Sea of Theologies Jione Havea

Pasifika (for Pacific Islands, Oceania) coasts in a sea of theologies.1 In ancient times, our ancestors engaged (sometimes they inspired and sometimes they tricked) local and visiting gods as well as read the winds, the skies, the waves, and the cues of the (is)lands and the underground. Pasifika then was fale e ‘otua (Tongan: “home of gods”), and “texts” were all around. Texts were on the islands. In the sea. In the sky. In the deep. And even in the dirt (see Vaai, Chap. 2). Our ancestors navigated the energies (perceived in the phases of the moon and the ebbing of the tides; see Paunga, Chap. 3) that stirred their island homes, and they survived the circles of life along with fellow native creatures. They survived by consuming some of their island companions and taking advantage of their island world, and on some occasions, they lose out or were pushed out. We remember some of the joys and struggles 1  I use “Pasifika” (for Pacific Islands, Pasefika, Oceania) because it flows smoothly on my native tongue. Other names for our region include Moananui (see Hoìòre, Chap. 16) and Atuvasa (see Lafitaga, Chap. 21).

J. Havea (*) Trinity Theological College, Auckland, New Zealand Public and Contextual Theology Research Centre of Charles Sturt University, Parramatta, NSW, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_1

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of our ancestors in songs and rituals, stories and legends; these “texts” make us belong and remember, reflect and believe, imagine and anticipate. Later migrants and settlers, from near and far, also brought “texts” which, over time, have interwoven with the local ones. Some of those texts were openly theological and religious, many were sublimely cultural and political, and a few were aggressive and overpowering. Those texts impacted Pasifika people in different ways, and the contributors to this work engage with some of those texts and impacts. In remembering, retelling, and conversing over these texts (which differ from island to island), the following chapters show how Pasifika is fale talanoa e ‘otua (home for talanoa of gods). Consequently, this collection of essays is also fale talanoa e ‘otua. Pasifika is more than a sea of islands (see Hau’ofa 1994). Pasifika is also the home for a sea of readings (see Havea 2018), and with this collection of essays i2 add that Pasifika is home for a sea of theologies as well. I base this new twist on the phrase fale talanoa e ‘otua (home for talanoa of gods), with three tweaks: First, i borrow the Tuvaluan understanding of the sea as fale o ika (home of fish) to assert that “sea” is home (fale). The sea is difficult and dangerous (see Talia, Chap. 5), but it is our home. Second, i appeal to the understanding of “sea” as signifier for depth and multitude, the two key qualities of moana (deep sea; see Halapua 2010). Pasifika, our home (sea, moana), is deep and rich with native local resources. Pasifika is home for a multitude of, and this is my third tweak, talanoa e ‘otua (talanoa of gods).3 In these three tweaks, the twitch (tickle, itch) is talanoa.

Talanoa In several (but not all) Pasifika languages “talanoa” refers to three overlapping events: story, telling (of stories), and talking (toktok, conversation, storyweaving). A story (talanoa, which is usually a mix of stories) dies if there is no one to tell (talanoa) it and if others do not talk (talanoa, as conversation) about it; a telling (talanoa) is dry without a story (talanoa) 2  I use the lowercase with the first-person pronoun when “i” am the subject, because i use the lowercase with “you,” “she,” “he,” “it,” “they,” “other,” and so on. All subjects are in relation to one another, and i do not see the justice in privileging (by capitalizing) the firstperson self. 3  Talanoa e ‘otua was one of the first Tongan phrases for “theology.” It was abbreviated as Tala‘otua to mirror, in the reverse, the equation: theos (‘otua) + logos (tala).

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and turns into lecturing or scolding without conversation (talanoa); and a conversation (talanoa) withers without story (talanoa) and telling (talanoa). As conversation (storyweaving), talanoa is ongoing. It extends beyond the three-events of talanoa. Normal people favor talanoa, but compared to serious dialogues and stern lectures, talanoa is sometimes seen as a waste of time. There is some truth to this view (noting that “noa” in talanoa means “no-thing”), especially in the ears of the schedule-driven executives and time-tight academics. But talanoa keeps Pasifika breathing and i borrow it as a stimulus for reading and theologizing (see also Havea 2010, Vaka’uta 2011) for several reasons: First, talanoa has patience for oral texts to be heard and taken into serious consideration. Oral texts enable remembering and give meanings— similar to the way that written scriptures affect readers—to native and non-native folks alike. Talanoa encourages the scripturalizing of indigenous references (see Uili, Chap. 9). Second, talanoa breaks social barriers (academics and executives may sit and talanoa with normal people) and allows for stepping into areas where one should not as well as stepping (or tripping) on the toes of others. There is room for disagreement in talanoa, and there are native processes for disagreeing and for seeking pardon—which starts with saying tulou/ turo’ (see Wiliame, Chap. 20). Third, talanoa embraces poly- or many-ness. The drive for one-ness (or one-fication) does not suit the ways that Pasifika natives think and theologize (see Vaai, Chap. 17). The onefication drive was enforced by colonialists and missionaries, who robbed the status of women (see Taule’ale’ausumai, Chap. 10) and deceived islanders with dreams of abundance (see Latai, Chap. 11). That drive continues to empower modern Pasifika states (see Fatilua, Chap. 14) and churches (see Pouono, Chap. 12) to pick the pockets of worshippers. Talanoa works against the onefication drive by inciting and embracing alternative stories, alternative tellings, and alternative conversations. The twitch in these alternatives is “going native.” Fourth, talanoa stretches the realms of orality. Orality is not just about telling stories (see Prior, Chap. 19) and having a toktok (conversation; see Moiwend and MacLeod, Chap. 22). In Pasifika, orality touches all aspects of living—from gardening to marriage ceremonies (see Makewin, Chap. 18), to sailing (see Hoìòre, Chap. 16), to cooking (see Vilitama, Chap. 8), to reading (see Nofoaiga, Chap. 15), to preaching (see Pearson,

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Chap. 13), to standing against the state and fighting for liberation (see Moiwend and MacLeod, Chap. 22), and to addressing taboo subjects like sex and suicide (see Havea and Havea, Chap. 23). In the frames of talanoa, art and dance (see Rountree, Chap. 4; Talia, Chap. 5; cf. Tuwere 2010) are expressions of orality, thus registering celebration (see Vidal, Chap. 6) as a fitting frame for theologizing in Pasifika. One of the gifts of this collection of essays is the presentation of native Pasifika terms as sparks for theological reflection. All essays spotlight this characteristic, thus testifying to the significance of native terms (read: logos, language) for the construction of theologies: terms rise within the circles of life; terms live and mutate in the circles of talanoa; terms mean more than what one finds in a language dictionary; terms are more than idioms and rhetoric. In those terms, this collection of essays is an invitation: construct theologies that rise within the circles of life, that can live and mutate, and that can mean more than lexicons, idioms, and rhetoric. Fifth, talanoa allows (to borrow the postmodern lingo) the authors to die. Stories (talanoa) from the past are remembered and retold (talanoa), and those who toktok (talanoa) around those “rememberings” decide whether and how to pass those to future generations. In my case, my parents decided which talanoa to gift me; they made the mistake of also telling me that there were talanoa that i should not receive. I heard the latter as an invitation to dig for those with the help of uncles and aunties (too many to name here). While authors do die, as my parents have, talanoa live on and some talanoa may return from the world of the forgotten to ripple among future generations. Talanoa thus gives birth to alternatives and encourages thinking old things anew (or a-niu; see Vaipulu, Chap. 7)—these interests are reflected in all of the essays in this collection. Talanoa lets the authors die but energizes orators to bring the past, the dead, the forgotten, together with the present (struggles and joys) and the future (anticipations and hopes, ‘amanaki), into remembering, and into life. Talanoa is thus a weaving of orality with oratory, and each of the authors in the following chapters sit and stand at that “weave.” When our turn comes and we join the company of dead authors, the weave will remain. And talanoa will continue with future generations of storyweavers.

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Talanoa is neither philosophy nor methodology (in the western sense), but native event-and-practice that is rooted deeply in Pasifika.4 And in return, Pasifika breathes talanoa. Without talanoa, meanings hide and relations sag. This collection of essays is an example of how talanoa takes place, in writing. Each essay tells several stories that talk to and with each other, seeking to engage readers who have the privilege of deciding what and how to pass these talanoa to future generations. Talanoa requires the presence of others (except for so-called spinners, who talanoa on their own). Without others, talanoa is speechless. And. Time. Stops.

Moana Talanoa points to orality and oratory, a key vibe of which is fluidity. In Pasifika, fluidity is not a concept or philosophy but a condition for and a characteristic of living. Pasifika islands are skirted by moana (deep sea), and fluidity shapes our mannerisms and cultures as well as links us from different and distant islands. We live in a saltwater world that shapes who we are. Moana is deep, and it also has power. It is troublesome, and it has also been troubled. Seeing how global warming pushes moana onto the shores of (is)lands, we need to be candid about the troubling powers of moana and (by association) the powers of fluidity, orality, and oratory. Talanoa points to orality and oratory, which point to fluidity, but fluidity is not soft or gentle. As there are powers in moana, so are there powers in orality and oratory (talanoa). Troubled Waters The troubling of Pasifika waters did not begin with the naming of and debate over global warming. Nor with the havoc brought by the inappropriately named Pacific War (dubbed the theater of World War II) that foreign empires waged in our waters, or with the Cold War that followed. While the Cold War restricted Europe and its neighbors, and extended across the Atlantic Ocean, our moana on the other side was 4  Talanoa has been employed in regional peace-building (Solomon Islands) and reconciliation exercises (Fiji), in hermeneutical and theological exercises, and recently appropriated by the United Nations to inspire and mobilize dialogue on climate change. The ripples and rhythms of talanoa are reaching beyond the edges of Pasifika.

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blasted with tests of nuclear weapon conducted by the American (1946–62), British (1957–58), and French (1960–96) governments. The toxic radioactive wastes that these noble empires deposited in our “front yards” have very long half-lives, and they will poison many generations into the future. These so-called just war drills devastated our region (see Finau 1975), but the troubling of our waters started even earlier. We owe a big part of the troubling of Pasifika waters to our “discovery” by European explorers, the most celebrated of whom are Abel Tasman of the Dutch East India Company (1640s) and James Cook of the British Royal Navy (1760s and 1770s). Their expeditions came in the spirit of Pope Alexander VI’s 1493 papal bull Inter Caetera (cradle of the Doctrine of Discovery), which sanctioned Catholic empires to colonize, covert, and enslave non-Christian (is)lands and peoples. The European explorers and settlers cleared the way for European law and civilization to enter our waters. They “administered” our sovereign island groups into colonies, and they also infected our people with diseases such as smallpox, typhoid, tuberculosis, measles, influenza, syphilis, and gonorrhea. The Covid-19 pandemic, which entered Pasifika waters through islands still under occupation by foreign colonial powers (the USA, Chile, France, and Indonesia), is a reminder of the diseases that the European law and civilization brought. They registered the (is)lands for their respective crowns, infected native bodies with diseases that had no local remedies, and they colonized the minds of generations to come. The troubling of Pasifika waters goes back to these European endeavors. They came looking for the “new world” and exposed Pasifika to Christian mission boards. White Christian mission boards followed, tooting a noble aim—to liberate dark people from what they saw as dark ways. They “darkened” the ways of our ancestors. They came to bring light, and they colonized the hearts and faiths of native people. The White missionaries succeeded mainly because Pasifika was already fale talanoa e ‘otua (home for talanoa of gods). Pasifika was already familiar with ‘otua (gods), whom the missionaries discredited in favor of the one and only Christian God. The native ‘otua were thus overpowered by Western missionary impositions. The essays in this collection expose some of the troubles that Western civilization and Christian mission brought to Pasifika waters. But the natives are not free of blame. For instance, if Tupaia of Ra’iatea did not board the Endeavor captained by James Cook, the British might not have reached as far as Aotearoa and Australia in those early days; and if “native

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missionaries” did not assist the White missionaries, with protection and gifts of sustenance and interpretation, the papal bull (read: Doctrine of Discovery) would have been delayed. The following essays, however, are not about shifting the blame or taking the fall. As a collective, the insights of the authors gather in this book to invite talanoa on how theologies in and of Pasifika might shape up in the future. The theologies currently taught in most of the theological institutions in Pasifika and preached at church functions (cf. Tuwere 1992) played a major role in troubling our waters. The essays in this collection present alternative theologies that are not pinned to the laws and civilizations, creeds and codes of pa ̄langi (White, European) explorers and missionaries. This collection seeks, to borrow the words of Bob Marley, to free the theologies in and of Pasifika from mental slavery. But this work is more than simply decolonizing our minds (see also Boseto 1995, Finau 1994); this work is also about decolonizing our hearts from the rip of pālangi interests.

Vanua Moana, in general, is wide and deep. But it is also shallow and narrow in some places—like when it approaches vanua (land). Vanua mirrors moana, but in a much smaller scale. Moana and vanua are of different substances and rhythms, but their interconnections are vibrant in Pasifika. The troubling of moana troubles vanua, and vice versa. In a global scale, the (is)lands of Pasifika are relatively young. And so are the natives, as clusters of people spread across a sea of islands. Pasifika natives are not ancient people, nor the first settlers onto the islands. Native people arrived after the winds and the sun, after the moon and the tides, after the drifts and the bushes, and after many sea- and land-creatures; and we proudly affirm that our ancestors were navigators. Our ancestors sailed from somewhere else, from points of departure that are more mythological than historical, and they crossed Pasifika waters and peopled the (is)lands before pālangi sails shadowed the edges of moana. When our ancestors navigated moana, they also left lines of connection from island to island, to island … thus weaving (linking) our sea of islands. The Fijian word “vanua” also applies to people, culture and tradition, which interweave with land. The struggles and joys of one—land, people, culture, tradition—affect the others. Such interconnection exists in other native terms for vanua—for example, fenua, whenua, fonua, fanua,

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hanua—and that interconnection is the “weave” that brings the voices in this collection to talanoa. At the background of each essay is that connection—vanua. Vanua is not simply the context (in the western sense), but the weave that holds the theologies in and of Pasifika. It is important to stress that vanua always already interweaves with moana. The troubling of moana noted in the previous section put vanua under the control of foreign colonial and religious powers. This collection of essays seeks to return the theologies in and of Pasifika to, and under the influence of, the weave of moana and vanua. The (is)lands of Pasifika are young in comparison to the ancient lands of Indigenous Australia and Africa, but vanua is old. And in a context where age makes a difference, it is appropriate to remember that vanua is much older than the Doctrine of Discovery and the Christian mission. In this regard, one of the drives of this collection of essays is to extend due respect to vanua and moana. The weave of vanua and moana is the setting in which Pasifika is fale talanoa e ‘otua (home for talanoa of gods). This book brings some of the current voices from that home (sea, fale) into talanoa, as testimony to Pasifika also being the home for a sea of theologies.

Pasifikating In the 1960s, “coconut theology” encouraged eating and drinking the fruits of vanua as the body and blood of Christ. Wine and bread are foreign to Pasifika, but coconut is a native tree of life (see ‘Amanaki Havea 1987). Coconut theology was more practical than systematic, and we tried various forms of the juice and flesh of the coconut (in many colors—green, yellow, orange, red, brown, and gray); we also tried combinations of taro and kava, breadfruit and pineapple, and so on. Many in my generation grew up affirming the coconut as a marker of native identity. I felt welcomed when friends and family called me a coconut (and they decided whether i was a good or bad, sweet or rotten coconut). And when i referred to someone as a coconut, it was in solidarity. As natives, we are coconut people. Back then, coconut was as beautiful to us as blackness was to the lover in the Song of Songs (1:5–7). The perception of coconut changed with migration to White/whitened societies. In the White diaspora, coconut became “brown on the outside but white in the inside”—used as an insult against Pasifika, Asian, Mexican, and Caribbean wo/men who think and act as if they were White. In the

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White diaspora, coconut became profane. Over time, owing to remigration and deportation, natives at home also accepted the whitening of the coconut and they too resisted calling/being called coconuts. Coconut theology affirmed our coconut’ness in the 1960s, when the number of Pasifika migrants were still few. In the case of many island groups (e.g., Rotuma, Niue, Tokelau), there are nowadays more natives in diaspora than at the home(is)land and those in diaspora get a taste of coconut from a can or bottle. The diaspora-born generations see images of coconuts, but they do not know how to listen for falling coconut leaves or fruits. Sina and Tuna Pasifika is also home to a sea of talanoa. Each island has talanoa, sometimes in several versions and sometimes different from the talanoa in other islands. One of my favorite talanoa is from Samoa: Before Once upon a time, there was a beautiful taupou (daughter of a chief; a virgin) named Sina from the village of Matāvai. Words of her beauty travelled far and captured a young man from another island. He inhaled her beauty and wanted to be with her. Every. Day. Knowing that Sina goes to the village rock pool to bathe, the young man turned into a tuna (eel) and moved into the pool. She learned to not fear him. He curled around Sina when she came to bathe, and they became friends. As Tuna grew fonder of Sina, she became afraid. Tuna tried to convince Sina to live with him in the pool, but she found his request impossible. His obsession overwhelmed Sina and she stopped coming to the pool. Depressed by Sina’s absence, Tuna sought death. But before he died, he sent a request: he asked Sina to bury his head upon his death; a tree will grow from his head, Sina may feed its fruits to her children. Sina granted his last wish, and a niu (coconut) tree grew up from the head of Tuna. When one husks the fruit of a niu one finds the face of Tuna, who surrendered his life for the beloved that he could not seize. (See also Kolia 2020)

The talanoa of Sina and Tuna roots attention at vanua. Niu grew out of love mixed with obsession for something difficult, different, and impractical. The face on the niu is that of Tuna (rather than of a human), a water creature. This Samoan talanoa is not about being empty (as in coco,

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head or skull), or being prohibited by impossibility and impracticality, but about growth—new life, in a new form. The talanoa of Sina and Tuna is accessible to natives in the White diaspora.5 They may not have access to a coconut tree but this talanoa could encourage them to push back at the White/whitened view of a coconut as brown shell with white innards. And for natives at the home(is)lands, why should we surrender to the racist wedges (wedgies) of White/whitened minds? The Samoan talanoa is an opportunity for pushing back at the pālangi profanation of something, and everything, significant to native home(is)lands. This push back is a process that i call “pasifikating” (for Pasifika skating, surfing, cruising). The niu from the head of Tuna is mythological and may have been lucent, cream, or even brown in the inside, but it nonetheless is a local talanoa that invites pasifikating. Pasifikating Theologies This book contains Pasifika insights that push back at White/whitened theologies. The essays are organized into three interweaving parts: Roots, Reads, Routes. These keywords are like currents, landmarks, or clusters of stars that point to paths and passages for navigating theologies in and of Pasifika. Roots: There are many roots (read: Tuna’s head) from which theologies in and of Pasifika grow—including moana and vanua, conditions and customs, Christian teachings and doctrines, written scriptures and oral references, native traditions and island ways, and so on. Some of the roots pasifikated in this first part of the book include traditional theological topics (God, sacrament, Christ, pneumatology, ecclesiology) and some Pasifika inventions (dirt, creation, moon, dance, haka, fātele, climate change, celebration, niu, and umu). Reads: As in other (is)lands, theologies in and of Pasifika are informed and inspired by readings of scriptures and literature as well as by readings of indigenous references, readings of the missionary traps and propaganda, and readings of the teachings and practices of local churches (the keepers and sustainers of the missionary agendas). The essays in this part are critical of both White/whitened wedges as well as Brown/local wedges on native minds, faiths, bodies, and pockets. 5  See TheCoconetTV, “The Legend of Sina and the Eel” (https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=vb-tVzHiqtA).

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Routes: In the shadows of our ancestors, the essays in this third part of the book put theologies in and of Pasifika upon the waters, in order that they may navigate and voyage. Attentions are given to canoe, relational and one-life cultures, as conduits for engaging some of the unfinished businesses of theology—significance of women (cf. Kanongata’a 1992), relation with other cultures and faiths, living in diaspora, liberation of West Papua and other islands under occupation, and the subjects of sex and suicide. While many of the essays could fit into two if not all three parts, they are positioned in order to encourage talanoa—theologies in and of Pasifika are rooted, and from those roots they are reading and voyaging. The ‘amanaki (hope, anticipation) of this work is in keeping talanoa going, in pushing back tendencies to wedge the theologies in and of Pasifika, and in putting native wisdom upon the waters. The mana (energy, influence) of this work will bobble here and there on this theological voyage. And as these theologies in and of Pasifika voyage, they chart Pasifika’s sea of theologies.

Works Cited Boseto, Leslie. 1995. The Gospel of economy from a Solomon Islands perspective. In Voices from the margin: Reading the Bible in the third world, ed. R.S. Sugirtharajah, 2nd ed., 179–184. London: SPCK. Kolia, Brian F. 2020. Eve’s serpent (gen 3:1–9) Meet’s Sina’s tuna at Faḡ ogo. In Vulnerability and resilience: Body and liberating theologies, ed. Jione Havea, 77–87. New York: Lexington. Finau, Patelisio. 1975. Prayer, persuasion, and politics. In The Pacific way: Social issues in national development, ed. Sione Tupouniua, Ron Crocombe, and Claire Slatters, 166–167. Suva: SPSS. ———. 1994. Confessing Jesus Christ in the Pacific Today. Pacific Journal of Theology II 11: 69–72. Halapua, Winston. 2010. Moana methodology: Promoting dynamic leadership. In Talanoa ripples: Across borders, cultures, disciplines, ed. Jione Havea, 132–148. Auckland: Massey University. Hau’ofa, ‘Epeli. 1994. Our sea of islands. The Contemporary Pacific 6: 147–161. Havea, Jione, ed. 2010. Talanoa ripples: Across borders, cultures, disciplines. Auckland: Massey University. ———, ed. 2018. Sea of readings: The Bible in the South Pacific. Atlanta: SBL. Havea, Sione ‘Amanaki’. 1987. Pacific Christianity and people solidarity. The Journal of the I.T.C 16 (1–2): 293–298.

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Kanongata’a, Keiti Ann. 1992. A Pacific women’s theology of birthing and liberation. Pacific Journal of Theology II 7: 3–11. Tuwere, Ilaitia Sevati. 1992. Emerging themes in Pacific theology. Pacific Journal of Theology II 7: 49–55. ———. 2010. Sa Meke Tiko Na Vanua [The land is dancing]: A doxological approach. In Talanoa ripples: Across Borders, cultures, disciplines, ed. Jione Havea, 120–131. Auckland: Massey University. Vaka’uta, Nāsili. 2011. Talanoa rhythms: Voices from oceania. Auckland: University of Massey.

PART I

Roots

CHAPTER 2

A Dirtified God: A Dirt Theology from the Pacific Dirt Communities Upolu Lumā Vaai

Pacific churches have promoted a dirt-free theology of God, fortified by theological education that adopt the colonial narrative that dirt is negative. As a result, Pacific Christians abandoned a spirituality informed by dirt-consciousness. Students who were trained in dirt-free theology find it hard to accept that God and dirt have something to do with each other. To propose that dirt is part of God is insulting, for it points to a compromising of the divinity and power of God as a savior. But what if our theologies misunderstood God, especially when assumed outside of the life of Jesus? This chapter focuses on this misunderstanding. It proposes the unorthodox and disturbing thesis that dirtification is part of God’s life. It proposes a dirtified God who challenges the “cleaning of God” theological narrative, but also the “dirt-free” colonial project that is destroying lands and oceans of the Pacific. The chapter responds to the need to develop theologies that are alternative to those given by the colonial digestive centers of thinking.

U. L. Vaai (*) Pacific Theological College, Suva, Fiji e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_2

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A Dirt Itulagi Dirt is central to the Pacific itulagi (itu is “side” and lagi is “heaven” or “horizon”). Itulagi redefines how we see and understand the world from our “side of the heavens.” We see things differently, depending on which “side of the heavens” we situate ourselves. Our itulagi forms our lifeworld conditioned by our contexts, education, faith, culture, or traditions, to name a few. Therefore, every perspective is limited, or every theology is partial, because it is always constructed from one’s particular itulagi. The task of theology is to weave these diverse itulagi to create a theological mat for maturing our faith into relationships. A dirt itulagi is one that is ground-up, shaped, and defined by dirt. What is common in the Pacific itulagi is a deep connection to the dirt. Pacific islanders are the inheritors of a profound eco-relational philosophy of life that connects all of life to the dirt. Pacific Dirt Identity Dirt is not merely dust or what we sweep up inside our houses. It is not negative as chanted in many parts of the world, symbolic of vile, worthlessness, filthy, underdevelopment, uncivilized, even sin and evil. In the Pacific, dirt is symbolic of identity. It reminds us of our rootedness in the land and connection to a wider eco-relational web of life. Ninety-five percent of life and activities in the Pacific revolves around dirt, unless we find ourselves in the small islands cosmopolitan centers. But even in these developed centers, dirt is still part of life. This is because Pacific people cannot live a day without getting in touch with the dirt. Take away the dirt, we take away our identity. Pacific earth terms (eleele, vanua, whenua, palapala, aba, ‘āina) are synonyms for dirt. They all touch on the dirt identity of Pacific communities. When a Fijian says vanua ni tamata, tamata ni vanua or when a Tongan says fonua pe tangata, tangata pe fonua (both translated “the land is the people and the people is the land”), they speak (as “we are”) of the deep connection of their identity with the dirt. For the Australian aboriginal people, the “kick the dirt” dance expresses the people’s link with dirt and dust. People kick the dirt in order to “breathe the dust.” The more the dust, the better the connection with all other dirt identities including ancestors. The people and the dirt breathe into each other as if they are

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receiving life from each other. Kicking the dirt proclaims people’s deep connection to the earth and is symbolic of deconstructing the development agenda that compartmentalizes life and destroys dirt communities (Lin 2015). In Samoa, the word for land or dirt (eleele, palapala) is the same word for blood. A woman’s placenta is called fanua, meaning land or dirt. Hence, dirt plays a critical role in nurturing and feeding the unborn child. During birth, it is actually the fanua that is severed to give life to the newborn. After birth, the mother’s fanua (placenta) is buried in the fanua (land) to remind that what nurtures human life in the placenta now returns to nurture more life in the dirt community. In most Pacific cultures, when a child is born, the umbilical cord is buried in the land to reconnect the child to mother earth. Through the umbilical cord, the child is disconnected from the human mother but is reconnected with mother earth. This practice of disconnection and reconnection is central to the idea of balance where reconnection is imperative when we disconnect a life from its roots. Balance and harmony are not romantic notions. They are eco-­ relational principles of life that inform and shape how one should relate to the dirt and can be realized through the practice of va or wa, the respect of relational spaces in most Polynesian countries, veiwekani and sautu in Fiji, gutpela sindaun in Papua New Guinea, thalapa in Kanaki New Caledonia, or faaaloalo in Samoa, to name a few.

Le Faaeleelea: The Colonial Cleaning Campaign Colonization ushered in a  strong le faaeleelea (anti-dirt) dirt-free paradigm of life. It attempted to clean not only cultures of the dirt, but also God. Colonization is rooted in the word “colon,” which in Latin and Greek links to “digestive system.” Colonialism is a onefication system where a person, community, or organization consumes more power, more wealth, and more resources to feed the powerful digestive centers by cleaning up what belongs to the dirt communities (Vaai 2017a, 9). The Pacific did not escape the rage of this cleaning system. Dirt has been maneuvered, extracted, and abused, hence the reason for a never-ending stomach-wrenching poverty in the Pacific. Today the Pacific people are agents of this cleaning campaign.  I give three examples of this abusive maneuvering.

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Theology of God First is the theology of God. Framed in a powerful philosophical notion of divine purity, our theologies of God provided the justification for the digestive centers to seize and control the lands, oceans, and peoples. The struggle a Pacific person will find with this theology in its colonial Eurocentric construct is that dirt is never a part of God. Students who have been trained in this dirt-free theological mindset find it hard to accept that God and the dirt have something to do with each other. Shaped by the metaphysical tradition of rational constructs to prove divine existence, the understanding of God was and is confined to properties such as purity, power, and objectivity. This approach, as John Zizioulas argues, means that we have to understand God to exist first as “being” before we understand God as “relational” (Zizioulas 2010, 146). As a result, the doctrine of the Trinity for example is never discussed alongside dirt, soil, dust, or earth. These are secondary to rational investigations of the inner life of God. Shaped by the apophatic philosophical tradition, mainstream theology asserts that the difficulty to relate God to the dirt is because Original Sin implies that everything in life is first and foremost sinful and deprived of goodness, therefore in need of cleansing for salvation through God’s grace. Pacific Christianity has been a slave to this theology that when we try to bring God to the dirt, we think that this compromises God’s purity (absolute perfect), immutability (does not change), and impassibility (does not suffer). As a result, the celebration of God’s creation as a gift always comes after the negation. This is in sharp contrast to Pacific relational approach where celebration of creation and life always precedes the negation phase. In his theology of celebration, Sione ‘Amanaki Havea argued that because the Pacific is founded on communal sharing, the idea of celebration underpins their life and activities (Havea 1987, 13). Every gift is matched not initially with negation, but rather with celebration. To lose this gift of celebration is to lose the realization of being gifted. The notion of “ownership” is foreign to many Pacific cultures, which revolve around the “we are” way of life rather than the “we have.” For this reason, the gift must be celebrated and protected together with those being gifted. Today there is so much negation that aims at gifting ourselves by ungifting other people and other communities. We have even created a God to justify that our cultures are divinely and more gifted, and in our worship, we thank this God. Perceiving ourselves as more gifted above others is reflected in the

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way Jesus has been received in the Pacific. With all the benefits of Christocentric faith, one implication that continues to shape the Pacific churches is that the lordship of Christ, seen as divine and powerful, is privileged (in hymns and sermons) more than the Jesus of Nazareth. Christians prefer a powerful savior over a human liberator who died. This direction has been pushed by some Pacific theologians who constructed theologies that reflect the lordship dimension of Christ. Theologies that promote Jesus as Tui (king) and Turanga (chief) or Taufalealii (high chief), and Matai (chief) fall into this category (see Tuwere 2010, Tuivanu 2013, Latu 2019). While most of these theologies bring out the servanthood of Jesus, they fall into the trap of using the lens of lordship to define servanthood. It promotes the idea that Jesus has to be a chief or King in order to offer trustworthy service, hence avoiding the ground-up aspect of Jesus’s ministry and his bodily engagement with political and economic issues of his time. The emphasis on the primacy of the lordship of Christ has created an overspiritualization of faith that focuses on sanctification and less on dirtification. Too much on romanticizing a heaven up there and less on liberating those in the conflict zones of the dirt. Too much on otherworldly miracles and less on miracles that happen in the sharing and redistribution of resources. In Samoa, for example, the lordship of Christ impacts on a ministerial axiom of ole Atua e le faaeleelea (“a God who cannot be dirtified”). Hence, ministers are normally referred to as e le faaelelea le aufaigaluega referring to ministers not to be dirtified when it comes to them serving communities. Hence, the lordship of Christ not only functions to create chiefs and kings, but also pushes God and the church to settle in heaven away from the suffering dirt communities. Education Second is education. This purity narrative justifies the impure profiling and ungifting of grass-root cultures, endorsing the “anything Western goes” attitude that support colonial domination in the education sector for centuries. Because the notions of purity are objective and therefore controlled by the global north, we create a powerful “one truth” purity system that uses colonial dominant standards and the notion of compliance to filter and clean other cultures. Pacific theological education continues to promote a Cartesian tabula rasa educational strategy where students are told to empty themselves of

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the impurities of their cultural contexts and clean out any preconceived knowledge before interpreting the bible or doing theology (Vaai 2014, 42). While Pacific islander students see themselves as relational beings, constituted and gifted by multiple connections and relationships, they are taught to eliminate this gift of connections and communal identities for a pure and reliable reading of the Bible. The result is colossal. Not only island students are transformed into “brown outside and white inside coconuts” but also, any theological thinking emerging from the gift of Pacificness has to seek first theological validation and approval from the centers of theologies in the global north. This is not just an issue in the theological arena. Pacific scholars such as Albert Wendt, David Gegeo, Kabini Sanga, Tuhiwai Linda Smith, and Unaisi Nabobo-Baba, to name a few, draw attention to the gaps in Pacific colonial education models that, according to Konai Helu Thaman, “have not taken into consideration Indigenous people’s worldviews, knowledge and value systems, including their languages” (Helu-Thaman 2019, 4). I remember one PhD student from a local university who complained that she had to argue her case with authorities as her supervisor did not accept Pacific references in her thesis. The recent study by Linda Smith and other indigenous educators has raised concerns about how land and water knowledge and methodologies that emerge from the dirt communities have been subsumed under the international push toward multiculturalism. As a result, the relational validity and accountability of knowledge is lost (Smith et al. 2019). But who controls knowledge? Isn’t all knowledge contextual? Who gives the terms for speaking about God? Or to put it simply, aren’t all constructed theologies shaped by a particular itulagi? No theology drops from heaven. All theologies are constructed. Controlling knowledge kills the gift and diminishes the courage of Pacific students to contest dominant thinking, to appreciate complexity and diversity, and to value in their theological thinking the small things that shape their everyday life such as the dirt. Development Third is development. Colonization is based on the “we have” development philosophy. In the Pacific, it is obvious that while the digestive centers of power have more, they are still extracting more. Based on their model of “growth” that promotes the “more is better” development paradigm, digestive centers will not rest until they have the rest.

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Digestive centers have been trying to seize some parts of the Pacific Ocean near Papua New Guinea, Cook Islands, and Tonga for the world’s first deep-sea mining. We replace wildlife with the tame as a clean economic strategy to respond to the mounting needs of consumers. We remove water from the local springs that is vitalized and filtered through its daily connection to the waterbed (the dirt) and then we turn around and create an economic ideology that bottled water, filtered by 8–10 chemicals, is safer and cleaner. Our cultural diversities have been wiped out by an equality system that measures everyone according to a “one truth” common denominator dictated by powerful digestive centers. We even promote in our own homes the employment-driven narrative that white-collar jobs are better than those that deal with the dirt such as trade. The recent geopolitical movements in the Pacific by powerful rich countries with the “illusion of their blue growth” (Brent et  al. 2020b) economic narrative, despite its many benefits, have several consequences. It transfers the power to use and control ocean space information and resources from the dirt communities to invisible international partners, and promotes a “blue fix” (Brent et al. 2020a) with more interest in turning conservations into profits to benefit the digestive centers. Sadly, the Pacific Island Forum, the inter-governmental organization of Pacific countries, is absorbed into this blue play of words by naming their development framework the “Blue Pacific.” My ancestors warned their people of this “we have” attitude, e tele lava le lototai ae sei taele mai lava ile mata ole vai (“the down steam is large enough to bathe but you also desire to seize its source”). Like Cain (Gen 4) who was given the gift of the firstborn, which normally comes with the gift of the land large enough for him and his family, this “we have” curses us to ungift others by seizing what belongs to them, even to the extent of spilling blood. We need to demolish centers that we’ve created in God to control and seize the flow of gift and life. In fact, God cannot be found where God can be controlled. If God’s freedom includes the freedom to be “in” the dirt, who are we to clean what God has dirtified? Who are we to remove the dirtness of God? Dirt hermeneutics invites us to be cautious that before we engage with any theological reconstruction of God, we need to deal first with the hierarchical power dynamics and the inherent racism that is embedded in our theologies. Removing God from the dirt privileges a particular form of knowledge and culture and justifies the supremacy of digestive centers to ungift others. Because the symbol of God functions as the concomitant orientation of life as Elizabeth Johnson

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(1992, 4) argues, believing in an absolute pure God gives ground to a dirt-free church, with a dirt-free mission, and with a dirt-free priesthood who likes to protect the power of the status quo for their own personal interests. We need to deal with the immense influence of the digestive paradigms of power in our theological thinking, and in our systems and structures. We need to destroy the pure powerful God we have created according to the image of the digestive centers. Thus, we need to de-­ heaven God and reclaim the dirtified God of Jesus.

Pacific Dirt Theologies Changing a perspective from that shaped by the digestive centers to that of the itulagi of the dirt rewires our mindsets to think differently. It requires wisdom to decide on “another route” to avoid the “required route” directed by the digestive centers as it was done by the three wise men (Matthew 2:12). It requires delving into the depths of one’s itulagi. “Theology can only be credible when it speaks from the depths of one’s being” says Sevati Tuwere (2002, 10) from Fiji. With dirtification as part of everyday life, islanders see things differently, and think differently; their worldview is formed where the plume of dust lingers, where hands and feet embrace the muddy ground, where the moon mates with the dirt to provide balance and life to the plants and trees, and where suffering and death are part of everyday life. We are invited to the depths of God through the depths of our own dirt itulagi. Many Pacific theologians, since Bishop Leslie Boseto, reflect on the metaphor of the theological pod. Instead of planting theology in the soil of the dirt communities, it remained in a foreign powerful pod where its roots are confined to less dirt and its value and quality are decided by those who own the pod. Pacific islanders who prefer “pod theologies” framed in the confines of the digestive centers deprive Pacific theology of the deep connection with issues found in the dirt communities. Pod theologies are theologies that exist above the dirt. The dirt invites us to a hermeneutic that reconstructs theology that not only has the ability to shatter the pod, but also defeat the pod culture—that desire to validate the quality of theologies according to colonial standards. The importance of the Pacific dirt perspective in theology was at the heart of many Pacific theologies produced in the last 40 years. For example, one of the pioneers of Pacific indigenous contextual theology is Sione Amanaki Havea from Tonga. In his coconut theology, he argued that the

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coconut as a gift of God to the Pacific is able to assist in reconstructing a theology of God that is “down to dirt.” The coconut is symbolic of a never-ending cycle of life from dirt to the skies, and back to dirt again. With its ability to sustain easy accessibility and simple economy, the coconut is planted in the dirt, it grows to the skies, then it rolls down to dirt again “to the lowest possible level” bringing “food, drink, husks, shells, money and industry” for the sustenance of the dirt communities. To Havea, a simple everyday life symbol such as the coconut has the ability to jolt the island imagination and open up the access of dirt communities to the traces of God in the lowest possible level of their lives. Despite issues with Havea’s argument that if Jesus grew up in the Pacific, he would say “I am the Coconut of Life,” especially in relation to the universality of this idea, what is clear in that affirmation is that Havea wants to bring Christ “down to dirt,” arguing that the coconut symbolizes to the Pacific dirt communities the very act of God coming to the “lowest possible level” to be with the most human, the most vulnerable, and the poorest of communities (Havea 1987, 11–15). This dirtified vision of God is picked up by Leslie Boseto in his community-­God theology arguing that God has been part of the diverse hundreds of the tribal dirt communities in Melanesia from the beginning. Transformation into the image of this community-God should be a movement from the individualistic “we have” lifestyle of the digestive centers into the “we are” lifestyle where community life is enhanced through cultures of wellbeing, mindful of relationships (Boseto 1993). Other notable theologians, to name a few, who were all part of this search for a Pacific dirtified theology are Sevati Tuwere (2002), who proposed a vanua theology to critically address the issue of identity in Fiji, Winston Halapua (2010, 2011) from Tonga who constructed a moana theology to reflect on God’s embrace and relationality, and Sister Keiti Ann Kanogataa (1992) in her birthing theology that argues for a birthing moment for women from the confinements of the powerful patriarchal systems. For these theologies, Pacific theological discourse should not be about “discovering” God in the midst of dirt communities, but rather “meeting” God face to face in the spaces and experiences of the dirt. Dirt theology reflects on how God is already mutually and inextricably part of the specificity of the life of the dirt communities. This is because God through the Spirit of life allowed Godself to be part of it. In order to make sense of this divine initiative, we need to liberate the Spirit from the limitations  of  redemption history, a  history marked by  excluding

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creation and the dirt in church’s Catholic and apostolic teachings in favor of salvation of the human soul. Any “down to dirt” theology has to start with specificities of the diverse itulagi of the dirt communities and the role of the Spirit in such diverse structure or else it is an imposed cloned theology. Dirt theology aims to provide a “dirt accent” to salvation. It takes its cue from how multiple relationships deeply connect and look after each other animated by the Spirit, as well as from the struggles and pain of the dirt communities. Recently, the decision by the Pacific church leaders to change the Pacific ecumenical story from “unity in Christ” that has dominated Eurocentric ecumenism to that of the “household of God” reflects a “down to dirt” shift to reconnect deeper with the Pacific people’s ecological worldviews, retrieving eco-relational life-affirming values fundamental to Pacific dirt communities to frame a new liberative story that is inclusive of all life in the cosmic household. It also reflects how Pacific churches have moved beyond the limitations of a human-centric redemption history to script a salvation story that is creation oriented.  However, there is also a need to move beyond the “meaning making” strategy and the notion of “relevancy,” in which most contextual theologies have been mired, toward a deeper dirtification of theology. This is due to the fact that some Pacific contextual theologies, by reminiscing on cultural concepts and traditions, have both won them a seat in the family of “pod theologies,” who uncritically take culture in their theological constructions, and also made them agents of the digestive centers to their people. Dirtification of theology requires the deconstruction of even our own itulagi and that which may shrink the opportunity for fullness of life and the reconstruction of what is healthy and holistic to liberate “the lowest possible level” of dirt communities. It promotes not only a theology of and from the dirt, but also a theology that redeems the dirt communities from repeating the mistakes of the digestive centers. Dirt theology should be able to expose the violence and injustice committed against the dirt communities. It aims to reconstruct a new understanding of God that provides real hope for life; hope that is not based on the “we have” ideology, but one that is grounded in the life of a dirtified God found in small places and small people. In this regard, dirt theology as an alternative theology to that provided by the digestive centers starts with life in the dirt, disrupting the notion of power that destroys dirt communities, and reaffirms God’s dirtness as foundation for an alternative vision for life.

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A Dirtified God To suggest a dirtified God changes everything that we’ve been taught about God because it asserts that there is no tension between God and dirt. The very reason why God is part of the dirt is because dirt is part of the very being of God. The overarching presence of the Spirit of life in creation is key to understanding this mystery. Instead of forcing God into the dirt as contextual theology would do, we shift the conversation to where dirt is part of the life of God. God was relational in the beginning, and dirtifies Godself through the life of Jesus in the Spirit. God’s dirtification derives from God’s own freedom, using Karl Barth’s language, to gift himself to us by de-heavening Godself through the Spirit to be part of the dirt communities. This is a divine resolve made way before humans came to the scene and before any theology is constructed. The “form of a slave” (Philippians 2:7), the “lowest possible level” of life for God to take, only came after the inner resolve of God to gift Godself to us through dirtification. We see this in the role of the Spirit in the story of creation. Before we meet God in the face of a dirtified slave (Jesus Christ), we meet through the Spirit the promise of a dirtified resolve. Dirtification is thus an integral part of divine life. This subverts the heavenizing of God central to Pacific pietistic Christianity. Understanding divine dirtification requires delving into the dirtified way of thinking, which is part of the Pacific eco-relational worldview and also present in Philippians 2. This way of thinking can be obvious in how dirt communities approach death and life, night and day, emptiness and fulfillment, dirtification and glorification. Abundance of life is a result of emptying of life. Having “less” is not the opposite of “more” as in the “more is a better” paradigm. It is not the opposite of growth. Rather less is more. It is the only way to achieve wellbeing and growth (Vaai 2017b, 215–231). In the Pacific, life in the dirt communities is all about sharing. All they have is each other. When they harvest, they distribute. When they have a huge catch, they share. In Jesus, God gave us the cues to subvert life for the sake of those in the dirt. To be served, one has to serve. To be exalted, one has to lower oneself. To fulfill, one has to empty. But I also caution that this kenotic theology of emptying and service, in relation to the cross of Christ, can be used to justify domination, especially when we prioritize the passive and obedient crucified Jesus trying to satisfy a remote God. Nevertheless, the awareness raised here is that lowering, emptying,

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serving, and sharing are dimensions of God’s dirtified life that should be used as tools for subverting dominant systems and creating alternative paradigms of life. In highlighting these dimensions, we also shift the responsibility from God to us. This has implications to the questions we should ask. Instead of where is God in all of these social issues of the dirt communities, we should ask, what is our responsibility to these issues? Hence, dirt theology promotes radical responsibility in the light of Jesus reversing how God approaches things from the “lowest possible level” of life. In this regard, resurrection is fulfilled through the cross and death of Jesus, glorification fulfilled through dirtification, and God become God through dirt. This radically changes the way God is to us. Instead of dirtification compromising the divinity of God as the “cleaning of God” campaign assumes, it is the very thing that affirms it. God becomes God through dirt. Through this lens, power from the “lowest possible level” of dirt communities is the opposite of the “we have” form of power of the digestive centers. God’s power is realized in solidarity with the “lowest possible level” of dirt. The more we connect with the dirt, the more we make sense of the mystery of God present in the dirt. Because we are from the dirt, the energy we need is from the dirt. Health, medicine, and wellbeing are from the dirt. Food is from the dirt. Our resilience is from the dirt. This form of power derives from God in “deep solidarity” with the stories and suffering of the community, according to Joerg Rieger (2018, 119). A power that is realized in the “lowest possible level” of life which the digestive centers consider as foolish. It is in this very dirt of experience that the wisdom and power of God is revealed, according to Paul in Corinthians. Hence, the cross of Christ is symbolic of a dirtified approach to life that nurtures power that emerges from the dirt communities. A God with less dirt is not a loving God whom the dirt communities could trust. Dirt communities are more attuned to a relational God. From a dirt perspective, there are no centers in God. This de-centering of God is captured in Gregory of Naziunzus’ famous reflection on the Trinity that “No sooner do I conceive of the One that I am illumined by the splendor of the Three; no sooner do I distinguish Them that I am carried back to the One … when I think of any One of the Three, I think of Him as a Whole” (1978, 375). To Naziunzus, because of the inseparability of the Trinity, wherever we start, we would end up in the whole, whether it’s the Father, Spirit, or Son. Hence, God shouldn’t have a center if it’s a mutual dynamic flow. This means that revelation as well is relational. Where there is

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relationship that promotes life, God is revealed. It is the Spirit that allows us to be part of this never-ending flow in order for us to identify the revealing presence of God in the complex specificity of relationships. A Dirtified Spirituality The theology of a dirtified God is not theological emotionalism. If the church is a continuation of the dirtified life of God, and if its mission is supposed to be the realization of the dirtified resolve of God, then it must identify with the “lowest possible level” of the dirt communities. By engaging with the dirt, the church should not think about dirt first in order to live in dirt. This is a colonial knowledge strategy—that thinking comes before the action, existence comes before relating. For dirt theology, the thinking is an integral part of the action. The two cannot be separated. Shaped by the dirtified way of life, we think through actions. Actions are the thinking engines of the people. In other words, we think about dirt by living in dirt. Dirt thinking is possible through the dirtified living. Hence, there is no better way for the church to speak of dirt knowledge than to immerse in dirtified living. Living in dirt nurtures in the church dirtified love. Such love is deep and costly because it takes commitment and sacrifice to move “down to dirt” closer to the conflict zones of the suffering dirt communities. It is a love that finds its roots in a deep inner resolve to be part of the “lowest possible level” of life. It yearns to destroy walls that divide and paradigms that suppress the unwanted, the abnormal, and the stranger. In Samoa, this kind of love is called alofa mutimutivale (“love that moves the bowel”) because it springs from an inner resolve that touches the very end of the human spectrum. It is a kind of love that must be felt deeply: that finds its pulse in the painful and agonizing breathing of the suffering dirt community. Where God slows down to the pace of the dirt communities. A love where dirt is turned into a criterion for mutual bond and friendship. One that constantly moves from the knowledge of dirt into dirtified actions of deep love.

Conclusion That dirt is part of God’s life is the radical thesis of this chapter. Divine dirtification was an initiative of God. It does not compromise God’s divinity because it emanates from God’s freedom of deep solidarity with those

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in the “lowest possible level” of life in the dirt communities. God speaks to dirt communities through the dirt, not through some powerful metaphysical way that can only be defined by rational approaches of the digestive centers. The challenge is how will this dirtified God shape the way we respond to the colonization and oppression of the dirt communities in the Pacific, the taking by force of their lands and resources in the name of development, and the hierarchical notions of power and violence of the digestive centers (both Pacific and non-Pacific) that continue to destroy the lives of many in the dirt communities. The simple God of the dirt invites us to reframe a new story of being and becoming in the Pacific. It invites us to a dirtified way of life where we become Trinitarian to one another in the midst of the struggles of the dirt communities. Hence, the role of dirt theology is to reconstruct and make available this divine mystery of dirtification for the dirt communities.

Works Cited Boseto, Leslie. 1993. God as community-god in Melanesian theology. Pacific Journal of Theology 10: 41–48. Brent, Zoe, Mads Barbesgaard and Carsten Pedersen. 2020a. The blue fix. https://www.tni.org/en/bluegrowth. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. ———. 2020b. The illusion of blue growth. https://www.tni.org/en/article/ the-­illusion-­of-­blue-­growth. Accessed 14 Jan 2020. Gregory of Naziunzus. 1978. Orations 40.41. In A select library of Nicene and post-Nicene fathers of the Church, 2nd series (1893), ed. Philip Scharff and Henry Wace, vol. 7, 375. Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans. Halapua, Winston. 2010. Moana methodology. In Talanoa ripples: Across borders, cultures, disciplines, ed. Jione Havea, 122–148. Auckland: Massey University. ———. 2011. Theomoana: Towards a Tikanga theology. In Talanoa rhythms: Voices from Oceania, ed. Nāsili Vaka’uta, 102–110. Auckland: Massey University. Havea, Sione ‘Amanaki. 1987. Christianity in the Pacific context. In South Pacific theology, 11–15. Oxford: Regnum. Johnson, Elizabeth. 1992. She who is: The mystery of god in feminist theological discourse. New York: Crossroad. Kanogata’a, Keiti Ann. 1992. A Pacific women’s theology of birthing and liberation. Pacific Journal of Theology 7: 3–11. Latu, Latuivai Kioa. 2019. Tamalii Tautua: A Christological view of Jesus Christ as servant-lord. Pacific Journal of Theology 57: 59–64. Lin, Daniel. 2015. Dust and dancing to celebrate indigenous Australians. National Geographic. https://blog.nationalgeographic.org/2015/07/27.

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Rieger, Joerg. 2018. Jesus vs Caesar: For people tired of serving the wrong god. Nashville: Abingdon. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai, Eve Tuck, and K. Wayne Yang, eds. 2019. Indigenous and decolonizing studies in education. New York: Routledge. Thaman, Konai Helu. 2019. Learning to think in the language of strangers: Indigenous education in a colonized and globalized Pacific. International Journal of Human Rights Education 3: 4. Tuivanu, Tuivanu. 2013. Taufalealii: Reorienting theology of leadership, towards mission in the methodist church in Samoa. MTh Thesis. Suva: Pacific Theological College. Tuwere, Sevati. 2002. Vanua: Towards a Fijian theology of place. Suva: Institute of Pacific Studies, University of the South Pacific. ———. 2010. Jesus as Tui (king) and Turaga (chief). Concilium 5: 51–59. Vaai, Upolu Lumā. 2014. Vaatapalagi: De-heavening trinitarian theology in the islands. In Colonial contexts and postcolonial theologies, storyweaving in the Asia-­ Pacific, ed. Mark Brett and Jione Havea, 41–53. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. ———. 2017a. E itiiti a lega mea—Less yet more! A Pacific relational development paradigm of life. In Relational hermeneutics: Decolonizing the Mindset and the Pacific Itulagi, ed. Upolu Lumā Vaai and Aisake Casimira, 215–231. Suva: Pacific Theological College. ———. 2017b. Introduction. In Relational hermeneutics: Decolonizing the mindset and the Pacific Itulagi, ed. Upolu Lumā Vaai and Aisake Casimira, 1–14. Suva: University of the South Pacific and the Pacific Theological College. Zizioulas, John. 2010. Relational ontology: Insights from patristic thought. In The trinity and an entangled world: Relationality in the physical science and theology, ed. John Polkinghorne, 146–156. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans.

CHAPTER 3

Ko e Mana Fakahā ‘Otua ‘o e Fakatupu: Creation as Sacrament Mikaele N. Paunga, SM

Can we add another sacrament to the traditional 7 or 2 that our communities have lived by for centuries? If the answer is yes, then how may creation (or created order) be described as a sacrament? If these queries are entertained, they would open up a new dimension for coconut theology as invited by the late Sione ‘Amanaki Havea. I explore in this chapter the feasibility of sacramentality beyond the 7 or 2 traditional sacraments, which are Medieval and Western expressions trapped in separating immanent versus transcendent, faith versus reason, science versus faith (Maldari 2019, 5). Besides, more than half of humanity today do not think in the “Western subject/object, Category of thinking” (Osborne 1999, 197) that has monopolized the sacramental system. In doing so, it leaves out a lot of areas with possible sacramentality. It leaves out the whole Old Testament, and the whole of creation—the subject of this chapter. It isolates other religions and Christian churches outside of the West from developing their sacraments (outside of that box).

M. N. Paunga (*) Pacific Regional Seminary, Suva, Fiji © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_3

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The time has come for a broader understanding of “sacrament.” According to Vatican II, “The term ‘mystery’ indicates that the Church, as a divine reality inserted into history, cannot be fully captured by human thought or language” (Paul VI, 1). And according to Pope Paul VI, in his opening allocution at the second session (29 Sept 1965), “The Church is a mystery. It is a reality imbued with the hidden presence of God. It lies, therefore, within the very nature of the Church to be always open to new and greater exploration.” Bearing in mind the traditional teaching of the Catholic Church on the Sacraments, here I work on a much broader understanding of the sacrament. It highlights the Trinitarian relational foundation of everything and in particular, the sacraments. Sacraments as essentially relational. The whole of creation is fundamentally relational. This makes room for a new look at the sacraments and the sacramentality of other realities including that of Creation or the Created order. To make this sacramental relationality concrete, I use a Pacific image of the relationship between yam planting and the moon cycle. Their relationship reveals the love, care, blessings, works and favor of God the creator which are invisible to us. I maintain that this relationship is essentially sacramental. In the first section, I focus on creation as Trinitarian and manifestation of God’s love, grace and blessings for/of humans. Creation has a Trinitarian structure according to which everything is inter-related, inter-connected. In the second section, I discuss the origin, etymology and history of sacrament since the middle ages. The third section looks at a concrete local example of the sacramentality of creation (through the intimate relationship between the moon and rest of creation and in particular, yam planting, which relates to tides and fishing). This chapter ends with a conclusion and poetic reflections.

Creation as Trinitarian Catholic trinitarian theology has been updated from its philosophical imprisonment in the fifth century, which locked the Trinity in eternity and hardly had anything to do with us. Vatican II, Popes Benedict XVI and Francis have updated the theology of the Trinity accordingly. Their insights inspire this work.

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Vatican II (1962–65) Since St. Augustine and followed by St. Anslem, and for 15 centuries, the Catholic answer was clear and succinct: the Trinity is a mystery; one God in three persons. The biblical foundations of the doctrine about a God who is compassionate (Ps 145: 8–9), gracious and communion with creation (cf. 1 Cor 13), were replaced by philosophical speculations. Vatican II put the Trinity back to its biblical roots and to the life of the church. It highlighted in all its documents, decrees and declarations that the Trinity is the foundation of everything. The Trinity is a communion and a community of persons in relationships (Lumen Gentium, 1). This has important bearings on the Trinitarian foundation of creation and the sacraments. The Church as communion is founded on the Trinity (Ecclesia de Trinitate). Trinitarian perichoretic, subsistent communion is the model for ecclesial communion. Everything is inter-related. It is in this sense also that Vatican II chose the People of God as its model and defines the Church in the following manner: “The Church in Christ, is in the nature of a sacrament—a sign and instrument, that is, of communion with God and of unity among all men” (LG 1). In this sense, Vatican II makes room for seeing creation as a sacrament of the communion between God and humankind (LaCugna 1991). Pope Benedict XVI: On Creation In In the Beginning: A Catholic Understanding of the Story of Creation and Fall, Pope Benedict said that the “book of nature is one and indivisible” and includes the environment, life, sexuality, the family, social relations and so on (1996, 42–43). Human beings are all one humanity formed from God’s one earth (1996, 43–44). We are all one project of God (1996, 45). The phrase “made in the image of God” means that human beings point to something beyond themselves. They cannot be closed in. To be the image of God implies relationality. Human beings are set in motion toward the totally other (1996, 74). Human beings have the capacity to relate. We are oriented toward God and to the other. Human beings are essentially and fundamentally relational. In his encyclical Caritas in Veritate (Charity in Truth), Benedict speaks clearly about our relationship with nature and the environment—God’s creation. Creation is God’s gift (2009, 48). The believer can recognize in creation the wonderful result of God’s creative activity (Rom 1: 20).

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In The Environment, Benedict develops four key concepts that come from the same root (oikos): environment, ecology, economy and ecumenism. Oikos imply how we should dwell and behave on our planet, one household common to all. Being “a wondrous work of the Creator, the natural environment contains ‘a grammar’ which sets forth ends and criteria for its wise use, not its reckless exploitation” (2012, 7–8). Pope Francis: On the Trinity In his encyclical Laudato Si’ (2015, 238–240), Pope Francis presents Trinity in terms of Father as ultimate Source; the Son as the Father’s reflection and the Holy Spirit as the infinite bond of love between them.

Influenced by the Franciscan school (2015, 239), Francis maintains that the “World was created by the Three Persons.” Everything is in communion and the “Trinity has left its mark on all creation” (2015, 239).1 Consequently, we must read reality in a Trinitarian key. For Francis, “The 1  Pope Francis is influenced by St. Bonaventure who said that human beings, before sin, were able to see how each creature “testifies that God is three.” The reflection of the Trinity was there to be recognized in nature “when that book was open to man and our eyes had not yet become darkened.”

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entire universe speaks of God’s love, his boundless affection for us. Soil, water, mountains; everything is, as it were, a caress of God” (2015, 84). I add to this, from an oceanic context: moon, yam, trees, land and ocean (fonua and moana). The world created according to the divine model is a “Web of Relationship” (2015, 240). All creatures orient toward God and to other living things. This orientation creates constantly interwoven relationships. This is possible because when every creature was created, God imprinted in them a Trinitarian dynamism. Thus, everything is interconnected. Teilhard de Chardin also concluded that “all creation is being called to participate in the communion that is God” (Maldari 2019, 3). As Donald C. Maldari explains, Teilhard “perceived the presence of the triune God through the Incarnate Son in all things” (Maldari 2019, 3). Moreover, the “universe is the continuing creative act of God… God works through creation” (Maldari 2019, 4; so, Edwards 1991, 110). We are fundamentally relational. We exist, live and move in relation to God, to other human beings and to the rest of creation. We are therefore united, connected, wired and founded on the Trinitarian relationality.

What Is a Sacrament? In the Catholic tradition, sacraments are visible signs of invisible grace or visible signs of invisible reality instituted by Christ for our sanctification; their primary aim is “to give grace” (Kurt 2002, 16). There are three important elements in this definition, namely signs, institution and grace. The English word “sacrament” comes from the Latin sacramentum (from the Greek μυστήριον comes “mystery”) understood as a religious rite or ceremony instituted by Jesus Christ (Ronald S. Wallace in Elwell 1984, 965). The sacraments of baptism and Eucharist are examples. Later a sacrament came to be seen as a “visible or outward sign of an inward and spiritual grace” (from St Augustine’s notions of res et sacramentum—the reality and the signified; cf. Fink 1990, 1116). Sacraments are visible rites seen as signs and efficacious channels of the grace of God to those who receive them with the proper disposition. Hence, Kenan Osborne concludes: “a sacrament is a visible sign, a perceptible symbol of something invisible and sacred. The invisible reality, to which the sign bears witness, is grace: God’s free gift of his love to men and women” (1988, 7). There are two central themes in these definitions: (1) Visible rites or signs and (2) Invisible grace or reality. Kenan Osborne succinctly explains

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this in the following manner: “In all sacramental discussion, there is the sacrament, and there is the reality to which the sacrament refers. The reality is always superior to the sacrament” (2005). There is a visible element like bread, symbol of the invisible reality of God’s grace which human eyes cannot see, touch or feel. Accompanied by form or words, visible signs relate or connect us to the invisible reality of God. What is the relationship of the symbol (signum) to the reality (res) (Power 1994, 155)? Here is a question of relationality (Power 1994, 149). What enables the signum et res to relate to each other effectively? Sign (Signum)

Reality (Res)

Symbol Earthly Visible Known Time This life Sensible reality Human Created Finite

Signified Heavenly Invisible Unknown Eternity Next life Spiritual Divine Uncreated Infinite

Early Church Fathers held that the material manifests, and leads into, the spiritual (Power 1994, 149). The word effects what it signifies. This enables the earthly and material to relate to heavenly and spiritual realities. The visible sacrament points to participation in the spiritual reality. The creation enables the signum et res to embrace. As Henry Nouwen (2019) put it: In and through Jesus all creation has become a splendid veil, through which the face of God is revealed to us. This is called the sacramental quality of the created order. All that is, is sacred because all that is speaks of God’s redeeming love. Seas and winds, mountains and trees, sun, moon, and stars, and all the animals and people have become sacred windows offering us glimpses of God.

This remarkable explanation extends sacrament to the rest of the created order. It is not limited to the Church and its two or seven sacraments, and Vatican II supports this view: “This Sacred Synod affirms, God, the beginning and end of all things, can be known with certainty by the light of human reason” (Dei Verbum, 6). In the creation, material things are signs of things spiritual and sacred (see Ps 19:2 and Rom 1:20). The creation reveals the invisible nature of God (see Col 1:15–17).

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Creation reveals the invisible Christ. Thus, the Catechism of the Catholic Church (heretofore CCC) concludes: “Sacraments are ‘for the Church’ in the sense that ‘the sacraments make the Church’, since they manifest and communicate to men, above all in the Eucharist, the mystery of communion with the God who is love, One in three persons” (CCC 1118). This conclusion presents the relational communion with the Trinitarian God as nothing other than love. St. Bonaventure holds the same position—that the created world is like a book that reflects, represents and describes its maker. The CCC section on the sacraments is situated in the Liturgy, defined as the work of the Trinity (CCC 1077–1112). Liturgy is where God gives blessings; blessing is a divine and life-giving action; the whole of God’s work is a blessing (CCC 1078–79). Signs and symbols are means of communicating with others and with God (cf. CCC 1150), beginning from the “Old Covenant and fully revealed in Jesus Christ” (CCC 1145–46; cf. 1147–50). God not only blesses and expresses love and grace through the seven or two sacraments, but also through the creation and material cosmos. So much so that “Light and darkness, wind and fire, water and earth, the tree and its fruit speak of God and symbolize both his greatness and his nearness” (CCC 1147). We may add to this list coconut and kava, moon and yam, taro and cassava. Creation and nature reveal God and his love for us—precisely what we expect from a sacrament.

Mah ̄ ina and ‘Ufi: Moon and Yam Reveal the Blessings of God Pope Francis declared that “the world was created by the three persons (Trinity)” (2015, 238) and that “each creature bears within itself a specifically trinitarian structure” (2015, 239). Because the trinity is at the heart of it all, everything is interconnected; everything is relational; everything is in communion with each other; everything is interwoven and a web of relationships (2015, 240). This is the theological justification for this chapter. This chapter deconstructs and reconstructs the understanding of the sacraments from the context of Oceania or Moana, where relational hermeneutics is the default starting point as Upolu Vaai (2017) and ‘Okusi Mahina have shown. Put simply, reality is relational. A Pasifika philosophy would be—I live; therefore, I relate. To exist is to relate. Existing is

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relating. Being is relating. Living is relating. This is the Oceanic-Moanic hermeneutics for this chapter. Relationality is the substance of reality and existence. This same relational philosophy was elaborated by Mohenoa Puloka in his maxim as far as Tongans are concerned: “The I, is a We.” A concrete local example of the inter-relationality and sacramentality of creation is found in the intimate relationship between the moon and earth, and I focus here on the moon-yam. I draw on the wisdom of my people who, even today, plant yams as our ancestors taught. So much so, that the traditional calendar of Tonga, a lunar one, is based completely on this relationship. Māhina– ‘Ufi Relational The following insights were inspired by talanoa with a Methodist theologian and an environmental activist, Upolu Luma Va’ai of Samoa, around the tanoa (bowl in which kava is served) at the Pacific Theological College (Suva, 17 July 2017, after the launch of Navigating through Troubled Waters) and continued over lunch the next day. Our talanoa followed upon presentations by various Pacific scholars at a Pacific Philosophy and Ecology conference (Vaai 2017). The main agenda of our talanoa was to find alternative paradigms within the Pacific that would challenge the neo-­ liberal capitalistic economic paradigm which has failed us, but they continue to be taught at our institutes of learnings. The alternative models would be derived from Pacific traditional wisdoms which have been ostracized, side-lined and left outside the doors of university classrooms—considered primitive and irrelevant to our world today. Consequently, our students are being brainwashed with the Western one-truth paradigm. My contribution to the search for indigenous alternatives is on the relation of the moon to creation through the relationships of the moon to (1) yam planting, (2) the tides and (3) fishing (the tides determine the kind of fishing to do, and the moon affects the texture and taste of fish and crustaceans). Needless to say, my contribution is shaped by the knowledge passed to me by my late father Petelo ‘Oto’ota Kakala Lolesio Paunga (Vaipoa, Niua Toputapu).2 The moon affects the seasons and “for everything, there is a season and a time for every matter under the heaven” (Eccl 3:1–8). This is true with respect to yam planting, around which the traditional Tongan calendar was formed. 2

 I also benefited from conversations with Maletino ‘Inoke and ‘Isileli Misinale of Tonga.

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Tongan Calendar Until recently, Tongans have learned the Tongan calendar from Edgar E. V. Collocott (1922), an Australian missionary to Tonga (1911–1924). Tongan scholar Tevita Hale Fale (1990) has offered another view. Fale re-­ ordered the calendar to fit the political, agricultural, historical and cultural organizations of Tonga in the past. This turn is something that Collocott and other expatriates would not have known. After comparing the two, Fale’s calendar seems more correct based on my personal knowledge of yam planting and observations of months and the moon every year. Based on years of living according to nature’s rhythm, Tongan traditional experiential knowledge has been practiced since time immemorial. I tap into those and make my own calendar according to yam time. The cycle of yam planting begins from June–July to May–June of the following year. Yam Calendar The first month begins with the full moon in June, coinciding with the planting of new yams, and the ensuing full moons (approximately 29 days apart) mark the beginning of the next months. The yam cycle divides into early crops (tokamu’a) and late crops (tokamui). The tokamu’a are planted in June for the first harvest—lihamu’a—in December. The tokamui (or ta’ulahi) are planted in September for harvest in May–June—lihamui—of the next year. 1 2

7 8

‘Ao’ao (June–July) Faka’afumo’ui (July–Aug) Vaimu’a (Aug–Sept) ‘Uluenga (Sept–Oct) Hilingamea’a (Oct–Nov) Hilingakelekele (Nov–Dec) Lihamu’a (Dec–Jan) Tanumanga4 (Jan–Feb)

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Vaimui (Feb–Mar)

3 4 5 6

Planting of tokamu‘a. Yams begin to grow. This is hau’aoa time, when newly cut seedlings will rot. First rains (a blessing) after the colder months.3 Planting of tokamui. Food (previous harvest) runs low. Tokamu’a grows (crawls) and leaves appear. Tokamui crawls and leaves appear. Shortage of food. First harvest (polopolo) of tokamu’a. Tokamui matures (branch or fork) out from the head of the maturing yam. Second rains and final growth and fattening of yams. (continued)

3 4

 Collocott wrongly placed Vaimu’a in February–March.  Collocott wrongly placed tanumanga in November–December.

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(continued) 10 Fu’ufu’unekinaga (Mar–Apr) 11 Faka’afumate (Apr–May) 12 Lihamui (May–June)

Start clearing plots and begin preparing for the next season. Tokamui die and are ready for harvest. Harvest of tokamui.5

Within this calendar are seven stages for the planting, tending and harvesting of yams: 1. Taimi kini e vao—the time for (not) preparing the planting site. Clearing the ground and planting the yams follow the moon cycle. No yam grower cut trees or clear the land during the full moon, because they will not die completely. These are done in the final stages of the waning moon, when the moon is weak. How did the ancestors know this? Through repeated experiences and observations. Today, we know why this is the case from science and it has to do with the gravitational pull of the moon. Isaac Newton’s law of gravity showed how the tides are affected by the gravitational pull of the moon, and these energies affect the water content—there is more moisture in the soil at the time of the full moon (Grunert).6 In fact, the moon affects all water(ed) bodies on earth including leaves and plants. 2. Taimi tutututu—the time for (not) burning of cuttings and rubbish. After cutting and clearing of the plot, the branches and leaves are left to dry. At the final days of the waning moon, there is less water in the soil and plants so they will burn easily. The yam growers know when (not) to do this from observations and experiences. 3. Taimi tofi e pulopula—the time for cutting seeds and the time for not cutting seeds. This process is done according to the month and moon cycle—between the new moons and full moons from April to mid-July. But from mid-July to mid-August, the Tongan month of ‘Ao’ao, the seeds will rot (hau’aoa). Alas, I experienced this in 2016: 90 percent of the seeds I cut during this time rotted away.

 Collocott wrongly placed the harvest in January–February.  See also “Planting by the phases of the moon” (https://www.gardeningbythemoon. com/moon-phase-gardening/ accessed 22 Aug 2019). 5 6

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The seeds for the tokamu’a are cut and buried in the ground for a month or so, then unearthed and sorted—the pieces that have started to grow will grow well when put in the ground. From mid-­ August until October, the tokamui season, one may cut and plant immediately with no fear of rotting. There is no scientific explanation for this phenomenon, but Tongan yam growers respect and follow this rhythm of life. 4. Taimi ke fakaheka e ma’ala—the time to (not) plant. Yams are planted when the moon gravitational pull is strong, the peak time is the full moon. The best time for planting is the first quarter to the full moon (a period of two weeks), and most yam growers stop planting after the full moon. The gravitational energy weakens together with the waning moon, and growers prefer to wait for the next new moon. Moreover, there are only certain months in which one could plant yams. April to June for the tokamu’a, August to October for the tokamui. Beyond those times, it is not advisable to plant yams because they will not have enough time to mature. From April onward, when weather is cooler than usual, the yams will die. . Taimi ke huo e ma’ala—the time for (not) weeding and not to weed. 5 Yam is a very delicate crop. There are conditions when one should not approach. The weeding of yams is done when the soil is dry, which means that one waits for the afternoon when the sun has dried up the soil and the leaves of the yams before one touches the yams or weeds the plot. The leaves will wither if they are disturbed while they have water/moisture on them. The Tongan word for this is mahunu,7 and this condition spreads from one plant to the next. I had this personal experience in 2014, when I went to Australia during Christmas break. I instructed the person who stayed home to look after the house and the farm not to touch or go near the yams when it rains. But when I returned in late January, all the yams had mahunu and within two weeks, they all died prematurely. I found out later that my helper did not go to the plantation the whole time I was away. When he realized that I would return in a week’s time, he weeded the yam on a day when it rained heavily. Consequently,

7  When yam gets mahunu, the leaves are burned like someone sprayed them with weed killer.

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all the yams died prematurely three months before harvest time. The harvest was poor that year. 6. Taimi ke utu e ‘ufi—the time for (not) harvesting and for celebration. Harvest time is the most enjoyable time of yam planting. It is a time of joy and celebration. In ono’aho (ancient time), this season had its rhythms and forms of celebrations. There are two seasons of harvesting. The first harvest (lihamu’a) is the harvest of the tokamu’a. The polopolo (first fruits of the harvest) were normally offered to the king, nobles, community leaders and family elders. The idea behind this is to give thanks to God for the good harvest and to acquire from those important people blessings for the next harvest. The second harvest (lihamui) is later, from April to June of the next year. Again, it is a time of celebration, joy and thanksgiving. Yams are stored in dry places, and they can last for a long time (if not consumed by humans or animals). Before storing, the yams are separated into different categories. The ones that could be seeds for the next season are put aside, from yams for consumption. Yams are also shared with friends and relatives. 7. Taimi ke hiki ki he konga vao fo’ou—the time to move to a new plot and leave the old one fallow, so that the soil may recover. This is about giving the soil space to recuperate, for three or more years. This allows the soil to build up again so that it would be ready for another season. With commercial farming, farmers do not follow this natural process. They repeatedly plant the same plot year after year. They put manure and unnatural soil enhancements to improve the soil, but eventually the soil becomes tired. This is because farmers do not respect the rhythm and cycle of how life recuperate itself naturally. The relationality between moon and yam demonstrates how everything is interconnected. There is an interplay of everything in creation like a harmonious piece of music. If one does not follow the rhythm, one is out of tune resulting in a discord or disharmony. The latter is the current characteristics of the universe, with its lack of universal communion. In yam planting, there are the threefold relationships of the yam, the planter and the moon. We add to this the soil and sun for they too make significant contributions.

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Overview This chapter argued that Creation (or created order) is a sacrament, grounded in the Trinity as essentially relational, drawing upon insights from Vatican II, Pope Benedict and Pope Frances—that everything is interconnected. Everything that exists does so in a web of relationships. I noted scientific, biblical and theological explanations to support this line of thinking. The creation reflects the Trinity as relational, subsistent and perichoretic. Nay, one may dare to say, that the creation testifies to sacraments of the relationship. I situated what a sacrament is from its classical and from the broader understanding in view of Vatican II, Catechism of the Catholic Church and latter theologians. Today, we cannot restrict our understanding of the sacraments to its classical understandings. They must be re-interpreted in light of recent theological reflections and investigations on what a sacrament means for all diverse peoples and cultures of the world, not only of the North and West but also of East and South. The discussion above established that sacraments must be understood in its Trinitarian foundations, meaning that a sacrament is essentially relational. Finally, I presented the wisdom of my people in the Moana/Oceania, of the relationship between the moon and yam planting. The traditional practice of growing yams invites respect for God’s creation and the rhythm of life. It recognizes that God blessed human beings with the gift of creation and humans must observe its life cycle in order to receive the blessings of the land, which is interwoven with the energies of the sky and the sea. Yam planting and moon cycles are intimately connected. Everything is relational. The yams are planted and tended in relation to the moon cycles. Failure to do so would be disastrous. Faithfulness to this relationality ensures harvests that demonstrate loud and clear the invisible God. In this connection, creation is a sacrament and it is sacramental.

A Prayer This chapter is a tribute to Sione ‘Amanaki Havea and Bishop Pātelesio Finau. Their theological thinking and courage to explore the possibility of local theologies developed out of Pacific soil inspired me greatly (Forman 2005). From the broader sacramental viewpoint of this chapter, this reflection on the yam culture of Tonga affirms that niu (coconut) is also sacramental. The coconut theology of the late ‘Amanaki Havea may be vindicated,

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resurrected, re-constructed and fully developed from this trinitarian, sacramental and relational hermeneutic. Finally, the moon and yam relation explained above demonstrates the sacramentality of creation and is further expressed in the following prayer, while sitting and meditating beside the yams in my garden—“O God’s Yam and Moon Relation”: Thank you, O Lord God for the gifts of sun, rain, moon and yam Reminding us of the abundant gifts of your nature-creation Filling us with your love, blessings, care and attention Inducing us to kneel in worship and bow in humble adoration O Earth, my fonua, O soil my vanua and ‘ufi my yam O sun, my lagi, O māhina—moon and ‘uha-rain You are all signs and symbols of God’s invisible love and grace Nay the sacramentality of God’s stunning creation O birds in the air and fishes in my Moana—Ocean, O mango, kuava, niu-coconuts and all fruit trees of the fonua-land O lailo (land crabs), ‘u ̄’ū (coconut crabs) and all fresh water crabs, Stand up, let’s sing and dance to the Lord with choruses of praise An Oceanic philosophy, a new hermeneutic, “to live is to relate”8 Mohenoa Puloka reminds us, “The I, is a We; Straight-line, is a curve” ‘Okusi Mahina Hufanga adds, TA-VA- reality time-space relations Upolu Vaai, relationality, heart of Moana-Oceanic persons O Trinitarian God, our saviour, redeemer and creator, How you have structured in the very fabric of every creature The rhythms, laws, cycles and various seasons to emulate As Laudato Si, and Ecclesiastes remind us to treat with respect O ‘ao’ao,9 in you is written the hidden yam rules Commanding all yam growers to stop cutting seeds O lihamu’a,10 you remind me of my duties at harvest of first fruits To give thanks to God, by offering them to kings, chiefs and priests

 Compare to the one-sided philosophy of Descartes which dominated for centuries. We are not mere intellects; we also have hearts and we exist in relations. 9  July–August: seeds cut at this time will rot. 10  December–January: tokamu’a are harvested (polopolo). 8

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O vaimu’a11 the first and vaimui12 the second seasonal rains You facilitate and accelerate the final growth and fattening of yams O moon and yam, Amen for your inter-connectedness and relations You reveal the inner perichoretic subsistent Trinitarian inner actions O Lihamui,13 a time that all yam growers await with patience The harvest, the family pray with great anticipation It is time for dancing, sharing, singing and celebration To God thanksgiving, praising, blessing and glorification For yam and moon have demonstrated the sacramentality of creation Amen!

Works Cited Benedict XVI (Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger). 1996. In the beginning: A Catholic understanding of the story of creation and fall. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. ———. 2009. Caritas in Veritate. Vatican: Libreria Editrice Vaticana. ———. 2012. The environment. Huntington: Sunday Visitor Publishing Division. Catechism of the Catholic Church. 1993. Vatican: Libreria Editrice Vaticana. Collocott, E.E.V. 1922. Tongan astronomy and calendar. Honolulu: Bishop Museum. Edwards, Denis. 1991. Jesus and the cosmos. Oregon: Wipf & Stock. ———. 2008. Eucharist and ecology: Keeping memorial of creation. Worship 82: 194–213. Elwell, Walter A., ed. 1984. Evangelical dictionary of theology. Michigan: Baker. Fale, Tevita H. 1990. Tongan astronomy. Honolulu: Polynesian Eyes Foundations. http://thfale.com/tevita-­h-­fale/. Accessed 22 Aug 2019. Fink, Peter E., ed. 1990. The new dictionary of sacramental worship. Minnesota: Liturgical. Forman, Charles W. 2005. Finding our own voice: The reinterpreting of Christianity by oceanian theologians. International Bulletin of Missionary Research 29 (3): 115–122. Francis (Jorge Mario Bergoglio). 2015. Laudato Si. Vatican: Libreria Editrice Vaticana. Grunert, Jeanne. 2019. Gardening and moon phases. https://www.lovetoknow. com/member/313~jeanne-­grunert. 21 Aug 2019. Kurt, Stasiak. 2002. Sacramental theology: Means of grace. Chicago: Loyola.  First rains (September–November), blessings to help yams grow.  Later rains (February–March), blessings to fatten the yams. 13  Harvest of tokamui (April–June). 11 12

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LaCugna, Catherine M. 1991. God for us: The trinity and Christian life. New York: HarperCollins. Maldari, Donald C. 2019. Christian ministry in the divine milieu: Catholic evolution and the reign of god. New York: Orbis. Martos, Joseph. 1982. Doors to the sacred. New York: Image. Nouwen, Henri. 2019. Created order as sacrament. https://henrinouwen.org/ meditation/created-­order-­sacrament/. Accessed 16 May 2019. Osborne, Kenan B. 1988. Sacramental theology: A general introduction. New York: Paulist. ———. 1999. Christian sacrament in a postmodern world: A theology for the third millennium. New York: Paulist. ———. 2001. Sacramental theology: Means of grace, ways of life. Chicago: Loyola. ———. 2005. Jesus, sacrament of god: A contemporary Franciscan view. In Salvation in Christ: Comparative Christian views, ed. Roger R.  Keller and Robert L. Millet, 205–235. Provo: Brigham Young University. Paul VI (Giovanni Montini). 1965. Dogmatic constitution on the church—Lumen Gentium. Vatican: The Holy See. Power, David N. 1994. The Eucharistic mystery, revitalizing the tradition. New York: Crossroad. Vaai, Upolu Luma, ed. 2017. Relational hermeneutics. Suva: University of the South Pacific.

CHAPTER 4

Jesus Does a Haka Boogie: Tangata Whenua Theology Te Aroha Rountree

Karanga ake ra ̄! Karanga ake ra ̄! I te ao, i te pō, i te ao, i te po ̄ Karanga ake ra ̄ te wairua tapu Ka tu ̄, ka ora, ka tu ̄, ka ora! Karanga ake ra ̄ te reo a ̄ ngā tup̄ una Ka whai, ka hua, ka whai, ka hua! Karanga ake ra ̄ te reo a ̄ ngā whakatu ̄puranga Ka whakaharuru, ka wawa ̄! Ara, Tı ̄he Mauriora!

Pā Henare Tate’s call for indigenous Māori (Tangata Whenua) theology is a good place to begin this kōrerorero (conversation): “Māori indigenous theology is Māori faith seeking Māori understanding. It is a theology developed by Māori for Māori in the first instance, and in the second instance for all those who share the same land and context, and thirdly for all others” (2012, 21). Pā Tate, a Catholic priest from Hokianga (Tai Tokerau), maps the path for a distinctly indigenous Māori theology. He

T. A. Rountree (*) Trinity Methodist Theological College, Aotearoa, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_4

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meticulously outlines the criteria and key Māori concepts for such a theology, acknowledging the previous work by Michael Shirres and Neil Darragh. I take a simpler approach in this chapter, with an every-day, grass-roots expression of lived theology. I imagine Ihu Karaiti (Jesus Christ), as a metaphor for a renewed expression of lived theology, doing a haka boogie—a dance of defiance and a medium for engaging and empowering Tangata whenua theology.1 I find support in this move from James Cone, a leading Black liberation theologian. In Said I Wasn’t Gonna Tell Nobody, Cone tells of how he found his Black prophetic voice amid challenges and oppositions. Cone’s drive was to empower Black people through Jesus’s ministry of liberation: The truth of the gospel is always offensive and unpopular because it expresses solidarity with the powerless and those on the margins. Jesus was offensive to the Roman government and that was why they crucified him. If we are going to understand and embrace his liberating message today, we must see Jesus through the experience of the oppressed black people who are crying out for justice in a white racist society. (Cone 2018, 18)

Cone dares to reimagine Jesus and rediscover theology from a point of Blackness, through Black suffering and pain. He provides a simple explanation and a call to action, “Black Theology is nothing but Black people speaking for themselves about God and the meaning of their struggle for dignity in the United States” (2018, 75). The Māori context is in many ways different to Black America. Jenny Te Paa makes this comparative statement, “The black struggle has some similarities to the struggle of Maori in terms of blatant racial discrimination but the intensity and violence of the black struggle and in particular, its ugly legacy of forced trans-migratory slavery, is unknown in Aotearoa New Zealand” (2001, 69). The Māori experience is different, but the racial discrimination and violence experienced by Māori has had significant and detrimental impacts upon our society, our faith and our theology. The struggle of the powerless is all too familiar and common to Māori and Black peoples, but to all First and Indigenous Nations across the globe. Our shared experiences of Christianity and colonization have led to the 1  Haka is ceremonial Māori dance, expressed by stomping of the feet, facial gestures, hand actions and rhythmically shouted words.

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search for a prophetic voice and an authentic theology. Cone’s example beseeches us to see Jesus through our own eyes and to seek justice in our Aotearoa society. Cone attributes the impetus and inspiration for his Black liberation theology to the rhythm and funk of Black music and movement: “I listened to their cadence, beat, sound, and tone, and then tried to capture what they did in words. European theologians were too rational and abstract to understand what was happening in the black experience. They knew nothing about funk” (2018, 63). He unmasks and exposes the spirit of Blackness and the Black experience through the medium of Black music, free and untethered to methodologies and ideologies of the European oppressor. Concerning the search for Māori theology, Rua Rakena wrote, “Many individual attempts have been made to remove the Gospel from its mono-­ cultural wrappings and reset it within the spirituality of the people. These spasmodic and singular efforts, usually by retiring ministers outside of the Theological institutions, or at special wanangas. It is time we took seriously the need to develop our own dance to our own music” (1987, 5). Rakena, an ordained Presbyter in Te Haahi Weteriana o Aotearoa (Methodist Church of New Zealand), identified in the late 1980s what has until recently evaded Māori theologians, clergy and institutions alike—the need to develop our own “dance” and to do so to our own “music.” Haka, much like the rhythm and funk of Black music and movement, captures succinctly aspects of Māori music and performance art. In this chapter, I use the medium of Haka to reverberate the Tangata whenua experience and to confront the state of theological education in Aotearoa and Pasifika. Haka is used to entice the readership with recited word, to tempt the audience with the rhythmic beating and stomping of a distinctly Māori dance. There are many genres of haka, from the intense physicality of the peruperu2 to the devouring demands of the kaioraora,3 to the exhortations of the ngeri,4 and in contemporary Aotearoa, haka has become synonymous with conflict, intimidation, challenge, protest and most recently protection. The use of haka here indicates an intention to question, to debate and to challenge the absence of a deep and intrinsic Tangata whenua theology in wider theological discourse, forums and institutions.  A dance that includes weaponry and physical leaping.  Literally meaning “to eat alive” is a song and dance of derision. 4  A type of divinatory dance, to evoke the will of the divine. 2 3

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The title of this chapter, “Jesus Does a Haka Boogie,” draws theology into a Māori process. Ihu Karaiti (Jesus Christ) becomes a metaphor for a Tangata whenua theology, as a way to reimagine and rediscover theology for and by Māori in Aotearoa. There are dimensions of tikanga Māori that lend themselves well to a Māori theological wisdom, as have been explored by other Māori writers and theologians. Tikanga Māori can be used as a conduit to understanding and experiencing God from the perspective of Tangata whenua. By-in-large theology in Aotearoa has been predicated on a Pākehā (European) Christian worldview. Therefore, if theology like Jesus is most often a Pākehā construct, then Māori need to rediscover a uniquely Māori Jesus. We as Māori, like Cone, need to reimagine theology from a point of Māoritanga (Māoriness).

Why Jesus? Why Haka Boogie? For many in Aotearoa, particularly Māori, Jesus is Pākehā and represents a Pākehā paradigm or worldview. If Jesus represents a Pākehā Christian worldview, then Jesus is also associated with a colonial system of dominance, oppression and marginalization. If Jesus exemplifies a Pākehā theology, then we need to reimagine and rediscover Jesus for ourselves as Tangata whenua of Aotearoa. I suggest that in doing so we have the capacity to develop new and innovative theological frameworks and methodologies of significant value to the discipline. This change requires Māori to do some significant work. Māori academics, clergy, theological students and practitioners of Christian faith and tikanga Māori alike need to reimagine and rediscover our theology, and to create theological frameworks that reflect an engaging, dynamic and possibly radical Māori Christian worldview. Theological institutions and academia have not often been hospitable to Māori, let alone our theology; we need those colleges to embrace and empower emerging and imperative Tangata whenua theologies. If Jesus remains exclusively a representation of Pākehā theology that continues to perpetuate Eurocentric views of Christianity, then Jesus will remain nothing more than a foreigner or even an all-too-familiar colonizer. Unless there is a major shift, Pākehā theology will continue to maintain a monopoly on theological space and continue to occupy theological discourse. However, if Pākehā theology and Pākehā-dominant theological institutions were to be open to critique, to compromise and to change, perhaps there could be a place to Haka Boogie!

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The phrase “Haka Boogie” is a Māori colloquial term used to refer to someone stomping their feet and dancing around to attract the attention of others, sometimes even to challenge them. Learning to Haka Boogie is therefore about change and opening our eyes to the vision of emergent Tangata whenua approaches to theology. Learning to Haka Boogie is about identifying systemic and institutional racism within theological colleges that create barriers for Māori theology and education. Learning to Haka Boogie is also about questioning theological academia that preferences non-native theologies, frameworks and methodologies in research and theological education. Learning to Haka Boogie is possibly even about calling out non-native historians, theologians and biblical scholars who write about Māori spirituality, faith and theology, many of whom have limited understanding of te ao Māori (Māori world) and conduct research without effective and meaningful consultation with Māori. Learning to Haka Boogie is about learning to dance to a new and unfamiliar rhythm that may make you feel unsteady and uneasy. It will likely feel uncomfortable at first, but with practice and commitment, it could potentially change your whole perspective on dancing.

Context: Pākehā Missions and Māori Encounter Rather than a historiography of missions to Māori, this part of the chapter begins by exploring the relationship of Reverend Samuel Marsden and Ruatara (Ngāpuhi Chief) with a critical lens. The assertion that Reverend Samuel Marsden introduced the Gospel to Aotearoa has in recent years been the subject of critique. The early history attributes Marsden with the first Christmas service at Oihi Bay, in Rangihoua. Sir Edward Taihakurei Durie, in his address to the crowds gathered at Waitangi (February 6, 2015), stated, “I do not believe that it was on Pākehā initiative, frankly that the Christian message was brought here, but on the initiative of a very enterprising Maori.” Durie suggests that it was the industrious rangatira (chief) Ruatara, and other Māori like him, who were responsible for seeking out and introducing Māori to Christianity. Durie argues that while Marsden may have given the first Christmas service in English, it was highly likely that it was in fact the intermediary, Ruatara, who was conveying the Gospel to the largely Māori audience in te reo Māori (Māori language). He asserts that, “The word actually came from Ruatara who was explaining, not just translating, but explaining things to the people as Marsden was talking” (Durie 2015). The implication is that Ruatara was

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the communicator of the Gospel in that initial encounter and not Marsden, and therefore challenges the notion that Māori were colonized by Christianity. Ruatara may have developed a basic understanding of the English language while serving as a crewman on several whaling ships that traveled to England since his first voyage in 1805. He would have had a rudimentary understanding of the Gospel and Christianity having spent a reasonable period of time traveling from England to Sydney with Samuel Marsden in 1809, and then remaining in Sydney as Marsden’s guest prior to his return to Aotearoa in 1812 (Ballara 2010). Ruatara’s contribution to the introduction of both Marsden and the Gospel to Aotearoa is important. In acknowledging the role of Ruatara, we give due consideration to the premise of a Māori understanding of Jesus Christ and begin a dialogue toward a Tangata whenua theology. Durie’s argument in a broader context is to challenge the view that Christianity was a tool for colonization, imposed upon Māori. This chapter contends that Māori were not passive agents in their introduction and conversion to Christianity. Māori like Ruatara were enterprising and adventurous, and they actively sought out missionaries and Christianity. Māori leaders acted as patrons to the early missions making provisions of land and resources for missionary families to establish themselves. Durie proposes that Māori were deliberate and intentional in their adoption and adaptation of the Christian faith. He also makes reference to the early monita Māori (Māori monitors) who served as catechists, evangelists and lay preachers to Māori tribal groups and rural communities prior to the arrival of the Pākehā missionaries to the regions. Māori religion and spirituality were so ingrained in the life of the people that Māori would not have  completely relinquished their own spiritual values and beliefs for another. It is more likely that Māori chose to incorporate aspects of Christian and Māori traditions. Garrick Cooper remarks that, “Māori engagement with Christian knowledge was not to set aside their Māori world; they embraced Christianity through the template of their own knowledges” (2017, 148). When discussing the popularity of Christian knowledge making Māori knowledge obsolete, Cooper states that, “This presumes that Pākehā (Christian in this case) knowledge, beliefs and values became the center of the Māori world. This makes little sense; at the very least, Māori thought would still have maintained significant currency and traction among Māori communities” (2017, 154). Cooper cautions the tendency to reject Christianity as Western thought

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stating, “Our tupuna did not simplify or narrow things down; they always expanded thinking, kept new ideas constantly in engagement with the existing ones, and did not settle on ‘truths’ that could be understood separately from the conditions in which they found themselves” (2017, 156–157). Pā Tate stated that, “The coming of the Gospel message did not nullify indigenous thought forms and forms of life, but rather challenged them to extend themselves. For example, the concepts of Atua (Supreme Being) and aroha (love) were present in Māori culture, but the Christian message challenged Māori to develop them in new ways” (2012, 20). This chapter reaches much the same conclusions that Māori, when engaging with Christianity, were doing so by using existing Atuatanga (theology) or God understandings. Like most native peoples who were Christianized, Māori had their own spirituality to inform their worldview. In effect, Māori used ma ̄tauranga Māori (Māori knowledge) to give meaning and explanation to this new Christian knowledge. Those early Māori expressions of Christianity were and still remain authentic, relevant and valuable to the development of a Tangata whenua theology. This chapter recognizes Māori ways of understanding and expressing Christianity and draws stimulus from two key examples of Māori prophet movements of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries—Ringatū (Upraised hand) and Ratana. These Māori prophet movements have been defined as syncretic faiths. In its simplest form, perhaps that is appropriate: the attempted reconciliation of differing or opposing principles, cultures or religions. However, this definition does not encapsulate the innovation and adaptation of Māori and Christian understandings of God that are evident in these prophet movements. The early Ringatū movement was founded on the visions of Te Kooti Arikirangi Te Turuki, who became a formidable Māori prophet leader. Te Kooti received visions while imprisoned on Rekohu (Chatham Islands) that encouraged him to lead his fellow prisoners out of bondage. After escaping and evading government troops for many years, he became a beacon of hope for Māori in a time of social and political upheaval. Many Māori displaced and disillusioned by land confiscations and the lack of political participation or authority became followers of the Ringatū movement. Ringatū retained the Hebrew Bible as its primary source of inspiration and liturgy. Ruawai Rakena when discussing the subject of indigenous Māori movements stated that “There were others; but of them all the Ringatu was to develop and sustain its inherent links with the Old and

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New Testaments and finally assume official recognition as a Christian Church in 1938” (1971, 28). The Ringatū movement is an integration of both Māori and Christian beliefs and values, retaining the most relevant and useful aspects of each. Judith Binney describes Ringatū as, “the oldest of the surviving, indigenous, scripturally based religions in Aotearoa, the means by which Maori analysed their colonial situation in the 19th century” (1995, 1). The Pai Marire faith, founded by Te Ua Haumene, was another example of the amalgamation of Māori and Christian worldviews. According to Roxburgh, “The war was renewed in 1863 and meanwhile, a new Maori prophet, the founder of a new religion, had arisen: Te Ua Haumene of Waitotara in South Taranaki. He had read his Bible under Wesleyan missionaries but, in his private studies Te Ua spent much time with the Hebrew Scriptures (the Old Testament) which had been on the market in its Māori translation for only two or three years” (1985, 9). In the 1920s, the Ratana movement was founded by Tahupotiki Wiremu Ratana, of Ngati Apa and Nga Rauru descent. The Ratana movement was partially driven by despair and despondency at the loss of tribal land and no means to seek redress. Ratana himself was trained under the tutelage of Mere Rikiriki, a faith healer and practitioner of rongoa Māori (herbal medicine). As a child, he was exposed to Christianity through his mother, who was Methodist. In the early 1920s, Ratana rose to popularity as a faith healer, with hundreds of people visiting Ratana Pa seeking rongoa Māori. Ratana himself advocated for Māori to accept and uphold the Christian faith. In 1925, the Ratana movement was officiated as a church. This chapter proposes that the context of Christian theology in Aotearoa was molded and formed by Pākehā missions and Māori encounters with and experiences of mission. The establishment of native institutions in the nineteenth century formalized the study of Christian theology from a Pākehā missionary perspective. The development of schools of theology within academic institutions made the scholarship of Christian theology accessible to the masses. This, subsequently, popularized various genres including liberation, postcolonial and contextual theologies. This chapter begins to identify, define and locate Tangata whenua theology in the field of theological study and research in Aotearoa.

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From the Ballroom to the marae atea ̄ Theological institutions are reflective of elegant and majestic ballrooms of high society England in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The high society ballroom required a certain social etiquette that reflected one’s status; theological colleges have at times required the same of Māori. The ballroom or theological college is also a symbol of our colonial past, from the buildings and architecture to the curriculum and pedagogy. Those who frequent the ballrooms are not often open to a new dance partner; theological colleges have been reluctant to acknowledge or entertain a Māori worldview, and have often deliberately and intentionally disregarded a Māori way of being. I suggest that a theological shift is needed, a Haka Boogie is needed from the ballroom to the marae a ̄tea.5 Haka Boogie may require you to kick off your dancing shoes and step out onto the marae ātea, to feel the whenua (land) beneath your feet, and may require some uncharacteristic movements. I mean to say that theological education needs to diversify, to move from being static institutions to becoming dynamic opportunities for lived theology. This shift may be uncomfortable for those privileged by the current state of theological education, but for those on the periphery or on the fringes, it is an opportunity for inclusion. Theological institutions have mostly been organized and structured from within a dominant Pākehā context. Jenny Te Paa gave significant critique when discussing the experiences of Māori students at St John’s College, “Maori were tolerated not welcomed. Maori theological educational interests were non-existent and there is a degree of hostility (toward Maori) implicit in the written record which seems peculiar to the 1920s” (Te Paa Plane 1995, 68). Susan Healy described the nature of theology colleges in her thesis, “In summary, it can be said that the evidence from the Maori students pointed to the theology colleges as being committed to one world view, the world view of the Pakeha—as being committed to one view of spirituality, the spirituality of the Pakeha—and as reinforcing a social order of dominance of the Maori, dominance by the Pakeha” (1988, 64). Healy conducted interviews with groups of Māori students and lecturers from several colleges and explained, “While each student was grateful for various aspects of his theological education, all expressed some  The courtyard in front of a meeting house on a marae (gathering place).

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tension, and most a great deal, with regard to their being Maori within the theology colleges” (1988, 64). Moreover, “The students experienced the colleges as focused on the Pakeha world to the detriment of the Maori world. There was pain for them as they observed prejudice, negativity and ignorance towards Maori people and Maori institutions” (1988, 64). The ballroom was unwelcoming for Māori—it imposed Pākehā ways upon Māori. Healy approached the monocultural setting of theology colleges and the integral interests they served, directly and critically. She found the colleges being “monocultural Pakeha institutions that serve the interests of Pakeha people – maintaining the Pakeha in a social relation of dominance over Maori” (1988, 65). And on the issue of  biculturalism, Healy warns: “Unfortunately, Pakeha use of the word biculturalism has some very ambiguous and unsatisfactory connotations that deny the reality of the Maori world” (1988, 65). Theological colleges and institutions in the most recent past have as a whole been unsuccessful in providing a conducive environment for Māori to explore Māori theology. Healy comments, “In particular, the theology colleges have not been places which have provided expertise and/or support to Maori Christians as they search for a Maori Christianity, where its forms of expression in theology, liturgy, pastoral care and reflection on the scriptures are characteristically Maori rather than Western European” (1988, 80). Little has changed with regard to the nature of the ballroom or colleges today. Theological colleges and schools of theology continue to be largely Pākehā institutions, but with increasing numbers of Māori and Pasifika students, we can see some evidence of a slight culture change or shift. There are more and more signs of cultural diversity on campuses, including decorative artwork such as whakairo (carvings), tukutuku (woven panels) and tapa (decorative art). There are on occasion kava6 ceremonies held for distinguished leaders or guests. There is the requisite powhiri (ceremonial welcome) or whakatau (greetings of welcome) to signal the beginning of the academic year, and there are on several college campuses regular worship conducted in te reo Māori. However, there are very few Māori staff and lecturers in most institutions, and the colleges are still largely organized and structured in a Pākehā way. While some colleges have designated Whare Runanga (learning 6  A root crop grown mainly in the islands. It is harvested and processed for consumption during ceremonial or social gatherings.

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center) as teaching spaces, no theological institution has a fully functioning marae on campus. There is a very loosely gathered group of Māori lecturers operating and sharing information across theological colleges, but the ballroom or colleges as the primary location for theological education remain largely exclusive and Pākehā. Theological colleges have for the most part struggled to cross the ballroom dance floor to share in a waltz or a haka! This is in reference to the curriculum which offers little more than the obligatory te reo Māori (Māori language) and basic tikanga (Māori customs) or marae protocol courses. Some schools of theology have from time to time offered the odd introductory Māori theology courses as part of their curriculum but rarely since the passing of Māori exponents such as Pā Henare Tate, Rev. Rua Rakena, Rev. Hone Kaa, or since the retirement of theological leaders such as Dr. Jenny Te Paa and Dr. Moeawa Callaghan. Only in recent years have we started to see the emergence of aspects of Māori society, culture and theology deliberately and intentionally incorporated into theological curriculums. The bicultural dance partner has had great difficulty blending into the ballroom. The development of significant Māori theology has been slow and, at times, grinded to a halt by the lack of new research and study in the field or published material. The primary responsibility and obligation lies with Māori. It is the supposition of this chapter that it is for Māori to drive the research and advancement of Tangata whenua theology. However, it is the responsibility and obligation of the theological institutions to create space for that study and progress. Rakena foretold of the internal struggles and adversities for Māori theological growth in a post-colonial context, “The full potential of the Maori is unlikely to be realized so long as he feels that he must draw his inspiration from and have his charter for Christian life and action drawn up by his Pakeha counterpart” (1971, 5–6). If the theological future of Aotearoa is in adaptation and change, then a move from the majestic ballroom to the marae ātea (courtyard) is where our focus should be. The marae ātea is a metaphor here for an environment, a system or a process by which Māori theology is recognized, valued and articulated by Māori. I invite a critical shift in our approach to making space and use the Māori concept of whakapapa (genealogy) to illustrate. The whakapapa of te ātea (space) begins with te hauora (breath of life), who begat te a ̄tamai (shape), who begat te a ̄hua (form), before te wa ̄ (time) and finally te ātea (space). Each layer of whakapapa represents a stage in the process. Each new phase indicates a progression and evolution

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of te ātea. The first step in the process is te hauora, meaning to give breath and life to a Māori theological worldview, to give recognition to the existence of Māori theology and to give it credence. Second is the phase of te ātāmai, meaning to give Māori theology shape and figure, to allow Māori to determine appropriate methods and frameworks. The next stage is te āhua, meaning to give form and substance to Māori theology, to make a commitment to resource and fund research in this area. The final step is te wā, to give time for Māori theology to be crafted and fashioned, to allow time for debate and disagreement, to make time for negotiation and reflection. At the end of the process te ātea has emerged, space where Māori theology is realized. The theological mobilization to the marae ātea requires a shift in the dominant Pākehā mentality that draws us back to the safety and security of the ballroom. Essentially, the ballroom must make space for marae ātea—a space where Māori can develop and re-imagine a Tangata whenua theology that recognizes the depth and breadth of our faith, be it oral narratives, dance, music, or even taonga puoro (instruments). The marae ātea, like the space between the whare tupuna (ancestral house) and the waharoa (gateway), eventually becomes a space to welcome everyone into the kōrerorero (conversation). It is a space for dialogue and discussion free of expectations and dominance, a space where everyone has the opportunity to kōrero and or Haka!

Māori Jesus The Jesus Christ that arrived with Marsden and Ruatara was of Pākehā missionary making. Effectively, Jesus Christ was the Pākehā son of a Pākehā God who was preached about by Pākehā missionaries. Turi Hollis puts it plainly, Hence, when Christianity arrived in Aotearoa/New Zealand the Christian God was white and spoke English. Certainly, many of the early Pakeha missionaries believed and taught this. For them, the Christian God and European culture were synonymous and Maori culture and traditions had to be replaced. Indeed, many of them thought that Maori culture bordered on the demonic. (Hollis 1991, 35)

While Hollis concedes that Pākehā missionaries believed that the Christian God was indeed Pākehā, there is no conformity to the idea:

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“The Christian God therefore is not Pakeha. God was known to the Maori long before the arrival of the Christian religion in Aotearoa, but the Maori did not designate God as ‘Christian’. Instead God was addressed as ‘Io’ and ‘Te Atua” (1991, 42). This Pākehā belief of dominance and ascendency that began with the early missions also pervaded modern-day institutions. Discussing the implications of colonization and institutional encounter for Māori, Jenny Te Paa wrote, “It was this uncontested assumption of cultural superiority by the British colonials, which set the stage for the introduction of institutional structures, and systems, which eventually rendered Maori a ‘hope-less’, and almost ‘stateless’ people” (2001, 91). In the 1830s, the image of Jesus that permeated among the newly converted Māori was a contradiction—a light-skinned, brown-hair, blue-eyed man of Jewish origin, made in the image of Pākehā missionaries. The Māori Jesus is different. For James K Baxter, “He wore blue dungarees, His beard and hair were long. His breath smelled of mussels and paraoa” (2018). Baxter’s poetry challenged the public perception of positive race relations and highlighted the social disparities between Māori and Pākehā in Aotearoa. This Māori Jesus was indicative of the political climate of the 1970s and 1980s in Aotearoa. In the twenty-first century, the image of Jesus has been contextualized by portrait artist Sophia Minson in her work “Māori Jesus,”7 with a full-face moko (traditional tribal tattoo), a rei puta8 and a huia9 feather. This metaphoric Jesus is reflective of theology and theological education in Aotearoa. Jesus wearing a moko does not change the Pākehā face beneath it; it simply masks it. The metaphorical Jesus that this chapter seeks to unmask is Māori, Tangata whenua and has a whakapapa that originates here in Aotearoa. Part of the task of this chapter is to re-imagine a Jesus, not just for Māori but for Te Ao Māori. We seek a Tangata whenua theology that is visibly and definitively of our people and of our land, essentially a Jesus who can Haka and Boogie! The literature about Māori theology is significantly limited in volume and scope. Rua Rakena’s Maori Response to the Gospel began a dialogue of  Sophia Minson, portrait entitled “Māori Jesus” (2014).  An ornament of bone or stone worn as a necklace, usually signifying a person of status. 9  A native bird to Aotearoa, commonly referred to as a ‘Wattlebird’ now extinct. The huia tail feathers were prized for their rarity and in a Māori context signify ‘mana’ or authority and status of the possessor. 7 8

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authenticity and freedom of Māori expressions of Christian faith almost fifty years ago. Discussing the Methodist Māori Mission responding to the Gospel, Rakena wrote that “Very little in our Maori Mission may pass as an authentic ‘Maori’ response to the Gospel” (1971, 5). The shaping of a Māori response to the Gospel has been hindered by the (unconscious) assumption that only Pākehā expressions of theology were valid, further perpetuating a paternalistic relationship of co-dependency. Rakena states that, “In theology, in worship patterns, in the form and expression of the church’s ministries, in Christian education, in matters of finance and administration, of structure and law, we have taken over from the Pakeha” (1971, 5). Jenny Te Paa shares similar sentiments when discussing the cultural hegemonies in theological institutions: “For example, Maori and Pakeha shared in the perpetuation of ‘beliefs’ that Pakeha knowledge and cultural norms were superior, which meant by implication that Maori knowledge and culture were inferior. In the case of theological education, the self-preserving mechanisms, which serve to protect the institutional interests at stake, are enhanced by the overarching dominance of the ideology of patriarchy” (1995, 172). Christopher Malcolm, in Theology in Aotearoa: Contemporary Maori Approaches to Doing Theology (1995), takes a step toward engaging Māori perspectives of theology. Malcolm derives his study from interviews and conversations with informants, Bishop Ben Te Hara and Archdeacon Taki Marsden. He describes the process and methodologies he employed and highlights some key findings for other researchers in this field. Malcolm describes the importance of creative imagery in his investigation of Māori approaches to theology, “The importance of poetry, and story-telling to doing Maori theology should not be under-rated. The spiraling out from one idea to another and linking between concepts makes doing theology from a Maori perspective a potentially very enjoyable pursuit” (1995, 28). As I opened, so I close, with Pā Tate whose He Puna Iti i te Ao Mārama: A Little Spring in the World of Light “holds that the truthfulness or otherwise of Māori experience of God must first be articulated on their own terms. For Māori this requires not the virtue of humility but that of pono, a Māori term that stresses less the virtue of humility (with its attendant dangers) and more the reality and integrity of their relationship with God” (2012, 26). A Māori indigenous theology is relational and needs to reflect the true nature of human relationships with God and include lived Māori experiences of God.

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Glossary

āhua  form ātamai  shape ātea  space atuatanga  theology haka  ceremonial dance hauora  breath of life huia  wattlebird Ihu Karaiti  Jesus Christ kōrerorero  conversation, discussion Māori  Native to Aotearoa marae ātea  courtyard mātauranga Māori  Māori knowledge moko  tattoo Pākehā  European pono  truth powhiri  ceremonial welcome rangatira  chief/leader rei puta  ornament rongoā Māori  Māori herbal medicine tangata whenua  people of the land taonga puoro  instruments te ao Māori  Māori world te reo Māori  Māori language tikanga  customs tukutuku  woven panels wā  time waharoa  gateway whakairo  carvings whakatau  greetings of welcome whare tupuna  ancestral house

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Works Cited Ballara, Angela. 2010. Ruatara. Dictionary of New Zealand Biography. Te Ara—The Encyclopedia of New Zealand. https://teara.govt.nz/en/biographies/1r19/ ruatara. Accessed 30 Mar 2018. Baxter, James K. 2018. The Māori Jesus. Reading for believers. http://readingforbelievers.blogspot.co.nz/2010/07/maori-­jesus.html. Accessed 30 Mar 2018. Binney, Judith. 1995. Redemption songs, a life of Te Kooti Arikirangi Te Turuki. Wellington: Bridget Williams. Cone, James. 2018. Said I wasn’t gonna tell nobody. New York: Orbis. Cooper, Garrick. 2017. Gods and Kaupapa Māori research. In Critical conversations in Kaupapa Māori, 147–159. Wellington: Huia. Durie, Eddie. 2015. Let’s put paid to this belief that we were colonized by Christianity. Whare Runanga/Waitangi, 6 February 2015. https://www.anglicantaonga.org.nz/features/extra/colonise. Healy, Susan. 1988. The theology colleges and the Maori. Auckland: University of Auckland. Hollis, Turi. 1991. Developing a Maori understanding of the Christian god: Must the Christian god remain Pakeha? Melbourne College of Divinity: BTheol. Malcolm, Christopher. 1995. Theology in Aotearoa: Contemporary Maori approaches to doing theology. Paper 378.330. Auckland: Auckland University. Plane-Te Paa, Jenny. 1995. Kua Whakatungia Ano a Te Rau Kahikatea: An historical critical overview of events which preceeded the re-establisment of Te Rau kahikatea theological College of Te Pihopatanga o Aotearoa. M.Ed. Thesis, University of Auckland. ———. 2001. Contestations: Bicultural theological education in Aotearoa New Zealand. PhD Thesis, Berkley, California. Rakena, Ruawai D. 1971. The Maori response to the gospel. Wesley Historical Society 25 (1–4): 1–41. ———. 1987. Wesley’s south seas heritage: The Maori response to the gospel. Wesley Historical Society 50: 1–21. Roxburgh, Irvine. 1985. The Ringatu movement. Pukerua Bay: Cadsonbury. Tate, Henare. 2012. He Puna Iti i te Ao Mārama: A little spring in the world of light. Auckland: Libro International, Oratia Media.

CHAPTER 5

Kauafua fatele for Christ’ sake: A Theological Dance for the Changing Climate Maina Talia

    Vau a te leo mai te sikulagi    Kae ne fakaalala ne ia toku tagi Toku kauafua moi sa galogalo i te alasagafa    From the horizon comes a voice It wakes me up and puts me into tears   My land was almost vanished (Fatele Composed by Lise Moeafu Talia, 1987)

M. Talia (*) Charles Sturt University, Parramatta, NSW, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_5

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Fakaseasea1 Fakatomua (The Curtain Raiser) There is increasing recognition of the need for indigenous wisdom and customary practices to meet the challenges posed by accelerating climate change. The peoples of Tuvalu find themselves in this space, with so many different voices seeking to be heard. The following proverbial saying captures the confusion that can arise: Sa saga ki tagi a manu solo o tai afiafi (don’t pay attention to the cry of the birds at dawn). That chorus includes traditional knowledge, the missionary legacy, the effects of colonialism, and an empirical climate science. The low-lying physical nature of Tuvalu together with accompanying vulnerability place these islands within the geopolitics of the earth. This calls for a particular kind of contextual theology that speaks into the customs and traditions of the people of Tuvalu while it negotiates its way through the ambiguities of the Christian faith. The present time has seen the emergence of many types of contextual theology since the term was coined by Shoki Coe of Taiwan. Stephen Bevans has set out a spectrum of models that are much used. Bevans validated different styles of contextual theology including ones which can weave together indigenous cultural insight and wisdom with aspects of the Christian faith (Bevans 2013). The dilemma for a theology that seeks to honor the Tuvalu way of life is the criticism that the Tongan scholar Ma’afu ’o Tu’itonga Palu has made of those whom he calls “the Pasifikans” (Palu 2003). His basic conviction is that much contextual theology in the islands is built upon cultural images, symbols, and sayings at the expense of the biblical narrative. At stake in Palu’s complaint is the person and work of Christ (see Talia 2009, 81–82). Palu’s critique should not be disregarded too early. It stands as a reminder of the Christian faith that was brought to the islands by the missionaries. At the same time, it sets a standard for discerning whether a contextual understanding of the faith in an island setting is authentic. For the peoples of Tuvalu, the issue at stake is no abstract theological argument; it is a matter of life and death.

1  The fakaseasea is a type of dance performed nowadays by elders. It is sung and performed as  a  prelude to  the  fatele. It is a  community call for  togetherness before fatele begins. In the past, fakaseasea was used in the worship of native gods (see Samuelu 1983, 40).

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Indigenous people have long known how to read and care for their environment. The people of Tuvalu have sought to understand the kauafua2—that is, creation itself—through the muna o te fale (the wisdom of the house). Their creation stories are not, of course, the same as the biblical account which came with the missionaries. There is no Adam and Eve, no garden of Eden. For the peoples of Tuvalu the kauafua literally means “the sand of islands.” In this setting kauafua includes Te Moana (ocean and sky), Te Umaga (the cultivation of the land), and Te Uaniu (the preservation of fruits): these three are the central pillars (tafatolu) that describe the place of the people within the traditional understanding of creation— the kauafua. In order to take care of the land there is no equivalent to the eating of the fruit of the tree of knowledge and being cast out of the garden. To take care of the kauafua the people of Tuvalu must know the art of muna o te fale—that is, the customary wisdom that is shared in the house. There are no holiness codes or ten commandments. As a people of the kauafua the islanders are raised to know and understand the moana, umaga, and uaniu. These three pillars—tafatolu—are part of the very identity of being a Tuvaluan. The climate emergency and shift in the earth systems have placed the kauafua at risk. As a consequence, the people of Tuvalu are at risk. The climate crisis3 is not merely a Western or scientific issue: it is planetary, and indigenous peoples are the most venerable. The climate emergency is a disruption of the kauafua that threatens the future and survival of peoples who have lived on these islands for many centuries. It is now recognized that indigenous knowledge from around the world can assist in the adaptation and mitigation of the effects of adverse changes in the climate. The insights of muna o te fale has much to offer to and complement climate science and the other disciplines which seek to address this crisis. The essay aims to show how a methodology established in the cultural practice of the fatele (a dance) and the muna o te fale can be of use in nourishing the connection between human life and the well-being of the kauafua.

2  There is no word particularly for creation in Tuvalu. In Vaitupu we use the word kauafua to refer to the creation in its totality (web of life)—not just a sandbank, nor land on its own, but creation and life in general. 3  The term “climate crisis” is absent in the United Nations climate texts. However, the phrase is being used in the Pacific to denote a matter of “urgency” (for it is a survival issue).

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The current climate emergency is not simply a crisis for the kauafua. For Bible-conscious peoples it presents the uncomfortable question: how can we speak the language of God in the context of the kauafua that is being radically transformed by climate change? Will we still be able to dance and sing the fatele (a traditional dance) if we are compelled through no fault of our own to relocate? How can life in Tuvalu be treasured as meaningful through dancing the fatele with God on our kauafua?

Fetauiga i te unumua: Meeting God on the Dance Floor The metaphor of the dance is worthy of exploration. It has seldom been explored in matters of theology. If and when it is featured, it has been hidden under the umbrella of theology’s engagement with the arts, music, and poetics. It is implied in a perichoretic (go around in a rotation) understanding of the Trinity and lends itself to talk of a divine dance. In the case of Tuvalu, the fatele represents one of the traditional arts and is a vehicle for cultural wisdom. It is both a dance and a song that looks back to the ancestral path while being capable of being reinvented to meet more contemporary demands. Of all the traditional Tuvaluan arts, singing, chanting, and dancing are common ways for the community to seek energy and power for a particular task. The art of singing and dancing is more than a form of social entertainment. They are cultural practices deeply rooted in traditions. They are performed to please the gods. Their primary purpose was to gain favor or mana, power, strength, supremacy, and determination over opponents. Singing and dancing mark major cultural occasions: examples include a fishing competition (faiva), the performance of martial arts (te lima), the collecting of coconut syrup (kaleve), chanting/singing (lausaga), and the presenting of gifts (alofa). The performance of any maneanea (frequent twisting or turning in a dance, see Jackson 2001, 155) is a medium through which the people are inspired, moved, overwhelmed, and motivated to engage in the task or duty at hand: it encourages the people to give of their best. Singing and dancing in the kauafua are thus not done for the sake of enhancing individual merit and improving that individual’s social and political status. They are rather done for the common good: for the survival of the entire community as it struggles to respond to the hostile environment; singing and dancing in the kauafua

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are done in the spirit of communal oneness, seeking hope in the context of hopelessness and despair. The composition and dancing of a fatele is a cultural symbol and practice around which to organize a theology that addresses care for the kauafua. This is a claim with which Palu would disagree. The practice of a fatele theology is more than another one of those theologies done by the Pasifikans which, he argues, lose touch with the biblical narratives that are fulfilled in Christ. There are a number of steps that need to be taken in order to address this criticism. First is to justify the use of the metaphor of the dance. The Pasifikans that Palu dismisses may be interpreted within the spectrum of the models that Bevans devised. For the present purpose, though, Bevans’ contribution lies in a subsidiary work: his public lecture delivered at the Australian Catholic University which he presented as “an invitation to dance” with God. This invitation is based on Bevans’ conviction that dance actually represents “the heartbeat of God’s deepest self.” The analogy of dance allows Bevans to claim that God is expressed via “a Movement-more personal than we can ever imagine.” The stage upon which the divine dances is the household of creation—kauafua. This is a dancing God “who is always as everywhere present in God’s creation, present in the warp and woof of it, working for creation’s wholeness and healing, calling creation to its fullness” (Bevans 2019). This shift in approach allows us to think of God as a verb and not a noun. The accent placed on activity and dancing offers a range of possibilities for an indigenous understanding of Christ that mirrors the experience of the Tuvaluans, dancing and singing fatele with Jesus in a time of climate emergency and climate rejection.4 Encountering God on the fatele unumua—dance floor—opens up a space for Tuvaluan peoples to move beyond a paradigm of a God that only exists beyond time and place in an otherworldly heaven. It creates space for our people to encounter the dancing God on the dancefloor and have the courage to say, “if we are to move we will move with you, if we are to sink, we will sink with you.” Bevans’ use of the dance metaphor gives fatele space in the discourse on contextual theology. The matter is not one of seeking permission. It is rather one of placing a cultural symbol within a much larger context beyond the liquid continent that is Oceania. There is a strategic merit here 4  I have coined “climate rejection” in reference to those who have left the homelands due to climate change only to be rejected then by their tu ̄ā-akoi—their neighbor.

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insofar as fatele is seeking to express a theology that has to do with the well-being of creation, at a time when the islands of Tuvalu are at a risk of uncreation. The themes of liquidity and waves that often permeate a theology of the moana nui increasingly attract the emotions of fear, impending doom, and the mourning of a loss of connection with land and ancestors. It is increasingly important for theologians in Tuvalu to enquire of those beyond their shores—“are we not your tu ̄-akoi (neighbours)?” Bevans’ turn to the divine dance floor should also be seen in partnership with Pasifikans like Sevati Tuwere from Fiji. Writing in Talanoa Ripples Tuwere establishes a connection between the Fijian meke, a dance, and the vanua (which binds together time, place, event, and memory with a worldview to do with creation). In a manner that anticipates Bevans, Tuwere argues that a Fijian meke is indeed a celebration of “the movement of life” (2010). In his survey of meke Tuwere notes that some meke have been lost—sometimes for theological reasons and sometimes because of their association with the spirit world, the world of our ancestors. Tuwere is aware that iTaukei (indigenous Fijian) now “belong to new social locations and seek to name and articulate our identities in multi-coloured contexts.” Though this may be the case, meke retains a purpose and “need to be passed on to the younger generation” (Tuwere 2010, 127–128). Tuwere does not address Palu’s complaint directly. Instead, he asks how one can make sense of the meke today. What is its theological purpose beyond being performed at the opening of a new church-building or any church-related event? Tuwere makes the case for seeing the meke as a “song of praise and adoration of God the creator.” It is doxological. It should be part of the liturgy for, as Tuwere notes, liturgy comes from a Greek word meaning a “public work.” The proper theological setting of the meke is the Christian doctrine of creation and a new creation which is celebrated in the liturgy. Tuwere thereupon “advances the notion that God is a dancing God.” There is movement in the creation story itself where the spirit moves over the face of creation; the bridge with Christ is made through reference to the hymn to be found at Colossians 1: 15–23 where “all things were created by him and for him” (Tuwere 2010, 127–128). The dance metaphor allows for another bridge: this time the bridge is between God and people, God and community. Citing Futa Helu, Tuwere notes that dance presupposes society. It is about people of all ages; the body and the physical comes together with the spiritual and presents the

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challenge of how to dance the meke in the land, here and now (2010, 128–129). This way of viewing God fastens attention upon the relational nature of Jesus and the energetic work of the Spirit. It liberates Jesus from the risk of being confined to a static existence seated at the right hand of the Father waiting to judge the living and the dead as per the Apostles’ Creed. The language here is of the ecumenical creed of the undivided church. It is also an understanding that has been handed down to the peoples of Tuvalu through the endeavors of the first missionaries to the islands. At its best, this placement of the Son is seeking to situate the humanity of Jesus within the life of the crucified, risen, and ascended Christ. This is the image of Jesus often found in many classical paintings of the west and icons of the Orthodox churches of the East. The unfortunate effect of this movement can make Jesus rather removed from everyday life: in popular imagination it can leave him sitting and waiting for the right times to undertake judgment. The person and work of Christ becomes distant, otherworldly and, under the missionary influence, rather individual. It is a very small step to a Jesus who disengaged from the island community: he has been converted into a personal Savior for an otherwise highly communal people. It is a way of thinking which has led C. S. Song to observe that the churches in the west have often paid particular attention to Christ “the Word become flesh” and, in the process, side-lined the Jesus, “the Word who lived among us” (2011, 46). The people of Tuvalu cannot afford such an understanding of God, nor such an understanding of Christ at the present time. For all its truth, Palu failed to discern a weakness in a classical Christology and seemingly an orthodox view of God the creator. Daniel Migliore has sought to explain why a contextual theology emerged in the first place. It did so because the received patterns of belief did not address the sufferings of people nor were they expressed in terms and categories that were intelligible (Migliore 2004, 197).

Galuega fakapatino: The Task The task for theology in Tuvalu could not be more urgent. It cannot simply be a repetition of past performance. On the other hand, theology needs to be like a fatele—when we sing it, it brings newness to life, hope, and assurance to our people. Theology needs to address the current threats to the kauafua: it needs to do so through ways which draw upon

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indigenous knowledge and practice and, at the same time, mediate an understanding of the person and work of Christ. These two—gospel and culture—cannot be separated from one another in the light of Christian profession of most islanders. They belong inside a conversation that reaches beyond the past practice of citing the stories of Noah and Job. The cultural practice of song and dance can help the cause of theology. The painting below by Tenene Nelu (Fig.  5.1), a local artist living in Funafuti, is a response to a request for a work of art that would somehow express a vision of Christ in a way which speaks into Tuvaluan way of life— Olaga faka Tuvalu. The accompanying brief was to find a message of hope for a groaning kauafua. It is a painting that requires interpretation. The setting is the point at which the ocean meets the land (pisipisitai). The greater proportion of the landscape is the sea. The waves are rolling onto the sand: there is no invasion by the water. There is no hint of a king tide. The sea extends out toward the setting sun in the west. The sun is low in the sky: its rays shine forth across the reddening sky. That this

Fig. 5.1  Tenene Nelu, “Iesu fafine (female Jesus)” (2017). (Used with permission of the artist)

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should be the case means that tomorrow will be very hot. In local custom it is said Mate tatou i te ‘la (we will die because of the sun). Birds are returning to shore, but without fish for their chicks on land. These are black noddy birds (gogo). They are reckoned to be unlucky birds. If, on their return, they pass and cry over the heads of a group of people at their evening meal, it is a portent of death (Kennedy 1931, 50). The kauafua is not at peace. The foreshore is littered with rubbish that indicates the level of plastic now found in the sea. The eye fastens upon the paopao (the canoe) and the standing figure with outstretched arms. The biblical traditions are familiar with several incidents where Jesus crosses the lake, the sea of Galilee, in order to cross over to the other side. The arms are outstretched as a reminder of the Christ who is nailed to the cross. The cross-like figure is on the ocean, not on land. The hermeneutics of the painting require now a reading of Tuvaluan custom and practice. According to tradition the one who is done wrong and brought shame to the people is set adrift. They are placed in a paopao which is then taken out to the open sea. There are holes made in the paopao. This form of punishment is called the fakafolau. It is a sentence of death. In this case the paopao is returning to land: that in and of itself is out of the ordinary. The one who is cast adrift seldom, if ever, makes his/her way back. The paopao is beginning to signify resurrection and hope. Between the paopao and the island is a toa—a warrior—whose responsibility is to protect the well-being of the kauafua. He is wearing a napenape made out of banana leaves which reveals a close relationship to the environment: the word can also mean “to be ready,” “to be prepared”—but, in this instance, his arms are stretched out with his hands positioned to prevent the return of the paopao. On the shore two women are performing a dance of welcome. Like the other figures in the painting they are wearing a fou—a headband. Each one is different in its weaving thus signifying the diversity of islands that make up the Tuvalu group. Four men are playing musical instruments: two are beating the pokisi—the box—while one holds the kaapa—drum that another plays. Their backs are to the approaching figure. The figure in the paopao is a symbol of death and resurrection: the paopao is a vehicle of shame like the cross. There is a significant difference with a traditional Christology, however, in terms of gender. The figure is indigenous and female. It is rare for Christ to be envisioned in a female form in the liquid continent. This particular expression is not seeking to

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build upon the theological work of Elizabeth Johnson and other feminist theologians who have striven to interpret Jesus in terms of his being Miriam’s child and Sophia’s prophet. This Christ-like figure on the paopao, with arms outstretched, is drawing upon cultural myths and is seeking to inspire a vision of Christ that is not as passive as the otherworldly figure who sits at the right hand of the Father. The most obvious question that arises is how legitimate (and who decides) as an image of Christ is this dancing figure in the paopao. It is very easy to demonstrate that this pictorial text is far removed from the narratives of any one of the gospel accounts. This Jesus is not a Galilean Jew from the First Century CE. The toa and musicians are not the disciples he called to follow him; the women dancing cannot be made to be like the women who accompanied Jesus from birth through to an empty tomb. Nor is there much resemblance to the legacy of the first missionaries to Tuvalu beginning with Elekana from the Cook Islands. The Christ in Nelu’s painting does not belong in the Middle East. It is running the risk detected by Albert Schweitzer writing on the quests for the historical Jesus embarked upon during the nineteenth century. The would-be interpreter looks into the well of time and what emerges is a Christ clothed in the likeness of the author’s culture. Schweitzer argued that Jesus of Nazareth was more like a stranger, as One unknown, an enigma (1981, 401). In the circumstances the most that can be said is that Nelu’s painting conveys a Christ-bearing image that is culturally laden. It is seeking to bring together traditional indigenous knowledge and the Christian gospel. From the perspective of Tuvaluan religious belief, it has moved away from translation model of the Christian faith to the one Bevans terms anthropological. For its full meaning to be revealed Nelu’s dancing Jesus/Christ requires that the cultural imagery be further unpacked. What is immediately striking is how the figure that represents Jesus/Christ is portrayed in female form. It is grounded as such more in the indigenous understanding of the kauafua where there is a pronounced feminine quality. Its purpose is to make use of a number of cultural traditions of a mother providing sustenance for life. Seen from this perspective the feminine representation of Jesus/Christ may not be so unusual as first imagined. The oral memories of Tuvalu are essentially her-stories in which the prophetess Kafoa of Nukulaelae prophesized the arrival of Christianity. The origins of Nanumea can be traced

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back to two women known as Pai and Vau.5 Kulu the principal god of Niutao took a form of a woman (Nia 1983, 58) and in a time of drought, a woman from a particular family performs a dance, while facing the ocean, with te panakua (oval wooden heirloom) in order to bring rain. Throughout the island group, it is from Sina that the fish get their colors, the shark its smell, and the contours of moana. It is a story which shows the interconnectedness of the kauafua and humanity’s interdependence with creation. The oral traditions of Tuvalu helped explain how the kauafua came to be. As a collective, Tuvalu’s oral memories are like a myth waiting to be in conversation with the hymn in Colossians (1: 15–23) where all things were made in, through, and for Christ. In the context of climate emergency, it may indeed be time to privilege a rendering of Jesus as Iesu fafine (the female Jesus). Such a representation is likely to be novel in a Tuvaluan context. The biblical pattern is of Jesus as being biogenetically male. There are nevertheless passages where feminine images and ideas are associated with him. The most notable of these has to do with his entry into Jerusalem and where Jesus wishes he could gather the people of Jerusalem as a mother hen gathers her chicks. The benefit for a contextual reading of Iesu fafine lies in the cultural assumption of the caring nature of a mother: a house without a mother is an empty house. It is an image which represents an alternative to a sovereign judge detached from the complexities and hurts of life. That is not to say that there is no benefit in also rethinking through in a Tuvaluan setting a reading of the lordship of Jesus and how power is invested in him. That is a theme yet to be explored. The present necessity is to bear witness to a Jesus fafine of hope that brings life, care, steadfastness, happiness, joy, and excitement. It will allow the peoples of these threatened islands to recover a richer sense of why Matthew has named Jesus as Emmanuel—God with us. It is a confessional stance where Jesus dwells with us.

5  The Nanumea creation story told that “this island was formed by two women, Pai and Vau. They came here with their baskets of sand and formed Nanumea and Lakena. They would leave some sand and an islet would grow up. At that time there were no plants on the islands” (Chambers 1984, 28–29).

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Dancing the fatele Jesus responded to his critics by saying “We played the pipe for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn” (Matthew 11: 17 NIV). Both of these options are important today. The threat to habitat posed by the climate emergency lends itself to a dirge and a lament. It is this presence of threat which has led to the turn to the book of Job and a lament on the cost of innocent suffering. It is a dirge which is played for the global community, for in this business of the climate emergency the tū-akoi are planetary neighbors. The dirge is conveyed through the outstretched arms of Nelu’s Iesu fafine. The arms are held out over the moana and within the embrace of the kauafua in the pattern of the cross, hence a groaning creation. The fafine is also dancing. For those on the islands who seek to follow Christ in these urgent times—this kairos moment—it is an invitation for fatele. The fatele is more than a song and a dance. It records a narrative of memorable events; it does so through the poetic images of the people. It is an expression of the people’s inner being. The fatele embraces the whole community and its well-knit relationship with the natural environment. The climate emergency is largely shaped by the insights of the earth system, scientists, and the geopolitics of global empires. The indigenous spirituality of vulnerable peoples reveals hopes and struggles. Through the performing of a fatele cultural knowledge can bear the marks of a Christ who is down to earth, dwells with us, and is bound to the plight of a suffering creation. It is time to dance the fatele with God. Let us dance with God!

Works Cited Bevans, Stephen B. 2013. Models of contextual theology. Maryknoll: Orbis. ———. 2019. The mission has a Church: An invitation to the dance. https:// staff.acu.edu.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0004/197644/Bevans_Mission_ Has_Church.pdf. Accessed 4 Dec 2019. Chambers, Keith. 1984. Heirs of Teholaha: Tradition and social organization in Nanumea, a polynesian atoll community. Doctor of Philosophy, University of California, Berkeley. Jackson, Geoffrey W. 2001. Tuvalu dictionary. Suva: Oceania. Kennedy, Donald Gilbert. 1931. Field notes on the culture of Vaitupu Ellice Islands. New Plymouth: Avery.

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Migliore, Daniel. 2004. Faith seeking understanding: An introduction to Christian theology. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Nia, Nalu. 1983. Niutao. In Tuvalu: A History, ed. Hugh Laracy et al., 58–65. Suva: University of the South Pacific. Palu, Ma’afu ‘o Tu’itonga. 2003. Pacific theology: A reconsideration of its methodology. The Pacific Journal of Theology II (29): 30–57. Samuelu, Laloniu. 1983. Singing and dancing. In Tuvalu: A history, ed. Hugh Laracy, 40–42. Suva: University of the South Pacific. Schweitzer, Albert. 1981. The quest of the historical Jesus. London: SCM. Song, C.S. 2011. The laughing Jesus of Asia. Theologies and cultures 8 (1): 46–61. Talia, Maina. 2009. Towards Fatele theology: A contextual theological response in addressing threats of global warming in Tuvalu. Master of Theology, Tainan Theological College and Seminary, Taiwan. Tuwere, Ilaitia Sevati. 2010. Sa Meke Tiko Na Vanua [the land is dancing]: A doxological approach. In Talanoa ripples: Across borders, cultures, disciplines, ed. Jione Havea, 120–131. Auckland: Massey University.

CHAPTER 6

A Pacific Theology of Celebration Gilles Vidal

The words spoken by Sione ‘A. Havea in 1986, and published in 1987, sound like a theological program; some would say a prophecy: Our Pacific theology could be a theology of celebration. The cooperation of the community, the inclusiveness of the extended family, the sharing and caring for the old folks were characteristics of the Pacific people, even before western individualism touched our shores. (Havea 1987, 13)

This essay intends to show not only how this charismatic church leader managed to capture the imagination of “the people”—as he says himself— by proposing new ways of thinking but also how his successors implemented his ideas. However, I first indicate my own background and specify the perspective that I bring. I am a foreign academic, largely a product of European culture, who feels, as a result of some exposure to Pacific cultures, an

G. Vidal (*) Institut Protestant de Théologie, Montpellier, France © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_6

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enduring empathy toward them.1 My experience motivated me to write a PhD Thesis on Protestant Contextual Theology in the Pacific from the 1960s to the 2000s in which I drew a typology of Pacific Theology on the basis of information derived from the following: student theses and projects from the Pacific Theological College (PTC) and other theological institutions; academic review papers by Pacific scholars and pastors during this period; reports by the Pacific Conference of Churches (PCC) and other church organizations (Vidal 2016). As a historian, I will adopt the descriptive standpoint normal to my discipline. In this essay, I shall focus on a selection of Havea’s writings and on his ongoing influence, apparent in the writings of his successors. I am aware of the incompleteness of the source material: no amount of writing could express the full richness of a personality, the profundity of thought, the impact of a silence in the middle of a sermon. Nevertheless, I believe that this material has a place in the academy, in common ecumenical knowledge and that as such it requires the full attention of the wider theological community. Evidently it cannot fully reflect the devotion and theology of a heart anchored in the religious practice of families, villages and towns throughout the Pacific region. After recalling Havea’s fundamental principles for developing a theology of the Pacific, I shall provide an overview of the theology of celebration in the region before drawing conclusions regarding the question of its originality.

Havea’s Quest for a Post-missionary Theology As a practitioner and writer in the postcolonial context, Havea was intent on developing a post-missionary theology. The starting point of his theological reflection is the statement that the Gospel message remains totally foreign to the people despite more than a century of Christianization. Borrowing a horticultural metaphor from Rev. Leslie Boseto, Havea argues that missionaries “transplanted western faith in a theological pod, and instead of taking ‘the plant’ and placing it in the local soil, they kept it in the pod and nurtured it with a western environment and climate. This Christianity has been seen and taken as a foreign religion” (1987, 11). 1  I taught for eight years, from 1988 to 2008 with interruptions, in the Loyalty Islands (Kanaky-New Caledonia) and so I had the opportunities to participate in several theological meetings.

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However, the matter is not only the form or the theological formulation. Havea also points out that the problems confronted by imported theology are completely foreign to the concerns of the Pacific people: “Most of the recognized European theologians such as Bonhoeffer, Tillich, Barth and Brunner were victims of war, and their theological perspectives were based on crisis backgrounds. Compare their perspectives with ours in the Pacific: ours are deeply involved in celebrations” (1987, 11). Thus, according to Havea, the Gospel, like theology, is a victim of a triple alienation: to history, through the missionary process; to culture, through a new language; and to geography, through the isolation of the Pacific Islands. How can these factors be addressed effectively and reversed? Through a genuine appropriation of the Gospel message by the people. In order to avoid an external or alien Gospel, new means of interpretation must be found. The recurrent adjective in Havea’s articles about understanding the Gospel is “relevant.” The Gospel message remains valuable, but the way in which it has been transmitted throughout missionary history has to be reconsidered. In a kind of paradox, the innovation proposed by Havea in the matter of theological reflection is based precisely on the age of the message: When Christ was crucified, dead and buried, and rose on the first Easter – the effectiveness of that great event was meant to be available for all peoples; and on the first day of Pentecost when the Holy Spirit descended upon the disciples in Jerusalem; it meant that the Power was available simultaneously to all the peoples of the earth. The Gospel was already everywhere, although people were not aware of the presence. When missionaries came to the Pacific, they were only communicating to the Pacific a Gospel which was not found to be foreign but was already present, rooted and grown up in the local soil. (1977, 2–3)

Havea’s theology does not highlight the existence of possible and isolated connections between the cultures and the Gospel, but the full presence of the latter at the disposal of any people, anytime, because of its universality realized in the incarnation. Deeply rooted in the Pacific culture—as in many others—the Gospel has thus to be proclaimed in the language and symbols of that particular culture. The well-known example provided by Havea is the metaphor of the coconut, a tree expressing the fullness of life (for building, clothing, eating, etc.) as well as the ability to die and to rise again like Christ did in the Gospel narrative. But curiously,

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except maybe in a liturgical context, this metaphor has not been used very often by Pacific theologians. Havea’s starting point for a theology of celebration is a critique of the western theology which emerged from a context of totalitarianism, war and Church resistance, thus tending to impose foreign problematics on other people. The specific concerns for Pacific people are to be found elsewhere in the symbols like tiki, ‘umu, lovo and kava, which are not considered to be mere examples or isolated symbols, but part of a global theology of gift, understandable to any Pacific islander.2 How did this theology come to fruition after Havea?

Theology of Celebration: An Overview We shall now consider how the benchmarks laid down by Havea have enabled the generation of theologians that succeeded him to develop a typically Oceanian theology of celebration. It seems to me that this is expressed in three ways: celebrating the gift of God, celebrating human gifts and celebrating God in the liturgy and in the Lord’s Supper. Celebrating the Gift of God  elebrating the Gift of God by the Kava C For many theologians, the vanua as creation is the place where the gifts of God are manifested: not only the natural and economic riches of the islands, on land and in the sea, but also the wealth of social relationships which are revealed in the kava ceremony. I am not able, in the context of this essay, to enter into the details of the ceremony and its variants in Samoa, Fiji or Tonga. I simply wish to record that, according to Urima Fa’asi’i, two customs are practiced everywhere: –– the person who drinks the first cup pours a few drops onto the ground in front of him in libation to the land of their ancestors. Today, this practice is more or less Christianized as evidenced by Fa’asi’i: “Before the ava is taken, the drinker traditionally says: (…) 2  Concerning the use of these symbols, see Havea 1987, 13–14. It is remarkable that in his 1995 Encyclical on Ecumenism, Ut Unum Sint, Pope John Paul II used a similar formulation, speaking of an “exchange of gifts” between different denominations.

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God, this ava is yours. We have asked for your presence to be with us.” (Fa’asi’i 1993, 62) –– it is customary to clap your hands once or twice to ask to be served and again after drinking the cup in one go, a gesture that alludes as we shall see to one of the Tongan myths about the origin of kava, but which can be interpreted as “greeting and welcoming of everyone into fellowship. It is a mark of thankfulness to God for strength, good health and for bringing everyone together to meet in unity.” (Fa’asi’i 1993, 62; see also Fa’asi’i 1990 and 1994) Let us consider two examples of “celebration theologians” reflecting on the myths related to the origin of kava, one from Samoa, the other from Tonga. In Samoa, following an error committed by a chief’s son, Pava, the god Tagaloa punished him by splitting him in two from top to bottom. But faced with his father’s grief, the god is moved with compassion and puts the two pieces back together to resuscitate him. Kava is used to heal the joint. Only then can reconciliation take place, and the next day the god and his servant, the chief, share the kava together, followed by another food presentation ceremony, thereby strengthening, in cultural symbolism, the links between kava and fenua (Faleali’i 1998, 64–66). Faleali’i’s Christian interpretation of this myth underlines “the emerging of new beginnings, heralding forth from the old, oppressed and alienated selfhood for bondage to association in solidarity with kins and a welcome to forgiveness, acceptance, and reconciliation.” For Faleali’i, the ceremony “provides hope for the future,” and he strongly associates the fanua (fenua, vanua), “embodiment of God’s love and blessings,” with the kava ceremony: “praxis of humanity’s respond in gratitude and humility to God’s act of salvation revealed in the person of Jesus Christ” (1998, 66) likened here to the figure of the son of Pava. In Tonga, the origin of kava is also placed in a royal context where we find the symbolic elements of death and resurrection: a king visits a small island where a married couple live, Fevanga and Fefafa. Finding nothing to offer their guest, they sacrifice their only daughter, who suffers from leprosy, and prepare an ‘umu. Learning of this, the chief orders that “the food” should not be dug up but remain buried. Soon after two plants grow on the tomb of the sacrificed girl: the kava and the sugar cane which they will wear in homage to the king (Taufu’i 1998, 32). For Taufu’i, the kava can therefore be interpreted as a ceremony used to “recall social rank” but also to exalt “sacrificial love and loyalty to the king. Love, ofa,

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is essential as a mark of respect, loyalty and humility.” The Tongan theologian places this myth alongside John 12:24 (if the grain does not die): “The coming into being of Kava is an expression of new life, a new life sprung from another life sacrificed because of loyalty and love” (Taufu’i 1998, 37). This theology gives Christian meaning to the kava ceremony, echoing the expressions used by Havea: “sacrifice, devotion, loyalty, sharing” (1977, 3) or “celebration, forgiveness, alliance” (1982, 2). However much these theological interpretations of kava may appeal to us, they are limited nonetheless to the order of theory and discourse. In kava ceremonies, pastors, deacons and committed Christians are present and the Bible may be quoted, but the ceremony never replaces the Lord’s Supper. Two fields of religious practice seem quite distinct: the Christian field, celebrating the gift of God through the Lord’s Supper and the cultural field celebrating the gifts of God dispensed in the fenua.  elebrating the Gift of God in Dolphin Hunting C Another symbol of the theology of celebration, perhaps less known, could also be mentioned: the rite of dolphin hunting in Malaita in the Solomon Islands (an Anglican environment) as described by P. Akao (1990, 46–48, 64–65, 68, 72). In the 1960s, the Church included this hunt among the Christian holidays. It was decided in synod to use only Christian prayers for hunting, the priest first blessing the fishermen and then offering additional prayers relating to Christian life and worship. The main idea adopted by the Church was that “the Christian faith should be predominant in everything concerning cultural values.” At the end of his study, Akao endorses this attempt at syncretism, a term which has a positive connotation here. In fact, by Christianizing this practice, the Church has been able to find positive values in the tradition which are close to the Gospel message, such as the sense of unity of the gathered community and the attention given to peace during this hunting season. For Akao, the Gospel had a liberating effect, in terms of the many taboos which the people had had to respect, whilst not completely disparaging the traditional religion: “The Gospel [...] showed the peoples that their idea of a deity called Taloa was indeed an admirable part of their ancestor’s sincere efforts to discover the only One, True and Universal God” (Akao 1990, 77). These two examples of a theology of the celebration of God’s gifts have two essential aspects: on the one hand these gifts come from the fenua, both from the land (kava) and from the sea (dolphins), and on the other

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hand they allow reconciliation and a feeling of unity, not only between creatures and their creator, but also among creatures themselves who desire to live in peace. One of the major characteristics of this theology of celebration is its holistic and relational nature, challenging the dichotomy between heaven and earth, but also between humans and other creatures. We will now consider a second feature of this theology: the celebration of human gifts, that is to say, the symbols that humans are able to construct. Celebrating Human Gifts In 1987, a consultation of South Pacific Association of Theological Schools (SPATS) was held in Suva entitled “Gospel and culture.” It set out to define, without saying so explicitly, what the Pacific Way involves: “a sense of hospitality,” “collective responsibility,” “sharing and care,” “a process of reconciliation.” One of the conclusions was that this specifically Oceanian way of practicing social relations had come up against other models and ideologies, such as communism or capitalism, themselves strongly challenged in the context of globalization. How were they to react when faced with these opposing logics? For Jovili Meo, for example, recourse to the models of traditional society is still possible. To the crisis of Western systems, one could oppose the typical hallmarks of communal living: “inclusiveness, reconciliation, unity, participation, dialogue, partnership, fellowship, sharing and service” (1996, 85). Meo gives four examples of alternative models drawn from Oceanian culture that can inspire the world community in the direction of a theology of celebration: the maneaba in Kiribati, the “common open house” in the center of the village; the Samoan fale, a traditional oval hut, the center of family life; the usual customary gesture in Tonga consisting of rolling out the mat of dialogue and sharing, fofola e fala kae fai e ta ̄langa and finally the Fijian kava ceremony. I shall focus only on the traditional house.  he Traditional House T Meo and, following in his footsteps, several theologians from different islands take up the symbol of the house. So, for Upolu Vaai: “As members of the Samoan family come together to worship, eat, share stories and sleep under one roof, it is a mark of communal living: sharing fellowshipping (koinonia). [...] There is no unity and solidarity within God’s oikos if members of the family house lack a communal sense of living” (1996, 74).

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Siketi Tonga lists six characteristics related to the oval shape of the fale: “Absence of divisions, presence of inclusiveness, affirmation of oneness (unity), respect for sharing and love, respect for equality and commitment for reconciliation” (1996, 14). These phrases are also used of the kanak hut in New Caledonia. For Pothin Wete, these buildings symbolize social cohesion, but also act as a metaphor for the Church. Their construction resembles a form of liturgy: The building illustrates the church having Jesus Christ as the center post holding up the whole community and keeping them united in him. The short posts surrounding the center post refers to the leaders of the church and the other elements of the house represent all as Christians united to Christ through the Spirit in the bond of peace. Jesus Christ is also the open door of the me’ico (hut) through which people can enter his kingdom in order to find food and protection – life. (Wete 1990, 104)

Whether it is called hut, fale or maneaba, the traditional Oceanian house can be compared to the kava ceremony by a common feature which is frequently highlighted: the circular arrangement of the participants or inhabitants. Meo sees it as a form of humility and service comparable to what is required in the Gospel and could even be used for the celebration of the Lord’s Supper (Meo 1996, 89). Present in the house, an object that is widespread throughout the Pacific can also be considered a key element in a theology of celebration. Spreading the Mat Mat-making is carried out mainly by women, who claim that this activity, which consists in weaving links, is spiritual. Two mat rites, one from Tonga and the other from Samoa, may be mentioned here. Meo describes the first, which is called the spreading of the mat for dialogue and sharing: “As soon as the ancestral head arrives, the tālanga or discussion begins. No one is allowed to say anything until the mat is spread. During an occasion of reconciliation, it is important that the two parties keep their stories until the mat is spread. […] During the time of sharing and dialogue, everyone is free to speak about anything that has caused a problem” (Meo 1996, 87). For Meo this mat is an eucharistic metaphor for the Church: “On the arrival of Christianity, the lotu mat (gathering of Christians) was spread for the communion of the people, and it became the center of Holy Communion, the serving and sharing of food (body and the blood of

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Christ) for the community [...] it is the mat of reconciliation and sharing” (1996, 87). The second rite is practiced in Samoa. Ifoga, which means “bowing as a sign of respect and obedience,” is a custom that relates to forgiveness, reconciliation and to the possibility of renewing a relationship. In summary, it requires a person who has offended someone to cover his or her head with a special mat called ietoga, and to appear before offended party, sometimes after crawling, to implore forgiveness (see Amituana’i 1969). Whether it is unfolded as a sign of talks (Tonga) or used in requesting forgiveness (Samoa), the mat evokes reparation and reconciliation, two fundamental reasons for the theology of the celebration. Other gifts which have also been the subject of academic study include the Betel nut, so important in Papua, and the dug-out canoe in Polynesia (see Oru 1985, 70–73; Manaima 1988; Teururai 2004). Last Supper and Liturgy Historically, the urge to celebrate the Last Supper in a new way originated not in Havea’s lifetime, but to more than a century earlier! English or French missionaries began to use the fruit of the breadfruit tree, and even water (Poort 1984, 18). Samuel MacFarlane from the London Missionary Society (LMS) for example writes around 1860: “The question of foreign bread and wine being used at the ordinance was introduced at our annual meeting [...] we determined to use the bread and wine of the country, viz., the beautiful white yams for which the Loyalty group is celebrated, and coconut milk; which is much more scriptural, in my opinion, than water colored with a little wine, and brownished bread made from the dregs of the missionary’s flour cask” (1873, 89–90). In fact, the use of different elements from one island to another is impressive (see Allan 1982). However, a century later, the Tongan theologian justifies this practice theologically by the precedence of meaning over form: “I am convinced that if Jesus had grown up and lived in the Pacific, He would have used coconut to represent the body which was bruised and crushed, and the juice for the blood as elements of the Holy Eucharist” (Havea 1987, 15). This is the same argument used by U. Faasi (1993, 145–146) in the case of Samoa: From the Jewish setting of the Passover meal, Jesus selected the bread and wine which were the local and common food of the poor. Likewise, the

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Johannine Gospel, in its setting, mostly use fish and bread for a meal by the sea or on the seashore (John 21:4–14). Why should the Samoan church not do likewise, in our holy communion? [...] If Christ had celebrated his last meal with his disciples in the Fanua, he would have chosen taro, fish, breadfruit, banana and coconut.

This new theology of the celebration of the Last Supper was one of the signs of theological revival in French Polynesia led by the theologian Turo Raapoto. It sparked many debates within the Church, which I cannot evaluate here, but it is the subject of numerous investigations and even documentary films (see Fer and Malogne-Fer 2010). Finally, several attempts to rewrite the liturgy also emerged in Fiji, Vanuatu and New Caledonia. In practice, however, apart from a few very special gatherings, worship in the Pacific Churches remains fairly conventional (The Lord’s Supper 1985; “Holy Communion vaka Pasifika,” 1996; Cawidrone 1993; Meo 1997; “The Sacrament of Holy Communion in the Cultural Context of Vanuatu,” 2001; Pâques 2001 à Wanap, Koumac).

Conclusion: Theology of Celebration, a Form of Liberation Theology I traced the theology of celebration from the intuitions of Havea in the late 1960s to its later development by his various successors in the 2000s. Its emergence was facilitated by numerous factors. Havea’s criticism of the hegemony of Western theology and its concerns differs little from the assertions made at the world missionary conference of Bangkok in 1972. Likewise, we should note the interaction between his thought and the themes of the World Council of Churches (WCC) assemblies.3 It is logical that in the context of political decolonization there should emerge a discourse on theological decolonization, and it seems justified to claim that the theology of celebration, by insisting so strongly on the cultural distinctiveness of the Pacific and on “putting on a show,” is in a way the religious face of the Pacific Way political discourse (see Babadzan 2009). However, the path traced by Havea remains original in many ways. It may have been challenged (see Palu 2003), but overall it has its place as a liberation theology, not on the Marxist model found in South America, 3  Havea attended the Assembly in Evanston (1954) and was again present in Vancouver (1983), where his participation seems to have been more active.

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but as an ever-renewed deepening of the complex structures in the link between the Gospel and culture at different times in history and with different emphases. Even though, after the 2000s, the cultural aspects of Oceanian theology may fade in the face of ethical or ecological concerns, the impact of Havea’s premises, over more than 30 years, has been effective throughout the Pacific, including the French-speaking areas, giving rise for example to the development of his celebration theology: a theology of identity, whether ma’ohi or kanak, each with its own characteristics. Charles Forman was right when he called Sione A.  Havea the father of Pacific theology and many sons and daughters still celebrate his creativity.

Works Cited Akao, Philemon Samo. 1990. Dolphin hunting and catching with special reference to Christianity on Malaita. Project B.D., PTC Suva. Allan, Oliver. 1982. The theology of sacrament in a cultural context with relation to the Bible, Baptism, Holy Communion. Paper of the Diploma Licentiate in Theology, Trinity Methodist Theological College, Auckland. Amituana’i, Si’auala Tevita. 1969. The church ministry of reconciliation in Samoa: A study of the pre-Christian and present situation in Samoa. M.T.  Thesis, PTC, Suva. Babadzan, Alain. 2009. Le spectacle de la culture. Paris: L’harmattan. Cawidrone, Kiamu. 1993. Proposal for a new kanak liturgy. Pacific Journal of Theology II (9): 67–75. Fa’asi’i, Urima. 1993. Gospel and culture in the ava ceremony. Pacific Journal of Theology II (10): 61–63. Faleali’i, Telea Logoleo V. 1998. God in the ava ceremony. A theological reflection from one Polynesian context. M.T. Thesis, PTC Suva. Fer, Yannick, and Malogne-Fer, Gwendoline. 2010. Pain ou coco. Moorea et les deux traditions. Wapiti Productions & RFO Polynésie, Canal Overseas 63:00. https://youtu.be/T8XXwda74vo. Accessed 12 Feb 2020. Havea, Sione ‘Amanaki. 1977. The Pacifiqueness of theology. An address delivered at the theological club, Suva, October 11th, 1977. Paper: PTC Archives. ———. 1982. Moving towards a Pacific theology. Mission Review 19: 4–5. ———. 1987. Christianity in the Pacific context. In South Pacific theology: Papers from the consultation on Pacific theology, Papua New Guinea, January 1986, 11–15. Oxford: Regnum. Holy Communion vaka Pasifika, 27 June 1996. In Pacific Consultation on Gospel and Culture, Lauwaki Village, Vuda District, Fiji Islands, 24–27 June 1996, Pacific Conference of Churches (Report). MacFarlane, Samuel. 1873. The story of the Lifu Mission. London: John Nisbet.

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Manaima, Tiia. 1988. Te Wa: the Canoe in Kiribati and the boat in the Bible. Project B.D., PTC Suva. Meo, Jovili. 1996. Gems of Pacific communities: Sharing and service. Pacific Journal of Theology II (16): 84–101. ———. 1997. The feast of the faith. Gospel and culture: A Fijian experience. Pacific Journal of Theology II (17): 92–97. Oru, Nou. 1985. Betel-nut sharing and Christian fellowship, a Papua New Guinean reflection on the significance of betel-nut sharing in relation to fellowship, acceptance and belonging together. In Christ in South Pacific cultures, ed. Cliff Bird and Leslie Fugui, 70–78. Suva: Lotu Pasifika. Palu, Ma’afu ‘o Tu’itonga. 2003. Pacific theology: A reconsideration of its methodology. Pacific Journal of Theology II (29): 30–58. Pâques 2001 à Wanap, Koumac. Célébration de la Sainte Cène (Unpublished Document). Poort, W.A. 1984. Pacific between indigenous culture and exogenous worship. Trans. W.L. van Os Thompson. Hilvarenbeek: W.A. Poort,. Taufu’i, Visa Vaka Lala. 1998. Gospel and culture. A dialectical relationship in the Tongan Context. M.T. Thesis, PTC Suva. Teururai, Henri Rico. 2004. A contextual understanding of ecclesial authority in the Church of French Polynesia: The vaa Ono (a canoe of six rowers) and utuafare (family) models. M.T. Thesis, PTC, Suva. The Lord’s Supper, An Order of Service planned in Vanuatu using Coconut and other symbolism. Suva: Lotu Pasifika, 1985. The Sacrament of Holy Communion in the Cultural Context of Vanuatu. 2001. In Gospel and culture in Vanuatu. Contemporary local perspectives (vol. 2), ed. Randall Prior, 147–149. Wattel Park: Gospel Vanuatu Books. Tonga, Siketi. 1996. One gospel – Diverse expressions. In Pacific consultation on gospel and culture, Lauwaki Village, Vuda District, Fiji Islands, 24–27 June 1996, Pacific Conference of Churches, Report. Urima Fa’asi’i. 1990. A theology of sea. B.D. Project, PTC Suva. ———. 1994. God in the Fanua. M.T. Thesis, PTC Suva. Vaai, Upolu. 1996. A theological reflection on God’s Oikos (house) in relation to the Samoan context. Pacific Journal of Theology II (16): 72–76. Vidal, Gilles. 2016. Les nouvelles théologies protestantes dans le Pacifique Sud. Analyse d’un discours religieux en situation. Paris: Karthala. Wete, Pothin. 1990. The problem of untranslatable metaphors. M.T. Thesis, PTC Suva.

CHAPTER 7

Naming the Spirit A-niu (Anew): Re(is)landing Pneumatology Sioeli Felekoni Vaipulu

In Tonga, the Holy Spirit suffers from being overlooked and overcooked. For two centuries Tongan Christianity flourished around a table that celebrated theocentric and Christocentric faiths, with the Spirit consigned to the margins. Its eclipse is all the more remarkable given that the spark that propelled Christianity through the group was the so-called Tongan Pentecost at ‘Utui in 1834. In recent years, there have been some winds of change. Manfred Ernst has written on the appeal of Pentecostal movements throughout the Pacific (see Ernst 1994, 2006), but there has been an absence of attention to how a theology of the Spirit might inform a Tongan contextual theology, for which I coined the term ‘otualogy (see Vaipulu 2013). There is an obvious need for theological work to be done lest the deep enthusiasm of new religious movements severs the work of the Spirit from that of the Son.1 The situation is demanding. The context in which Christian faith is practiced in Tonga is not the same as it once was. The islands have been 1  This is a common aspect of Pentecostalism that often sets them in a position questionable against the orthodox faith (see Habets and Kim 2016, 7).

S. F. Vaipulu (*) Sia’atoutai Theological College, Nukuʻalofa, Tonga © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_7

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exposed to secularization, globalization and the impact of people living in diaspora. The Pentecostal response broadcast on local Christian television or radio is to assert that the Spirit is the only way toward achieving salvation.2 That being said, it is legitimate to ask with Michael Welker, writing from his German setting: is that so?3 There are many visible signs of enthusiasm for the Spirit in contemporary Tonga, but there is not much in the way of a formal pneumatology. The wearing of red ties for men is matched by the wearing of red scarfs for women. Emotional sermons and speaking in tongues are inevitable in this regard. The democratic protests of November 2006 (6/11) bore witness to a large group of Christians marching in the streets, and singing hymns to the Spirit while setting Nuku’alofa literally on fire with shops and offices burning.4 This rise in enthusiasm bears little resemblance to the 1834 revival. There have been incidents of physical violence and assaults at churches and chapels. The respect shown to church leaders and faifekau declines. There has been an upsurge in self-ordination and an elevation of a privatization of faith5 brings confusion and disruption rather than reconciliation to the community of faith. The Spirit has been used to justify the truth of one denomination over another. Relationships within kainga and families are badly severed in the name of following the guidance of the Spirit. Children and youths leave homes and parents to become children of the Spirit. In his review of Edward Schweizer’s book The Holy Spirit, C. F. D. Moule noted that [a]bove all what is reiterated throughout is that the Spirit of God is beyond human control, and that it is worse than folly to imagine that God’s powerful presence may be pinned down or labelled. (Moule 1982, 263) 2  This is a prevalent assertion in the local Christian Television TBN (a 24/7 Television program in both English and Tongan languages). 3  Michael Welker relates the same concern: “Is the Spirit to which it (this revival movement) appeals the Spirit of truth? Is the retreat to subjective feelings, and to a certainty that even within the Church of Christ can only be communicated to a limited extent, appropriate to this Spirit?” (1992, 14). 4  This event has decapacitated the island nation socially and morally, since it happened in November 2006 (see Kato 2007). 5  Envisaging here is Hans Urs von Balthasar’s deformative tendencies of Christianity: literalism and institutional spiritualism (cited in Sachs 2005, 378). To Balthasar, institutional spiritualism seeks the truth in subjective experience apart from the Body of Christ or the Church.

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There is, of course, another side to this story. The criticism can be made that the well-established churches in Tonga have become static: they do not make room for the wind of the Spirit. The Free Wesleyan Church of Tonga is an example. Its assigned Sunday of the Holy Ghost realizes nothing but the preacher to simply preach on the Spirit in contrast to the events of Good Friday and Easter Sunday which receive better attention with hosted feasts and youth camps across the parishes. The Spirit has a history within the Christian faith but for much of that history it was the “shy member” of the Trinity. It is hidden away, to be a “ghost.” Its function was to direct attention away from itself. The work of the Spirit was to bear witness within the heart of the believer to God and to Jesus Christ as Lord. The few times when the Spirit was emphasized were periods in which there was a desire to set in place something new, a desire for freedom from institutional constraint and a vitality of the emotive side of faith over against the intellectual, the doctrinal and the customary (Ernst 1994, 96). In the Tongan context the presence of a disruptive Spirit is not the only theological agenda requiring attention. It could be argued that the problem in pneumatology goes back to the first missionaries and the Tongan reception of the gospel. The claim has been made that the gospel was, in fact, misgiven, misplaced, misheard and mis-taken (see Vaipulu 2013, chapters 3–5). The gospel that was handed over was tailored to fit the hierarchical nature of Tongan society. It lends itself to a vertical understanding of the divinity of Christ, his otherworldliness and his being the Second Person of the Trinity. This is the understanding of Christ found in the Tongan hymnal. One of the legacies of this process of handing over and receiving is that the more horizontal dimension of the person of Christ was lost. The humanity of Christ—the way in which Jesus of Nazareth drew alongside those on the margins of society, the vulnerable, the outcast—is underplayed. From the perspective of an understanding of the Spirit there are consequences. The Spirit is essentially located within the Godhead as the third person, but, as has been said, that person is largely anonymous. There is also an absence: there is little attention given to the way in which the gospels relate the leading and presence of the Spirit to Jesus’ down to earth life. The Spirit remains in the vertical realm and is not found in the horizontal where Jesus’ ministry intersects with the everyday lives of ordinary people in their times of need.

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The theological dilemma can be further compounded. It means that when an emphasis is placed on the Holy Spirit the accent falls on the extraordinary. What becomes the mark of the Holy Spirit is the capacity to speak in tongues (glossolalia), miracles, exorcism and spiritual warfare. What can be lost sight of are those texts which emphasize the ministry of Jesus with a bias to the poor (as in Luke 4:14–20) and a life of discipleship marked by “fruits of the Spirit.”

A niu Spirit A significant theological issue requires attention here. It needs to be explored in a way that speaks into the Tongan situation and in a manner that does not replicate the previous misgiven and mis-taken theology. It is time to name the Spirit a niu. Niu The term niu belongs to the liquid continent that is Oceania. The word literally means coconut which is an iconic image throughout the region. It functions in a similar way to symbols like the vine, grapes and bread in the Bible (as rice does in Asia). It commends because of the way in which the coconut, the niu, is a staple of islanders’ diet and their social fabric. The word has been used in higher cultural education as metaphor for the task of creating an indigenous and local space. It was put to use in this way by ‘Epeli Hau’ofa in A New Oceania (1993, 2–16). The term has also found favor in an Oceanic/is-landic hermeneutic surrounding biblical and theological researches and talanoa.6 The seminal use of niu/coconut in theology looks back to the essay that Sione ‘Amanaki Havea wrote in response to Sir John Guise’s Christological plea: “reveal to us the Pacific Christ” (cited in Prior 2019, 92). Havea played with the possibilities of what it would have been like if Jesus had been raised on one of these islands in the moana nui. The customary significance of the niu in terms of food, drink, fiber and other necessities of life meant that the coconut would have usurped talk of wine and sheep. 6  The Talanoa Oceania themes for 2010 and 2011 were “Niu Locals” and “Niu Flavours.” The themes address the situation of oceanic people living in overseas lands, using niu as both oceanic and calls for new-ness.

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Havea’s work has been classified as belonging to the category that Ma’afu Palu has identified as “the Pasifikans” (2003, 2004, 2005). Palu is critical. The hermeneutical strategy of making use of the niu privileges island culture, proverbial sayings and images; it does so at the expense of the biblical witness to do with Christ Jesus found in the gospels and epistles of the New Testament. The issue here is not one of imperialism and colonization at least in the sense of the imposition of the western values of the first missionaries. Nor is the imperialism of ongoing theology where the framework has been largely determined by exponents of a North Atlantic critical methodology. There is a dilemma that remains once these matters are acknowledged and perhaps dealt with. The New Testament witness is Middle Eastern moving westwards. It comes long before the various Reformation movements that inspired Christian mission to the Pacific and the Enlightenment practice of empirical reason. The New Testament remains: it encounters the liquid continent on its own scriptural and implicit theological foundations. How then may one use the hermeneutical metaphor of the niu with regards to the role of the Holy Spirit in Christian theology? It should at least be acknowledged that interest has emerged in the last several decades in a contextual pneumatology. The classic work is Veli-Matti Karkainnen’s Pneumatology: The Holy Spirit in Ecumenical, International and Contextual Perspective. It should come as no surprise that Karkainnen, a Finnish scholar, makes no reference to the indigenous theologies of the Pacific. There is a sense, though, in which his argument is permission-giving. Karkainnen notes that the Holy Spirit will be poured out on “all flesh.” That reference includes all kinds of people, male and female, young and old, from all cultures and environment. In a way that would satisfy Palu, Karkainnen refers to the biblical claims of Joel 2:28–9 and Acts 2:17–18, and concedes that most theology has been done by “white male[s] … from Europe and North America.” Karkainnen then proceeds to argue the case for a more inclusive account of the Spirit based on the contributions of feminist scholars (black and white) as well as those theologians from Africa, Asia, Latin America and “sociologically oriented black theologians and ‘green’ pneumatologists.” Karkainnen insists theology must now be sensitive and not the preserve “of one people” (2002, 139–140). The tenor of this argument opens up the right for an Oceanic pneumatology in a way that is mindful of Palu but aware of Havea’s innovation.

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The task is not to foster an exclusive emphasis upon pneumatology as per what is called a Third Article Theology (TAT);7 nor is it to repeat various modes of trinitarianism, binitarianism (usually God and Christ) or unitarianism (usually God with Jesus differing from other humans by degree rather than by kind). The task is, rather, to name the Spirit in a way which respects the biblical witness as well as the culture and traditions of Tonga. The significance of this task cannot be underestimated. The Spirit has a hermeneutical role insofar as its vocation is to evoke and seal within the heart of the believing Christian the Lordship of Christ. For that purpose, there is need for an act of adherence. On occasions that role has been assigned to the faculty of the imagination but, in this instance, there is an acute issue of cross-cultural hermeneutics. The way in which the Spirit presents, adheres and seals must be intelligible in and through the experience of Tongan culture (anga-fakatonga). It is this meaning-making and sealing activity of the Spirit that lies beyond the aim for a theology of the Spirit viewed through the imagery of the niu. It is not a “coconut pneumatology.” It is an enquiry into how the Spirit may be viewed through the lens of a cultural image that resonates within the Oceanic way. One possible pathway into this act is to imitate (in a restrained way) the methodology of Havea’s coconut Christology. It needs to be restrained because Havea’s response to Guise’s request failed to engage with the confessional claims to do with the divinity of Christ, his death, resurrection and ascension as well as any theory of atonement. Those issues to do with the person and work of Christ are not necessarily western and direct legacies of colonialism. They are grounded in that biblical witness and the ecumenical councils of the early church. Following Havea, then, the question can be posed within limits: what would have happened if the Spirit had come into being in Tonga or another island in the liquid continent? How would it have been understood if it has been understood as hovering over the face of the moana nui on the first day of creation? What would have been the implications of the prophetic spirit that cried out for justice and a bias to the poor for the anga-fakatonga? How would the Tongan understanding of Christ have differed if the role of the Spirit in leading Jesus throughout his public ministry had been highlighted in the Tongan hymnal? What kinds of fruits 7  The purpose of this program is “to look through the Spirit rather than at the Spirit” in its inquiry upon faith (see Habets and Kim 2016, 15).

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and gifts of the Spirit would have been named had Tongan rather than Greco-Roman virtues lain behind a theological understanding of life in the Spirit? How indeed would the Spirit have been named had the Christ-­ child been born in a Tongan fale, attended to by members of the kainga with gifts of leaves and roots? These questions are contextual. ‘Aitu/’Eitu There is first a need to name the Spirit. For Lyle Dabney (2001) and those of the TAT that need is due negligence of the third article. According to Elizabeth Johnson a theology of the Spirit is still in an embryonic state (1993, 128). It is not the same for a niu pneumatology. Tongans are very familiar with the Spirit because they are offspring of the ‘aitu (spirit).8 The dilemma presents itself in the particularity of the Christian faith and its aspirations to be a universal faith. The Bible presumes that the Spirit is God’s revelation. The Spirit is the Spirit of God. It “makes the power of God knowable” (Welker 1992, 2) and indeed bears witness to the Christ. For an indigenous people the difficulty that arises is that this particular understanding of the Spirit has come late in time and is mediated to the Tongan people through missionaries who bear the arks of another culture and epistemic worldview. Can the ‘aitu of Tongan custom be aligned with the implicit scriptural witness to the Third Person of the Trinity? There is an analogy to work with here. On seeking to translate theos and God into Tongan idiom, the missionaries opted for the word ‘otua, a common local term. In so doing they imagined that they were using a more generic name while they distanced themselves from the narratives that surrounded Tangaloa, Maui, and Hikule’o of the Tongan pantheon. In an imitation of the distinction in English between God and gods, they turned ‘otua into a proper person—‘Otua with a capital letter: the lower-case form was used for idols. The difference is apparent. With reference to that first article, missionaries then drew upon the equally common Tongan term Tamai (Father). For Jesus Christ, in contrast, they adopted the transliteration of Sı ̄sū Kalaisi (Sēsū Kilisitō among Roman Catholics) (Collocott 1921, 119). The specificity of the Christian gospel was presumed through the lack of any desire to draw upon traditional Tongan myths that might have been put to use 8   This is a Polynesian term for spirit. Tongans and Samoans share the term (see Goodman 1971).

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in a way that might have saved Havea from needing to talk about a coconut Christ. The most obvious candidate would have been ‘Aho’eitu who is understood to be the son of the god (Tangaloa) with an earthly mother (‘Ilaheva). The problem of course is the contextual problem in reverse: ‘Aho’eitu did not live in first century Galilee, was not crucified, nor resurrected. With regards to the Third Person of the Trinity the missionaries effectively shaped subsequent Christian discourse. They scorned the term ‘eitu. In its customary setting ‘eitu refers to good spirits compared with fa’ahikehe,9 evil spirits. It is a term found in several cognate words like ‘Eitumatupu’a (unprecedented spirit). ‘Aho’eitu (the spirit in daylight) suggests “spirit revealed, spirit here and now, spirit within us.” The case could have been made for a Tongan rendering of father and son relationship in the Tongan speech of ‘Eitumatupu’a (the principal god) and ‘Aho’eitu (his son). The dilemma before the missionaries—which led them to reject the option of Eitumatupu’a and ‘Aho’eitu for Father and Son—had to do with the way in which spirits functioned in the Tongan worldview. Here the spirits could be either good or evil; they were often believed to be able to manifest themselves in physical forms. Strangers might indeed be the embodiments of spirits. Good spirits are believed to take side with the locals. They offer assistance, guidance, blessing, prosperity, riches, even children and life to those in need. Evil spirits, in contrast, are seen as enemies of the people. They are sources of physical inflictions, famines, natural disasters and all that count as threats to the physical, social and economic life of the people. This dualism of good and evil was not in and of itself a problem. The difficulty lies in the capacity to separate this understanding of a host of spirits from the anga-fakatonga and allow it to fasten it upon the disclosure and activity of the “one” Spirit of God found in the Bible and theological narratives.

9  Grijp relates fa’ahikehe as a “general designation for gods, spirits, ghosts, and possessed priests” (2002, 247). Note than aitu in Samoa refers to evil spirits in contrast to its use in Tonga.

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Laumālie The missionaries selected instead the term laumālie to translate “spirit.” Its literal meaning is “good news”—from the term lau meaning speak, count and consider; and the term mālie means favorable, fantastic and suitable. Lauma ̄lie can refer to a story that excels. Such stories might include those recounting the achievements of Tongan warriors, fishermen, crafters and sportsmen. It is indeed a term that is often most used with reference to chiefly success. There is an obvious appeal in a word that translates as good news. It is possible to see lauma ̄lie in a Johannine light where the lau represents the logos, the word, the news; it acquires the significance of the Spirit through the way in which ma ̄lie can be used of the Comforter in John 14:16. Talking about the Spirit is a complex task, in part because of scripture which conceives the Spirit in anthropomorphic categories related to God. The spirit of God is the breath of God (Gen 2:7). There are other references to a spirit of wisdom and understanding (Isa 11:2; Acts 6:3), truth (John 14:17), counsel (Isa 40:13), might and fear of the Lord. It can also be imagined as impersonal force or agency—the Spirit is likened to fire (Luke 3:16) and wind, for instance. In Christian theology the Spirit is intimately bound up with the person and work of Christ, though at the baptism of Jesus the spirit takes on the imagery of a dove (Mark 1:10). For a niu pneumatology, the first task is to understand how the Spirit is understood in an existing theology crafted by Oceanic theologians. The second is concerned with how the spirit side of life is understood in the context of anga-fakatonga and how such images, symbols and myths might color a niu understanding. The Spirit is aligned with the biblical and theological tradition in a way which allows for cultural knowledge and custom. Havea refers to the Spirit as unitive power that indwells inside the coconut partaken in the Pacific Lord’s Supper (so Puloka 2003; Siotame Havea 2011b). It is the presence of the Spirit in the Pacific that allows the island coconut to become a symbol of God’s grace in the eucharist. In the same manner, Sevati Tuwere (2002) relates the life-giving power of the Spirit in the vanua. The idea is that the sacramental nature of vanua makes it the dwelling place of the trinitarian Spirit. Winston Halapua (2008) sees the Spirit in the embracing power of the moana. His theomoana alludes to the trinitarian power of the Spirit that creates and recreates the world in the moana. Katie Ann

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Kanongata’a (1996) sees the rebirthing power of the Spirit in women’s womb. The impetus in these words, however, is either Christocentric or trinitarian. There is less attention given to the name of the Spirit itself and how it could be (re)named in particular culture and context. For the sake of a reconstructed pneumatology that is niu the key lies in how laumālie is to be interpreted. Its initial attraction lies in how it is not a spirit in the sense of an ‘eitu. In terms of a Christian theology it is more appropriate to correlate laumālie with the doctrine of the incarnation. The Tongan term used is ‘aikakano (to enflesh, and it can also refer to the substance or the content of a vessel or container). To become incarnate in the sense of ‘aikakano is to become flesh as well as to fill up that which is empty. The term points to the Christ figure who embodied God—the ‘aikakano of ‘Otua (God) in a double sense. The God head is emptied into human form: in and through death life is emptied (from Jesus) in order for the Spirit to come and bear witness, to comfort and strengthen and thus fill up that which had been emptied. Here, further attention should be given to the second half of the word—that is, ma ̄lie. The term is most telling. It is a combination of ma ̄ and lie. Ma ̄ carries meanings of power (as in the term mālohi), poor (as in mā-siva) and calm (as in ma ̄ma ̄lie). Here ma ̄lie designates a tranquil power in deficient times. In association with lau, the reference to mālie signifies comfort, fiema ̄lie. Jione Havea (2011a) prefers fiema ̄lie over shalom in order to capture better the unstable situation of peace in the Pacific. Fiemālie carries a basic idea of endurance. It is comfort in times of hunger while it exhibits the characteristics of shyness, a desire to withhold, in more affluent times. This reading of lauma ̄lie is rather different from an overriding focus on glossolalia, enthusiasm and the extraordinary. Its tone is much more in keeping with the teaching of Jesus to be found in the Sermon on the Mount: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matt 5:3). Mā sets a tone of being humble and durable—and, in some respects “shy” and “silent” in how it attends to needs. I now turn to lie to provide further direction for this niu pneumatology. It represents the idea of “being thrown” (lı ̄-e ̄) into the world, into a continuing participation in life. The Spirit is not a means of escape. Lie is a form of navigation. It sets sail here and now, to the beyond. It echoes Welker’s contention that “God acts on people near and far in our time” and “in times before and after us” (Welker 1992, 4).

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The Spirit, conceived as lauma ̄lie, cannot be domesticated, imprisoned or arrested. It cannot be a captive of self-holiness, self-aloof, or aggrandizement. As power being thrown to the world, ma ̄lie carries the notion of perfect fit. The term fe’unga-mālie is telling here. It signifies a position well suited. The best fit of the world is the Spirit. The best place for the Spirit is the world. Now there is vital continuity between the doctrine of incarnation and the doctrine of God in the Spirit.10 While the Son (the second article of the creed) fits (fe’unga) with the world when the Word (lau) became flesh, the Spirit (the third article) fits well (fe’unga-ma ̄lie) when precisely the same Word (lau) becomes ma ̄lie (fit, appropriate). Naming the Spirit a niu sees the Spirit as laumālie. Here the divine word is seen nothing less than the one that fits and fills the creation. It is the continuing presence and participation of God in the creation. It is the one that nourishes and perfects the creation. Lauma ̄lie moans and suffers with the world and creation in the same way that the Son does (see Gabriel 2011). It does not only create. It also participates in the pain and agony of its own creation. The way of lauma ̄lie is not about the self. It is essentially communal. It cannot be otherwise. Welker relates that “God does not make Godself knowable to me alone” (Welker 1992, 3). The community of lauma ̄lie is a community of freedom (2 Cor 3:17). “What would have happened if the Spirit came into being in Tonga?” This niu pneumatology revolves around the many hints and suggestions released by the word that the missionaries chose, laumālie. Its roots and composite nature allow many links to be made with biblical traditions to do with the Holy Spirit that have occurred through time and place in Christian experience. As of Tonga, unless the Spirit is understood a niu and in a more tangible and concrete sense of the Laumālie the Spirit remains corruptive.

Works Cited Collocott, E.E.V. 1921. Notes on the Tongan religion. Part I. The Journal of the Polynesian Society 30 (3): 152–163.

10  Envisaging here is Emmanuel Levinas’ concept of “disincarnation” where continuity between God and creation opens up higher opportunities of relationship (see Gibbs 2010).

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Dabney, D. Lyle. 2001. Naming the Spirit: Towards a pneumatology of the cross. In Task of theology today II: Starting with the Spirit, ed. Stephen Pickard and Gordon Preece, 28–58. Adelaide: Openbook. Ernst, Manfred. 1994. Winds of change. Suva: Pacific Theological College. ———, ed. 2006. Globalization and the re-shaping of Christianity in the Pacific Islands. Suva: The Pacific Theological College. Gabriel, Andrew K. 2011. The presence of the Holy Spirit and divine immutability. In The Lord is the Spirit. The Holy Spirit and the divine attributes, 152–182. Eugene: Pickwick. Gibbs, Robert. 2010. The disincarnation of the word: The trace of God in reading scripture. In The exorbitant: Emmanuel Levinas between Jews and Christians, ed. Kevin Hart and Michael A.  Signer, 32–51. New  York: Fordham University Press. Goodman, Richard A. 1971. Some Aitu beliefs of modern Samoans. Journal of Polynesian Studies 80 (4): 463–479. Grijp, Paul van der. 2002. Travelling gods and nasty spirits. Ancient religious representations and missionization in Tonga (Polynesia). Paideuma 48: 243–260. Habets, Myk, and Kirsteen Kim. 2016. Prolegomenon: On starting with the Spirit. In Third article theology, ed. Myk Habets, 1–20. Grand Rapids: Augsburg Fortress. Halapua, Winston. 2008. Waves of God’s embrace: Sacred perspectives from the ocean. London: Canterbury. Hau’ofa, ‘Epeli. 1993. Our sea of islands. In A new Oceania: Rediscovering our sea of islands, ed. E. Waddel, V. Naidu, and E. Hau’ofa, 2–16. Suva: University of the South Pacific. Havea, Jione. 2011a. Is Shalom enough? Drifting peace in the waters of Oceania. Pacific Journal of Theology II (45): 28–43. Havea, Siotame. 2011b. Jesus: Beyond reasonable doubt, legal perspective of redemption. Bloomington: Xlibris. Johnson, Elizabeth A. 1993. She who is: The mystery of God in feminist theological discussions. New York: Crossroad. Kanongata’a, Katie-Ann. 1996. Domestic Theology. Pacific Journal of Theology Series II (15): 73–75. Karkkainen, Veli-Matti. 2002. Pneumatology: The Holy Spirit in ecumenical, international, and contextual perspective. Grand Rapids: Baker. Kato, Penisimani. 2007. God between the boundaries: Probing the theological meaning of 16/11. BD Project, Sia’atoutai Theological College. Michael, Matthew. 2013. The Holy Spirit. In Christian theology and African traditions, 188–198. Eugene: Wipf & Stock. Moule, C.F.D. 1982. Review of the Holy Spirit, Eduard Schweizer. The Journal of Theological Studies 33 (1): 263–265.

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Palu, Ma’afu. 2003. Pacific theology: A reconsideration of its methodology. Pacific Journal of Theology II (29): 30–58. ———. 2004. Contextualization within the parameters of the Bible. Faith Evangelical Lutheran Seminary. ———. 2005. Contextualisation as bridging the hermeneutical gap: Some biblical paradigm. Pacific Journal of Theology II (34): 23–41. Prior, Randall G. 2019. Contetualizing theology in the South Pacific: The shape of theology in oral cultures, Amerian Society of Missiology. Vol. 41. Eugene: Pickwick. Puloka, Tevita T.M. 2003. Sisu Tonga: Vaofi ‘a E Vamama’o. Pacific Journal of Theology II (29): 26–29. Sachs, John R. 2005. The Holy Spirit and Christian form. Gregorianum 86 (2): 378–396. Tuwere, Ilaitia Sevati. 2002. Vanua: Towards a Fijian theology of place. Auckland: Institute of Pacific Studies, University of Auckland. Vaipulu, Sioeli F. 2013. Towards an ‘otualogy: Rethinking and revisiting the doctrine of God in Tonga. PhD thesis, Charles Sturt University. Welker, Michael. 1992. God the Spirit. Minneapolis: Fortess.

CHAPTER 8

Fetuiaga Kerisiano: Church as a Moving Umu Matagi Jessop Vilitama

The Niuean diaspora drifts in liquid modernity. This requires shifting the emphasis of being the church from the traditional site of chapel and church building, to wrestling with what it means to be the body of Christ, the vaka of the gospel, in the ordinary spaces of life. The rigidity of the Jerusalem-like temple or the missionary institutionalized-church needs morphing with the realities of a liquid culture. This liquidity refers to the postmodern reality that Zygmunt Bauman presents in his many books (see especially Bauman 2000). The fluid environment that Niuean migrants now face (see Connell 2008) is not the moana they swim back in the island: it is a liquid milieu of a different kind. Niueans in diaspora join a transient world where nothing is permanent; everything is constantly shifting, and the practices of life have become more fluid. The fluid fetuiaga (fellowship) of the umu (ground oven for traditional cooking; hangi in Maori, lovo in Fijian) is proposed here as a paradigm for being church in a liquid modernity.

M. J. Vilitama (*) Ekalesia Kerisiano Niue, Alofi, Niue Uniting Church in Australia, Sydney, NSW, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_8

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Umu The umu was once situated on the edge of the village, considered to be dirty and profane space as compared to the church building and the minister’s manse. Things have changed, and it is time for this informal fetuiaga to be taken as the new frontier in being the church. This requires a metanoia of hearts and minds that have been disposed to thinking of the church only as a place of worship. To unwind something that is deeply ingrained is not easy, especially in an integrated culture that is based on conformity to tradition. The church building (faituga, temple) is the heart of the Niuean community. It is the center of the village. To move from the center to the profane spaces of faiagahau (celebration)—symbolized by the umu in this essay—is radical. Yet, the proposed paradigm offers a fresh approach for a church-wary generation who are losing their connection to the cultural tupuna (ancestors).

From Temple to Umu Church Jesus understood what the Temple meant in the religious and political landscape of his people. Jesus frequently visited the Temple, his Father’s house (Luke 2:49). And he was apparently able to debate with the teachers in the Temple (Luke 2:41–52). Jacob Neusner (2000) claimed that Jesus, not being of the priestly order, never entered the sanctuary of the Temple;1 his teaching took place in open courts, generally in the treasury area (see John 8:20); most of his teaching was done outside the Temple, on a mountain, from a boat, along the way, and in the synagogue. Ones who circumscribe the life of faith in law, regulation and understandings of holiness were at odds with him. In the four gospels, the Pharisees and the Sadducees were actively opposed to Jesus’ public ministry which included fellowship, eating and drinking with tax collectors and sinners. Jesus metaphorically spoke of the destruction of the Temple (Mark 13) but in his teaching, he did not deny the role of the Temple. He was aware of its importance and its centrality in Israel’s history and identity. In the center of the Temple—in the holy of holies—the Ark of the Covenant was set. And there, in the heart of the Temple complex, in the middle of the 1  This supports the view of this essay that Jesus’ indiscriminate choice of location for most of the time in his teaching ministry legitimizes the location of the umu as a place of “being” church.

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city which served as the spiritual and political heart of Israel, God dwelt among God’s people. The theological significance here is critical. Understanding the Temple as the place where the presence of the Almighty God dwells with his people was not missed by Jesus when he identified himself as the Temple. Jesus’ statement (John 2:19–20) was taken literally after his resurrection when he was raised, as he said, after three days. Since early Christians believed that Jesus had replaced the Temple (1 Peter 2:4–5) as the expression of a new covenant (2 Corinthians 6:14–7:1), they were relatively unconcerned with the destruction of Herod’s Temple. The early church movement were found in fellowship around member’s houses (Acts 1:13; 20:31, Romans 6:3–5, Colossians 4:15, 1 Corinthians 16:19, etcetera) and wherever they gathered or came together (Acts 20:7, 1 Corinthians 11:18; 14:26). Their focus was the fetuiaga, a koinonia—a body of believers in fellowship rather than the actual Temple. How might the Niuean understanding of Christ be seen in the light of his estimations and actions toward the Temple? Jesus revered the Temple as his Father’s house, the shrine which was as a place of liogi (prayer or worship) for all people. It is the function of the Temple that concerned Jesus more than the architecture itself. Interestingly, Jesus’ perspective of the Temple varies across the Gospel accounts. While Matthew’s account saw Jesus as cleansing the Temple of the money changers and traders and re–establishing it as a place to cure the blind and lame (Matthew 21:14–16), Mark’s account suggests that Jesus may have had an adversarial relationship with the Temple cult of his day. Commentators thus link the cursing to the fig tree to the Temple (Mark 11:12–14, 20–21), implying that Mark saw the withering fig tree as a parallel to the Roman destruction of the Temple in 70 CE (Martin 1975, 21). From this reading, Jesus shifted attention from the building—the Temple and its sacrificial system—toward the coming kingdom of God. The emphasis was on the teaching and healing ministry of Jesus, and eventually the focus fell on the Easter events of the dying and rising Christ. The gospel of John portrays Jesus as the “Living Temple.” Jesus announced that the Temple would be destroyed and rebuilt in three days (John 2:19)—this was deemed to be fulfilled in his dying and rising on the third day. Rick Thompson draws from the Johannine tradition and the epistles to argue that the work of Jesus fulfilled the Temple in five ways: (i) Jesus, conceived as the Temple, embodies the presence of God. In him we have “God’s dwelling” among us (John 1:14). The literal translation of

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dwelling is “tabernacle” which points us to Jesus as God’s incarnation who has now come to his people in full fruition. Thomson writes, “As long as the tabernacle stood, it was a reminder that the messiah had not yet come” (Thompson 2013); (ii) importantly, through Christ and his work, a new temple is built in his followers (1 Corinthians 3:16); (iii) the temple was constructed with partitions making it exclusive, but Christ as the living temple offers an open invitation to the whole world. All who call upon his name are “grafted in” to the temple, his Body (Ephesians 2:15,19); (iv) Humanity was separated from God by sin but in Christ the “curtain” has been torn, so that “new and living way is opened up” (Hebrews 10:19–20); (v) Ezekiel’s vision is fulfilled in Jesus, the “new spiritual temple out of which rivers of living water would flow” (Ezekiel 47:1; John 7:37–38).2 Thompson argues that what we see here is a shift from cultic-priestly worship that was a temple-based institution to a “body of believers” of which Jesus was the head. In John 2:19–20, when the Jews demanded a sign, Jesus spoke of the temple of his “body” as being destroyed and raised up in three days. His remark contrasted the new Temple of the Spirit with the hand-built edifice described by his opponents: “Forty and six years was this temple in building.” The Johannine Jesus points to himself as the new Temple. He is to be the “house of prayer for all nations” (Isaiah 56:7). The Son of God is to be a non-exclusive Temple, he told the woman of Samaria, “The hour is coming, when neither in this mountain (in Samaria), nor in Jerusalem, shall you worship the Father” (John 4:21). Jesus presents himself as the place where the presence of God dwells among the people. He is a foundation in that sense and not the sense of being a particular kind of building. Yves Congar rightly pointed out Jesus’ attitude toward the Temple: that it is to be transcended, it was doomed to disappear (1962, 112). The majority of his life and work was focused not in the building of the Temple but upon his relationships and fellowship (fetuiaga) with ordinary people in ordinary gatherings. It was his presence that made these ordinary fellowships “extraordinary.” It will be Christ himself through the Spirit who makes the umu fetuiaga Christian. There were social gatherings in existence before the incarnation of Christ in Israel and his introduction to Niue. The manifestation of Christ himself into these gatherings transforms

2  Jesus as the “true temple” supports the notion of the Fetuiaga Kersiano as a fellowship that is not bound by church as institution but, rather, it is mobile and fluid.

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them into a body of believers, disciples, who are called to imitate the itinerant preacher and Messiah.

Fetuiaga the Umu: The Fellowship of the Umu Niuean social celebrations outside the bounds of the church, around the umu for instance, has been considered “worldly,” ko e tau mena i tua (outside/worldly things), even though most celebrations begin with worship/ devotion and Christian values are repeatedly affirmed in fono (speech) and tau fiafia (performance). The fashion in which umu festivities were performed constitute the essence of what islanders are about. The synaesthetics of their music and dance, the eloquence and wisdom of the speech makers, the reciprocity and generosity of the giving and the relationality and communal nature of which the fellowship was conducted are at the heart of the fetuiaga. Reading Scripture in the light of a Niuean umu faiagahau (celebration) would find Jesus immersed in situations similar to Niuean life. It is through his words (tutala) and deeds (gahua) that his presence is known and transformed. Jesus exemplified the human face of God in situations where there was a need of forgiveness, healing and conversion. Through the incarnation his public ministry is given divine sanction. There have been attempts in the past to introduce Niuean cultural elements into the formal worship life of the community. But the obstacle lies in how the ways of the missionaries have become entrenched in worship that they are taken as the norm, becoming the ecclesial orthodoxy. Following the missionary theology, Niueans identified church with the formalities that take place within the holy chapel. Once the worship service comes to an end, church is deemed finished and life gets back to normal again. The church is so often associated only with activities around the church premises and therefore limited in the traditional understanding of Niueans. The fetuiaga around the umu is a Christian fellowship practicing Christian hospitality.

Christ the Umu: Host and Guest The hospitality of Christ naturally lends itself to the fetuiaga around the umu space. Christ as the umu is a metaphor that makes up the overarching ecclesiology of the fetuiaga. The image of this fellowship speaks of the life-giving hospitality of Christ. The metaphor of the umu presents Christ

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as the host in and through whom all things are made ready for the taonaga (banquet). As a host Christ offers himself up for all people. The incarnation and narrative of Jesus’ humanity is captured in the metaphor of the umu. In the digging of the fonua as site for the umu, vagahau (language) becomes important. Fonua is both earth/soil and placenta, it speaks of umbilical cord and roots (vaka: blood arteries, roots and canoe). In John’s prologue—“In the beginning was the Word ... the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:1–3,14)—the incarnation took place in an ordinary place—in an insignificant manger as the peito (place for cooking at the back of the house) where the umu space is located. It was in the fluid eating places, hillside, the streets, around prostitutes and tax collectors, that Jesus was found in tutala (conversation) and fakafetui (Fellowship). Like those around the umu space, lalo tagata (the ordinary and the least) could identify with the incarnate Word. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing on Christ’s incarnation, stated that: Christ, who took the form of man, and in his own Person restored the image of God in all that bears a human form. Through fellowship and communion with the incarnate Lord, we recover our true humanity, and at the same time we are delivered from that individualism which is the consequence of sin, and retrieve our solidarity with the whole human race. (1937, 72)

In the past, the peito is the place where the fekafekau (family servants) are found. But it is also a place where all are able to let go of their social and political status. The umu space also speaks to the cross, death and resurrection of Christ, especially the event of the communal umu tı ̄ where ceremonial rites are observed: lighters of the umu are to observe purity laws; the umu is covered for three days before it is opened. The obvious comparison in the symbolism is made to the suffering and death of Jesus in the harvesting of tı ̄ roots, his burial in the covering of the umu, the resurrection as the umu is opened on the third day, and in the sharing of the life-giving taste of the tı ̄ root3 known to sustain a community during times of famine.

3  Cordyline terminalis, a shrub plant, common on Niue and traditionally harvest mostly in times of drought when food is scarce. The cooked tı ̄ roots are chewed by itself or with mature coconut pieces. It can also be made into nutritionally rich drink. Tı ̄ plant is also known to have medicinal values. The umu tı ̄ is one of the community events laden with spiritual symbolism.

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Seeing the fetuiaga as a model of being the church might also enable a picture of Christ working around the traditional umu: digging the fonua (land or soil), laying the stones and firewood, harvesting the taro and cleaning the produce. Christ, the host, could be seen bringing in the fish and chicken, preparing and cooking for the faiagahau (celebration); participating in the tutala (conversing, talking), sharing and laughing together with others around the umu. Christ could be heard in a private corner whispering and attending to an over-burdened timotua (underclass, marginalized) or sharing with a group of children a tale with a lesson attached. The Christian kerygma of the Fetuiaga Kerisiano is not done, then, exclusively from the pulpit but within the liquidity of a gathered community: tutala (conversation), fono (formal speech), fakaholomuia (joking-­ exaggeration) and even the odd talanoa (gossip) are vaka (channels/ modes) in this liquid fetuiaga. In this diasporic imaginary Christ can be seen around the mobile gas umu wrapping food with women or walking into the kitchen with a handful of shopping for the banquet. Perhaps, in the context of a fetuiaga in a local tavern, Jesus could be seen walking in with a tray full of beer and wine for the guests. This model of being church conjures up an image of Christ also as a guest who comes into the taonaga (banquet) is greeted with many kahoa (flower garlands) of many colors and fragrances and immersed in a ta me (sing and dance) of the faiagahau (celebration). This is an image of the Kingdom faiagahau (banquet) where Christ is a host and guest dancing and celebrating without the formalities of an institutional church.

Embracing the Umu Fetuiaga It was assumed that there is a clear line of demarcation between what is gospel and what is pagan. The challenge for an ecclesiologist, in this instance, has a double prong. The first is to provide a theological rationale for an innovation; the second has to do with a recovery of culture and justify the informal or liquid fellowship (umu fetuiaga) as a mode for ecclesial representation. Undoing the embedded missionary attitude toward indigenous culture is an immensely difficult task. The church culture that we have today is accepted as the closest thing to being indigenous. The fear of new introductions is well founded, especially when embracing the local character which may sway the church toward

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pantheism. This fear is what theologians like Ma’afu Palu warn against.4 The issue is whether such changes can be shown to be consistent with the divine purpose revealed in and through Christ. It has been the aim of this essay to make a theological case for a moving liquid ecclesiology that embraces the ordinary celebrations of the Niuean community. In this quest, one would look at who is a Niuean, what their unique gifts are and how might those gifts be best used to glorify God. As human beings, Niueans have a natural inclination to celebrate. The best celebrations that Niueans engage in are often found outside the church. This fact has prompted elders to remark, Foaki age nukua e malolo katoa ke fiafia ke he lalolagi ka e fakaofeofe ke he tau tapuakiaga (They give their best in celebrating the world but their least in church). These elders are not talking about giving of money but the way in which island people perform with zest in their worldly celebrations. The comparison is adversely made with the demeanor displayed in church. Niueans are often described as happy and generous, resilient, selfless and loving.5 Their inclination is to be in an informal space—a place of service and celebration rather than the rigidity of the traditional liturgical space. There is, therefore, a need to blur the line between the formality of the liturgical life of the church and its celebrations outside its doors.

Moving Umu in Diaspora The intention of this essay is not to detail what the Umu church looks like but to make a start at it, by looking at the liquid nature of the diasporic Niueans in Australia. Traditionally small in number, Niueans are always susceptible to adapt and assimilate to the dominant cultures. A Niuean population, who is transient not by choice but by the very nature of their new environment, has become a pilgrim people of God. Most would acknowledge their Christian heritage, but they are also on a quest for something else in life: career, money, wealth, pleasure, power and 4  There is always a risk in trying to contextualize Christ into a particular cultural metaphor. Palu protested against the Pacificans sacrificing the biblical faith for cultural expressions. Palu is entitled to his theological interpretation but he fails to understand that, in his schema, the God incarnate will remain foreign for the worship community (see Palu 2003, 48–49). 5  Niueans were misunderstood by early settlers. Upon knowing them many made compliments such as the New Zealand Premier Richard J. Seddon who said, “the name appears on our map as Savage Island or Niue. It should be changed to ‘The Island of Love’” (cited in Scott 1993, 7).

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freedom. They are trying to find their place within Bauman’s liquid modernity. How can the church offer a safe haven and an attraction for a restless people who are adrift in a tumultuous cultural storm? If the church is the Body of Christ, then how can this be communally expressed in the diaspora? Jesus became a living Temple and journeyed with his disciples, fellowshipping with the crowds, bringing meaning and transforming their lives. He and his followers walked from town to town, eating, teaching, sharing and giving life to all who gather around him. This is church on a mission. Jesus and his disciples were a fetuiaga on a journey—a moving umu—an image itself for a liquid church. The Emmaus story in Luke is paradigmatic for the Fetuiaga Kerisiano. Many travelers in life are despondent. Many are confused with the institutionalized church. They ask the philosophical question, “Is God dead?” Instead of walking into cathedrals and chapels to find out, Fetuiaga Kerisiano proposes to venture out in the boldness and humility of Christ. Its way of being is through seeking to join people on the way. The Fetuiaga is to walk alongside them, listen to them, empathize with them, share anew with them the living gospel and break bread with them. As Stephen Pickard simply puts it, this is “the body which breaks bread and hears the Word on the move” (2012, 36–37). The old model, Ekalesia Niue (Niue Church), is represented by the monolithic Temple stationed at the center of traditional systems. It is rigid and motionless. Fetuiaga Kerisiano represents a household on a move (Hebrew 3:6) and wanderers of the earth (Hebrew 2:5; 11:14–16). For diasporic Niueans whose culture was bathed in the baptismal waters of Christ, the image is that of an alien people—a church in exile. How do we respond in a secular and oftentimes hostile environment? Peter encouraged a diasporic Church, Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul. Keep your conduct among the Gentiles honorable, so that when they speak against you as evildoers, they may see your good deeds and glorify God (1 Peter 2:11–12)

As a wandering Fetuiaga Kerisiano in exile, they are to flow along in the currency of their new home yet fail not to do good as of the Lord. Peter points out to Christians in diaspora,

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For this is the will of God, that by doing good you should put to silence the ignorance of foolish people. Live as people who are free, not using your freedom as a cover-up for evil, but living as servants of God. Honor everyone. Love the brotherhood. Fear God (1 Peter 2:15–17)

The Fetuiaga Kerisiano proposed here is for the diasporic Niueans to look to Jesus’ simple fellowship with the common people. Much will be learnt from the context of his feasting and banquets. Much of his teaching was done in the context of these celebrations. The parables of the messianic banquet, for example, point to the notion of a Fetuiaga Kersiano.

Fetuiaga Kerisiano (Christian Church) The comparison can be helpfully made with an English ecclesiologist Pete Ward’s idea of the liquid church.6 Writing from a palagi consumer culture that stems from individualism, Ward looks to centralize the person to person encounter over against congregational worship or church programs; there is some value in his intention. Personal encounters are part and parcel of being church—it is a given. The emphasis for the fetuiaga differs through the priority assigned to communal encounters (fetuiaga laulahi) inclusive of a worship gathering but not exclusively so. Formal and informal fetuiaga outside of the church is church. It is in the fellowship, the koinonia, that communion takes place. Around the liquid fetuiaga of the umu comes the practice of fakaalofa (love), feofanaki (care, hospitality and concern) for one another, foaki (giving), leveki atu e falu mo e tau tagata kehe (hospitality), momoi or femomoiaki (reciprocity), fetufatufaaki (sharing), and so on. The body of believers “living out” the life ways of Jesus’ church is communal. Ward’s model is one of a church engaging with liquidity. The idea of a “congregational-less” church is less likely to commend itself to a Niuean culture which is inherently communal. The proposal of this essay is for a Umu Fetuiaga ecclesiology to embrace the fetuiaga around umu celebrations as the practice of church—it is church in essence. This notion also 6  Ward’s notion of church as liquid takes as a premise the understanding that church is a people interacting and living out their faith at coffee shops and shopping malls; it is not necessarily bound to a Sunday morning worship service. He does not suggest that attending Sunday services should cease altogether. Rather, he shifts the order of priority by suggesting that Sunday worship is secondary to the encounters and networking that take place in the public sphere (Ward 2002, 2, 57).

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challenges the popular definition of church as limited and confined to the church building only and its priestly functions. The common understanding is that, activities perceived to be social or cultural, belong outside of what it means to be church. Yet, on the contrary, actual service and socio-­ cultural celebrations should be seen as genuine expression and, indeed, the heart of Christian worship. There needs to be an intentional and natural interflowing between what happens inside the chapel and out around the umu. This rhythm rhymes with how Ward describes the church sociologically and theologically (Ward 2002, 40–41). It has to do with the context of Christian praxis as well as locus and subject for ecclesiology. Ward refers to sociological descriptions of contemporary economic life as context for Christian networking and offers a theological rationale by referring to the doctrine of the Trinity as a perichoresis dance and intimate communication between persons within the Trinity. The Church is called to live and have its being in the world, as commissioned by Christ in Matthew 28:18–20. To withdraw into its shell and refuse to engage with its surroundings is to surrender to a slow and certain death. For a church to remain within the four walls of its building and to become a Sunday religion is to deny her central purpose to exist and that is to witness to the saving grace of her founder and head Jesus Christ. The Church is commissioned to go out to the world and proclaim the love of God in Christ. The Church is called to mission and ministry. There is a propensity for migrant churches to become self-enclosed, an enclave for social and cultural reasons. Their ecclesiological models are normally replicas of their home churches. They often take little notice of the complex intersection between their received traditions and their local context. Their primary concerns revolve around their denominational, ethnic and cultural identity. In highlighting these tendencies, though, the church is employed here to be a custodian of their unique culture, and mission is minimized to their own kind.

Experiencing Christ: Mission of the Moving Umu The Fetuiaga Kerisiano in the moving umu, on the other hand, is largely defined by how the church engages in mission. Mission’s primary goal, in Ward’s liquid view, is not to win people into the pews on Sunday mornings but to bring people to experience Christ; it is to introduce people to Christ in any messy place where they find themselves. Church, as in fetuiaga

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around the umu, is a people in action sharing the love of God in the network of relationships. The Fetuiaga Kerisiano would perceive its mission platform as a communal activity. Celebrations, in this respect, are more than an occasion to get together and enjoy each other’s company in fellowship. In so doing, it is an engagement in mission. The values they demonstrate throughout the faiumu (umu event) are values encouraged in worship devotion, the wisdom and love expressed in speeches and song, embodied in dance; these values are crucial in the acts of mission. The informal fellowship is nothing more than a worldly “get together” as the umu fetuiaga is without Christ. Any fellowship or relationship without Christ-content is not church. Likewise, the fetuiaga of the umu community as a worldly party is nothing without Christian consciousness. Be that as it may and given the integrated sense of culture that Niueans live by—a synthesis of gospel and culture—Christ is central to the constitution of Niuean communal activity/being. Unlike the western sense of culture that is based on individualism, secularism and capitalist ideals, the Fetuiaga Kerisiano is a socio-cultural expression of Christian values. In a community contained within the bounds of a Niuean village, Christ is easily recognized (in the Temple). It is a challenge, on the other hand, in a city like Sydney. The key in the quest of a migrant and moving umu is to locate and find Christ in a context where Christ is pushed to the margins. There is a cacophony of voices, a competition of images and philosophies to contend with. The choices are endless for Niueans who were hitherto protected in a secluded monotheistic village. But there is an opportunity here for the diasporic liquid space to be where all are welcomed—Niueans and the other—moving and celebrating together.

Works Cited Bauman, Zygmunt. 2000. Liquid modernity. Cambridge: Polity. Bonhoeffer, Dietrich. 1937. The cost of discipleship, Germany, chapter 32, p.72. Congar, Yves. 1962. The mystery of the temple. Trans. Reginald F.  Trevett. Westminster: Newman. Connell, John. 2008. Niue: Embracing a culture of migration. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 34: 1021–1040. Martin, Ralph. 1975. Worship in the early church. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Neusner, Jacob. 2000. A rabbi talks with Jesus. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press.

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Palu, Ma’afu T. 2003. Pacific theology: A re-consideration of its methodology. Pacific Journal of Theology II (29): 48–49. Pickard, Stephen. 2012. Seeking the church. London: SCM. Scott, Dick. 1993. Would a good man die? Niue Island, New Zealand and the late Mr Larsen. Auckland: Hodder & Stoughton. Thompson, Rick. 2013. Jesus is the new and better temple. In Council Road Baptist Church. www.councilroad.org Ward, Pete. 2002. Liquid church. Peabody: Hendrickson.

PART II

Reads

CHAPTER 9

Scripturalize Indigenous References: An Invitation from Samoa Afereti Uili

Pasifika theologies oblige the decentering and displacing of dominant theological categories that our European “masters” brought with them, in favor of indigenous Pasifika elements that reflect and represent who we are within our social-cultural, political, and religious contexts. Central to the construction of Christian theology is scripture and the notion of its authority. How are we as Pasifika to understand Christian scriptures? Looking at the history of our peoples in the last 200 years when we were ruled by outsiders from the other side of the world, the same people who brought the Bible to us, what does this Bible say to colonized people? And now that some of us Pasifika are still trying to (re)claim self-determination, has the message of scripture changed from when we first received it? Is the Christian scripture still relevant in our Pasifika contexts today? As an important source of Pasifika theologies, scripture must be able to speak to our present contexts and with authority. The first part of this essay explores the authority of scripture, from a Pasifika vantage point. The second part looks at the “Samoan Indigenous

A. Uili (*) Independent Scholar, Apia, Samoa © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_9

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Reference” advocated by the previous Head of State of Samoa, Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Taisi Efi (henceforth Tui Atua), as a source of theologizing from the Samoan context.

Scripture Scripture in Jewish and Christian circles is a body of traditions that was largely oral in its original forms. These traditions have been privileged with the name “scripture” because of their normative function in the communities to which they belong, and hence the “authority” accorded to them. This presupposes a process of selection whereby certain traditions and texts were privileged over others. Thus, we have the Jewish scriptures or Hebrew Bible (OT in Christian tradition), and the Christian scriptures that include the Old and New Testaments. Given this above description, we Samoans come to understand scripture as something similar to our own body of oral traditions. The main difference being that “scripture” in the Jewish and Christian traditions is a written text which has become a fixed collection of books (canon), while the body of Samoan traditions remains largely oral and hence fluid.1 In the context of an oral culture like ours, one could argue that the oral nature of Samoan traditions should not render them ineligible from being accorded the status of “scripture.” If the Jewish and Christian scriptures are accorded authority by their communities, that should hold true also for the body of Samoan traditions of the Samoan community. What is special about the Jewish and Christian scriptures that they usurp the “scriptural” status of Samoan indigenous knowledge, religion, and culture of the Samoans? If it is divine inspiration, and if one argues in the Judeo-Christian tradition that this God is all over the earth and its peoples, then who is to say that God did not reveal godself to pre-­Christian Samoans, through their indigenous religio-cultural traditions and knowledge? These questions are food for thought. In this essay, I argue that the notion of a singular authority of scripture is impossible to maintain. Secondly, given that the authority of scripture in current practice is contextual rather than strictly scriptural, I argue that the “Samoan indigenous reference” should have an authoritative place alongside the Bible for Samoans (at least in Samoan theologizing).

1

 This remains true even in this day and age of published material on Samoan traditions.

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Authority of Scripture Discussions of scriptural or biblical authority in the Christian tradition usually focus on the nature of the material itself, that is, it is divinely inspired or divinely revealed. This conscious acceptance by the Christian community—that the Bible is the revealed or inspired word of God—gives scripture its authoritative status (see e.g., Brown 2007; Fretheim 2007). Moreover, divine inspiration is seen as the sole criterion for the selection of texts in the canon of scripture—a claim that Timothy Lim (2017) has  convincingly  argued against. Be that as it may, belief in the divine inspiration of scripture is one of the standard confessions of the Christian community. For those who believe, God speaks to them in the Bible. Scripture provides the highest measure against which all measures of moral conduct and behavior are judged. In the Lutheran tradition, the Bible (i.e., the Old and New Testaments), “is authoritative precisely as a single narrative of Christ’s coming” (Jenson 2007, 57). The witness of scripture to the revelation of God in Jesus Christ gives it authority. To be sure, such a homogeneous understanding of the Bible would make it easy for any reader to find a singular authoritative voice speaking to them. Such an understanding of scripture is only one interpretative stance among many. Thus, we note that the Jewish reading of the Hebrew Bible or Old Testament does not lead to such a conclusion (Brettler 2007). The reality of the matter is, the notion of the authority of scripture as such is not that straightforward. Terence Fretheim points out two important factors that render the idea of authority of the Bible problematic. The first has to do with the “nature of the interpreter” which effectively renders the conclusion that “no interpretation of the Bible is value free. How we interpret texts and the authority we give to the resultant interpretation will reflect (and even promote) the personal and social values we hold dear” (Fretheim 2006, 369). The second factor concerns the “nature of the Biblical material,” where “the Bible itself often makes interpretation difficult and contributes to the problem of its own authority... In addition to matters of content ... there are numerous textual uncertainties in the Bible” (2006, 370). Given the differences in matters of content (e.g., different and differing views on a particular issue) and uncertainties in textual matters (e.g., grammatical, generic, historical, and metaphorical issues), it is difficult to decide which reading is the authoritative one. The problem is compounded more by

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the remarkably large number of contemporary issues to which the Bible does not speak, at least directly – stem cell research, the Internet, the depletion of the ozone layer, the genome project, euthanasia, space travel, and quantum mechanics, among others. If the Bible offers no particular help on such pressing issues, how can one speak of its authority? At least, the range of its authority seems to be more and more constricted as life around us develops at ever-increasing speeds. (Fretheim 2007, 46)

Trying to make theological sense of the question of same-sex relationships, Fretheim is convinced that “issues relating to the authority of the Bible are largely irrelevant in this conversation” (2006, 366). Why? Because for Fretheim, “a high or low view of biblical authority does not accurately predict an interpreter’s position in churchly debates on sexuality. Neither does the use of a particular exegetical method. Our differences seem based rather in the deep convictions we bring to the texts” (2006, 365). In other words, any idea of a uniform authority of scripture goes out the window most of the time because people will choose to go with their deep-seated convictions on any number of controversial issues they’re confronted with. Luke Timothy Johnson (2007b) also advocates this view. The bottom line is, because of the nature of the epistemological dimensions of the act of interpretation, the authority of scripture generally becomes a matter of personal commitment depending on where one’s priorities lie. People will also resort to a “canon within a canon” just to suit their agendas. From a Jewish perspective, Marc Zvi Brettler finds “the phrase ‘biblical authority’ confusing and foreign” (2007, 2). Jewish readers do not have the problem that Christians have of trying to align the Old (Hebrew Bible) and New Testaments in order to find a unifying authoritative voice. Brettler is aware of the different and contradictory perspectives in the Hebrew Bible, and his stance on the authority of scripture is as follows: “According to my view of biblical authority, it is within my rights to ‘select’ particular biblical texts as more important than others. ... I perform this selection out of an awareness that the Bible is a contradictory anthology, and thus speaks in many voices, and if I want it to be authoritative for me (within my community), I must decide which voice is authoritative” (2007, 4–5). Readers/interpreters have freedom to choose the reading/interpretation that has authority for them. From another angle, the Hebrew Bible is made up of different stories that are sometimes at odds with each other. What holds them together is

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the constructed identity of the people to whom the story belongs. The story tells of one people Israel—their origins, their beliefs, their culture, their religion, their history, and their land. On the other hand, the story as a weaving of many stories betrays its fragmented nature and thereby points to a people of hybrid identity (see e.g., Pfoh and Whitelam 2013). The process of weaving many strands into a single story is what I call “scripturalizing authority.” In other words, the story is invested with a sense of authority during its history of growth such that it eventually functions as sacred scripture and was therefore authoritative and normative for the Jewish people (see Lim 2017). One could say the Hebrew Bible is the founding document—the constitutional, cultural, and religious basis for the people of Israel. The process of gathering traditions, their reworking, editing, and re-­ editing over a long period of time until the texts attained their final form— the process I refer to as scripturalizing—is a “site of struggle” (West 2018) where certain voices become more privileged than others. In each one’s effort to be heard or even be dominant in a plurality of competing voices, I argue that this is a struggle for power and authority, hence the term “scripturalizing authority.”2 When we pay attention to the different and at times conflicting ideologies represented by the different voices in the biblical texts, the question of biblical authority becomes problematic again. Even the notion of a fixed canon of scripture is problematic as is evident in current practice where the Catholic and Protestant traditions do not agree on a single canon. Where Protestant understanding of biblical authority is based on a notion of sola scriptura, the Roman Catholic tradition prefers to attribute authority to tradition, reason, and experience (Johnson 2007a, b). Any idea of a singular authority of scripture has to come to terms with factors that make such an idea difficult to maintain. A singular uniform authority drawn from the scriptural texts as we have it is out of the question. Authority of scripture as practiced by its readers is highly contextual in nature and hence, plural. Two things stand out for me as the main contributing factors to the problem of the authority of scripture: firstly, the 2  This understanding of authority should be distiguished from another understanding of scriptural authority that is attained through a process of inner-biblical exegesis (Klein 2018, 125–146). Here Klein traces a process of interpretation and reinterpretation of biblical texts which naturally proceeds toward scriptural authority (“scripturalization”) without asking the “why” questions that characterize ideological criticism.

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plurality of voices in scripture and secondly, the plurality of interpretations of scripture. Even if we were to harmonize the whole of scripture into a homogeneous whole, we would still be hampered by other hurdles on the way. For example, a homogeneous Bible would not do justice to the plurality of the biblical material and would end up being a completely different text from what we have. Pasifika Theologies For far too long, theologizing in the Pacific has been dictated from elsewhere, not from who and where we are. Our theologies are almost always compromised by doctrines of the authority of scripture that I am sure were intended to put fear in our hearts whenever we resort to some other source of “authority.” I suggest that Pasifika indigenous knowledges and cultures in context should constitute the “norm” (Cone 2010, 22–41) of Pasifika theologies. Pasifika indigenous cultures, religion, and traditional knowledges must be equally as authoritative as the plurality of voices that we engage in scripture. When Christian missions established themselves in the Pacific, indigenous religions were banned as being idolatrous and superstitious. In the Samoan context, founding traditions that formed the basis of Samoan religion and culture were abandoned in favor of Judeo-Christian traditions. Most of the indigenous traditions that formed the religio-cultural basis of Samoan life were erased in favor of the Hebrew Bible and New Testament traditions clothed in European culture and ideologies (see e.g., Tofaeono 2000, 92–121). But as Derrida has astutely pointed out, erasure is never absolute and so traces of what was erased always remain (1997, ix–lxxx, 1–94). The “Samoan Indigenous Reference” that Tui Atua has championed of late is one instance of un-erasable Samoan traditions that can speak with “scriptural authority” to our Pasifika situations today. Given the problematic of scriptural authority discussed above, I suggest that there is a case for a more open-ended attitude toward scriptural authority and that we in the Pacific ought to take up the scripturalizing task of Tui Atua’s “search for fragrances” in our own indigenous traditions, telling our own stories of who we are and what the future might hold for us and our children, just as the Hebrew storytellers of old were inspired to do.

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The Samoan Indigenous Reference A body of oral traditions formed the basis of Samoan indigenous religion, culture, and identity before the arrival of the Europeans and Christianity. These traditions were couched in rituals and customs, in symbolism, metaphor and proverbs, in chants, in song and dance, in myths and legends, in genealogies and honorifics, in stories and histories, in oratories, in oracles and in riddles (Tui Atua 2018e). They were transmitted from generation to generation through hundreds and even thousands of years till now. Indigenous culture and religion were always intertwined and interrelated, giving sanction to the social and political structure of Samoan community and identity—Faa-Samoa or the “Samoan way.” In a manner of speaking, one could argue that this body of oral traditions functioned as the constitutional, cultural, and religious foundation of the Samoan people. This body of oral traditions was authoritative and normative for Samoans during pre-Christian times. We do well however, to heed Homi Bhabha’s caution not to perceive culture as an unchangeable essence, but rather as something that is in a constant state of flux and transformation, a condition he calls “hybridity” (1994). As with all cultures, Samoan culture and identity evolved and changed over time, with the most significant changes and transformations occurring during and after the arrival of Christianity and the Europeans. The body of oral traditions itself not only evolved, but its composition betrays the presence of different voices, depending on which family, village, or district one comes from—a hybridity. Faa-Samoa is still alive and well today, with many changes and transformations in the last 200 years. The last 50 years or so has seen a proliferation of written materials produced by Samoans on myths, legends, religion, and cultural identity among other matters.3 Included in this collection of written material is the work of Tui Atua on the Samoan indigenous reference. In a festschrift in his honor, Su’esu’e Manogi: In Search of Fragrance; Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Taisi Efi and the Samoan Indigenous Reference (Suaalii-Sauni et al. 2018, first published 2009), 18 of Tui Atua’s papers and presentations are strategically placed alongside 14 commentaries on his work by established and emerging Samoan scholars from various disciplines in the arts and sciences. The presentation of the material engenders the setting 3  Despite this explosion in literary activity, a lot more of our indigenous traditions either remain oral or have been lost through lack of transmission.

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of a conversation between Tui Atua’s figurative search for “fragrances” to produce his ‘ula (necklace) of Samoan indigenous reference and the responses of the younger generation of scholars who add their own variety of fragrances to the ‘ula. As such, the book develops into a number of conversations depending on which indigenous insight is reviewed, critiqued, and developed by the conversation partners. The review by Ratu Joni Madraiwiwi calls the book “a search as well as a journey” (2018, 517). As a journey, it navigates the challenges of today with the wisdom of the past and charts a viable way into the future for all who would profess to be “Samoan.” I will confine my discussion of his concept of “the Samoan indigenous reference” to Tui Atua’s writings and the commentaries in Su’esu’e Manogi. The core question that guides my interest in Tui Atua’s concept of the Samoan indigenous reference is this: How, or in what ways, does the Samoan indigenous reference contribute to a Samoan theology or a Pasifika theology? A preliminary answer is found in the assessment by I’uogafa Tuagalu, one of Tui Atua’s conversation partners (i.e., a commentator) in the book. Tuagalu writes, [Tui Atua] practises a critical traditionalism, which examines and elucidates the virtues of past traditions, so as to inform present action and future goals. Tui Atua’s emphasis on ritual is not only to illustrate the divine bonds between people and all of creation, but it is a means to moral rejuvenation. Tui Atua’s quest for the Samoan indigenous reference involves the retrospective examination of traditions leading to prospective action: namely the inculcation of a number of virtues. (Tuagalu 2018, 409)

If the Samoan indigenous reference is a repository of past traditions and knowledge, then Tui Atua’s aim is to critically analyze this repository in order to free up, as it were, their underpinning virtues and principles “so as to inform present action and future goals” (Tuagalu 2018, 409). This reading of Tui Atua’s work does not see it as a return to some ideal notion of the past, but an interpretation of past traditions appropriated for present and future generations. Other commentators are rightly cautious about Tui Atua’s intentions however, pointing to the dangers of privileging one voice over others which can lead to hegemonic and authoritarian forms of society (Tupuola 2018b; Unasa 2018). Yet others while pointing out weaknesses in Tui Atua’s renderings of the Samoan indigenous reference (especially in relation to overseas contexts), continue to reflect on the

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significances and integrity of such values and how they could be fruitfully applied by generations of Samoans living abroad (Fala and Fala 2018; Mamea 2018; Tupuola 2018a, b). The seed of drawing from the wells of Samoa’s indigenous traditions has been sown and is taking root and growing by Tui Atua’s efforts. As Damon I.  Salesa asserts, “Historical knowledge (or the ‘indigenous Samoan reference’) constitutes both people’s understandings of themselves and of their society. Samoans are who they are, not because of who they were, but because of who they know they were” (Salesa 2018, 301). So what is the Samoan indigenous reference? People like Penehuro Fatu Lefale (2018) are somewhat puzzled by Tui Atua’s reluctance to define what he means by this concept. In his analyses of Tui Atua’s work, Lefale concluded that the Samoan indigenous reference is a ‘dialogue of values’ journey” towards the elusive goal of living the faasamoa (Samoan way of life). It is an all inclusive concept made up of, but not limited to, the following core values and principles that guide the faasamoa: tofa sa’ili (search for wisdom, search for the eternal), va tapuia (time  – space, sacred relations), Tagaloaolelagi (the God Tagaloa, the Absolute, the Creator Progenitor, the source of all biological life, religion), tofa mamao... and faautaga loloto... (2018, 475; emphasis mine)

However, in going through Tui Atua’s papers in Su’esu’e Manogi, I find that Tui Atua’s references to the “indigenous Samoan reference” give the impression that it is an object of study rather than a journey or a methodology. In “Samoan Jurisprudence and the Samoan Land and Titles Court: The Perspective of a Litigant,” Tui Atua urges his readers to “explore and use our indigenous reference as moral and ethical lodestar to heal and shape our imaginations” (2018c, 226). In “Water and the Samoan Indigenous Reference,” Tui Atua states that “to dialogue with the indigenous reference is to first understand what that reference is. It is to explore without apology its core values, beliefs and practices” (2018g, 272). And when asked why he needs to understand the Samoan indigenous reference, Tui Atua replies, “As a Samoan you need it in order to know yourself, to protect yourself and to find yourself in your search for meaning and for God... Knowing oneself however is to seek one’s cultural heritage and to locate it in a lived and living cultural reference... knowing your indigenous reference is a question about identity” (2018f, 273).

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Salesa however makes the important assertion that “the indigenous Samoan reference is, quintessentially historical ... and because it is a communal possession of a people, it is not singular, and encompasses diversity and contradiction” (2018, 299). There is thus the added responsibility on the part of interpretation to address the diversity and plurality of voices present in the indigenous reference. This is aptly demonstrated by Tui Atua in “Tamafaiga  – Shaman, King or Maniac? The Emergence of Manono” (2018d). Sampling the Samoan indigenous reference with Tui Atua. 1. On religion Peace in the Samoan religious tradition equates with harmony. A search for peace is a search for harmony. There are four key harmonies that hold the balance of peace for Samoans. These are: harmony with the cosmos; harmony with the environment; harmony with one’s fellow men; and harmony with one’s self. When all four harmonies come together there is peace. ... The religious logic that sustains the Samoan search for harmony is premised on Samoan indigenous narratives of creation. ... the Samoan indigenous religion operated on the logic of the aiga or family. In telling the story of family, genealogy and history are intertwined. (Tui Atua 2018a, 137–138) Heaven and earth have a common origin which is God Tagaloa. Tagaloa is progenitor not creator. Because he is progenitor he shares divinity with the cosmos and the earth, with the void and the substance, with the night and day, with darkness and light, with man and woman, life and death. (Tui Atua 2018a, 150)

On a comparison of Christianity with Samoan indigenous religion, Tui Atua writes, The common saying in Christian ritual: o le aiga o le Atua, i.e., ‘the family of God’ assumes a close and intimate relationship between God and man. This intimate relationship between God and man is sacred. Such is the case for the Samoans. But the God of the Christian is God Creator. God in the Samoan indigenous reference is God Progenitor. God married and issued man and so man is a genealogical child of God. In ancient Samoa, the saying: “E le se Atua fau tagata (God is not God Creator), o le Atua usu gafa (God is God Progenitor), le Atua o le mau a Samoa” (the God of Samoa) thus holds. (2018c, 205)

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On the harmony between man4 and the environment, Tui Atua writes, “Harmony in Samoan life recognizes that all living things are equal. Human life is equivalent and complementary to cosmic, plant and animal life” (2018a, 138). Many Samoan proverbs and terms commemorate the sacred relationship between humans and the environment. For instance, ele’ele (earth) and palapala (mud), are words for blood also. Fatu (rock) is also the word for heart, and fanua (land) is also the word for placenta. The burial of the pute (umbilical cord) and the fanua (placenta) in the land and earth (ele’ele) is a sacred ritual that signifies the spiritual continuity and harmony between humanity and environment. Because of the sacred nature of this relationship, there is a tapu (sacred restriction or sanction) that protects the excessive cutting of trees or killing of birds. When cutting down a tree for a canoe or house, this requires a ritual of faalanu—asking permission from the god of the tree, and pardon from the tree itself for taking its life and in acknowledgment of its sacrifice. Tui Atua relates the procedures taken by tautai (fishermen) of his village Asau in the traditional ritual of inviting the atule (mackerel) to enter their shores to feed the village. The mackerel are addressed as peers of the tautai by their title tamasoaalii (companion of the chief) in honorific language. Their sacrifice is acknowledged when enough fish is gathered for the needs of the village (2018a, 142–144). 2. On Jurisprudence Faasinomaga is man’s inheritance designated by ... God. This designation is located in the heart, mind and soul of a person. It is what gives them meaning and belonging. It is what defines relationships (va fealoa’i) and boundaries (tua’oi) between ourselves and others, us and the environment, us and the cosmos, and us and God. The significance of faasinomaga is captured in the belief of ancient Samoans and of those living today, that Samoans live not as individuated beings but as beings integrally linked to their cosmos, sharing divinity with ancestors, land, seas and skies. (Tui Atua 2018c, 206) Man as a genealogical issue of God and the community as a family of God are reference points from which human rights, at least according to the Samoan indigenous reference of my ancestors, derives: i.e., the right to 4  I stay with Tui Atua’s terminology here, though his use of “man” or “men” denotes humankind.

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life, the right to the land and titles, the right to share in a community, the right to citizenship, the right to belong. (Tui Atua 2018c, 207)

At a village or district level, a key right in the theory of designation or tofi is the right to ritual or cultural specificity with regards to matai (chiefly) titles and land ownership. This latter right is embodied in the Samoan concept and imperative agaifanua (distinguished from aganuu). Aganuu is a rule or law of general application to Samoa/Samoans. Agaifanua specifically applies to a family or a village and its origins in history and genealogy. Some villages have special roles afforded to particular families, names, or positions specific to their village history. This specificity is privileged in the operations and imperatives of agaifanua and recorded in village faalupega (honorifics). Aganuu allows for a common reference across villages, districts, and the nation. Agaifanua recognizes the uniqueness of each village, its history and genealogy, and so creates tua’oi or boundaries within and without (Tui Atua 2018c, 209). Salesa in his essay “Remembering Samoan History” refers to the significance of this contrast between aganuu and agaifanua when applied to Samoa “as one of many villages in the globe (o le nuu i le vasa) and as a unique site of local histories” (Salesa 2018, 300). 3. On Metaphor, Riddles, Proverbs, and Names From Tui Atua’s family history, he tells the story of the origin of the title and honorifics and residence of one of the high chiefs in the village of Nofoalii. The chiefly title is Taimalieutu that was conferred on the man Utu. In acknowledgment and recognition of Utu’s great service of brokering a peace deal in favor of his highest chief Muagututi’a, he was conferred the title Taimalieutu. Tui Atua records Muagututi’a’s last testament as follows: Your conduct Utu is like the gentle rising tide. You are a healer of a great rift. Sa Tuala [village chiefs] have filled their containers with sea water from the gentle rising tide, which has provided seawater seasoning for Muagututi’a’s food. By this testament, you will be known as Taisuamalieutu (Utu, the gentle rising tide). You will reside in Lupesee and henceforth you will be the initiator and coordinator of the Sa Tuala conference. (Tui Atua 2018b, 84)

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The story tells the origin of the chiefly title Taimalieutu (Utu, the gentle rising tide). His cup title during ava ceremony is Tuitama’i (healer of the rift) and his official title as messenger of Sa Tuala is Utusami (fetching seawater in containers). Tui Atua writes, Taisuamalie, i.e., the gentle rising tide, is the metaphor for an amiable, modest and humble pacifier. Tuitama’i, healer of a great rift or a grievous wound, is the metaphor for achieving spiritual and emotional peace, on which a durable political and social harmony is founded. Utusami, fetching seawater with containers, is the metaphor for solace in old age. The imagery is of an anxious old man who does not eat or eats sparingly because his food is unseasoned. Seawater is an essential ingredient of palusami; seawater is an essential ingredient of sami lolo (fermented coconut flesh and seawater), which before salt and pepper and other imported spices provided the main seasoning for Samoan food. The availability of seasoning (seawater) symbolizes resolution of the problem and the residual solace it brings to the old man who is Muagututi’a. (2018b, 85)

While the story tells the event of the origin of a chiefly title, the titles on their own tell the story with a lot more meaning because of the powerful use of metaphor in the titles conferred. According to Tui Atua, “If pre-European Samoan history was not written, it was nevertheless recorded by honorifics, words and names, or specifically their origin” (Suaalii-Sauni et al. 2018, 31). Honorifics and names all tell a story in the history of the Samoans. While these were relatively short and easy to memorize and remember, the stories they tell are long and detailed. Hence, chapters of the history of pre-European Samoans were stored away for the ages. On riddles, Tui Atua asserts that this was a favorite past time in ancient Samoa. With regard to deliberate ambiguity or doublespeak intended as camouflage, fudging, hedging bets, or protecting exclusive language and knowledge of a cabal, Samoan practitioners are as adept as any academic, lawyer or politician. Wading through oracular pronouncements, allusions, poetry, perverse nomenclature, deliberate ambiguity and doublespeak in order to identify issues, define initiative and reaction and their interplay, and motive and objective is no simple chore. It requires a good command of the language, an understanding and a “feel” for the culture. (Suaalii-Sauni et al. 2018, 20)

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For Tui Atua, sometimes Samoan history was deliberately camouflaged so as to hide away much of the political intrigue and conspiracies that went on in the background. But closer inspection of genealogies, honorifics, and names tell a different story. As he states, The biggest riddle, speaking as a Samoan, is within ourselves. Can or should we tell all we know about Samoan history and culture for general historical examination? The missionaries have imposed a Victorian prudishness on the national psyche to the extent that we have acquired a colossal hang-up about ourselves and our culture. We have succumbed to a sanitized version of Samoan history, whether alien or indigenously authored, because it portrays an idealized Samoa. There is a strong sentiment about defending this idealization. Hence the penchant to camouflage, condense and edit. (Suaalii-­ Sauni et al. 2018, 37)

Tui Atua is saddened by the loss of certain significant customs and rituals associated with special events in the lives of Samoans. Our funeral rites are now a caricature of the original because of a fear of straying from an alien ethos. There is no Garden of Eden, a fall and redemption in traditional Samoan religious belief. Life is a journey towards Pulotu5 and a struggle against the gods. In our traditional funeral rites we do not mourn death, we celebrate life. We chant about our victories against the gods – nothing differential or mea culpa – like. Tattooed men are already dressed, according to our beliefs. The tattoo and ritual are focused on the private parts of men. We flaunt in ritual our power to procreate. The gods have taken one, but as long as we can reproduce we triumph. It is roughly the equivalent of the Christian challenge “Death, where is thy sting?” but perhaps more convincing. (Suaalii-Sauni et al. 2018, 37)

Proverbs are perhaps the richest and fullest in meaning of all Samoan language forms. They are drawn from all aspects of Samoan life—fishing, hunting, house building, canoe building, navigation, wild pigeon snaring, planting and harvesting, cooking, trees, animal and bird behavioral characteristics, care taking, discipline, and so on. And they speak to all kinds of situations and conditions in people’s lives. On childcare, education, and discipline, Tui Atua gave a sample of Samoan proverbs for consideration and reflection: 5

 Pulotu is the traditional place where the spirits of the dead go to dwell.

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le au o matua fanau: The pinnacle of parents’ affection is their children. E leai se gaumata’u na o le gaualofa: What you do out of love endures, what you do out of fear will not. E iloa gofie fanau e tuufau e i’uvale: Children who are not given good discipline will end badly. fanau a tagata e fafaga i upu, a o fanau a manu e fafaga i fugalaau: The young of birds are fed with the blossoms of trees, whereas the young of humans are fed with words. ‘Aua le limate ̄te ̄ ina ne’i ola pala’ai fanau: Do not expose children to excessive physical punishment lest you break their spirit. Significance of the Samoan Indigenous Reference The Samoan indigenous reference is a repository of Samoa’s past and present traditions and knowledge. A lot of these traditions are part of the lived cultural experience of Samoans today. Samoan history together with many other cultural practices and customs are things of the past, but present in written texts and peoples’ memories. The Samoan indigenous reference is a growing collection of all that can be known of our past and current indigenous traditions. It is not a collection in the sense of a single compilation. I see it as a collection of different (un)published texts and all that remains oral, as well as customs, rituals, and cultural practices remembered and current. As Tui Atua has mentioned, “knowing oneself... is to seek one’s cultural heritage and to locate it in a lived and living cultural reference” (2018f, 273; emphasis mine). In this regard, Tui Atua has not only added to this repository of “cultural heritage,” but has also offered commentary and interpretation of that indigenous reference. Tui Atua has summarized his approach as follows: I am breaking tapu for two reasons. Firstly, sanitization of the myths, claims and counter-claims needs exposure to light and clean air. Secondly, as Samoans we should not be embarrassed about our ancestors or apologetic about Samoan history and culture. The warts and lows in Samoan history, real or so-called, are explicably human. (Suaalii-Sauni et al. 2018, 38) To dialogue with the indigenous reference is to first understand what that reference is. It is to explore without apology its core values, beliefs and practices. (Tui Atua 2018g, 272)

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To take the example of history, certain significant portions of Samoan history have been de-sanitized by Tui Atua thus implying that history has been restored (e.g., Tui Atua 2018d). This of course is an ongoing task carried on by other scholars of Samoan history (e.g., Salesa 2018). Tui Atua’s project is akin to what I referred to above as “scripturalizing authority,” insofar as it is a conscious effort to endow Samoan indigenous reference with authenticity and hence authority. Apart from rewriting parts of the Samoan indigenous reference, Tui Atua’s interpretation of the Samoan indigenous reference has a scripturalizing aura to it, especially in his efforts to revive the spirit of the old Samoan religion. This authority becomes a reality when such versions of the indigenous reference are accepted by the Samoan community (by at least a substantial part of that community). Even though the Samoan indigenous reference is multivocal in nature, and parts of which are scattered everywhere, what is important in my view is that parts of the Samoan indigenous reference function authoritatively in certain communities of Samoa, in Samoa, and abroad. This takes into account the fact that the Samoan indigenous reference is open to different interpretations, such that what is relevant for Samoans in Samoa may not necessarily be relevant for those in diaspora. Furthermore, even if sections of the community like the Christian churches do not accept as normative certain parts of our traditional heritage, reinterpretations in light of our present contexts can contribute to an understanding of who we are as Samoans. As Tui Atua has asserted, we must engage our indigenous reference with its core values, beliefs, and practices, without apology.

Conclusion I stated at the beginning of this essay that the notion of the authority of scripture as such is impossible to maintain. This study has shown that because of the different priorities placed on different voices in the text as well as the different experiences and priorities that interpreters bring to the text, the authority of scripture is not singular but rather fragmented. “Authority” is selective of the biblical text, depending on other factors that are authoritative for the interpreting community. The so-called authority of scripture is sometimes ignored in favor of other more important witnesses in the conversation. In current practice therefore, it would seem that “authority” is not necessarily or strictly under the domain of scripture. There is now a more open-ended attitude to what is authoritative especially when difficult issues like (homo)sexuality are debated.

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Given this state of affairs in biblical interpretation, I argue that the Samoan indigenous reference should be an authoritative source alongside the Bible in Samoan biblical interpretations and theologizing. This of course is not a restriction on non-Samoans who may also wish to dip into the resources offered by the Samoan indigenous reference. From the brief samples I have presented, some important virtues and values I want to highlight include: 1. The interconnected worldview of Samoan religion that ties all of creation together. 2. The duty of care for everything in the environment. 3. The celebration of life even with the fact of death. 4. The belief in the genealogical connection to God as parent. 5. The belief in and the observance of the sacredness of all relationships. 6. The respect for diversity reflected in the concepts of aganuu and agaifanua. 7. The struggle for freedom in our history. 8. The rich connections between language use (e.g., alagupu) and cultural performances. Needless to say, I have not touched on many other aspects of our tradition that speak of love (alofa), respect (faaaloalo), repentance and forgiveness (ifoga ritual), search for wisdom (tofa saili), and so on, which can contribute to a better understanding of who we are and how we relate to others, to the environment, and to God.

Works Cited Bhabha, Homi K. 1994. The location of culture. London: Routledge. Brettler, Marc Zvi. 2007. Biblical authority: A Jewish pluralistic view. In Engaging biblical authority: Perspectives on the Bible as scripture, ed. William P.  Brown, 1–9. Louisville: Westminster John Knox. Brown, Michael Joseph. 2007. Hearing the master’s voice. In Engaging biblical authority: Perspectives on the Bible as scripture, ed. William P.  Brown, 10–17. Louisville: Westminster John Knox. Cone, James H. 2010. A black theology of liberation. Fortieth Anniversary Edition. Maryknoll: Orbis. Derrida, Jacques. 1997. Of grammatology. Trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

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Fala, A., and Katie Fala. 2018. ‘Bio-ethics and the Samoan indigenous reference’: A commentary. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 457–470. Wellington: Huia. Fretheim, Terence. 2006. The authority of the Bible and the churchly debates regarding sexuality. Word & World 26 (4): 365–374. ———. 2007. The authority of the Bible and the imaging of God. In Engaging biblical authority: Perspectives on the Bible as scripture, ed. William P.  Brown, 45–52. Louisville: Westminster John Knox. Jenson, Robert W. 2007. On the authority of scripture. In Engaging biblical authority: Perspectives on the Bible as scripture, ed. William P.  Brown, 53–61. Louisville: Westminster John Knox. Johnson, Luke Timothy. 2007a. The Bible’s authority for and in the church. In Engaging biblical authority: Perspectives on the Bible as scripture, ed. William P. Brown, 62–72. Louisville/London: Westminster John Knox. ———. 2007b. Homosexuality and the church: Scripture & experience. Commonweal. https://www.commonwealmagazine.org/homosexuality-­church-­0 Klein, Anja. 2018. ‘Biblicist additions’ or the emergence of scripture in the growth of the prophets. In Supplementation and the study of the Hebrew Bible, ed. Saul M. Olyan and Jacob L. Wright, 125–146. Providence: Brown Judaic Studies. Lefale, Penehuro Fatu. 2018. An epic quest for the Samoan indigenous reference. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M.  Suaalii-Sauni et  al., 471–486. Wellington: Huia. Lim, Timothy H. 2017. An indicative definition of canon. In When texts are canonized, ed. Timothy H. Lim with Kengo Akiyama, 1–24. Brown Judaic Studies 359. Providence: Brown Judaic Studies. Madraiwiwi, Ratu Joni. 2018. On identity and being. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 517–521. Wellington: Huia. Mamea, Loretta Tausilia Elive. 2018. Pacific leadership and cultural competence: A commentary. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T. M. Suaalii-­ Sauni et al., 413–426. Wellington: Huia. Pfoh, E., and Keith W. Whitelam, eds. 2013. The politics of Israel’s past: The Bible, archaeology and nation-building. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix. Salesa, Damon I. 2018. Remembering Samoan history. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 285–302. Wellington: Huia. Suaalii-Sauni, T.M., I’uogafa Tuagalu, Tofilau N. Alai-Kirifi, and Naomi Fuamatu (eds). 2018. Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance; Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Efi. Wellington: Huia (first Published 2009 by The Centre for Samoan Studies, National University of Samoa, Lepapaigalagala, Apia, Samoa). Tofaeono, Ama’amalele. 2000. Eco-theology: Aiga – The household of life: A perspective from the living myths and legends of Samoa. Erlangen: Erlanger Verlag fur Mission und Oikumene.

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Tuagalu, I’uogafa. 2018. The Samoan indigenous reference: Intimations of a romantic sensibilite. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 383–412. Wellington: Huia. Tui Atua, T.T.T.E. 2018a. In search of harmony: Peace in the Samoan indigenous religion. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M.  Suaalii-Sauni et al., 137–152. Wellington: Huia. ———. 2018b. In search of meaning, nuance and metaphor. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 81–90. Wellington: Huia. ———. 2018c. Samoan jurisprudence and the Samoan land and titles court: The perspective of a litigant. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 201–226. Wellington: Huia. ———. 2018d. Tamafaiga – Shaman, king or mania? The emergence of Manono. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 43–68. Wellington: Huia. ———. 2018e. The riddle in Samoan history: The relevance of language, names, honorifics, genealogy, ritual and chant to historical analysis. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 457–470. Wellington: Huia. ———. 2018f. Tupulegase: The eternal riddle. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 273–280. Wellington: Huia. ———. 2018g. Water and the Samoan indigenous reference. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 263–272. Wellington: Huia. Tupuola, Anne-Marie. 2018a. In search of meaning, nuance and metaphor: A post-colonial shift of minds? In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 317–328. Wellington: Huia. ———. 2018b. The personal gaze, critical voice and self-reflectivity: A commentary. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. T.M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 435–446. Wellington: Huia. Unasa, Uesifili. 2018. The borderlands: Relocating Samoan history. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, 435–446. Wellington: Huia. West, Gerald O. 2018. The Bible as a site of struggle in South African black theology. In The Bible as a site of struggle – 2018 De Carle Lecture Series. Centre for Theology and Public Issues, Otago University. https://www.otago.ac.nz/ ctpi/otago682351.pdf

CHAPTER 10

Pasifika Churches Trapped in the Missionary Era: A Case in Samoa Feiloaiga Taule’ale’ausumai

This chapter returns to the factors that led to the introduction and arrival of Christianity and the context in which the Samoan church emerged in the 1830s. The spread of Christianity saw Samoan notions of spirituality challenged by the introduction of churches and the written word (Bible) as opposed to oral accounts. With this introduction came the separation of church and society and the development of parallel church and state models within the village and church hierarchies. Perhaps the most important element in the Samoan religious background, which contributed to the supposedly smooth transition to the new religion, was the existing centrality of religion in the Samoan world view. The missionaries found a people who believed that the gods were behind everything in life. The fact that they readily accepted the God of the missionaries was perhaps an indication of the Samoans wanting to acquire the same material culture that accompanied the missionaries. According to Meleisea, old ideas and old gods were no longer adequate to

F. Taule’ale’ausumai (*) Presbyterian Church of Aotearoa New Zealand, Knox Centre for Leadership and Ministry, Aotearoa, New Zealand © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_10

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explain the world or to deal with changes. As a result, Samoans were receptive to the teachings about a new God, when John Williams arrived in 1830 (Meleisea 1987, 45–46). Historians suggest that the initial attraction and appeal of Christianity was materialistic as well as technological. The Samoans’ amazement at the huge ships of the missionaries led them to conclude that, if the God of the missionaries could provide them with this sort of technology, then the Samoans too must embrace the missionaries’ God for themselves. Literacy and biblical knowledge and education also attracted the Samoans to the Christian religion and by adopting this religion they were able to access the written word and literacy. Fifteen years after the arrival of the London Missionary Society (L.M.S.) in 1830,1 the whole of the New Testament had been translated into Samoan and was eagerly read by the converts. Ten years later, there was a Samoan Bible. The L.M.S. set up local printing presses at Malua, which prepared textbooks in the vernacular for use in the church schools, and other denominations, such as hymn books, bibles, tracts, newspapers and study materials were produced by the churches in the following years: the main purpose, conversion and retention. (Fairbairn-Dunlop 1998, 43) Christianity was associated with wealth and power. The Samoan people assumed that by accepting Christianity they would have access to the God who seemed to have blessed Europeans with wealth and power. (Lesa 2009, 179; cf. Kamu 1996)

Du Plessis and Fairbairn-Dunlop (2009, 111) agree that Christian belief systems merged seamlessly with the customary ways, but in other times and places were diametrically opposed to indigenous practices. The association with power among the high chiefs was crucial to the early missionary success. Fanaafi Le Tagaloa Aiono states that when the missionaries arrived in Sapapalii, Malietoa the high chief welcomed the missionaries to the status of Tamaitai (lady) or Feagaiga (sister)—honorific roles within the fa’asamoa, the highest status above any matai title. The responsibilities of the Tamaitai/Feagaiga were also given to the faifeau and priests of the new religion/tapuaiga. The Tamaitai/ 1  The London Missionary Society church in Samoa was administered and governed by LMS missionaries for over 130  years before it became independent and was called the Congregational Christian Church of Samoa.

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Feagaiga is the Faioa (maker of wealth), the taulasea (healer), the ositaulaga (priestess), the Tausala (redeemer), the Pae ma le auli (peacemaker), the teinemuli/taupou (virgin), and Feagaiga (covenant). “E fai oe ma au Faafeagaiga: you will be like my feagaiga; you will be like my sister” (Aiono 1996). As a consequence, the Samoan matriarchy was replaced with a Christian Patriarchy. Feagaiga is the relationship between sister and brother, and it emphasizes the sister’s special role within the family and the special powers that she possessed as feagaiga. The literal English translation of feagaiga is covenant; the Bible is known as le Feagaiga Tuai (Old Testament) and le Feagaiga Fou (New Testament). Marriages are often referred to as Osiga o Feagaiga where two people meet to form a sexual contract; after Christianity the term Osiga Feagaiga came to be regarded also as a legal marriage contract. Within the church the minister’s new relationship with the congregation becomes a covenant whereby both parish and minister establish a covenant relationship and the covenant is made with him and the church (Fa’afeagaiga). Fanaafi Le Tagaloa asserts in Samoan, Ua fao uma a e le faifeau nafa ositaulaga o le tamaitai. E o’o fo’i a i le tauosia o le lagi ua I ai a ma le faifeau (Aiono 1996), to convey the charge that the pastor has robbed the tama’ita’i (young woman) of her priestess role and responsibilities (Ah Siu-Maliko 1998, 24). The demise of the female role and responsibilities of the feagaiga was due to the missionaries believing that no human should have such powers as to bless or curse another (in the case of the feagaiga having the power to curse or bless her brother). The missionaries believed that God alone had the power to bless and curse and they as God’s representatives should be the new covenant makers. Within much of the Pacific context the role of minister was reserved for men, something that the missionaries brought with them and this went unchallenged. In fact, all missionaries’ practices and protocol went unchallenged. Instead of gradual enculturation and developing an understanding for custom and protocol particularly with respect to gender specific roles, they introduced their English way as the Christian and therefore the right way to live. From 1830 to today the questions of the place and role of women in ministry remain unchallenged in Samoa. The American Samoan church CCCAS have recently begun ordaining women into their church; however, they have not yet placed any of these ordained women into churches as practicing ministers. They are either ordained pastors’ wives or ordained administrators in the Church offices. There is a belief that this

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decision is determined by Samoan culture rather than Christian culture— “it has always been this way”—but this assumption is false. The memory of old Samoa is selective, and the Samoanization of English Christianity has blurred the history of pre-Christian Samoa, which held women in high respect and honor. Traditionally the role of women in Samoa has been one of honor and respect in terms of the feagaiga (covenant) relationship with her brother, her birth as the tama sa (sacred child), her role as the taupou (village maiden/virgin), and tausala (redeemer). The English missionaries and later on the indigenous teachers became the new covenant makers (Fa’afeagaiga), formally held by women. The names were retained but the women were displaced hence many of the names used to address church ministers were applied to women. When people today talk about fa’asamoa as patriarchal and not accommodating of women in leadership roles, they need to be reminded of the rich heritage of a matriarchal Samoa in pre-Christian times. The lines of demarcation in these sacred relationships have become almost obliterated and the tapu (sacred) relegated to the heathenism of pre-Christian times. The arrival of Christianity domesticated the role of women along the lines of English protocol and women became responsible for the provision of food and the well-being of her husband and family. Her focus centered on the family and less on the village and the decision-making bodies of the village and church. Her roles within the church were concerned with the aesthetic material nature of the church in the area of flowers, embroidering of cloths, and cleaning. Her role as feagaiga and tama sa were almost obliterated in the light of the Christian message that did away with traditional beliefs and practices. The roles of the taupou and tausala became ceremonial roles and most of these positions, which were held by the chief’s daughter, went to the minister’s daughter. The role of the high chief’s wife (faletua) in organizing the women of the village went to the wife of the minister also known as faletua. The traditional village leaders were replaced by the heads of the church and the village hierarchy took second place to the church hierarchy (Taule’ale’ausumai 2001). The missionaries introduced a European model of ministry and church: ekalesia. The type of ministry that evolved was an elite vocation for scholars, the ultimate goal of academic and educational success. The biblical ministry of the word and sacrament became the goal of every family for their sons, and for their daughters by marriage to a minister, and the

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Samoan church responded by developing training schools to prepare young men for the ministry and young women as pastors’ wives. New leadership roles emerged within the church in parallel with the leadership roles within Samoan society. The concept of fa’afeagaiga (covenant maker) was the new title adopted by the Christian church in place of the feagaiga (sisterhood) within the fa’a-Samoa. Ao fa’alupega, originally reserved for high chiefs, now transferred to clergy along with toeaina (ruling elder), Susuga (respected persons), and Faifeau/auauna (servant, or person with a message). Many of the honorable titles were transferred to the church as a place and position of respect and authority. According to Bernard Thorogood (1995, 11), the London Missionary Society was not an imposition from London. At its foundation a fundamental principle had been adopted that it was not to send any particular form of church government but simply the gospel, and that those in each place who became Christians should choose for themselves whatever form of church government ‘appeared most agreeable to the word of God’. Since the missionaries came mainly from one tradition and had great influence, it was their ecclesiology which was chiefly carried forward. It was a modified independency because the local churches were linked by the authority of the missionaries themselves.

In the 1830s the model of church in these burgeoning years can be compared to that of a “backward English village” (Thorogood 1995, 12). The missionaries, although reluctant to admit the pioneering work of the sailors in some areas of Samoa, built upon the foundation already laid. Like the first resident missionaries of 1836, the sailors employed a missionary method which suited the context of the time and the people they ministered to. When the missionaries arrived, the Samoans had been already enlightened about the “magic” of the new Lotu (faith; Setu 1988, 23). Other factors facilitated the introduction of the missionary movement to Samoa. The London Missionary Society arrived at an extremely opportune time, as the most feared chief Tamafaiga, recorded in William’s journal as the devil king, had been killed in battle. Fauea, the Samoan who accompanied John Williams and Charles Barff to Samoa from Tonga, was a major influence on the success of John Williams’ mission. Had it not been for Fauea’s oratorial skills, the London Missionaries may not have received such a friendly welcome from the

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Samoans. On learning of the death of Tamafaiga he shouted “ua mate le devolo, ua mate le devolo” (Williams 1838, 327)—“The devil is dead, the devil is dead! Our work is done: the devil is dead!!” (Taase 1995). Without a leader to dictate over the people, John Williams had time to negotiate before the villages and the chiefs of Samoa elected a new chief. The chief whom they had sought out in Sapapalii, Malietoa Vainuupo, was away avenging the death of Tamafaiga (whose position Vainuupo would eventually take). On the arrival of John Williams and his team, Vainuupo issued instructions for their stay and arranged hospitality for them until he returned. It was on his return that he accepted this God that they brought with them. John Williams and Charles Barff had hoped that the protocol of seeking out the paramount chiefs and kings adopted in Tahiti to assist the easy acceptance of their mission would also prevail in Samoa. Their approach towards conversion was first to the chiefs. In Tahiti, Pomare I and Pomare II were regarded as keys to establishing Christian influence; in Rarotonga, Makea and Kainuku; in Samoa, Malietoa … In making their initial contact this way the missionaries achieved much; acceptance as residents safe from violent attacks, an entrée into the most influential families, an opportunity for learning the island’s culture, and ultimately the conversion of chiefs leading to the conversion of their tribes. (Thorogood 1995, 7)

It was their expectation that Samoa was similar to Tahiti, where Papeiha (the king at Tahiti) accepted the Gospel on behalf of the whole country. They assumed that the islands of the Pacific had similar hierarchical leadership and accountability, and they operated under a similar monarchy to Tahiti. However, the chiefly system they encountered in Samoa was different as there was no paramount chief as such nor an individual king or queen. High chief Malietoa Vainuupo was head of his village and his constituency but not of the whole of Samoa. Christianity went hand in hand with an attempt to introduce the trappings of European civilization. All those who assisted the missionaries in teaching were given shirts to wear that set them apart from the village people. Slowly, work associated with the missions became a vocation to aspire toward as material benefits in the form of attire became desirable. The acceptance of the church Lotu Taiti involved a change of dress. Initially this was simply a matter of distinction. Gradually, it became a rule

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laid down by the traditional leaders of the groups who had embraced the Lotu faith (Crawford 1977, 297). Samoan society changed in a number of ways as a result of the missionary church; there was strict Sabbath / Sunday observance and each evening, all families offered devotions. The dress code for Sundays was white as a sign of purity and women covered their heads with a hat. Ministers adopted the blazer (jacket) in a manner after the missionary fashion, although England was a much colder climate, and their wives wore the imperial dress (Holly Hobby style) mu’umu’u with no waist and ankle length. Their hair was pulled back off the face and neatly wrapped in a bun. The missionaries themselves were comfortable with the outwear and style, but the Samoan people associated these with pure morals and cleanliness. Even the English tea service which the missionaries indulged in became reserved for the Christian pastor, as a sign of mission. English etiquette and fashion were part of the Christianization process. If one was truly converted, they adopt the language and dress of the church. The initial years of missionary activity in Samoa instilled a piety and faith modeled on physical attributes and correct duties. Hymn singing and praying, tithing and adhering to the Ten Commandments, and weekly sermon instruction were the spiritual menu of the Samoan people. It was a few years later during the first “Revival” that the Holy Spirit brought about a spiritual awakening. This was called the great Samoan awakening of 1839. “The awakenings showed a remarkable formal similarity to eighteenth and early nineteenth century revivals in England and America” (Daws 1961, 326). This was where the internalizing of the spirit provided a new model of faith and ministry, and it lasted for two years. The Samoan church also adopted two other British cultural traditions, the May festival (Faiga Me) and the March Event (fa’a Mati). These two traditions became ingrained in the Samoan church annual calendar as opportunities for supporting the missionary work of the overseas L.M.S. missionaries as well as the growing team of Samoan ministry emerging from the Samoan Mission Seminary at Malua. The odd thing about the May festival, according to Forman, was that it had its source in neither the normal church calendar nor the traditions of the people. It derived from the old May meetings that were held in London by the various philanthropic and missionary societies connected with the British evangelical movement during the early part of the nineteenth

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c­ entury… its origins were little known, and it was often not even held in May. (Forman 1982, 82)

The fa’a Mati became an annual occasion which called for the inspection and renewal or replacement of household effects of the missionaries or ministers within their homes. The women of the churches established this occasion as their annual contribution to the work of the missions. According to the late Elder Minister Rev. Tuamu Ainuu of Vaitoomuli (while at Palauli) the fa’a Mati is predominantly concerned with the tasks of the women of the village. The elder deacon travels the region to inspect and record the work that needs to be done within the minister’s home and church. This is presented to the village for them to organize over the next twelve months. For instance, if the minister’s house is not up to scratch then it is the role of the congregation to correct this. If he states that the minister needs a whole new house, the congregation have to oblige. No task is too big or too small for the village. Over the ensuing twelve months the women will weave mats and crochet new bedspreads and tablecloths for the church manse more commonly known as fale o le galuega (house of the ministry). Visual cleanliness is just as important as spiritual cleanliness. The Faiga Me (the May Offering) is the annual financial giving for the mission work of the church, both nationally and abroad. It is also a time when funds raised are set aside for the upkeep of the manse. This annual financial obligation causes fear among church families, but they nevertheless fulfill as best as they can (with other family financial obligations taking second place). In some churches the Faiga Me has moved to October, to give families more time to prepare. Traditionally, the Faiga Me—May harvest or the May pole celebrations—was a pagan festival which related to the spring harvest celebrations in England. The English missionary agencies saw this as an opportune time to collect contributions and raise funds from the harvest profits for their missionary work abroad. The Samoan church still practices many tasks from a Victorian piety which has long since died in England. These practices lock the Samoan churches to the nineteenth century. The “Good News” needs to be reviewed, inculturated, and contextualized in order to liberate church structures and the people from these foreign traditions and practices. Weeding-out of English and antique Victorian cultures would be a good

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starting point. At the present time, it is still difficult to distinguish between what is Gospel and what is English culture. The May festival (Faiga Me) was at the center of the financial operations of the church. With the move from the missions’ financial dependency on London, the L.M.S. called for the missionaries to become self-supporting. In 1860, George Pratt, a missionary to Savaii, introduced the plan of writing down all contributions (with the result that sixpenny and dime contributions vanished, according to Gilson), to seek the favor of God and the respect of men in the volume of their sacrifices (Gunson 1978, 308–309). Howe notes that the missionaries exploited the Samoans’ competitive spirit by publishing lists of contributions together with the amounts offered. Samoans went all out to get their names at the top of the lists (Howe 1984, 242). Giving as a result became a form of taxation rather than spontaneous giving. It was very liberal giving induced by competitive spirit (Gilson 1970, 308). Forman gives an example of this: The amount of the contribution would be announced publicly to the assembly, which would often respond with loudly expressed appreciation. In some territories opportunity would then be given for friends to come forward and augment the family’s contribution by additional offerings to be put down as part of the family’s gift. As might be expected, there was much competition among families with the village, and then among the different villages, as to the size of the total offering collected. (Forman 1982, 82)

In keeping with Samoan cultural tradition and the announcement of food and gifts by donors, the missionaries induced monetary church giving in a similar fashion. The Samoan practice of ailao (proclaiming with loud speeches the gifts of the people) was transferred from the village setting of fa’asamoa into the Samoan church structure. Gilson suggests that in using the term taulaga, the contributions made at the missionary meetings were assimilated into the offerings traditionally made to aitu (spirits) (Gilson 1970, 294). As with church buildings, however, motivation associated with competition intervened. It was recognized early, and resisted on that account, that titleholders used Faiga Me as another way of working out economic rivalry, success being measured by the size of the donation. In the end, however, the fa’asamoa won the day: in the early 1860s the L.M.S. missionaries agreed to allow the principle of competition full play, and consequently, Dyson, too, found that when he introduced “Me” among

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Wesleyans, they made it a condition that the public announcement of contributions be practised. It is clear, also, that though Brown was critical of the explicit competition that operated, in this case, between some L.M.S. districts, his own meetings gave free play to the motivation of shame in inducing the making of contributions. In many of the speeches that he reports, the parallel between miserliness in the sharing of food and withholding money from the church is emphasized (Gilson 1970, 295). According to Anae, some anthropologists have justly accused some missionaries of attempting to sweep away as rapidly as possible all vestiges of traditional cultures in the name of Christianity and progress yet changes rarely occurred as quickly as the missionaries would have liked (Anae 1998). She continues to write an apologetic regarding missionary practices and states that “missionary bashing” can be largely attributed to Gunson’s work in the 1950s, and Binney’s Legacy of Guilt: A Life of Thomas Kendall (Anae 1998, 86). However, Duncan states: “they represent part of the study of colonial culture … to varying degrees; they represent missionaries as people who acted in ways that were logical and appropriate to their own class and cultural milieu” (Duncan 1994). The term “missionary bashing” that Anae uses depends on who’s perspective one is advocating. The L.M.S. missionaries came from societies that honored rank and status, and the church that they created in Samoa did not give room for assessment and critique. A church born into a chiefly society and itself imitating that society is poorly equipped to challenge the status quo. It runs along traditional lines, avoiding any clash with authority. It is essentially conservative. What then happens to the prophetic note of the gospel? It is muted, domesticated. This has been a serious matter for the churches of Polynesia where issues of justice and truth have required a more radical voice than they have been trained to provide. Corruption among chiefs and politicians, economic oppression by external business, violence to women, sexually transmitted disease – on such matters the Polynesian churches have largely been silent and have offered little leadership. (Garrett 1982, 7)

At the time there may not have been any realistic alternative to the chiefly approach but theologically the weakness is that the church was born from above and was handed down, rather than built upon the

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salvation experience of the poor. The rapid growth of the church in Polynesia, which was a cause for thanksgiving to God, came at a cost. There emerged a church which was more of the “parish than the gathered” type. In the same setting there gradually took place a change in community leadership which had an immense effect upon the indigenous ministry of the church, its status and strength. This was the enlargement of the pastor’s authority over the general community, with a corresponding diminution of the chiefs’ supremacy. Meanwhile from being moral and spiritual advisers to local chiefs, pastors became the more significant leaders of the local community, until in the eyes of the people the rank of chieftainship became secondary to pastoral status. “No chief or heir to chieftainship could become a candidate for the ministry without renouncing his chiefly status.” This was to guard the Church from becoming the tool of the chiefs, but it soon set a premium on the status of the ministry as an office which could only be won at such a price. There was never any dearth of candidates for ministry; on the contrary, the problem was how to discourage too many applicants and to deal with an ever-increasing number of “stickit ministers.” (Goodall 1954, 366)

The upshot is that, “Today there are few parts of the world church which have such a consistent supply of pastoral leadership” (Thorogood 1995, 11). As Daws reports the adoption of the new religion by ruling families and formal observance by the common people had made superficial changes in the way of life of the islanders without affecting the essential nature of their society. Congregations were large, church membership small. Outward conformity to Christian social practice was widespread, inward conviction not nearly so common. (Daws 1961, 326–337)

Between 1830 and 1860 the relationship between Samoa and the L.M.S. in London remained one of mutual dependence. The missionaries were dependent on England for financial assistance, and the church was dependent on the L.M.S. for missionaries. Villages in Samoa were not content to have Samoan teachers; many sought foreign missionaries as this added prestige and importance to their village. The significant contribution of Samoan teachers as well as Tahitians has been played down in writing the history of the early missions. Fa’atulituli Setu claims that the written accounts of missionary activity in Samoa have generally neglected

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this point about Samoan generosity in participation in the mission. Simple activities and courtesies have been underestimated yet they are very significant in the history of Christianity (Setu 1988, 29). The church today within the context of Samoa can be regarded as Mission in the Context of Empire. The church is the dominant force in Samoan society; everything is centered around the Christian religion; nothing takes place in Samoa without first acknowledging the Christian God in services of thanksgiving. From a feminist perspective the Samoan church is sexist and exclusive, it domesticates women. Many people on the margins struggle with the economic and financial obligations that the church places on them. Even those who struggle to provide a roof over their heads are not exempt from the financial obligation to the Faiga Me and Fa’amati. Most incomes are prioritized for the church with the needs of the family in second place. Samoa needs to be liberated from the colonial history and trappings of British society. The church needs to become vulnerable and listen to the voice of the marginalized, the voices of the poor, the women and the abused, the LGBTQ communities as well as the voiceless. The church continues to have a superior status and patriarchy continues to dominate while the women of the church have grown to believe that it is their place to remain as fautua (advisors to their husbands without rocking the boat). There are bits of small progress with women being able to study theology, but still cannot be ordained into the Christian ministry; so much more needs to happen for Samoa to truly become an egalitarian society.

Works Cited Ah Siu-Maliko, Mercy. 1998. Towards an educational process for empowerment, with reference to the Au-Uso of the Methodist Church in Samoa. MTh thesis, Pacific Theological College, Suva. Aiono, Fanaafi L. 1996. O Motugaafa. Samoa: Le Lamepa. Anae, M. 1998. Fofoa-i-vao-’ese: the identity journeys of NZ-born Samoans. ResearchSpace@Auckland. The University of Auckland Ph.D. Thesis. Crawford, Ronald J. 1977. The Lotu and the Fa’aSamoa: Church and society in Samoa, 1830–1880. Doctoral dissertation, Otago University, Dunedin. Daws, Alan G. 1961. The great Samoan awakening of 1839. Journal of Polynesian Society 70: 326–337. Du Plessis, Rosemary, and Peggy Fairbairn-Dunlop. 2009. The ethics of knowledge production–Pacific challenges. International Social Science Journal 60: 109–114.

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Duncan, B.K. 1994. A hierarchy of symbols: Samoan religious symbolism in New Zealand. PhD thesis, University of Otago, Dunedin. Fairbairn-Dunlop, Peggy. 1998. Tamaita'i Samoa. Suva: Institute of Pacific Studies, USP. Forman, Charles W. 1982. The island churches of the South Pacific: Emergence in the twentieth century. New York: Orbis. Garrett, John. 1982. To live among the stars: Christian origins in Oceania. Geneva: WCC. Gilson, R.P. 1970. Samoa 1830 to 1900: The politics of a multi-cultural community. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Goodall, Norman. 1954. A history of the London Missionary Society, 1895–1945. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gunson, N. 1978. Messengers of grace: evangelical missionaries in the South Seas, 1799–1860. Melbourne; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Howe, K. R. 1984. Where the waves fall: a new South Sea Islands history from first settlement to colonial rule. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Kamu, Lalomilo. 1996. The Samoan culture and the Christian gospel. Apia: Methodist. Lesa, Fa’afetai. 2009. The impact of Samoan Christian churches on Samoan language, competency and cultural identity. PhD dissertation, University of Hawaii, Honolulu. Meleisea, Malama. 1987. Lagaga, a short history of Western Samoa. Suva: University of the South Pacific. Setu, Fa’atulituli. 1988. The ministry in the making, a history of the emergence of ministry in the Church in Samoa 1830–1900. BD thesis, Pacific Theological College, Suva. Taase, Elia T. 1995. The Congregational Christian church in Samoa. The origin and development of an indigenous church, 1830–1961. PhD thesis, Fuller Theological Seminary. Taule’ale’ausumai, Feiloaiga. 2001. New identities, new religions: The changing contours of religious commitment. In Tangata o te moana nui: Evolving identities of Pacific peoples in Aotearoa/New Zealand, ed. Cluny Macpherson, Paul Spoonley, and Melani Anae, 181–195. Palmerston North: Dunmore. Thorogood, Bernard. 1995. After 200 years–The LMS legacy. The Pacific Journal of Theology II (14): 5–15. Williams, John. 1838. A narrative of missionary enterprises in the South Sea Islands; with remarks upon the natural history of the islands, origin, languages, traditions, and usages of the inhabitants. Illustr. with Engravings on Wood by G.  Banter. London: J. Snow.

CHAPTER 11

Failed Promise of Abundant Life: Revisiting 200 Years of Christianity in Oceania Latu Latai

Today’s high-speed technology is exposing our Pacific to the rest of the globe on a level we have never experienced before. Boundaries are crossed in both time and space, making our small islands more visible and vulnerable to outside forces. We are encountering new frontiers which on the one hand offer new opportunities, while on the other have resulted in remarkable changes and transformations in our societies. Pacific peoples have always experienced contacts and transformations in the past as sojourners, seafarers, and voyagers. Our ancestors were great navigators who traversed and inhabited the hundreds of islands in the largest ocean in the world. On these islands and archipelagos, they forged thriving communities and unique customs and traditions. When Europeans began to arrive beginning in the sixteenth century, they witnessed a world rich in cultures and diverse in languages, beliefs, and value systems. Today’s encounters, however, are on a different level altogether. Within my lifetime, I have witnessed remarkable changes in the way we live, what we consume, how we commute, communicate, socialize, and so on. These changes have improved our way of life, but they have also provided new

L. Latai (*) Malua Theological College, Apia, Samoa © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_11

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and confronting challenges to our people. Challenges on our identity, our culture, and crucially our physical and mental health and wellbeing. This chapter reflects on these changes, drawing on personal experiences and the history of Christianity to give nuanced perspectives on the challenges facing the Pacific today. I argue that as much as we can lay the blame on globalization and capitalism for the changes we face, we must also reflect on the pivotal role of Christianity in transforming the way we live and view the world.

Growing Up in the Islands I grew up in the 1970s in a rural village that had no electricity. Kerosene lamps were the only means of light at night, and a battery-run radio was the only way of knowing what was going on in the country and the world outside. There was only one telephone in our village, held and operated by the Women’s Health Committee,1 which also kept under key the only First Aid Kit where people could get basic medical care. Only one family owned a vehicle, used as regular transport by the village to the capital Apia. Material possessions were few. As a child I had four main sets of clothing: a school lavalava (plain material wrapped around the waist); a working lavalava for after school; a lavalava for sleeping at night; and a formal attire which included a white lavalava and shirt for Sunday. Daily diet was basic. Breakfast included a piece of leftover taro or breadfruit from the previous night. Lunch after school was either a ripe guava, pawpaw, or whatever fruit that was in season. Meat was hard to come by. Lotu Tamaiti (Children’s Sunday)2 in October was special because it was the only time one gets new clothes, eats corned beef and chop-suey, and enjoys sweet treats such as puddings, cakes, and pineapple pies.

1  In 1924, Dr. Roberts, wife of the American Consul, Quincy Roberts, initiated a scheme that led to women’s health committees. This scheme served as a welfare service for many years (see Goodall 1954, 363). 2  Falling on the second Sunday of October, it is a day for parents and communities to acknowledge and celebrate childhood by hosting special programs during church services which include scriptural recitations, biblical story re-enactments, and creative dance performances. Children receive gifts (often new clothing and/or school supplies) on White Sunday and are allowed privileges normally reserved for elders, such as being the first to be served food at meal time.

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I remember when the first family in our village had a TV—a small 6 inch black and white box with a tall antenna installed outside their main Samoan fale (house). The TV was tuned to the only TV station in neighboring American Samoa.3 On Saturday nights the village usually gathered there to watch the World Wrestling Federation’s show. A pair of coconuts was how much it cost to watch. If you go early you might find a good spot inside the fale, otherwise most people would watch from the outside lawn in the front, side, and back yard. In the 1980s, palagi or western style houses with timber and concrete walls, glass louvered windows, and iron roofs slowly replaced the open Samoan fale. It was a time when Samoans settled into cosmopolitan centers in New Zealand and Australia (Vaa 2001; Hamilton 1974; Hegarty 1977; MacPherson 1996). To the Samoans, New Zealand was not the “Land of the Long White Cloud” (Aotearoa) but the “Land Flowing with Milk and Honey.” The lack of laborers during New Zealand’s booming economy in the 1960s meant that Pacific Islanders were welcomed, but an economic recession in the 1970s led to many Samoans overstaying their welcome. The result was the Dawn Raids in the mid-1970s where overstayed Samoans and Tongans were hunted down and deported to their island homes (Anae 2006). While this racist immigration policy restricted Samoans from entering New Zealand, many Samoan families were already legal residents. In 1973 Australia and New Zealand signed the Trans-­ Tasman migration policy which allowed New Zealanders to migrate freely between the two countries (Vaa 2001, 67). This policy resulted in a large migration of Samoans to more prosperous Australian states like Queensland and New South Wales. The increasing population of Samoans in New Zealand and Australia led to foreign remittances being the main source of revenue in Samoa. With its improving economy, Samoa began to ramp up its developments. In the 1990s, the Samoan government’s new political slogan of “What is good for Apia is also good for “Savaii” was the catalyst to its ambitious plans to develop the whole of Samoa. Infrastructures like tar sealed roads, electricity, and water supplies were upgraded and extended to most villages in the country. These changes, for the first time, gave 3  American Samoa, the eastern islands of the Samoa archipelago, became a territory of the United States of America in 1900 after the 1899 Tripartite Convention in which Germany and the United States partitioned the Samoan Islands into two parts. Today although governed separately the two Samoas still have a strong cultural bond.

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people in rural areas better access to these vital resources. In 1993 the first local television station was in operation and soon a TV became a must-­ have item in every Samoan home. The turn of the millennium continued to accelerate changes. In 2006, Samoa became one of the first countries in the Pacific to have a mobile phone network. Spearheaded by international phone companies such as Digicel, mobile phones not only revolutionized the way Samoans communicate but made it cheap to call locally and internationally. The introduction of smart phones and the internet continued to radically change communication. It also exposed Samoans to social media and a whole new world of ideas and information. Now the government in its most ambitious plan yet, wishes to be the internet hub of the Pacific by building its marine cable network which began in 2018. In 2009, the government’s continual development ambitions led to Samoa changing the side of the road on which cars were driven. This resulted in the current increase in affordable secondhand cars imported cheaply to Samoa from New Zealand, Australia, and Japan. Today, Samoa has changed dramatically from when we were growing up. Many people now own vehicles. There are even traffic jams and peak hours in Apia. Samoan homes are now equipped with electrical appliances like refrigerators, ovens, microwaves, and some even with air conditioning. Young people are vying to buy the latest smart phone. Children are getting dropped off at their village schools with packed lunches. And everyone now watches TV in the privacy of their walled-up homes. But while all these changes and developments provide a “better” way of life for our people, there is a growing concern that Samoa is rapidly leaving many behind.

Promise of an Abundant Life? I am writing this chapter at the height of the 2019 measles epidemic in Samoa in which currently 81 lives have been taken. Many who have died are young children from low-income families. Many of these families could not afford to visit local hospitals to get immunized. They live in crowded and deprived conditions that make them susceptible to contagious diseases such as measles. In New Zealand where the measles outbreak began and was brought to Samoa, none of those infected including children have died. It shows the differing impacts of such disasters between wealthy countries and developing small island states like Samoa. It also highlights

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the frightening prospects of a globalized world where not only people, goods, and ideas travel fast but also dangerous viruses such as measles. Sadly, the measles epidemic has brought to light the poor state of health services in the islands and most significantly the increasing state of poverty and social inequality in Samoa (Firth 2006). The measles outbreak in a very raw way made me think about questions relating to the state of our Pacific Islands and the growing challenges facing our people. It has also made me reflect more on Christianity, the most dominant religion in the Pacific and its promises of peace, hope, and prosperity. For 200 years our islands have been greatly influenced by the white man’s world and religion. Two hundred years ago, Christianity provided promises of an abundant life for our people. After 200 years of Christianity, the Christian message of hope and its promise of an abundant life has not been fulfilled in the lives of many in our communities. With the upsurge in global issues such as the spread of diseases, natural disasters, and the inevitable consequences of climate change, it is these people who are the most vulnerable. Poverty continues to be on the rise as our governments struggle to pay off accumulations of foreign debts (Greenfield and Barrett 2018). Our people are entrenched in western lifestyle that our way of life depends on imported goods. Young people and children are prone to cyber bulling, online pornography, slavery in cheap labor, and sex trade industries (Pesquer 2016; Ah-Voa 2011; Herbert 2007; Luluaki 2003). Along with these is the increasing state of mental health issues among our people. In Samoa, one of the fastest growing non-government organization is Samoa Victims Support, which now houses young children, girls, and women—victims of domestic violence and sexual abuse (http://www. samoavictimsupport.org/). These problems, once unheard of in our so-­ called paradise, now fill the pages of our local newspapers. Meanwhile, there seems to be a diminishing respect for the sacredness of human life and the environment. The va tapuia (sacred space) that once guided human relations with the environment and with each other is gradually eclipsed by an individualistic and competitive world. Moreover, the predominant influence of western Christian patriarchy has had a profound impact on the way women are perceived today. Capitalism with all its promises of material wealth has been a driving force in the transformation of the Pacific. However, we are seeing that the prospects of economic globalization for many in the Pacific have yet to

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materialize. The neo-liberal economic theory of supply and demand that promises wealth to trickle down to the average person is only a dream for many. We are caught in what some have called the TINA (There Is No Alternative) syndrome. Our governments believe that globalization is the only way forward and the new catch word is DEVELOPMENT. Many of our people are however falling through the systems. In our race to become developed, we have become self-centered, close hearted, and tight-fisted. Brexit, Donald Trump, the denial of Climate Change, the Refugee crisis—these represent the values that seek to dominate our world. Values that are more inward than outward, individualistic rather than communal. And in such a world, many are trapped in a system based on Darwinism—that only the fit will survive. Globalization at its current form is creating new situations that we are ill prepared for. In a recent symposium on the theme “Humanising the Future”4 I expressed my biggest concern about the future of Samoa and the Pacific. That concern is on the unsustainability of the systems we have, where our nation states are caught up in the economic global system that demands that we keep up with development and our people to be consumers of the global free market. However, as small island nations with limited resources, we cannot continue to develop blindly without thinking about the adverse effects on our fragile environment and the social challenges on our people. Today the land and the environment are no longer seen as sacred. Rather they are seen as a commodity, a resource that needs to be exploited for profit. In Samoa, the government’s new law to register customary lands is a move toward intensifying this view of land. Passed in 2008, this law allowed for customary land (about 80% of land in Samoa) to be leased to investors. For a small island nation, many people fear that this will lead to loss of their land to foreigners forever. Customary land is not only crucial to our people’s livelihood but also to the future of our culture and identity. The sustainability of our islands is now at risk. But how can we reverse these political, social, and economic trends? How can we influence our people and our governments about the importance of a sustainable future? 4  The symposium on “The Future” hosted by the British Academy of the Humanities was part of several events held to mark the 50th anniversary of the Australian Academy of the Humanities which was held at the Queensland University of Queensland from 11–16 November 2019.

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Within the Pacific, Christianity continues to be influential in the lives of our people. Christianity has brought peace and stability as well as positive impacts on our culture and ways of life. Our ancestors who were also actively involved in appropriating Christianity saw this vision for our societies. However, today’s modern challenges mean that we need to re-­ evaluate the role and impact of Christianity in our lives.

Christianity—A Religion of Peace and Prosperity? Fauea, the Samoan who accompanied John Williams from Tonga in 1830 to introduce Christianity to Samoa, stressed this to the Samoans when he made reference to the superiority of the Christian God. He said, Can the religion of these papalagis be anything but good? … Let us look at them, and then look at ourselves, their heads are covered, while ours are exposed to the sun … their bodies are clothed all over with beautiful cloth, while we have nothing but a bandage of leaves around our waist; they have clothes upon their feet, while ours are like the dogs; and then look at their axes, their scissors, and their other property, how rich they are! (Williams 1840, 86)

Before the arrival of Williams, early Christian cults like the Sailors Sect and local cult leaders like Siovili are examples of the strong association of Christianity with wealth and prosperity. The Sailors Sect included beachcombers and castaways who were befriended by Samoans for knowledge of the new prosperous God. Upon returning home Siovili, who traveled the Pacific on board a whaling ship in the mid-1820s, preached a message of prosperity; that adopting Christianity would bring the islanders the technology, wealth, and power of the European visitors. Strong interest in the wealth of the Christian God was one of the reasons for the early acceptance of Christianity in Samoa and many islands in the Pacific.5 It made Protestant Christianity more attractive to Pacific 5  Polynesian interest in guns, cloth, iron, ships, and so on, is widely contested. Caroline Ralston argues against the view that Polynesian millennial movements were motivated primarily by an extraordinary desire for European property. Nicholas Thomas suggests however that interest in material wealth does not mark a Polynesian thirst for a “western goods” as such but rather an interest in the indigenous forms of prestige and power that possession and deployment of those goods at once enabled and marked (see Thomas 1991; Ralston 1985, 150).

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Islanders than the monastic form of Christianity exemplified by Roman Catholic priests.6 The 1839 Literate Revolution in Samoa shows how literacy was seen as means of accessing the knowledge of the new God and His wealth (Parsonson 1967). European wealth as well as technology influenced Pacific Islanders in various ways. The introduction of steel and metal tools improved gardening, fishing, cooking, weaving, carving, and other means of supporting people’s livelihood. But not all European technology was good. European weaponry particularly the power of the guns certainly shifted the balance of power leading to more centralized forms of government in Polynesia. Missionaries condemned the trade of guns, but they were no less guilty of violence as they supported the rise of certain paramount chiefs in order to provide peace and stability. For them, centralized forms of government made it easier for communities to be evangelized. This was also the desire of Europeans who had a vested interest in trade. The rise of chiefly families such as Pomare in Tahiti, Kamehameha in Hawaii, and Taufa’āhau in Tonga, are examples of not just the political ambitions of these chiefly families, but of missionary and European political and economic maneuvering (Howe 1984). One of the most tragic examples of missionary deployment of violence in the Pacific occurred during the introduction of Christianity in the Marianas in the latter part of the sixteenth century. Local resistance led to attempts by Spanish Catholic missions to pacify the local population with the help of Spanish soldiers. Tragically, after an almost total extermination of the Chamorro people, the local resistance finally submitted (Hezel 1982). What began as a spiritual conquest ended as a military one. About 200 years later, the Protestants arrived led by the London Missionary Society (LMS) in 1796.7 Although it took decades for Christianity to make any real impact on some islands, many were receptive and some even anticipated and welcomed the new religion. By the end of 6  In the Marianas, the Solomon Islands as well as Samoa, the introduction of Catholic mission failed partly because of the lack of material wealth (Laracy 1976; Hezel 1982). 7  Beginning in Tahiti the LMS soon pioneered the evangelization of much of Polynesia including French Polynesia, the Cook Islands, Tonga, Fiji, and Samoa. The Wesleyan Methodist Mission Society (WMMS) and the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Mission (ABCFM) soon arrived. In 1839, the LMS continued west entering Melanesia via Southern Vanuatu, New Caledonia, and the Solomon Islands. Later the LMS and ABCFM turned to Micronesia in islands such as Tuvalu and Kiribati. They were later joined by the Presbyterian, the Anglican, and the resurgence of Roman Catholic missions.

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the nineteenth century, except in the highlands of Papua New Guinea, the whole of the Pacific was evangelized, making it one of the most successful in the history of Christianity.8 The Protestant evangelical missions of the nineteenth century thus ushered in a new era in the Pacific. The “coming of the light” spearheaded a deliberate effort to convert and transform Pacific peoples. Despite our ancestors’ ability to adapt, the arrival of Europeans presented for them a new direction that would change the course of history. European religion together with its remarkable material culture and advanced technology was portrayed as the superior civilization. This was the beginning of encounters that would change and transform Pacific peoples’ view of the world.

Christianity and its Secularized Worldview Before Christianity, Pacific societies believed that the world we live in is inherently imbued with the divine. In Samoa, our ancestors believed in Pulotu, a spiritual world where the creator god Tagaloa and other gods reside. But they also believed in lesser gods known as aitu who were largely ancestral and worshipped by families or individuals. These personal and family gods often materialized in nature, embodied in living animals and various species of fish (Stair 1897, 211–15). Samoans believed in a world that permeates with the divine. Land and nature are infused with the mana and sacredness of the gods. A Samoan tufuga fau va’a (canoe builder) would first pray to the gods before felling the tree to carve a canoe. The prayer is both of thanksgiving and an intercession for replenishment of what has been taken from nature (Efi 2008, 107). Pacific indigenous religions involved an expansive system of taboos including taboos on the land and the sea. The banning of certain animals or fish from consumption was because they embodied the spirits of the gods (Williams 1840, 149). The kapu system in Hawai’i reflects the extent of these taboos which in some cases were used to maintain social control (Malo 1951; Levi 1968). This relationship between humanity and nature

8  Although there were resistances and in some islands it took decades for Christianity to make any real impact, many islands were receptive and some even anticipated and welcomed this new religion.

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shows deep and divine connection. At the same time, it protected and sustained nature and the environment. In Samoa’s story of creation, Tagaloa is the ancestor of all living things. Tagaloa’s creation began with the separation of Lagi (heaven) and Papa (rock). From henceforth the birthing of the land, sea, trees, animals, fish, birds, and finally humans (Kamu 1996; Steubel et al. 1995; Turner 1884). According to Samoan belief, the human being is not an individual but part of the whole of creation. Humans thus share their genealogy with all living things and the environment. Humanity’s profound link to nature is seen in the Samoan words used to describe the natural world and parts of the human body. The Samoan word eleele refers to blood as well as to earth. The word palapala means blood as well as mud. The term fanua refers to land as well as to the placenta of a woman. When a child is born, the umbilical cord (fanua) is buried in the family land (fanua) to sustain the new-born’s spiritual connection to earth. Intrinsic to the Pacific worldview is the relational nature of human beings.9 In Samoa this relational nature is based on the concept of va tapuia or sacred space (Wendt 1999; cf. Efi 2011). Samoans recognized the importance of va tapuia not only between humans and the environment but also between and among humans. Humans are sacred beings as they are descendants of their divine ancestors. Their genealogy is also traced to the creator god Tagaloa. This divine view of humans is exemplified in the treatment of alii (high chiefs) and females in Samoan society. High chiefs and females as sisters encapsulated the ideals of honor, dignity, grace, and sacredness, in contrast to brothers and orators who represent more mundane instrumental qualities. High chiefs and Samoan women acted as spiritual mediums in their families (Aiono 2003). This dictated social relations within the aiga (extended family), where sisters are held in high esteem, and their brothers are to serve them with honor and respect. This relational nature extended to social and gender relations within the village and society as a whole 9  Debates on the relational nature of personhood in Oceania date back to Marcel Mauss and Maurice Leenhardt (see Clifford 1982). Later Marilyn Strathern (1988) stressed that in Oceania, people had a relational conception of personhood as opposed to the individual conception of the person in the west. Holly Wardlow (2006), among others, however, has criticized such dichotomized views of “us” versus “them” in relation to debates about personhood in Oceania and the west. She suggests the co-presence of dual modes of personhood, relational and individual.

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(Latai 2014). This relational nature is reciprocal and complementary, in contrast to the more individualistic western idea of personhood. The arrival of Christianity diminished this worldview that highlights the relational nature of humanity as well as its sacred connection to the environment. Since Christianity, the focus has been on the relationship between humanity and a spiritual entity that transcends the world we live in. An example of this is the focus on the afterlife and the perpetual efforts at redemption; to be in right relationship with that spiritual entity. Christianity severs the relationship between humans and the world they live in, but encourages connecting to an abstract spiritual entity. Christianity encourages humans to have dominion over nature and uses God to harness the forces of nature, instead of placing humans in reverential relationships with nature. The Jewish Christian tradition is about humans conquering nature; to control the forces of nature, to harness them, to be able to advance technologically in a materialist fashion, and to use nature and its resources for generating profit in a capitalist sense (Ehmer and Lis 2009). Missionary ideas about the world and environment are linked to Protestant ideas about work ethics and capitalism (Weber 2003). In Samoa, in the early days, the LMS wanted the church to be self-supported. Missionaries encouraged Samoans to be industrious and productive. They were taught to produce coconut oil and arrowroot which were donated to the LMS and sold in Britain for money (Hempenstall 2004, 247; Samoan Reporter 1849, 3). The land was seen as a resource and things of nature as commodities. Anything that is commodified can then be bought and sold. Missionaries emphasized a Christian life modeled on western civilization. Samoans were encouraged to be clothed; to walk, talk, and live like them. This was predicated on the idea that Pacific Islanders were “noble savages” who lived an inferior way of life. Hence missionaries came to lift them out of a life of evil and savagery. But in doing so, Pacific Islanders slowly became consumers of British goods. Missionaries’ emphasis on covering up the islanders was in line with the booming cotton industry, one of Britain’s biggest exports during the Industrial Revolution of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Farnie and David 2004). Christianity’s emphasis on redemption and salvation for the individual soul facilitated the rise of individualism in the west (Robbins 2015). Missionaries promoted this mode of personhood in their message of salvation. Missionaries and their wives also brought with them western ideas about gender where a certain western Christian form of patriarchy

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influenced Pacific societies, even to the present time. For example, the roles of men and women in the west were promoted by the missionary and his wife in the performance of their roles; the husband mainly in the public sphere while the wife concentrated in the private, taking care of the children, house-keeping, and other domestic duties. The missionary home became an exemplar of the ideal family, which included father, mother, and children (Latai 2014). This contrasted with the expansive idea of the aiga in Samoa, which included grandparents, uncles, aunties, and cousins. Throughout the Pacific, the missionaries’ strong emphasis on the role of women modeled on the ideals of women as “wife” in the Christian west has led to the diminishing status of Pacific women as sacred and powerful agents (Gailey 1980; Latai 2015). Similarly, missionary ideas of domestic life, of a nucleated family, have had an impact on Pacific concepts of family as extended and of the person as relational. With the rise of capitalism in the twentieth century and the rapid pace of globalization, these ideas about gender, family, and personhood have resulted in a more secularized and individualistic society. In visiting one of the families affected by the measles epidemic in Samoa, I realized how much these transformations in our ideas of personhood, gender, and family have impacted our people. Sina is 29 years old. She is married and already has seven children from the ages of 12 to a 6 months old baby. They live in her extended family land in a small dingy 2 meters by 6 meters square construction made of old timbers and rusted corrugated iron roof. When we visited, she has just been discharged from hospital with her 2 year old son and 6 months old baby who were both infected with the measles. She was carrying both of them, while her 5 other children were outside, playing in the dirt without supervision. She said that none of her kids were immunized when the measles spread. We asked if she’s been getting help from relatives. She said no, that they do their own things, even cook their own food. Her husband was away trying to get work again, as he had to take 3 weeks off to look after the kids while Sina was in the hospital. This was why she rang for some help.10

Samoans often pride themselves in our culture and communal society that take care of our people, but in Sina’s case, a young mother with many 10  I use an anonymous name for the young mother in this story. The visitation was part of the National Hospital in Samoa’s Mental Health Unit team with which I was a volunteer during the measles outbreak in Samoa.

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young children, the indigenous values of aiga are no longer available to support her and her family.

Conclusion In this chapter I set out to explore the new encounters facing our Pacific peoples today. We have learned how globalization together with the great advances in technology has greatly transformed our way of life. In the case of Samoa, we have also learned of the escalating challenges that come with such transformations. For many, the promise of an abundant life that came with the optimism of capitalism and Christianity continues to evade them. I also explored the pivotal role of Christianity in influencing our people. In introducing Christianity, missionaries inadvertently transformed the way we see the world which has resulted in a somewhat secularized view of the world and of humanity. What has transpired is an unsustainable trajectory for our people, and an increasingly individualistic society.

Works Cited Ah-Voa, Carol. 2011. Child sexual exploitation in the Pacific Islands. Child protection measures in the Pacific Islands. A discussion paper. Auckland: University of Auckland. Aiono, Fanaafi Le Tagaloa. 2003. Tapuai: Samoan worship. BA honours thesis, University of Otago. Anae, Melani. 2006. Polynesian panthers. New Zealand: Reed. Clifford, James. 1982. Person and myth: Maurice Leenhardt in the Melanesian world. Berkeley: University of California Press. Efi, Tui-Atua Tupua Tamasese. 2008. Su’esu’e Manogi: Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi and the Samoan indigenous reference. Samoa: Centre for Samoan Studies, National University of Samoa. ———. 2011. Su’esu’e Manogi  – In Search of Fragrance; Sufiga o le tuaoi: Negotiating boundaries  – From Beethoven to Tupac, the Pope to the Dalai Lama. Keynote Address, Samoa Conference II, NUS, Le Papaigalagala Campus, Vaivase, Samoa, July 5. Ehmer, Josef, and Catharina Lis, eds. 2009. The idea of work in Europe from antiquity to modern times. Derbyshire: Ashgate. Farnie, Douglas A., and Jeremy J. David. 2004. The fibre that changed the world: The cotton industry in international perspective, 1600–1990s. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Firth, Stewart, ed. 2006. Globalisation and governance in the Pacific Islands. Canberra: ANU E Press. Gailey, C.W. 1980. Putting down sisters and wives. In Women and colonisation: Anthropological Perspectives, ed. M.  Etienne and E.  Leacock, 294–322. New York: Praeger. Goodall, Norman. 1954. A history of the London missionary society 1895–1945. New York: Oxford University Press. Greenfield, Charlotte, and Jonathan Barrett. 2018. Payment due: Pacific Islands in the red as debts to China Mount. Reuters, July 31. Wellington/Sydney. https://www.r euters.com/ar ticle/us-­p acific-­d ebt-­c hina-­i nsight/ payment-­d ue-­p acific-­i slands-­i n-­t he-­r ed-­a s-­d ebts-­t o-­c hina-­m ount-­ idUSKBN1KK2J4 Hamilton, Linda. 1974. The political integration of the Samoan immigrants in New Zealand. MA thesis, Canterbury University. Hegarty, W. 1977. New Zealand immigration policy: The Tongan experience. MA thesis, Canterbury University. Hempenstall, Peter. 2004. Manuscript XV: ‘On missionaries and cultural change in Samoa’: Derek Freeman preparing for a ‘heretical’ life. The Journal of Pacific History 39.2 (241–250): 247. Herbert, Tania. 2007. Commercial sexual exploitation of children in the Solomon Islands: A report focusing on the presence of the logging industry in a remote region. Solomon Islands: Church of Melanesia. Hezel, Francis Xavier. 1982. From conversion to conquest: The early Spanish mission in the Marianas. The Journal of Pacific History 17 (3): 115–137. Howe, Kerry R. 1984. Where the waves fall. Sydney: George Allen & Unwin. Kamu, Lalomilo. 1996. The Samoan culture and the Christian Gospel. Apia: Methodist. Laracy, Hugh. 1976. Marists and Melanesians: A history of Catholic missions in the Solomon Islands. Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii. Latai, Latu. 2014. From open fale to mission houses: Negotiating the boundaries of ‘domesticity’ in Samoa. In Divine domesticities: Paradoxes of Christian modernities in Asia and the Pacific, ed. Margaret Jolly and Hyaeweol Choi, 229–323. Canberra: ANU Press. ———. 2015. Changing covenants in Samoa? From brothers and sisters to husbands and wives. Oceania 85 (1): 92–104. Levi, Stephenie Seto. 1968. The overthrow of the Kapu System in Hawaii. The Journal of the Polynesian Society 77 (4): 402–430. Luluaki, John Y. 2003. Sexual crimes against and exploitation of children and the law in Papua New Guinea. International Journal of Law, Policy and The Family 17 (3): 275–307.

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MacPherson, Cluny. 1996. Pacific Island identity and community. In Nga Patai: Racism and ethnicity in Aotearoa/New Zealand, ed. Paul Spoonley, Cluny Macpherson, and David Pearson. Auckland: Oxford University Press. Malo, David. 1951. Hawaiian antiquities. Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press. Mitchell, James. 2003. Immigration and national identity in 1970s New Zealand. PhD thesis, University of Otago. Parsonson, G.S. 1967. The literate revolution in Polynesia. The Journal of Pacific History 2: 39–57. Pesquer, Camille. 2016. Global study on sexual exploitation of children in travel and tourism, regional report, Pacific. ECPAT International. Netherlands and Bangkok (June 2016). Ralston, Caroline. 1985. Review. Pacific Studies 9.1 (November): 150. Robbins, Joel. 2015. Dumont’s hierarchical dynamism: Christianity and individualism revisited. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 5.1 (Spring): 173–195. Stair, John B. 1897. Old Samoa. Oxford: Religious Tract Society. Steubel, C., et  al. 1995. Tala o le vavau: The myths, legends and customs of old Samoa. New Zealand: Pasifika. Strathern, Marilyn. 1988. The gender of the gift: Problems with women and problems with society in Melanesia, Studies in Melanesian anthropology 6. Berkeley: University of California Press. Thomas, Nicholas. 1991. Entangled objects: Exchange, material culture, and colonialism in the Pacific. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Turner, George. 1884. Samoa: A hundred years ago and long before. London: London Missionary Society. Vaa, Leulu Felise. 2001. Saili Matagi: Samoan migrants in Australia. Suva: University of the South Pacific Institute of Pacific Studies and National University of Samoa. Wardlow, Holly. 2006. Wayward women: Sexuality and agency in a New Guinea society. Berkeley: University of California Press. Weber, Max. 2003 (1905). The protestant ethic and the spirit of capitalism. New York: Dover. Wendt, Albert. 1999. Afterword: Tatauing the post-colonial body. In Inside out: Literature, cultural politics, and identity in the New Pacific, ed. Vilisoni Hereniko and Rob Wilson, 399–412. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield. Williams, John. 1840. A narrative of missionary enterprises in the South Sea Islands. London: John Snow.

CHAPTER 12

Taulaga in the Samoan Church: Is It Wise Giving? Terry Pouono

A financial offering in the Samoan church is commonly known as taulaga, which can also be translated as “sacrifice.” In a broader sense, taulaga may also be applied in the context of worship, a communal sacrifice to God. Moreover, the church minister or pastor may also be given the unofficial title as taulaga mū (a burning sacrifice), an analogy depicting one who has given his life for God’s ministry. Despite the different nuances with theological expressions, taulaga is more commonly used to designate a sacrificial monetary offering to God through the church. Moreover, the various expressions of taulaga point to a common understanding, that is, taulaga is a sacrificial act or form of service performed to revere God. This chapter approaches taulaga in the Samoan church as a cultural text. American theologian Kevin J. Vanhoozer describes a cultural text as “any human work that … bears meaning and calls for interpretation” (2007a, 248). In the context of this chapter, the objective is to observe the depths of my chosen cultural text. With reference to Vanhoozer’s analytical model of cultural exegesis as a template, the topic will be investigated

T. Pouono (*) Laidlaw College, Auckland, New Zealand e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_12

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with a holistic, multidimensional approach looking into the “world behind the text, the world of the text, and the world in front of the text” (2007b, 48). These categories will be discussed in more detail later in the chapter. All things considered, a missional response with regard to the issue will be provided.

Overview The focus of my research is the practice of taulaga in the Congregational Christian Church Samoa (CCCS hereafter). From various circles, there are general concerns concerning the excessive giving of financial resources to church donations and church-related programs. These concerns are voiced mainly by the New Zealand-born cohort within the church, with a few voices from outside the Samoan church also. Contrary to these concerns is the inherent belief of the faithful parishioners that these contributions are a sacrifice to God, through God’s church. From this understanding, I will delve deeper into the Samoan epistemological understanding of sacrificial offering, or taulaga, underpinning an articulation of traditional discipleship within spiritual and socio-cultural spaces. Furthermore, by critically evaluating the transplanting of the CCCS in New Zealand, my contention is that the re-translating of taulaga in a contemporary, foreign context provides new challenges for the diaspora church. This is because taulaga to the church has placed many Samoan families in positions of social and economic marginalization. Issues such as financial hardships, loss of family homes, domestic violence, underachievement in schools, gambling, suicide, and other issues have affected many Samoan families affiliated with the CCCS.

The World Behind Taulaga To Vanhoozer, the world behind a cultural text alludes to the “background context from which a cultural text emerges” (2007b, 49). Another way of reviewing this is to identify key elements that have developed or evolved over time and that have shaped this cultural text. Due to the scope of my research, rather than presenting historical facts and events, I have chosen to investigate the Samoan worldview and belief systems as a premise for the act of giving. The application brings key questions into focus; why have large-scale donations become a common custom in the CCCS? What cultural and

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theological ideas form the premise for large-scale giving? This will be discussed further by surveying taulaga as fruits of hard work. In other words, one must go through a laborious, painful experience in order for one to experience the significance of the giving. I will also look at taulaga as an act that is carried out collectively as a community. A Painful Experience As mentioned earlier taulaga is synonymous with the word sacrifice, which denotes that the act of financial giving must involve some kind of painful experience. One could say that if there were no sweat and tears involved in earning the resources for a taulaga, then it would not be worth calling it taulaga and would just be a token act. Taulaga as a ritual sacrifice connects with tautua, the social, performative obligation to serve. Seiuli alludes to the fact that tautua (service) must be a painful experience in one’s quest to advance in the social hierarchical ladder. He writes, There is a well-known Samoan proverb which says: O le ala i le pule, o le tautua, “the pathway to leadership or authority is through service.” The philosophy communicated through this saying is that one cannot be a good or responsible leader unless one has felt the pain, sweat and sacrifice of serving as a faithful steward within the ‘āiga, nu’u, and Ekalesia (church). (Seiuli 2015, 49–50)

The more common relationship implied by this proverb is the sacrificial service offered by untitled men to the chief (matai) of the family, or on a larger scale, service of the community toward the chiefs of the village. An untitled man, or one who does not have a chiefly title, is required to work on a regular basis to serve the needs of the matai so he can receive a blessing, with the long-term goal being the honor of receiving the blessing to be a matai hence the saying—“service is the pathway to authority.” Samoan people are not unfamiliar with tautua (service). It is central to their cultural identity. The word tautua is made up of two words: Tau which means “to act or to do something” and tua which means behind or back (e.g. behind the house). Therefore, a definition of tautua is the action which is performed by someone from the back to the front where the matai (chief) is. The matai sits at the front of the house, while the family serves the food from the back of the house and takes it to the matai at the front. Everyone in society is taught to understand their roles and

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carry it out to the best of their ability, as evident in the various expressions of tautua such as tautua matavela—service which faces the heat of the fire on a daily basis—or tautua toto—sacrificial service where one gives his or her life to protect the family. Tautua is also vital in Samoan Christianity. If Samoa is founded on God (Faavae i le Atua Samoa, the motto on Samoa’s coat of arms) as is believed, then anything less than our best in our service within the CCCS is unacceptable. As with the untitled man who works hard so he can receive blessing or reward to be a matai, Samoan Christians believe it is important to work hard in the church in order to receive God’s blessings. From the perspective of the CCCS faithful, the crux of the matter is that strain is necessary and enduring it is a sign of good Christian character. It is associated with the theological belief that the believer will suffer for the sake of the gospel and through faith and perseverance will receive God’s blessings. Hence, when those who give sacrificially see the fruits of their work or the fruits of God’s blessings through the opening of a new church building, the calling of a family member for the pastoral ministry, or a child going to University, they are motivated to give more to God. A renewed sense of hope from a belief that they have been blessed by God vanquishes any pain of financial anxiety and hardship for families. A Communal-Relational Enterprise Anthropologist Paul Hiebert proposes a model showing how culture at the surface connects with the worldview undergirding it. Put another way, the core values of one’s worldview contribute to the interpretations of lived experience. Hiebert’s model proposes that human culture can be thought of as having levels ranging from the surface level, through a middle level characterized by belief systems, with the worldview at the deepest level (2008, 32–33). If I were to implement my cultural text into the model, the embodiment of culture as a superficial expression of the worldview is signified by the pattern of behavior—tautua, and the ritual of taulaga. The middle level is the domain of beliefs and values, evidence through reciprocal giving, communal love (alofa), respect (fa’aaloalo), social cohesion, and blessings. At the deepest level, the cosmological understanding of relationships is central to the Samoan indigenous worldview articulated through a socio-cultural paradigm called the va ̄. Albert Wendt, a renowned writer in Pacific Studies, writes that the “va ̄ is the space between, the betweenness, not empty space, not space that

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separates but space that relates, that holds separate entities and things together in the Unity-that-is-All, the space that is context, giving meaning to things” (Wendt 1999, 399–412). Holistically, the vā indicates a relationship or union with other people; family, village, land, titles, status, customs, traditions, inheritance, Pacific myths, personal stories, history, ancestors, and sacred objects. Harmony is sought when the va ̄ is treated with the utmost respect. The vā is fully realized when there is peace with oneself, harmony with the other person (or people), and harmony with the environment and with the cosmos (Efi 2008, 104). The interconnectedness of these different elements encompasses an identity molded by a mutual communion of an inclusive nature. René Descartes’ philosophical statement “I think, therefore I am” was to prove his logic that we exist based on the premise of the human capacity to think. In the Samoan worldview of cosmic community, one could say, “I am because we are.” One’s existence and identity are understood in relationship to the whole (Efi 2008, 172). The relationships in a Samoan world are reciprocal where the existence of each member is dependent on the relationship with the other (Efi 2008, 163–164). A socio-ecological model of the Samoan worldview is therefore cosmo-centric as opposed to anthropological (Efi 2008, 164). As mentioned previously, harmony is sought when the va ̄ is treated with the utmost respect. The Christian God fills the sacred space called the va ̄ tāpu’ia. The vā ta ̄pu’ia is originally a concept that denotes the sacred relationship between a brother and his sister. This union is based on respect. In Christian circles, the vā ta ̄pu’ia is a reciprocal relationship where the divine God is worshipped and respected, and in return, those who honor the va ̄ tāpu’ia will prosper. This aligns with Vanhoozer’s idea emphasizing that the three levels are reciprocally connected. From an understanding of the vā, taulaga as a sacrificial offering to God is not an individualistic religious activity, but holistically, it is a collective obligation and commitment by the church as a whole. With this in mind, all groups within the local churches contribute to the various types of offering. On Sundays, families contribute to the love offering for the church minister and the atina’e (to build or develop).1 Furthermore, there is the offering for the father’s and mother’s fellowship, Sunday school, youth group, and the choir. In preserving harmony in the va ̄ relationships, 1

 Atina’e is an offering that is dedicated to the operational costs of the ministry.

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it is the responsibility of all members of the network to commit to church programs and taulaga for the sustainability of the church. The preservation of the communal va ̄ relationships is beneficial for Samoan communities, because as families aspire to work together, social cohesion is promoted at different levels within the family, village, and church. On the contrary, social cohesion becomes problematic when the fundamental values of the vā are compromised by rivalry and competitiveness between families. Put another way, superfluous donations made by families to preserve integrity and honor, while bringing shame and disgrace to another family, negates the essence of the va ̄.

The World of Taulaga According to Vanhoozer, “the world of the cultural text refers to the particular way of being or doing life that the text embodies and displays and into which it invites us to enter and participate” (2007b, 50). What does the taulaga look like in the Samoan church? What impact does taulaga have on social, cultural, and political spaces? In the CCCS, the annual offering collected from all CCCS congregations worldwide is called the taulaga. The taulaga o le Talalelei2 and the taulaga o le Me ̄ are large-scale offerings collected from congregations in September and November for the affairs of the mother church. Why is the annual church donation called taulaga and not atina’e? This could be a clever ploy on behalf of the forefathers of the church, to instill in the heart of the members of CCCS that loyalty to the mother church is a sacrifice and thus calls its parishioners to an obligatory allegiance. Within the local churches, the parishioners contribute to many forms of taulaga. There is the alofa (love offering of the church minister, faife’au3), an offering for visiting preachers, financial gifts for the opening of a church building or church ministers house, donations to Sunday school, choir, and the youth fellowship. Furthermore, the church members also contribute financially to help families celebrating a wedding or mourning the passing of a loved one. This form of giving is very common in Samoan

2  A sacrificial offering collected in the first week of September commemorating the acceptance of the Christian gospel. 3  faife’au is the Samoan term given to a church minister. Fai means to do or to make and feau means chores or work, therefore Faife’au means “to do work.”

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cultural circles, where reciprocal giving is carried out regularly to help with families in need. Samoan churches play a major role in the drive for political and social stability on a national scale. Since political independence in 1962, the church and state have worked side by side on a mutual beneficial relationship, with members of the political government holding key positions within the church. Equally as important, but from a different vantage point, is the relationship between the church and village hierarchy upheld by the traditional matai (chief) system. The village leaders, like the political leaders of the Samoan government, also sustain prominent roles in the village church. In modern Samoa, it is not common, however, for government politicians and civil servants to be accredited with roles in all three social spaces signifying the shared roles of these key institutions in the social and political solidarity of the Samoan people (Macpherson and Macpherson 2011, 306). Despite the mutual relationship between the village church and traditional village leadership structures, and to a lesser extent the national political government, one key aspect that was emphasized in the research of Cluny and La’avasa Macpherson was the increasing likelihood of the Samoan people giving most of their resources to the church, rather than to village-related projects. The commitment of the Samoan people to church, combined with limited opportunities for investment into the village community, impacts both the village and national economies. The unrelenting commitment to the church can be proven by the ongoing dispute between the Samoan government and the Samoan-based church ministers of the Congregational Christian Church Samoa. On the 17th of June 2017, the Samoan government passed a law requiring ministers of the CCCS to pay tax.4 The reluctance of the church ministers to pay tax has had an impact on the national economy. Prior to this, the church ministers were exempt from paying tax based on the understanding that as representatives of God, their chosen vocation was seen more as a calling to serve God through the church, rather than a paid position of employment (Macpherson and Macpherson 2011, 306–307). The position of the church ministers was strongly supported by the church, and recent decisions made by the judicial system have also been in favor of the church. 4  2017 Income Tax Amendment No. 11 Samoa Ministry for Revenue (https://www.revenue.gov.ws/images/2015/Legislations/Amendments_Principal_Legislation/Income-­ TaxAmendment-­Act-2017-No.11.pdf)

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Looking beyond the socio-economic ramifications and political tensions, it is clearly apparent that the power of the Samoan church as an institution is colossal. The church is greatly supported by its members, who continue to sacrifice their services and resources for the church and pledge their allegiances to the church ministers when placed in a position of vulnerability by the government. This kind of loyalty to the Samoan church is no different in diaspora New Zealand, where the migrant community continue to preserve the core elements of the Samoan Christian identity.

The World in Front of Taulaga This hermeneutical step looks at what it is that we “appropriate when we accept cultural texts in a certain way of looking at the world and a certain way of being in the world” (Vanhoozer 2007b, 52). The world in front of the text investigates the various responses to taulaga within the CCCS. This will be addressed from the perspective of the diaspora church. The dedication of the Samoan migrants to the church is an ongoing phenomenon in a foreign land. Albert Wendt recognized the gradual growth of the migrant church in his documentary Auckland Fa’aSamoa: A Story of Samoans in the City (1982). Even though the Samoan community was still rather young in terms of its influence and impact in New Zealand society at the time, there were signs that the community was beginning to flourish. It has now been thirty-seven years since Albert Wendt’s documentary, and I am left asking if anything has changed since 1982. The answer is no and yes. The taulaga is still a key practice in the church, but what has changed are the amounts given. These have increased dramatically over the years to the point where families are unable to slow down, stop, and step back. In contemporary New Zealand, the practice of taulaga within Samoan Churches has been largely scrutinized for contributing to the cycle of poverty plaguing the very people who are giving. Initially, the accusations were largely directed at the church through the media, from outsiders including non-Pacific Islanders. Sadly though, in recent years, a gradual sense of animosity has grown from within the Pacific community. Much of the reaction is triggered by the effects of financial pressures on Samoan families. In many cases, the mounting pressure to meet financial obligations of the church have led to extreme measures taken by families by mortgaging their homes, seeking financial assistance from loan sharks,

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gambling, or turning to crime (MacPherson 2018). Families struggling to pay off a mortgage are more fortunate than families who have already lost their homes due to increasing debts (Prasad 2013). Loan sharks may provide temporary relief financially, but as the word “shark” implies, anyone caught in its grip may find it hard to get away. Other closely related issues such as domestic violence, gambling, underachievement in schools, and suicide have also affected many Samoan families in the Auckland region. Consequently, many families have either migrated elsewhere or changed religious affiliation to escape the strong arm of Samoan churches. Jemaima Tiatia provides a social-theological analysis of monetary offerings, stating that “the practice of the love offering made to the pastor places financial strain on the parishioners, providing young people with a motive to reject their traditional churches” (1998, 143; cf. Taule’ale’ausumai 2001, 185). The extent to which these actions have affected families may vary. For many, the financial hardships seem unbearable as they face continual hardships. The chances of some relief or even transformation from their present status seem unlikely, unless the CCCS reassesses its theological position and mission focus.

Taulaga in the Global, Contemporary World The practices of taulaga in the village context have been translated into the contemporary urban New Zealand context. Rather than being reinterpreted to adapt to the needs of the context, the processes of cultural traditions are maintained but the symbols have been altered. For example, the lifestyles of faife’au in pre-modern times were very simple, and the alofa was a very small financial contribution from the church people. Congregations looked after their faife’au by providing other resources such as coconuts, fruits, produce from the plantation, and cooked food. Things are different in the modern context. Schreiter calls this process “re-traditionalization” and states that traditions are not returned and re-enacted in pre-modern ways but are enlightened and translated in the postmodern context (Schreiter 2002, 29). With the re-traditionalization of Samoan Christianity in Aotearoa New Zealand, the concept of the vā is challenged by forces of the global world. The question is whether the CCCS is capable of reacting efficiently to these challenges? Where is the prophetic voice of the church? It is important to note that the issues mentioned above are not secluded, sporadic problems uncommon to the church. In fact, they contaminate the crux of the church

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community, its very own people (Pouono 2017). How can the church be a more relevant witness in these situations?

A Missional Response The Theology of Stewardship emphasizes that it is our responsibility as God’s stewards to look after God’s creation and everything in it. To protect God’s dominion is the responsibility of God’s followers, including the church leaders and decision makers of the CCCS. As stewards of God’s people, the church must first act as a community of love, forgiveness, and reconciliation. There needs to be an acknowledgment that social issues affecting Samoan people require a prophetic witness and a call to mission. For this process to take effect there also needs to be an acknowledgment of the limitations of existing ideas in dealing with new challenges and a need for further social-theological analysis and praxis. In view of traditional understanding of taulaga, I ponder over what suggestions I can make in the quest for a relevant theology for a just community? The belief of the Protestant tradition that the Kingdom of God is already present and is being realized in the course of history is based upon sayings of Jesus which stressed that the Kingdom of God is among us: Once Jesus was asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God was coming, and he answered, “The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is’! or ‘There it is’! For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.” (Luke 17: 20–21; NRSV)

The truth was revealed in Jesus’ earthly ministry when he ministered to the poor, the weak, and the marginalized of society. When he dined with Zacchaeus, fed the multitudes, healed the sick, and gave hope to the marginalized, he was dining with, giving life to, providing healing, and granting hope for citizens of God’s Kingdom. The kingdom is “opened up to the outcasts of society, a world restored, and lives and people transformed” (Chester 2004, 245). Should the practice of taulaga be revised or changed? My response is no, because it is a sacrificial act by the parishioners of the CCCS for God. In October 2017, my family left the CCCS so we could fulfill our mission to help the poor and marginalized of our own South Auckland community. Since moving away from the CCCS, I have become more appreciative and respectful of our people’s sacrificial commitment and taulaga for

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God. It is a gift that we have taken with us to our new faith community, and we are grateful for the nurturing. However, I do believe we can be faithful witnesses of the Kingdom of God in the twenty-first century while honoring the heritage of taulaga. MacPherson focused on the sociological impacts of the Samoan people investing their resources in the church (2011, 306). I suggest that the Samoan church, and every other church, should re-invest those resources to equip our people for the changing world. Taulaga should be more than just giving money to the church. Giving to God, in a broader sense, encompasses a holistic view of God’s ministry by worshipping God faithfully, feeding the homeless, promoting safe homes, or providing basic needs for the family. The Kingdom of God is also manifested by ensuring quality education for children, providing employment for church members, having an awareness of ecological and health issues, gaining a secure future and a safer society, participating in global relief programs, and many other ways. For the CCCS to become a truly prophetic church, it is vital for tradition to deal with the problem of a complex, global world.

Works Cited Chester, Andrew. 2004. Eschatology. In The Blackwell companion to modern theology, ed. Gareth Jones, 243–257. Malden: Blackwell. Efi, Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Taisi. 2008. In search of harmony: Peace in the Samoan indigenous religion. In Su’esu’e Manogi in search of fragrance Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Taisi and the Samoan indigenous reference, ed. Tamasailau M. Suaalii-Sauni et al., 104–114. Apia: National University of Samoa. Hiebert, Paul G. 2008. Transforming worldviews: An anthropological understanding of how people change. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic. MacPherson, Cluny. 2018. Pacific churches in New Zealand  – Challenges. Te Ara  – The encyclopedia of New Zealand. http://www.TeAra.govt.nz/en/ pacific-­churches-­in-­new-­zealand/page-­3. Accessed 11 Dec 2019. Macpherson, Cluny, and La’avasa Macpherson. 2011. Churches and the economy of Sāmoa. The Contemporary Pacific 23 (2): 304–337. www.jstor.org/ stable/23725519 Pouono, Terry. 2017. Replanting the transplanted Christian churches: Missio Dei and the twenty-first century diaspora Samoan church. Stimulus, April. https:// hail.to/laidlaw-­college/article/82nSLDv Prasad, Vanita. 2013. Pasifika pressure. Stuff, January 24. http://www.stuff. co.nz/auckland/local-­n ews/western-­l eader/8216852/Pasifika-­p ressure. Accessed 17 Dec 2019.

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Radio New Zealand. 2019. More Church Ministers charged for refusing to pay tax in Samoa. June 4. https://www.rnz.co.nz/international/pacific-­ news/391167/more-­church-­ministers-­charged-­for-­r efusing-­to-­pay-­tax-­in-­ samoa. Accessed 15 Dec 2019. Schreiter, Robert J. 2002. Globalization, postmodernity, and the new Catholicity. In For all people: Global theologies in contexts. Essays in honor of Viggo Mortensen, ed. Elsie Marie Wiberg Perderson, Holger Lam, and Peter Lodberg, 13–31. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Seiuli, Byron. 2015. Ua tafea le tau’ofe: Samoan cultural rituals through death and bereavement experiences. PhD thesis, University of Waikato. Taule’ale’ausumai, Feiloaiga. 2001. New religions, new identities: The changing contours of religious commitment. In Tangata o te Moana Nui: The evolving identities of Pacific peoples in Aotearoa/New Zealand, ed. Cluny Macpherson, Paul Spoonley, and Melani Anae, 181–195. Palmerston North: Dunmore. Tiatia, Jemaima. 1998. Caught between cultures: A New Zealand-Born Pacific Island perspective. Auckland: Christian Research Association. Vanhoozer, Kevin J. 2007a. Glossary of methodological terms. In Everyday theology: How to read cultural texts and interpret trends, ed. Kevin J.  Vanhoozer, Charles A.  Anderson, and Michael J.  Sleasman, 247–253. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic. ———. 2007b. What is everyday theology? How and why Christians should read culture. In Everyday theology: How to read cultural texts and interpret trends, ed. Kevin J.  Vanhoozer, Charles A.  Anderson, and Michael J.  Sleasman, 15–60. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic. Wendt, Albert. 1982. Auckland Fa’aSamoa. NZ On Screen. https://www.nzonscreen.com/title/new-­streets-­akld-­faa-­samoa-­1982. Accessed 23 Aug 2017. ———. 1999. Tatauing the post-colonial body. In Inside out: Literature, cultural politics, and identity in the New Pacific, ed. Vilsoni Hereniko and Rob Wilson, 399–412. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield.

CHAPTER 13

Unwrapping Theodicy Clive Robert Pearson

The question—“What then are we to preach?”—was unusually put. The way it was posed did not seem like we had stumbled into the field of theodicy. The question was not expressed in and through the normative categories of this stock theological problem: how do we speak about a God who is good and all-powerful in the presence of evil and undeserved suffering? There was no attempt to refine this form of the question. There was no reference to acknowledged expertise or authority in this much-­ traveled territory. There was no talk of the Lisbon earthquake (1755), the subsequent fire and the tidal wave that carried so many off to their deaths on a Sunday morning. Such a coincidence of natural disaster and timing (the day of worship) often accompanies an introduction to theodicy because it so insistently begs the question, “where was God?” The protest made by Voltaire against a deist God—seemingly oblivious to “[t]hese women, these infants heaped one upon the other, these limbs scattered beneath shattered marbles”—has effectively meant that the Lisbon earthquake has become the stock natural catastrophe around which theodicies have assembled subsequently (Hart 2009, 113).

C. R. Pearson (*) Public and Contextual Theology Research Centre of Charles Sturt University, Wagga Wagga, NSW, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_13

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Nor was the immediate setting of the question I faced that day due to some personal injury just sustained. Nor was it put in the manner of a trick question or one which was seeking to justify the ways of God in the face of the great anomaly—the suffering of an innocent child. There was no acting out of the well-known stand-off between Ivan and Aloysha in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov where Ivan delves into the tragedy of theodicy at a deeper level than Voltaire. The Lisbon earthquake was a natural disaster emanating out of a theology of creation. Ivan’s righteous sorrow is occasioned by human evil directed toward the innocent child. Voltaire’s dismissal of an easy optimism where “all is well” with the world gives way to Ivan’s handing back his “ticket” to [Christian] salvation. The question directed to me was less entangled. It was authentic and represented a genuine inquiry but, on the surface, it did not seem to be too much concerned with the problem of theodicy and its close relative, the doctrine of providence. It seemed to belong, more properly, to the field of homiletics. Except. The time and place: late afternoon in September in Funafuti. The sun was beginning to set; the possibility of a rainbow could be traced on the horizon: that particular understanding of the bow in the sky recollected interpretations of the covenant Yhwh made with Noah that the Earth would not be submerged again in a flood. The familiar rainbow possessed a hidden capacity to distance the possibility of a theodicy through the prospect of an interventionist God. In a kairos time of great concern the Noah covenant provided a solace and a mode of resistance: whether it was justified or a chimera, an illusion, is the issue. I was one of four theologians from the outside: we were fakalofa. I was conspicuous by being the one palagi (of White/European heritage) male in the group and, as such, somewhat conscious of being a corporate representative of colonialism. We were meeting with local members of the church, Ekalesia Kerisiano Tuvalu, to discuss its understanding of mission. In the background—and then in the foreground—were concerns surrounding climate change, rising sea levels, sustainability and displacement. In terms of method we were not seated on the floor engaged in the ebb and flow of a talanoa. I had been up on stage in lecture mode having just completed giving an account of the Anthropocene. I had been asked to speak on some subject at the last minute. The Anthropocene had not been a part of my original brief for participation in this consultation which was seeking to respond to the World Council of Church’s statement on mission. This still-be-ratified shift in geological eras and what it then implies

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for the Earth system sciences (with their feedbacks, loops and a cascade of tipping points) had been bothering me—all the more so now that my feet were actually on the ground of this low-lying, vulnerable atoll. The scholarly world had become inundated with talk of the Anthropocene across three broad areas—geology (and more especially stratigraphy), the Earth system sciences (more likely to be of more immediate relevance to the islanders) and the social sciences in general. The Earth has left behind the Holocene era which was marked by a relatively benign climate that allowed human cultures, great civilizations and world religions to take root and thrive. Variations within the climate occurred within reasonably understood and experienced confines, much like a meandering river flows from one bank to another. That time has either passed or is in the process of passing. The Earth and its interacting systems—the atmosphere, hydrosphere, lithosphere, cryosphere, pedosphere and biosphere—now inhabit a future that is without precedent. Are we on a trajectory toward a “Hothouse Earth” as Will Steffen et al. (2018) have suggested? This worrying step-change in the Earth’s history begs the question whether the Christian faith can translate itself across one paradigm—the Holocene—to another—the Anthropocene? I was mindful of how there are no analogues and no precedents for this new period in the history of the Earth. The vulnerability of the human species in this paradigm shift has already led some to pronounce its demise. The more precise dilemmas facing the Christian faith are profound. Michael Northcott and Peter Scott observe that in this new period “the Church and humanity face a genuinely novel occasion which ‘teaches new duties’.” The significance of this emerging locus for Christian thinking and action lies in the assumption that this new period goes right to the heart of belief. Northcott and Scott ask: is the “central theological question for this new occasion […] who is Jesus Christ in the Anthropocene?” (2014, 5). It is not uncommon for the problem of theodicy to raise its head again but in very different company. All of a sudden, a change in the way the Earth system is understood lifts theodicy out of abstraction and places it within the hard realism of climate justice and possible endings (eschatology). It manifests itself in how we understand what it means to be human and what constitutes creatureliness. It merges into the disturbing conundrum of whether it is still possible to subscribe to a belief in providence— or not? If so, does God’s care and benign purpose make any difference in an age where extinctions come and go as a consequence of the power of

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human agency upon our common home—the Earth. The purpose of a theodicy is not to defend God: it is “to justify God and the ways of God in a world of evil” (Meister 2012, 29) disasters and suffering. On account of its impact (both future and now) climate change is widely deemed to be a risk (or threat) multiplier. It lends itself to a nagging question for ethics: will the Anthropocene turn out to be “good” thanks to human creativity, bio-/ geo-engineering and a hard to imagine consensus of political will as ecomodernists hope? Or, is it more likely to be “bad and ugly”? (Dalby 2016). If it is bad and ugly what form will it take? How will the problem of theodicy be expressed? The islands of the liquid continent are especially at risk. The noted theorist of psychiatry, Robert Jay Lifton, has described the Marshall Islands as “this Job-like” nation (2017, 23). It is a description which has the potential to be applied to other groups of low-lying islands scattered across the moana. Lifton unknowingly imitates in some respects the case Tafue Lusama made with regard to Tuvalu. The language of theodicy is never mentioned—its place is taken by a desire to undermine a theory of divine retribution whereby the innocent assume they are being justly punished. Lusama senses the need to deal with the contemporary equivalents of Job’s false comforters while addressing the temptation for the innocent to blame themselves for their misfortune and believe that God is angry with them (2004, 95–100). None of the issues above are slight. I realized that I would need to proceed with caution. The Anthropocene at that time was unknown on Funafuti. It seems as if I was its reluctant missionary. Talk of such carried risks. The studies on climate denial and the psychology of climate change have shown that the threat to existing lifestyles can lead to psychic numbing—the problem is so large, I/we am/are so small, nothing is done—or fear. What has not been explored yet is the intersection of theodicy and grief. It is a sensitive subject given the capacity for anger and a postcolonial critique of what has come to pass. The sensitivity lies not in not holding to account the exploitative past of western imperial powers and the capitalist order that has benefitted most from carbon emissions. Nor does it hold back from raising a strident complaint against the political economy of China and India. These things are accepted: they remain an all-too-human aspect of moral injustice that continues to contribute to the likelihood of theodicy. The anger and (righteous) indignation cannot rest there, though. The problem of theodicy which the Anthropocene presents is of a different, more deep-seated and ultimately more serious disorder. This

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emerging theodicy is one that affects the whole human species and all other life-forms. There was yet a further dimension of risk that bothered me as I rose to speak. Was there not a risk of universalizing the threat embraced in the very definition of the Anthropocene—the Age of Humans—at the expense of the particularity of Tuvalu? The tendency of any talk about the Anthropocene is to show, rightly, a concern for the human species as a whole. It can readily sublimate questions of causality and accountability within a language of a perfect moral storm and a moral tragedy, however. It runs the risk of masking climate injustice and rendering the problem of theodicy as generic. And then there was my lack of lived familiarity and awareness of these islands’ cultures and their muna o te fale. Was the subject matter of the Anthropocene—and its theodicy-bearing message—or just another expression of a western science imposing its account of what was happening to the climate? Was it not doing so in the equivalent of a foreign language (a mix of semi-digested science and theology) that was far removed from traditional and customary forms of knowledge? I made the decision to proceed with my lecture, only a little uneasily because not to do so would also have lacked integrity and a semblance of truthfulness. The invitation to speak had been made: the audience had come. The public lecture was intended to be as user-friendly in the circumstances as was possible. There was no desire to be apocalyptic in the popular sense of the word found in the cinematic form of The Day After Tomorrow. The subject content was Anthropocene-lite, but the Anthropocene nevertheless. At its close one of the pastors posed a question that has become a companion text ever since: “What then are we to preach?” At first hearing this question sounds like an invitation to deliver a preaching class. It is not, of course. Without making this connection the pastor’s enquiry echoed the title of lectures delivered by the “master preacher,” Thomas Long (2011), an erstwhile Professor of Homiletics, on the theme of evil, suffering and the crisis of faith. Long’s question as he peered into the “theological Sargasso Sea in which no good ship of faith can survive” is “what shall we say?” What lies beyond a ministry of presence to those afflicted by the howl of personal or public tragedy? The pastor’s question was multi-layered. The language of the Anthropocene resonated sufficiently with what he knew from experience about rising sea levels, the invasion of king tides the compromising of the

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pulaka crop and drought. The uncertainty over what to preach intimated an unfolding crisis of meaning-making; maybe it also disclosed a still dull awareness of how the usual biblical texts and themes to address these threats were not convincing. Perhaps, the pastor was dancing around the edges of a very contemporary and localized form of the problem of theodicy. I had come to Tuvalu well aware of the work and global acclaim that had been afforded to Antone Tong in his capacity as President of Kiribati. The two island groups are often mentioned together as icons of climate change and lead voices, along with the Marshall Islands, in the association of small island states. On his arrival in New  York for a climate summit Tong had declared his people (and by extension those of Tuvalu) to be “the polar bears of the Pacific.” That imagery had been designed to be affective. Tong had realized that the potential fate of polar bears due to the loss of ice in the far north of the planet attracted the kind of empathetic resonance that endangered islands seemingly could not. It worked. The polar bears of the Pacific became a media headline. One of the symbols Tong identified in the subsequent coverage of Kiribati was of a church now permanently surrounded by the sea. Tong had given instructions for it to remain standing as a witness, a testimony, to rising sea levels and the indifference of a wider world (Pearson 2019). The polar bear analogy, the church in the water and the disorienting question to do with preaching hardly seem like the most obvious conduits into the rather alien landscape of theodicy. What would be more obvious is the haunting cry of parents like Ms Lameko who have lost a child (Mina) in the measles epidemic in Samoa: “I don’t really accept it. Why, God? Why my baby?” (Kwai 2019). Here the narrative becomes more personal, individually named, and a cry—Upolu Vaai suggests not unlike Rachel weeping for her children (Mika 2019)—sounds out to God in protest and despair. The loss of meaning is particular to a readily identifiable family. Its tragedy resonates well beyond the confines of individual loss, though. Ms Lameko’s weeping and cri de coeur speaks to a wider public—and, this instance, it does so out of a common tragedy being experienced in Samoa. The highly personal nature of a lived theodicy means that its full force is not likely to hit until the adverse effects of some natural disaster or moral evil strikes. The word theodicy has probably not been translated into the traditional languages of Oceania and tagata Pasifika. It is not likely to be expressed, then, but it lies there, just beneath the surface, whenever a “why?” is asked in response to suffering, the death of a child or sudden

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loss due to an earthquake, a tsunami, a cyclone. It is similarly present whenever a woman or child suffers from domestic abuse. The problem of theodicy is pervasive even where and when it is never named. It may come in the hope Hawea Jackson expressed for the mokopuna (grandchildren) in Niue: would they “share the beauty of nature that we have shared of what is left for us?” (1997, 35). It is not difficult to create a list of incidents that can generate the rudiments of a theodicy. Writing on Job and Evil Espen Dahl began with a list which he says could continue on for some time. The benefit of such lists enables us to capture aspects of undeserved suffering and situate them within the providence of a God and a rather ambiguous set of divine attributes (Dahl 2019, 1–2). None of these potential conduits imagine any of the different types of theodicy that have duly arisen—that is, theodicies of punishment, soul-­ making, the preservation of free will and lament/protest. Nor do they express the common pastoral response to underserved suffering and accident: “why me?” It has been observed that this question—why me?—is not really waiting upon an answer. It is more of an exclamation. These exemplary conduits are more indirect. They emerge out of experience and perception, and they carry stories. They exist within narratives. They betray curiosity and uncertainty along with a sense of foreboding, menace, threat and a partially realized urgency. They are bearers of theodicy, nevertheless, without that word ever being used. The polar bear analogy employed by Tong was, of course, a public relations masterpiece. It was designed to seek attention and secure support—and it achieved its result. It was effectively a mix of the media and the political. The other two—the abandoned church and the seemingly homiletic question—are of a different order. One in a passive form, the other in an active mood aspire after meaning: they desire a specifically theological meaning inasmuch as the church building and the sermon are core foundation blocks of Christian belief and its proclamation.

Framing Theodicy In the classical theology of the West, the problem of theodicy is expressed by way of a syllogism: if God is good and evil exists, then how can God be all-powerful? If God is all-powerful and evil exists, then how can God be good? The trilemma held together in the syllogism itself is not peculiar to the Christian faith. Its classic expression was the work of the Greek

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philosopher Epicurus whose thoughts on the matter passed into the Christian repository of belief through Lactantius in the fourth century (Dahl 2019, 5). It is a philosophical syllogism far removed from the proverbial, poetic and parabolic wisdom of oral cultures. It differs in its mode of expression from the physicality of a fatele. It is a syllogism that accompanies a monotheistic faith. It is less of a problem if there is a pantheon of many gods where one might be a source of good, while others dispense various forms of the opposite. This discharge of evil, pain or suffering might then be seen as the work of evil spirits or another god. In a variation of such the problem is modified if there is a cosmic dualism where there is an ever-present conflict between two opposing forces. It is thus possible to manipulate the trilemma in a way in which one of the three legs upon which it stands is destabilized but, in a strange way, the problem of theodicy (though not named) is resilient: it remains in some form or other. If God is absolved of the evil or injurious deed—and another deity or spirit is to be blamed—then was God not powerful enough in the first place? Or, did not God care enough? Or, is there a hiddenness to this so-called God of love and mercy who gives a tacit permission to the deed and cannot then escape from some degree of responsibility? It is arguably the case that post-Christian Pasifikans might remove the charge against God altogether through an acceptance of atheism. That is a distinct possibility to be considered as a consequence of the global flows of information, technology and peoples. There would then be no need to hold the troublesome elements of the originating syllogism together. It could be dispensed with—though its eclipse would not remove the problem of suffering and the mystery of “why.” The noted philosopher of the Anthropocene, Clive Hamilton, for instance, still wrestles with the shape and implications of a secular theodicy when the existence and purposes of God are dispensed with (2016, 233–238). The problem of evil—and hence how then can we speak of a God of moral good—has many faces. At its most basic level it represents an absence of that which is deemed to be good. It represents a rupture of dysfunction in being able to take for granted the routine order of things where the way in which a community lives in the world has made sense. Dahl has noted how the problem of theodicy surmises evil, suffering and pain. These words bear witness to the eclipse of the good, health and well-­ being. For all the familiarity of the elements that make up this problem the term theodicy is seldom used in Oceania.

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Finding a Foil The framework paper on the need for a theology of disaster resilience in a changing climate bearing the imprint of UnitingWorld (2019) likewise does not mention the category of theodicy. For the theological perfectionist, that is disappointing but understandable. The failure to use the term does not diminish how useful a platform this document is for demonstrating the urgent necessity for some probing theological work to be done which goes beyond reference back to “The Bible and disasters” and the inclusion of Pasifika wisdom. It furnishes in the process a foil that allows the shape of a theodicy to emerge. The paper recognizes that “[d]isasters come in many forms.” It identifies how the Bible “records many kinds of disaster”—some deemed to be declared as “God sent or divine judgement,” others where God is not reckoned to be the cause. It is further conceded that the Bible “does not provide easy explanations for causes” as well as due recognition of how “Christians are affected by disasters as much as anyone else.” They are not “immune to suffering or disaster” (Carroll 2019, 3). In terms of causality the authors envisaged disasters being “a consequence of broken relationships” (Carroll 2019, 4). The scope of the paper falls upon resilience and climate change. The current ecological crisis is described as a “reflection of our broken relationship with God, each other, and the creation.” That brokenness has come about through the failure to be “good custodians” of God’s good creation and to care for our fellow human beings. The accent on this particular discussion on confronting suffering and adversity is on preparedness, risk management and resilience, especially the capacity to “bounce back into a normalcy.” The rhetoric becomes one of governance, responsibility, accountability and partnership. The practice of being prepared and able to meet the threat of disaster placed on the potential of the church as “an organized community of believers” (Carroll 2019, 8). For a faithful delivery of practice five key principles are privileged: the whole Earth community “are all members of the oikos of God”; disaster resilience must be inclusive on account of the dignity and respect bestowed on each person and enjoyed as a basic human right; preparedness must be active rather than passive and such activism is consistent with a “prayerful and discerning discipleship”; Pasifika knowledge and wisdom mediated through the “ability to read the signs of the natural environment, traditional symbols and traditional methods of mitigation and

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adaptation” will help “navigate the current time”; and a prophetic voice must address issues pertaining to climate injustice (Carroll 2019, 9–11). This document is well constructed. It deals with the implications of theodicy while it embeds at the same time a set of familiar questions: “Why has this happened? Is a disaster God’s punishment for sin? Why would an all-powerful, loving God allow disasters to happen?” (Carroll 2019, 3). At the heart of these questions is a much more fundamental one: what is the nature and character of God? Without using the word theodicy, the problem has been identified. The organizing principle for this theological plan is one of preparedness. It is viewed in the light of waiting, making ready for the kingdom of God and being actively engaged in continuing Jesus’ mission in the world. It is essentially a response but one that operates within a world of immanence. The focus is understandably on human agency. The fundamental question to do with nature and the character of God—hence the syllogism at the heart of the puzzle of theodicy—is left untouched. The writers effectively converted the transcendent dimension of the problem into a middle axiom. The resurrection of Jesus becomes a symbol of hope and resilience’s capacity for bounce back/forward. A groaning creation takes the place of the cross. The theology that accompanied this set of questions and the praxis of resilience could be seen as a response to the Tuvaluan pastor’s question: what are we to preach? It is a biblical rather than a systematic or philosophical theology. The text provides a mosaic of readings upon which a series of authentic and relevant sermons could be preached. In cultures where the Bible is a formative influence, congregations would find themselves better prepared for disaster and personal setback. They would be set free from texts which leave them at the mercy of being subject to divine retribution—why is God angry with us? The Noah covenant might give way to an emphasis upon how Noah prepared for the flood. There is a place for that in this local theodicy because of the relative absence of the topic from an Oceanic contextual theology. That is a task still waiting to be done. The fact of the matter is that the problem of theodicy will never be satisfactorily answered. It is likely that a bad and ugly Anthropocene will present the problem with greater frequency and intensity. The benefit of wrestling with the syllogism taken from an alien culture is that it can disclose a range of typologies and reveal the problem’s apophatic function. The critical task discerned in Lusama’s thesis and the framework paper on resilience was the need to free members of island

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churches from theories of retribution and the belief that the innocent are somehow at fault. The apophatic way is a way of negation and denial: it can declare in this instance that “God is not angry with us” and assume that the fault does not lie with us. The typology of retribution exists alongside other types of theodicy ranging from how suffering may lead to character through to theodicies that are howls of protest. Hart distances the Christian faith from any attempt to present a neatly packaged answer to the problem of theodicy. In the aftermath of the earthquake and tsunami that wreaked havoc through the lands bordering the Indian Ocean he maintained “a rage against explanation” and all forms of manipulative “emotional and rhetorical opportunism” (Hart 2003, 7). There is no merit in any semblance of detached, long-distance predestination to explain away catastrophe and reconcile the power and goodness of God. What the framework paper did not do was dwell more fully upon a Christological resonance. That possibility—and maybe a theological imperative—can be felt in two ways. Its reference to the suffering and cross of Christ was largely in passing rather than deliberate and in depth. The rejection Jesus knew did not become an intimation of the wounded and crucified God. The Garden of Gethsemane gave way too quickly to the empty tomb. There was no Holy Saturday and its plumbing the silence and abyss of death. The passion narrative was not allowed to weave its way in and through the call for a prophetic voice and likewise the employment of Pasifika knowledge and wisdom. Its transcendence was left to one side in the interests of a faithful activism. Our desire “to do,” to act justly and put things right (for all the best reasons) does not allow us to inhabit well this problem of theodicy. The second route presupposes the first. One of the surprises of a formal Christology is how little the title of Emmanuel is invoked. Its absence is noted by only a handful of theologians. One of the features of an Oceanic and Pasifika theology is the close attention it pays to the etymology and meanings of words. Emmanuel = God with us/with us to the close of the age. These lines taken from Matthew’s gospel are not meant as a sop for a problem too hard to solve. They do allow us to imagine that in some hidden way (freighted with eschatology perhaps) that the Christ Jesus evoked in the so-called theology of disaster resilience is with us, even when there is no bounce back/forward.

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Works Cited Carroll, Seforosa, ed. 2019. A theology of disaster resilience in a changing climate. Sydney: UnitingWorld. Dahl, Espen. 2019. The problem of job and the problem of evil. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dalby, Simon. 2016. Framing the Anthropocene: The good, the bad and the ugly. The Anthropocene Review 3 (1): 33–51. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 2053019615618681. Hamilton, Clive. 2016. The theodicy of the good Anthropocene. Environmental Humanities 71: 233–238. Hart, David Bentley. 2003. The doors of the sea: Where was god in the tsunami? Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. ———. 2009. In the aftermath: Provocations and laments. Grand Rapids/ Cambridge: Eerdmans. Jackson, Hawea. 1997. Ecotheology: The voice from the land and the environment. B. Theol dissertation, University of Otago. Kwai, Isabella. 2019. ‘Why my baby?’: How measles Robbed Samoa of its young. The New York Times, December 19. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/12/19/ world/asia/samoa-­measles.html Lifton, Robert Jay. 2017. The climate swerve: Reflections on mind, hope and survival. New York: The New Press. Long, Thomas G. 2011. What shall we say? Evil, suffering and the crisis of faith. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Lusama, Tafue. 2004. Punishment of the innocent: The problem of global warming with special reference to Tuvalu. Master of Religion thesis, Tainan Theological Seminary. Meister, Chad. 2012. Evil: A guide for the perplexed. London/New York: Continuum. Mika, Talaia. 2019. Theologian talks measles, God and Christmas. Samoa Observer, December 23. https://www.samoaobserver.ws/category/samoa/55136?fbcli d=IwAR2gpBq0Rh0Cbat7fQwnOfmPgVUyPSgjsO0IW04jLVYfKbz caGtcFDbGt_w Northcott, Michael S., and Peter M. Scott. 2014. Systematic theology and climate change: Ecumenical perspectives. New York: Routledge. Pearson, Clive. 2019. Acting justly in the Anthropocene: Considering the case for a Christian social ethic. In Enacting a public theology, ed. Clive Pearson, 87–98. Stellenbosch: SUN. Steffen, Will et  al. 2018. Trajectories of the earth system in the Anthropocene. PNAS (Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America). Perspective, July 6. https://www.pnas.org/content/pnas/115/ 33/8252.full.pdf. Accessed 1 Nov 2018.

CHAPTER 14

Church as Feagaiga: A Fa ̄iā Reading of Romans 13:1–7 Fatilua Fatilua

Church-State relation has long been a prominent feature of Samoan democracy. When Samoa first approved its Constitution in 1961, language alluding to Christianity appeared in the preamble. The decision to insert it in the preamble underscored a degree of uncertainty with respect to the integration of Christianity within the newly formed democracy. Anticipating a tenuous outcome, the founding fathers of the then Independent State of Western Samoa1 came up with a forward-looking decision. By only referring to it in the preamble, the founding fathers provided space and fluidity needed to adapt and adjust as needed. The decision also reflects the sense of reverence and deference that the Samoan culture continues to hold for Christianity in general. In a culture that is steeped in religion and faith, it was only reasonable for the founding 1  This was the official name when Samoa became independent in 1962. In 1997, Samoa dropped the “western” from its official name and is now officially, the Independent State of Samoa.

F. Fatilua (*) Pacific Theological College, Suva, Fiji e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_14

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fathers to afford space for Church-State relation in the newly emerged Island nation to develop. Navigating Church-State relation is a sensitive issue that warranted some political flexibility and maneuverability. More than half a century later, the Samoan government in 2017 passed an amendment that changed all that. At first glance, transferring the clause on Christianity from the preamble and inserting it in the main body of the Constitution appears to be state-endorsement of Christianity in Samoa. A deeper look however reveals that there is much to be concerned about. Particularly disconcerting is the heightened degree of uncertainty on how this might adversely affect religious freedom in the country. As some commentators argue, the new law could alienate other religions (Kama 2017) and weaken religious freedom and non-discrimination in Samoa, which are indispensable pillars in any modern democracy. By virtue of the amended Constitution, the State defines what Christianity is and as a consequence what religion is. Whether intended or not, this has seriously marginalized religious institutions in Samoa. The continuing marginalization of religious institutions is further evident in the 2017 law to tax all church ministers. Touted as a revenue seeking tax, the government argued that it would help assist with much needed public programs including health care, education, and road developments (Feagaimaalii-Luamanu 2017). The underscoring argument noted that church members across the country also reap the benefits of government-­ sponsored programs. Taxing church ministers was only fair to provide for the common good of society. The ensuing debate on the taxation law revealed deep-seated sentiment concerning the long-standing relationship between Church and State. Perhaps, a clear indication of this was captured in Prime Minister Tuilaepa Sailele Malielegaoi’s response cited in the Samoa Observer, in which he claimed that Paul made it very clear that all authorities are from God … All authorities in all [organizations] in the world are of God. So those people who reject such authorities in these [organizations] are against God… Therefore pay your taxes. (Likou 2017)

Prime Minister Malielegaoi’s response is important for many reasons. First it highlights how the leaders of the Samoan government employ the Bible for political leverage. With Christianity making up the majority of the population, the Bible has a strong influence on public opinion in

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Samoa. That the Samoan government holds a particular interpretation of Paul’s injunction for Christians to submit to governing authorities is cause for concern. Clearly for them, the role of the Church is defined and particular. That is, the Church is to submit to government. It is a view that confines and restricts the role of the Church in society. Finally, providing justification based on a dominant interpretation of Romans 13 calls into consideration questions of power and authority between Church and State. But is there another way to view Paul’s injunction? Is there another way to interpret Romans 13:1–7  in light of the relationship between Church and State in Samoa? As a Samoan living abroad, in-between places, I explore another way to read the passage in light of the situation in Samoa. This chapter explores the nature and dynamics of church-state relationship in Samoa, in light of Romans 13:1–7. While it is not a complete Pauline statement on the matter, Romans 13 has played an important role in shaping and influencing Christian political thoughts and responses (Vasquez 2012). At the end of this exploration, the aim is to offer some critical observations for ongoing discussion.

Faī a-̄ i-upu-ma-fatua’iupu Approach

For the purpose of this essay, I use the fa ̄ia ̄-i-upu-ma-fatua’iupu (connections using words and word constructions) approach. This approach, hereinafter referred to as fāia ̄ approach, is my appropriation of sociorhetorical interpretation (SRI) integrated with a Samoan indigenous concept. This is made possible by the multi-method nature of SRI allowing for different approaches to engage in conversation and dialogue with each other. In particular, this essay employs different textures in SRI including inner texture, intertexture, social and cultural texture, and ideological texture, to explore relations in the text and also establish connections where there is space or ambiguities in the text. The approach in this essay allows me to explore connections between my social location and the text, recognizing value in the multiplicity of views, spaces in between, and gaps in the text. My social location is in effect an integration of my western education and experience, with my Samoan-ness. From this point, I offer an alternative reading of an otherwise problematic text.

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Elements of the Fāiā Approach To understand this approach further, I describe below some of its key elements. The word fāiā, defined as bridge (Pratt 1911, 126), conveys a sense of connection or relation among things isolated and separated. It usually describes familial relations. A disconnection often emerges though between its normative and empirical aspects. The same interconnectedness we have to everything else can be utilized instead for the sake of one’s own family. Fāiā is more than this. As used in this essay, fāiā signifies an interconnectedness that holds everything together for better or for worse. The emphasis is on rhetorical and human relations as well as institutional, social, cultural, economic, and political connections. In the phrase fa ̄ia ̄-i-upu-ma-fatua’iupu, the term upu (word; Pratt 1911, 72) underscores the usefulness of language, the words used, and the different part of speech. The Samoan saying e pala le ma’a ae le pala le tala (stones decay but words remain) undergirds the value of upu in the search for meaning. Fatua’iupu2 (keepers of myths) historically was known to be the repository of traditional knowledge including chants, songs, and other traditional compositions (Refiti 2015, 52; Aiono 1996). Etymologically, it is made up of two words—upu and fatua’i (to construct). Fatua’i comes from the root fatu (heart, core). It carries the sense of seeking to “commit to memory” (Pratt 1911, 137), commit to heart. In bridging the past and future, remembrance is crucial. This notion is further evident in the explanation by Fanaafi Le Tagaloa Aiono (1996, 2): The Fatua’iupu of yore seemed such enlightened and tolerant beings, ever ready to hear different views and versions, but always insisting in the “life-­ justification proof[”] the life-sources or lagisoifua of the particular statement and opinion. It does not matter how outlandish my view or claim the Fatua’iupu would merely request that I play the life-giving poem of my views or the lagisoifua.3 2  According to Samoan tradition, fatua’iupu was the name given to the descendants of chief Tauanu’u of the Manu’a island in Samoa, who was appointed by the Tui Manu’a (King of Manu’a) to be the keeper of traditions for the King. See Powell & Fraser (1892) cited in Refiti (2015) for more discussion of the Tauanu’u designation as the fatua’iupu for the Tui Manu’a. In modern days, the term Fatua’iupu is often employed in association with efforts by government and educational institutions to revive and preserve Samoan traditions and language. 3  The italics are added in the quote for consistency.

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The above quote highlights two important aspects of fatua’iupu that are incorporated in this essay. First, fatua’iupu connects oral tradition and written history. In this regard, remembrance is crucial. Memory is not just to romanticize the past but also to invite and/or encourage adaptations and/or rethinking possibilities and changes. A crucial element is self-­ reflection and adaptation. Second, fatua’iupu is about accountability. The “insistence on life-­ sources or lagisoifua” invites the interpreter to demonstrate the connection between interpretation and real-life experience, bridging interpretation and reality. This is similar to what Jan Botha calls the “ethics of interpretation.” While it remains elusive, “one aspect of an ethics of interpretation is the insistence that people should take responsibility and accept public accountability for their acts of reading and interpretation. It calls for an interpretation with a view to life” (Botha 1994, 4). The fāiā approach is more than simply connecting multiple worlds, making connections between textual framings, or identifying cultural, social, and political relations within the text. It is also about connecting the interconnectedness embedded within the text to my lagisoifua, my life-source, my experience. This is where I find SRI helpful. The multi-method nature of SRI allows for establishing connections. In this manner, I employ the different textures of the text to establish connections. It is also by focusing on the connection between the different textures that the scope of the analysis is reduced to manageable units. Otherwise, given the relational aspect of the fa ̄iā approach, one could run into the problem of including everything and anything. Fāiā in the Text Looking at the text of Romans 13:1–7, certain things are obvious. One of the main subjects of interest is the Greek word ἐξουσία (authority, right, power, official)4 which according to William Danker gives the sense of a “bearer of ruling authority” (2000, 352) or according to Jan Botha, the 4  There has been scholarly debate whether ἐξουσία in verse 3 also refers to angelic powers (Boyer 1987). I concur with both Boyer and Stein (1989) that Paul here is referring to earthly authorities. It is only in the disputed Pauline letters that one finds reference to the invisible powers. Moreover, the connection between authorities and taxation in verse 6 is a strong indication that ἐξουσία refers to earthly authority.

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notion of “those persons who have the authority to rule or govern” (1994, 42). It does not, however, stipulate legitimacy, nor the right to interpret laws, or cause someone to be under the authority of someone else (Botha 1994, 42–43). Rather, the emphasis seems to be on its connection to another Greek word θεός (God). All six occurrences of “God” (NRSV) underscore some sort of fāia ̄ with the notion of authority. In verse 1, God is the source of authority. In verse 2, those in authority are appointed by God, and in verses 4 and 5, they are servants of God. In this regard, verse 1 establishes the fa ̄ia ̄ of interest-between “every soul” and “governing authorities.” There is much to be desired in the fa ̄ia ̄ though. For example, is submission absolute? Or, how is the fāia ̄ to be understood when those in authority show blatant disregard for democracy, for the common good? In this sense, ambiguities start to creep in. Verses 2–4 constitute the middle of the passage signaled by the strategic placement of the Greek conjunction ὥστε5 (so that) which introduces an independent clause based on verse 1. The middle segment in this regard reemphasizes the fāia ̄ in the opening. It adds to the anticipation of more to come so that in the closing segment (verses 5–7), the progression of the argument moves from a single, linear fāia ̄ to a multi-layered configuration. A connection can be made between conscience, wrath, taxes, and honor, although the nature and contours are not defined. The link seems to be the Greek word συνείδησις (conscience). Based on the pivotal assertion that God provides the basis of all authorities, the supporting statement is to submit to the authorities out of conscience. This is the “middle-step” of discernment that Jon Isaak argues “involves reflection and assessment” (Isaak 2003, 41–42). Subsequently, I ask the question, what standard is provided to inform assessment? This is where remembrance and memory are crucial. In this regard, I claim that the letter to the Romans was crafted with some understanding that it was to be spoken, to be read in sequence. Lee A. Johnson’s (2017) discussion of Pauline letters offers an interesting claim regarding the important role of those that were given the responsibility of letter carriers. Using performance criticism, Johnson makes the claim that these letter carriers were not only responsible for delivering the letter but were also 5  According to Danker, it usually indicates two things. First, when it introduces an independent clause, the word has a range of meaning including “for this reason,” “therefore,” “so” (Danker 2000, 1107). Second, when it introduces a dependent clause, it indicates an actual result, and therefore, it can be translated into English as “so that.”

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responsible for its performance before the recipients. This adds support to the idea that letter writing was crafted with this in mind. It was deliberate and intended to incite and provoke certain responses from the recipients. Moreover, they were crafted with the knowledge that they were to be read and performed before its recipients. With this in mind, the importance of memory and remembrance in this process is highlighted. Memory helps connect the whole letter as a unit. From the fāiā perspective, the connection between Romans 13:1–7 and its immediate literary context is important. The use of conscience coupled with discernment and thoughtful deliberation in 12:2 softens the call to submit to governing authorities (Bertschmann 2012, 165). It renders a somewhat fluid relationship between the church community and the governing authorities that underscores an “assessing discernment amidst ‘conflicting thoughts’” leaving the door open to what Pol Vonck calls the “conscientious disobedience or selective obedience” (1984, 343). In other words, conscience underscores a fluid and malleable fāia ̄ between government and subjects.

My Social Location and the Text Let’s digress for a moment. From my social location, I value the intersection of space and ambiguities. Ambiguities provide space for negotiation of meaning. This notion of negotiation is evident in another Samoan concept, tofa saili (search for meaning). Tofa saili recognizes one’s location within the interconnectedness with others, with creation, and with God. Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Efi (1999) aptly describes this using a fishing analogy in which are three different, but equally important views: the person on the beach closer to the ocean, the one more inland on the tree, and finally the one on the mountain with a bird-eye view of the ocean. All three perspectives add something different to the total experience. It is by negotiating all three that a holistic and meaningful experience is plausible. The negotiation of multiple views is a major aspect of Samoan wisdom. At this point, I add my personal experience. I am often frustrated at how my father, as the sa’o (steward),6 negotiates sensitive issues among the different branches of his family. Maintaining peace and stability is foremost. But rather than providing clear and frank instructions, he would go out of 6  The term sa’o is given to the principal chief of the family, acts as the spokesperson, the caretaker, and administrator of the titles and lands for the family.

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his way to please everyone, almost to a fault as this often leads to ambiguous and vague dialogue. But it is his way of recognizing and respecting existing relations at all cost. In this manner, expediency and efficiency are hard to come by. Rather, there is constant space for negotiation and dialogue. Navigating relations prioritizes open dialogue and diplomacy over swift and close-ended resolutions. I also experienced this having worked in the US Congress. For an institution characterized by political gridlock and stalemate, there is great value and/or necessity in dialogue, compromise, and finding common grounds. Diverse interests, both at national and at constituent levels, warrant building relations. Minding relations necessitates massaging7 differences and highlighting similarities, negotiating spaces in between. In a politically charged environment, space is accorded to allow negotiation and room for the interpretation of meaning. Weaved together with my Samoan-ness, this experience colors my lagisoifua. How is this related to the text? My understanding of my social location and also of my interconnectedness to everything else allows me to draw parallels with Paul. This is not to force my social location onto the text. Rather, I engage the text to see if there are tinges of my lagisoifua coloring its textures. Much has been said regarding Paul’s hybrid world and the need for a more nuanced approach to understand his ideology (Punt 2011, 54). As Richard Wallace and Wynne Williams write, Paul identifies himself “not through a simple dichotomy, but a whole complex of them” (1998, 4). He sees himself as occupying multiple locations. Within the nexus of these “cultural layers,” Paul operates in a very sophisticated manner. From this, I argue that Romans 13 reflects the sophistication of someone navigating the complexities of his nuanced relations and multiplicity of views. From a fa ̄iā perspective, the text signals someone who is flexible and politically savvy, someone negotiating the boundaries of a diverse and even undefined community.

7  I draw on the Samoan fofo ̄, in the process of birthing. The Samoan fofo ̄ (masseuse) massages (fofō) the belly of the mother so that the baby in the womb is properly aligned. The process aims to negotiate and massage to make the process of giving birth safe for the mother and the baby. To massage (fofo ̄) is to negotiate and manage challenges in the process.

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Church-State Relation in Samoa Let us digress again and reflect on another Samoan word, feagaiga. Feagaiga comes from the root word feagai which has a range of meanings including “to be opposite to each other,” “to correspond,” or “to dwell together cordially” (Pratt 1911, 139). Adding the suffix ga results in the noun feagaiga which is usually associated with covenant or treaty. Covenant in essence is the mutual recognition of defined roles and responsibilities that come with a said accord. In this regard, the word feagaiga can be static and particular. The feagaiga between siblings, tuafafine (sister) and tuagane (brother), is an example. Somewhere between the prophetess Nafanua of ancient Samoa and the encounter between Malietoa and the London Missionary Society (LMS) missionaries in 1830, pastors have acquired the cultural designation of feagaiga. By virtue of that, pastors and by implication the church are accorded the role and functions of the tama-sa (sister) in a brother-sister relation. This facilitated the accommodation of Christianity within the traditional setting of Samoan culture, insulated and held above the sway of politics. Over time, status and privileged standings in society created a situation for the church of privileged marginalization. Re-reading Romans 13 using the fa ̄ia ̄ approach invites us to rethink this feagaiga designation. As an alternative, I claim that Romans 13 suggests a feagai-ga framework. While a fa ̄iā is established, ambiguities of meaning abound. This creates space or va giving rise to a more fluid relation. It is not static, but negotiable. The text in Romans 13 is deliberately and purposefully ambiguous creating space for the church community. Submission is not absolute. Nor does the text absolves over-zealotry. The alternative is for the church response to be adaptive and reflective. Samoan Constitution, Taxation, and Church Response From a fa ̄iā perspective, the constitutional amendment noted at the outset differentiates between the us and others. Enshrining Christianity in the Samoan Constitution, the government alienates other religious groups in the country. Such a framing could cause division and disharmony, frustrating and undermining interfaith and interreligious efforts in the country. It violates the space in between by seeking to define the constitutional ambiguity set in motion by the founding fathers. Similarly, the tax controversy is not so much a question of whether the clergy should be taxed. Instead,

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it is a question of whether the state has the authority to intrude unto the space in between, defining for the Church its policies and processes— intriguing questions for further dialogue and talanoa. Observations for Further Discussion One of the aims of this essay is to make observations for further dialogue and discussions. Hence I offer the following here: Observation 1: Romans 13:1–7 was crafted to allow space and freedom for a reflective and adaptive response. To interpret Romans 13:1–7 as constituting a direct and definite response is too simplistic for an otherwise sophisticated Pauline response. The existence of several fāia ̄ (relations) gives rise to ambiguities in the text. The connection between wrath, conscience, taxation, honor, and obedience is more sophisticated and too simplistic to assume as linear. To say that Romans 13 admonishes either submission or disobedience misses the intended effect which is for a more fluid role. In other words, multiple rhetorical connections within the text suggest richness in meaning and interpretation. And while it may have been written for a particular context (Webster 1981, 250), the ambiguous nature of the text has made it meaningful across time and context. This is the sophistication of the text. From this perspective, Romans 13:1–7 underwrites an intriguing Christian political thought and response, one that is reflective and adaptive. This has important implications for the Church in Samoa. Navigating the tumultuous and tenuous relation with the State calls for an approach that is reflective and adaptive. Instead of becoming institutionalized and static, there is a need to constantly adjust to the social and cultural changes in society. This also allows for the fluidity that is warranted in order to become relevant in a changing society. Observation 2: Ambiguities in Romans 13:1–7 suggests much about existing fāiā among the recipients. Much can be learned from the ambiguous nature of the text. Some scholars, like Sung U.  Lim, argue that in Romans 13 Paul crafted a section that underscores a double-voice, one with a public agenda and one with a hidden agenda (Lim 2015). In a sense, Paul recognizes the presence of both anti-imperial and pro-­ imperial views in his audience. Boer instead notes that contradictions

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and ambiguities are characteristics of Paul’s writings. In the case of Romans 13:1–7 Paul is tasked with navigating different socioeconomic systems, a task in which “the realms of thought, theology and writing are not divorced from their historical context, especially their socioeconomic context” (Boer 2009, 116). For Dunn, the “central factor” for understanding Romans 13 “is the ambiguous and vulnerable status” of the Jewish people. (Dunn 1986, 58) From my social location, I can make important observations about ambiguities based on my lagisoifua, my experience, my life-source. Reasonable evidence from the text suggests that there is a strong correlation between the ambiguous nature of Romans 13 and existing relations among the church community in Rome. The ambiguous nature of the text is largely a factor of the various fāia ̄ among the church community in Rome. The text reflects a political statement navigating a volatile social, cultural, ideological, and political environment. Moreover, the text underscores certain sensitivity to the diverse political thoughts and responses among its recipients. With this in mind, Romans 13 offers a framework pivotal to establishing and minding relations, a feagai-ga relational framework. With God as the linchpin, Romans 13 presents a framework fitting for a community with thriving and developing relations among its members. It extends a model to strengthen relations among a community still in flux and living within the shadow of imperial power. Observation 3: Romans 13 challenges the Church to be adaptive and reflective. I suggest on the basis of the above study that the ambiguities in Romans 13 obviate power and control in all relations. From a fa ̄ia ̄ perspective, the process of remembering is key. Connecting Romans 13:1–7 to its immediate literary context provides space for alternative reading. In a society with diverse and multiple fāia ̄ Romans 13 can be understood as elevating the need for love and respect in all relations. Dean Pinter supports arguing for chapters 12–15 “guide the somewhat divided Roman church toward Christian unity as they learn to love one another” (2015, 146). Read against its immediate literary context, the ambiguities in Romans 13:1–7 presents a relational framework that puts less emphasis on status, allowing space for movement and fluidity.

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Considering the constitutional and taxation issue facing the Church in Samoa, it is my contention that the cultural designation of the Church as feagaiga has to a large extent led to the intrusion of the government on Church rights and prerogatives. Church as feagaiga has led to institutionalized status and prestige that marginalizes what the Church can and cannot do. The alternative reading of Romans 13  in this essay suggests however a feagai-ga framework instead, a relational framework that is adaptive and reflective, allowing the Church to reclaim its prophetic voice in society. It is not a call for absolute obedience, nor a call for resistance against government. Rather, the Church is to resume and sustain its role as the voice of the marginalized, fighting against injustice in society. Because it is not bound by limited expectations and restricted roles, the feagai-ga orientation allows the Church space to respond in the interest of fulfilling God’s will. It is not much of a stretch to argue also that, in a democracy that is ruled by a single political party, the Church stands as the last hope for checks and balance to an otherwise State with unmitigated power.

Works Cited Aiono, Fanaafi Le Tagaloa. 1996. O Motugaafa. Alafua, USP: Le Lamepa. Bertschmann, Helene Dorothea. 2012. Bowing before Christ – Nodding to the state? Reading Paul politically with Oliver O’ Donovan and John Howard Yoder. PhD dissertation, Department of Theology and Religion, Durham University. Boer, Roland. 2009. Resistance versus accommodation: What to do with Romans 13? In Postcolonial interventions: Essays in honor of RS Sugirtharajah, ed. Tat-­ Siong Benny Liew, 109–122. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Botha. Jan. 1994. Subject to whose authority? Multiple readings of Romans 13. Atlanta: Scholars. Boyer, Susan. 1987. Exegesis of Romans 13: 1–7. Brethren Life and Thought 32 (4): 208–16. Danker, Frederick William. 2000. A Greek Lexicon of the new testament and other early Christian literature. (BDAG). Chicago: University of Chicago Press (1957). Dunn, James D.G. 1986. Romans 13.1–7: A charter for political quietism? Ex Auditu 2 (1986): 55–68. Efi, Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi. 1999. The mirage of accountability and transparency. The New Pacific Review 1 (1): 24–31.

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Feagaimaalii-Luamanu, Joyetter. 2017. Samoa head of state approves law to tax himself, Church Ministers. Samoa Observer, July 3. http://www. pireport.org/articles/2017/07/03/samoa-­h ead-­s tate-­a pproves-­l aw-­t ax­himself-­church-­ministers Isaak, Jon. 2003. The Christian community and political responsibility: Romans 13: 1–7. Direction 32 (1): 32–46. Johnson, Lee A. 2017. Paul’s Letters Reheard: A performance-critical examination of the preparation, transportation, and delivery of Paul’s correspondence. The Catholic Biblical Quarterly 79: 60–76. Kama, Bal. 2017. Christianising Samoa’s constitution and religious freedom in the Pacific. Devpolicy Blog. http://www.devpolicy.org/christianising-­samoas-­ constitution-­religious-­freedom-­pacific-­20170427/. Accessed 1 Jan 2018. Likou, Ilia L. 2017. Pay your taxes, P.M. Tells Church Ministers. Samoa Observer, November17.http://www.samoaobserver.ws/en/18_11_2017/local/26802/Pay-­ your-­taxes-­PM-­tells-­Church-­Ministers.htm Lim, Sung U. 2015. A double-voiced reading of Romans 13:1–7 in light of the imperial cult. HTS Theological Studies 71 (1): 1–10. Pinter, Dean. 2015. Josephus and Romans 13: 1–14: providence and imperial power. In Reading Romans in context: Paul and second temple Judaism, ed. Ben C. Blackwell, John K. Goodrich, and Jason Maston, 143–150. Grand Rapids: Zondervan. Pratt, George. 1911. In Pratt’s grammar dictionary and Samoan language, ed. J.E. Newell. Apia: Malua Printing. Punt, Jeremy. 2011. Pauline agency in postcolonial perspective: Subverter of or agent for empire? In The colonized apostle: Paul through postcolonial eyes, ed. Christopher D. Stanley, 53–61. Minneapolis: Fortress. Refiti, Albert. 2015. Mavae and Tofiga: Spatial exposition of the Samoan cosmogony and architecture. Ph.D. dissertation, School of Art & Design, Auckland University of Technology. Stein, Robert H. 1989. The Argument of Romans 13: 1–7. Novum Testamentum 31 (4): 325–343. Vasquez, Victor Manuel Morales. 2012. Contours of biblical reception theory: Studies in the Rezeptionsgeschichte of Romans 13.1–7. Göttingen: V&R Unipress. Vonck, Pol. 1984. All authority comes from god: A tricky about obedience to political power. African Ecclesial Review 26: 338–347. Wallace, Richard, and Wynne Williams. 1998. The three worlds of Paul of Tarsus. London: Routledge. Webster, Alexander F.C. 1981. St. Paul’s political advice to the Haughty Gentile Christians in Rome: An exegesis of Romans 13: 1–7. St Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 25 (4): 259–282.

CHAPTER 15

O le pa’u a le popo uli: A Coconut Discipleship Reading of Matthew 12:46–50 and 28:16–20 Vaitusi Nofoaiga

Sione ‘Amanaki Havea encouraged the inclusion of Pacific orientation and flavor in theological education, thinking, and practices of the Pacific people. About the search for a Pacific contextual theology at the 1983 sixth assembly of the WCC, he called for the coconut juice and flesh to be used and served in Holy Communion. Havea’s so-called coconut theology was recognized at this assembly.1 Along this pathway, I add “coconut discipleship.”

1  The seventh assembly of the World Council of Churches at Canberra focused on the Holy Spirit in conjunction with Renewing the Whole Creation and looked at the importance of the consideration of feminism, ecology, and indigenous spirituality in the mission of the church. It was the time that the book by David Bosch, Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission, emerged. Bosch’s paradigm shift did not touch on ecology or indigenous spiritualities, which Havea emphasized at the sixth assembly.

V. Nofoaiga (*) Malua Theological College, Apia, Samoa © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_15

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Coconut discipleship is based on the Samoan proverb: O le pa’u a le popo uli (the fall of a ripe coconut). Ripe coconut that falls off the tree strikes root and grows, but an unripe coconut will not; in this regard, a coconut disciple is like a ripe coconut (popo uli)—it will grow where it falls. The proverbial expression is used as either ‘upu vivi’i (a laudatory, complimentary remark) or ‘upu fa’amafanafana (a comforting, consolatory remark). It is the purpose of this chapter to use Jesus’ commissioning of the 12 disciples in Matt 28:19, from that coconut discipleship perspective, to look back at Jesus’ declaration of his true family (Matt 12:46–50) in the local place and space of Galilee.2 It is an exploration of Jesus’ localization of discipleship in Matthew’s Gospel.

Coconut Discipleship The coconut tree is considered in the Pacific Islands as Tree of Life. We say that if one is stranded in a deserted island, all that she or he has to do is find a coconut tree and she or he will survive. From leaves to roots, all parts of the coconut tree can be used. The expression of O le pa’u a le popo uli (the fall of the ripe coconut) evokes the importance of the coconut in our islands. It grows in abundance and it produces life for our people. I see the growth of the Gospel in our local places in a similar way. The Gospel is hope of life to our people. Our people adapt the Gospel to their local ways to make sense of the reality of the world that they inhabit. There are various adaptations of the Gospel to our island world. One example is the consideration of church ministers—the so-called disciples of Jesus—in our Congregational Christian Church Samoa as Faifeau or Faa-feagaiga in formal Samoan language. This is discipleship with a coconut flavor. As I am an ordained minister—a faifeau in our local Samoan context, I use the experience and understanding of being a faifeau to see Jesus’ ministry in Matthew’s Gospel as a ministry that considers as important the needs of the local people. This is an example of the Gospel as a ripe coconut that falls off the tree and strikes root and grows. 2  Galilee as a place where Jesus’ ministry began is drawn into the historical and theological significance of Jerusalem. Sean Freyne is one of the scholars leading the way in the study of historical Jesus that focuses on the importance and significance of Galilee: “It is somewhat ironic, though inevitable that in an age of globalization recent studies of Jesus have been concerned with the local setting of his public life, thus giving rise to a renewed interest in Galilee also” (2004, 1).

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Before I entered Malua Theological College to be trained as a minister, my family and church reminded me what discipleship requires that I “leave the family and go do the will of God.” This traditional understanding of discipleship implies following Jesus as if there is no return. But when I was ordained and began working in the ministry, I realized another meaning of discipleship. Going back to my family and helping them is another part of my ministry as a faifeau. In fact, all faifeau in our CCCS church consider their aiga (immediate and extended families) important. It is not that the ministry is not important. Our aiga is another important part of our ministry. The problem with this understanding of discipleship is that it undermines Jesus’ attitude toward his family in Matthew 12:46–50. However, Halvor Moxnes suggests that [h]is (Jesus) origin in terms of place and household has not evoked much interest. The question of his family is mostly relegated to a less important biographical interest. In a similar manner his critical elements about family and household, and about leaving family, become just a topic, and not a very important one, in the overall picture of Jesus’ message. This seems to be typical of recent Christian scholarship on Jesus. (Moxnes 2003, 23)

Considering aiga as an important part of the faifeau’s ministry is an adaptation of the Gospel to local Samoan social and cultural ways and is reflected in the meaning of the word faifeau—the person who serves people—and people referred to here are family members and villagers. Villagers see the faifeau in a different way. They call him Faa-Feagaiga (covenantal servant of God) and treat him as a Feagaiga, the title traditionally given to a sister in the sister-brother relationship (Nofoaiga 2017, 37). Feagaiga depicts the importance of a sister to her brother. The church minister as Faa-Feagaiga makes him (and his wife and children) the most important person in the village. The villagers build the most beautiful house for the Faa-feagaiga and his family. The Faa-Feagaiga is served with the best food and is given money as ‘alofa (money-offering) every fortnight. Thus, the localization of the mission of the gospel or discipleship is manifested. It puts into practice the gospel in  local cultures and values. It is also important to recognize that the growth of the Gospel (as the fall of the ripe coconut) causes struggles and problems in our local island worlds.

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Discipleship to Villages The Samoan Bible3 reflects this mindset of emphasizing localization of the Gospel in relation to discipleship. As an example, I refer to the translation of “Go and make disciples of all nations” (Matt 28:19)—O e fai nuu uma lava ma soo. In this translation, the word “nation” is translated as nuu (village) instead of atunuu (nation). A back-translation of the Samoan rendering reads as “Go and make disciples of all villages.” This reflects the CCCS church elders’ sense of the importance of the consideration of local families and villages in the work of discipleship. The Samoan Bible is unique this way, and I use this locally emphasized thinking as a perspective to look back at Jesus’ ministry in Matthew’s Gospel. Before the commissioning of the disciples (Matt 28:19), Jesus says to Mary Magdalene and the other Mary: “Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me” (Matt 28:10). Jesus is saying to tell his disciples to go back to Galilee to where the work of discipleship began. Jesus wanted his disciples to go back to where discipleship started, in order to remember the importance of considering the needs of local people and families in need. From a faifeau’s point of view, Jesus’ wish for his disciples to meet him in Galilee indicates the important connection that Jesus draws to Galilee as a local place—and part of this place is his family (aiga) that followed him around in Galilee. The scope of this chapter allows me to focus only on Jesus’ declaration of his true family in 12:46–50. I will revisit this passage from a faifeau’s perspective of considering his family as important. This is an example of the Gospel as pa’u a le popo uli in our island worlds. Discipleship to Family The traditional interpretation of Matt 12:46–50 is that Jesus’ true family4 are his disciples, those who do the will of God (see Nolland 2005, 3  O le Tusi Paia is the first Samoan translation of the Bible made by the church elders of the Congregational Christian Church of Samoa at Avao Savaii. This Samoan Bible is used by other denominations in Samoa. 4   The three major historical views of Jesus’ family are Helvidius, Epiphanian, and Hieronymian (Bauckham 1992). The Helvidius view states that the brothers of Jesus (James, Joses/Joseph, Judah/Jude, and Simon) are sons of Joseph and Mary. They were born after Jesus, making Jesus the eldest child of Joseph and Mary. The Epiphanian view, the predominant view in the Eastern Orthodox churches, speaks of the brothers of Jesus as sons of Joseph from his first marriage before he married Mary. In this view, Mary’s only child was Jesus. The

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516–518; Evans 2012, 265). This interpretation implies that Jesus talks about abandoning his own family in favor of his disciples as his true family. Did Jesus really abandon his mother, brothers, and sisters? If Jesus did, then Jesus himself ignored his own proclamation of inclusion in God’s kingdom. However, from my perspective as a faifeau, Jesus had responsibility to his family. In this connection, Jesus did not abandon his earthly family and it is the task of this interpretation to revisit the text with this in mind. Jesus is the main character in the story of Jesus’ declaration of his true family in Matt 12:46–50. The stories of the birth of Jesus and the description of Jesus as Messiah reveal Jesus as a local person with responsibility for the local people of Galilee—a living sacrifice sent by God to save Galilee and the world. He is the living sacrifice as reflected in the title Emmanuel (Matt 1:23). Jesus’ undertaking of his messianic task is proclamation of the kingdom of God. According to Matthew’s presentation of Jesus’ proclamation of God’s kingdom, Jesus’ ministry challenges the Roman Empire for oppressing God’s people. It is Jesus as a local person’s undertaking of God’s will and this is reflected in the conclusion (4:12–16) of the birth and preparation for ministry narrative (1:1–4:16).5 In this conclusion, Jesus withdraws to Galilee when he heard of the arrest of John the Baptist. There are various interpretations of why Jesus withdraws to Capernaum. One interpretation suggests that this reflects Jesus’ reaction to John’s arrest; beginning at Capernaum is in resistance against the Roman imperial power (Carter 2000). The local discipleship perspective favors this Hieronymian view (also known as Jerome’s view) became traditional Catholic view. It claims that the so-called brothers of Jesus were his first cousins. They are children of Clopas, a brother of Joseph, who married a lady named Mary (see John 19:25). 5  This interpretation of the significance of the flow of the story toward the Jewish generation’s rejection of Jesus’ ministry in chapters 11 and 12 where Matt 12:46–50 is placed follows R. T. France’s (1985) proposed structure of Matthew’s presentation of Jesus’ ministry. This structure considers 4:17 as the literary mark of the beginning of Jesus’ ministry (see Kingsbury 1988, 40; Carter 1992): . Birth of Jesus and preparation for ministry (1:1–4:16); A B. Jesus’ public ministry in and around Galilee (4:17–16:20); C. Private ministry in Galilee: preparing the disciples (16:21–18:35); D. Ministry in Judea (19:1–25:46); E. The death and resurrection of Jesus (26:1–28:20).

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interpretation when it links to the verb archo (“begin to rule,” referring to the beginning of Jesus’ ministry) in Matt 4:17. Jesus as a local person of Capernaum begins from Galilee the proclamation of God’s kingdom as the ruling kingdom on earth. This is an example of Jesus’ ministry as pa’u a le popo uli—a ripe coconut that falls off the tree into the local place of Galilee. Jesus as popo uli strikes roots (in the form of miracles and healings) to help local people and grows understanding and knowledge of God’s kingdom. The kingdom of God could therefore be looked at as the tree from which Jesus as the ripe coconut has fallen. But Jesus’ messianic task is not easily accepted by his own people, as in the Jewish leaders’ opposition in Matt 11:2–12:50, which shows that undertaking his role as a local person will be a difficult task. This challenging is understandable. In the Samoan contexts, there are times we as faifeau are challenged by our own people—such as members of our churches, villages, and even our families—about how to do things like funerals, bestowment of title names, and weddings. Challenges rise when what the faifeau says contradicts the ways and understandings of the locals. We hear challenges such as “that is not how we do things in this family, in this church, in this village.” This is reflected in the Jewish leaders’ response to Jesus’ ministry (11:1–12:50). Matthew 12:46–50 is part of Jesus’ response to the rejection of his ministry by the Judeans in Jerusalem (Barton and Muddiman 2007). The opposition to Jesus comes from various corners, and the hostile groups include the Pharisees and the crowds (Powell 2009). All these groups reject Jesus’ activities and his claims to be a Messiah, up until the time of his crucifixion. Matt 12:46–50 emphasizes Jesus’ message about being a true member of the family of God. The author paints a picture of the situation and how the rhetorical language in the text brings out the meaning which is embedded within the text. According to Crosby (2004, 145) the passage is the Matthean Jesus’ attempt to change the mindset of people in order to help the poor. By doing God’s will one is entitled to be in his family, and in being part of this family one should be able to serve and accommodate the poor. The kingdom of God is for those who act out his will and thus become part of his family (Crosby 2004, 145). The initial word in verse 12:46 is “while” (Greek Heti), an adverb that suggests to readers that Jesus was currently at work. The type of work Jesus was doing is described in verse 46 as “speaking” (Greek Laleo). This participle shows that Jesus’ action is continuous; Jesus was at work for

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some time and will continue to work for lot longer. I see this continuedand continual-undertaking of Jesus’ ministry from the lens of faifeau; Jesus is carrying on his faifeau work, the work of proclaiming the message of salvation for all. He was at work for everyone else and his immediate family were not the only members of his family. Jesus preached that message, speaking with much intensity, speaking with authority, and power. The author tells these actions of Jesus with an introduction of more characters into this event—Jesus’ mother and brothers. This is the time Jesus’ family was being introduced into the purpose of his ministry. Their location within the story is realized by the word “outside” (Greek Efo). This indicates the position of Jesus in relation to his mother and brothers. Jesus was absent because his family were outside while he was inside. In relation to the location of the disciples in that event, it is not mentioned whether they were inside or outside. Jesus’ pointing to the disciples to contrast his family outside of the crowds indicates that the disciples were in the same circle as the crowds. Thus, the crowds and the disciples are in one group. In verse 47 a new character from the crowd is introduced. This character plays a vital part in this passage and his/her actions define the message that Jesus has been preaching. This new character’s interference with Jesus’ preaching is turned into Jesus’ favor to elaborate the message of salvation he is proclaiming to the crowd. The word “look” (Greek Idou) as an imperative suggests that this character not only interrupted Jesus but also commanded and told Jesus what to do while speaking to the crowd. This character’s words show that he/she knows the importance of any family member’s role and he reminded Jesus of this. In the Greek translation, the action of the family of Jesus is shown by the use of the verb “seek” (Greek Zeteo). This participle suggests that his family did not seek Jesus just to have a small talk or a group chat, but they were in need with much urgency to speak with him regarding something important (contrary to NRSV use of “wanting to speak”). They looked for him with much intensity. The verb “speak” (Greek Laleo) is in the infinitive aorist form. This means that his family needed to talk about something they had spoken about in the past, but what that was is not mentioned. In the eyes of faifeau, that the family remained outside shows that they knew the importance of Jesus’ role as their living sacrifice. The family performed the role of tapuai (blessing) while Jesus does his work. The family knows that they should not interrupt Jesus’ work and this could be the

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reason why they stayed outside. In this way, what Jesus says to this unnamed character from the crowd could be read as Jesus saying that his family knows that he is doing his ministry and they are there to watch out for him. Verse 48 begins with the conjunction “But” (Greek Kai) and link the response of Jesus with the remark of the character from the crowd. Kai as a conjunction has multiple functions in a sentence such as transition, continuity, and contrast (Black 2002). As a marker of transition, the story is now in the light of Jesus and not the character from the crowd; as a marker of continuity, the space between the audience and Jesus is still carried forward and awaits Jesus’ response; and as a mark of contrast, Matthew shows the difference in command, difference in authority. The way Jesus answered the character from the crowd is realized in the word “replied” (Greek Apokrinomai—a participle aorist that presents Jesus as having responded passionately). Jesus’ tone is serious. Jesus responds in the form of a question: “Who” is my mother, and who are my brothers? Verse 49 provides the answer. It starts with the conjunction “and” (Greek kai) indicating a continuation being carried forward and being elaborated more. Here Jesus is “pointing” (Greek Ektelno)—also a participle aorist which portrays Jesus stretching out his hand and point zealously to the disciples and not to the crowd (Black 2002, 142–78). The word disciple used in this verse has an alternative meaning in Greek— “follower”—referring to a follower who does the will of God and is considered to be in the family of Jesus. From the coconut discipleship perspective, he/she could be an example of a popo uli—a ripe coconut. As a true follower or disciple of Christ, he/she is like a ripe coconut that strikes roots of practicing and living the Gospel of Jesus Christ and grows more examples of doing the will of God beginning from his/her local family. When this is the case—Behold (Idou), that person becomes a member of Jesus’ true family, and both understands and does God’s will. The message of God’s kingdom becomes real such persons. Verse 50 explains the result, the outcome of being a disciple. They become true members of his family; they are his mother, and they are his brothers and sisters. We see this idea being carried forward from the last verse and it is made clearer and easier to understand here. Interestingly the word “sister” was never mentioned throughout this unit until the final verse. This goes to show that acting out the will of God entitles everyone to be a member of his family, regardless of gender, race, and ethnicity. All are welcome into his family.

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The crowd in Matthew 12 includes the generation of Jewish leaders under the Roman imperial rule. These leaders were used as retainers, mainly as tax collectors, between the Roman government and the Jewish people. On the side of the Jewish leaders, they earned good money from their roles, but they were thereby supporting the imperial family system. The arrival of Jesus and his proclamation of God’s kingdom is seen by the Jewish leaders as impediment to their opportunity for wealth. Thus, Jesus’ reply to the member of the crowd who told him about his family waiting outside could be looked at as resistance of the patriarchal system that has been ruining the lives of people in Matthew’s community. Jesus’ mother and brothers standing outside (12:46) points to the type people who are outside and are disadvantaged in the patriarchal family system. Jesus’ mother and brothers could have gone into where Jesus was. Their being outside suggests that they knew their status in the social and cultural system that ran the family system of the first-century Mediterranean world. They are the shamed not the honored. Thus, Jesus’ reply to the member of the crowd (12:48) does not condemn his family. Instead, Jesus thereby condemns the social and cultural system that has been oppressing those on the margin of society—the system that has been entrenched by Roman imperial power. Jesus’ response might be heard asking the question: “What is the family system that is telling me how to treat my mother and my brothers in this world?” The story continues by showing Jesus pointing to his disciples and saying: “Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.” Jesus told the crowd that the family system that should run the families in that world— must consider all people honored and equal. The imperial and patriarchal family system should be transformed to the egalitarian love of God’s family system. Honor is gained not from exercising power and authority in forced ways but in caring and sharing ways. As a conclusion to Jesus’ response (in Matt 11–12), 12:46–50 clarifies who is the true learner among the crowds. The true learner or disciple is the person who does the will of God. Despite the crowds’ ambivalent nature, some of them had faith and understanding, and Jesus considered them as people with knowledge of the secrets of God’s kingdom in the parable of the sower (13:1–23). In other words, the 12 are not the only disciples but anyone who listens and obeys Jesus’ teachings—including Jesus’ family. Jesus as faifeau carried out his role as such, to be a servant for all.

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Summary The interpretation above reveals the difference of knowing boundaries in a community—the boundaries of those inside and those outside in relation to certain roles carried out by different people in a community. With the faifeau hermeneutic, I suggest that this is what happens in Matt 12:46–50. A family member’s awareness of her or his roles in relation to other family members and members of a community is very important. This is reflected in the interpretation offered above. Jesus’ family is willing to speak to Jesus but they wait because they know the importance of what Jesus is doing. What they want to talk to Jesus about is not mentioned because that is not important at this stage of Jesus’ ministry. The family does not voice why they were there. They respected that Jesus had a task to do, and the story ends without the voice from Jesus’ family being heard. It is the family’s respecting of Jesus’ doing his role as the Messiah which is an example of a ripe coconut that falls off the tree and strikes root and grows to bring life and salvation to local people (such as the local people of Galilee). It is Jesus who voiced what he thought of the situation. Jesus did not talk to his family, but to a person from the crowd and he pointed to the disciples. The disciple is the one who listens. Therefore, Jesus spoke to everyone, either inside or outside, as a disciple if he/she listens and does the will of God. This does not mean that Jesus abandoned his family. It shows that the community was his priority at the time and his family could wait. And his family does that—they wait outside until Jesus finished his work inside. With the faifeau hermeneutic, this is the way faifeau should carry out our roles in our ministry. The role of a faifeau as a taulaga soifua is not just to the world, but also to his nuu (which includes immediate family and wider aiga). Jesus’ words were not to ignore his family but to show his resistance to the Roman social and cultural system of the first-century Mediterranean world which subjugated families including his own. Jesus’ alternative system is to begin from inside—the inside space of where the social and cultural system begin. There is accordingly a need to change the view of women and children. They are not outsiders or just listeners as in the patriarchal system, but insiders within the family space of home.

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Works Cited Barton, John, and John Muddiman. 2007. The Oxford Bible commentary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bauckham, Richard. 1992. The relatives of Jesus. CBQ 54: 1–28. Black, Stephanie. 2002. Sentence conjunctions in the Gospel of Matthew: καὶ, δὲ, τότε, γάρ, οὐν, and Asyndeton in narrative discourse. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic. Carter, Warren. 1992. Kernels and narrative blocks: The structure of Matthew’s Gospel. CBQ 54 (3): 463–481. ———. 2000. Evoking Isaiah: Matthean soteriology and an intertextual reading of Isaiah 7–9 and Matthew 1:23 and 4:15–16. JBL 119 (3): 503–520. Crosby, Michael H. 2004. House of disciples: Church, economics, and justice in Matthew. Eugene: Wipf and Stock. Evans, Craig A. 2012. Matthew. NCB. Cambridge: University Press. France, R.T. 1985. Matthew: An introduction and commentary. TNTC. Nottingham: Inter-Varsity. Freyne, Sean. 2004. Jesus, A Jewish Galilean: A new reading of the Jesus-story. London: T&T Clark International. Kingsbury, Jack D. 1988. Matthew as story. Philadelphia: Fortress. Moxnes, Halvor. 2003. Putting Jesus in his place: A radical vision of household and kingdom. Louisville: WJK. Nofoaiga, Vaitusi. 2017. A Samoan reading of discipleship in Matthew. Atlanta: SBL. Nolland, John. 2005. The Gospel of Matthew: A commentary on the Greek text. Grand Rapids: Herdsman. Powell, M.A. 2009. Introducing the new testament: A historical, literary, and theological survey. Grand Rapids: Baker.

PART III

Routes

CHAPTER 16

Vaa Culture and Theology: A Mäòhinui Moananui Invitation Here Joël Hoìòre

This work on Vaa (canoe) culture and theology reaffirms the pertinence of contextual cultural theologizing. It researches, narrates, and reappropriates Taata (human) Mäòhinui-Moananui1 wisdom from pre- yet post-­European worldviews and values. It presents Vaa as a pedagogicotheolo-gical tool (apart from being one of the main means of transportation) with special reference to the Archipelago of Society Islands.2 The crux of this study is to ascertain the relevance of Vaa as a symbol for weaving divine, human and creation in the midst of waves and winds on the  Mäòhinui is the mäòhi (indigenous) name for French Polynesia, endorsed at the Mäòhi Protestant Church’s 2007 Nukuhiva Council resolution (ÈPM 2007). Moananui is the mäòhi name for the great ocean, also used widely throughout Pasifika-Oceania. 2  Comprising of Hitinià (windward islands of Tahiti–Mooreà–Tetiàroa–Maiào-Mehetià) and Hitiraro (leewards islands of Raìätea–Tahaa–Huahine–Porapora–Maurua–Tüpai) which hold similar ancestral culture, religiosity, and theology. They had also been named by Polynesians as Avaìki Mua as compared to Avaiki Raro for Tonga–Fiji and Avaiki Tautau for Teaotearoa (Henry 1988, 75, 123–124, 579). Mäòhinui of today is made up of these Society Islands together with the archipelagos of Ohoteìi (Marquesas islands), Tuamotu (Atolls islands), Hiro e pae (Austral islands), and Mangareva (South east islands). 1

H. J. Hoìòre (*) Maohi Protestant Church, Tahiti, French Polynesia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_16

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complex realities of life. It goes without saying that Mäòhinui-Moananui texts, linguistics, epistemology, and hermeneutics come with biographical, cultural, and contextual rootedness, incarnation, imagination, and the likes, hence the need to first acknowledge my own encounters with Vaa culture and Vaa theology.3

Vaa Culture Vaa has been a part of my life since the beginning. While I was a new born baby in the early 1950s, my mother would take me on a small Vaa ama (canoe with an outrigger)4 between her island home Mooreàreà and Tahitinui.5 In the early 1960s, I observed that every household had at least one Vaa ama (which could carry two to four bodies) and children between four and six ages were acquainted with it.6 As a teenager in the 1970s, I discovered the Vaa racing, which brought village teams of Tahitinui, Mooreàreà, and outer islands to compete.7 During the same period, I heard about the Hawaian Molokai Hoe Canoe Race,8 which became progressively well known at regional and international levels. This Molokai event did stimulate Mäòhinui, Moananui, and World Vaa race organizers to launch other regional and international events. These races flourished from the 1990s up to the present, including the Mäòhinui Hawaìkinui Vaa Race, the Pacifika-Oceania Games Vaa race, and the World Vaa championship. 3  Behind its rational scientific systematic characteristics, theology is essentially biographical and contextual, constructed on the basis of individual as well as collective human narratives and discourses about tensions of faith and nonfaith pertaining to different experiences and contexts of life. As Paul F. Knitter put it, “All theology, we are told, is rooted in biography” (Knitter 1985, xiii). 4  The origins of the vaa-canoe are traced back to the first moments when human individuals and groups faced the challenges emerging from aquatic or liquid elements of rivers, lakes, seas and oceans. Throughout time, it has had cultural, political, religious and social impacts (Bidault 1945, 8–13, 281–291). 5  The two islands are separated by open sea of 18 kms which, during strong south east and northern winds, produce rough seas with waves reaching 3–6 meters. 6  Children could use it mainly for leisures, for transportation to nearby places, for catching drifting coconuts and woods, and for fishing in lagoons. 7  During Franco-Mäòhi July festival, there were competitions of Vaa ama (single outrigger canoe), Vaa tauàti (double canoe) and Vaa täìe (single outrigger canoe with sail). 8  It is an annual event which launched in the early 1950s, consisting of six paddlers on the Vaa ama race. Hawaian and Mäòhinui teams have won most of these races.

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In 1976, the great event of the Hokuleà Vaa tauàti9 occurred. It was an attempt to reenact long distance voyages on open seas from Hawaìi to Tahitinui, relying only on ancient Mäòhinui-Moananui navigational techniques.10 Such an enterprise was so successful that it created a revival and interest for ancient navigational training and practices in Mäòhinui-­ Moananui and the wider world at large. So much so that they paved the way for new single and double canoes to be built—to name a few from Mäòhinui: Vaivai Te Moana (remaining on the ocean) as single sailing Vaa ama and Faafäite (reconciliation) as double sailing Vaa tauàti—to travel in order to demonstrate and educate. Vaa Structures of Island Life Mäòhinui-Moananui people, communities, and nations use Moananui o Hiva11 to name the great Ocean Moananuiätea or Tainuiätea.12 In this way, our ancestors brought the imageries of the Vaa in the ocean (moana) into the life on land (fenua). This could be seen in the names given to diverse components of human characters: Vaa-vaevae for one who walks on a journey (Davies 1851, 307) and along the same line, a male is named Vaa and the female is named Ama (outrigger).13 And more so in naming 9  Double hulled canoe without outrigger propelled by paddles and sails, which could transport many more passengers on lagoons or outer seas. The worldwide project Moananuiakea: One ocean, one people, one canoe is a feature-length documentary film telling the story of the Mālama Honua Worldwide Voyage of the legendary canoe Hōkūleʻa. 10  This enterprise strived to re-trace paths and connexions between nations or people of Mäòhinui and Moananui. The main purpose is to encourage people to re-visit, re-appropriate, and to live by pre-European and worldwide navigational means, techniques, and values. A masterful synthesis of the remarkable voyaging history of the Polynesians has just been completed recently by Mäòhinui and Moananui Polynesian scholars (Crowe 2018). 11  Rarotonga and Maori people use the name Moananui o Hiva (Te Moana nui o Kuia; Te moana nui o Kiva) in reference to the ocean that cover the Polynesian Triangle (Henry 1988, 124). This region is an unstable abysmal route, and a sublime sustainable source of life for the Hiva (the clan or company in a canoe; Davies 1851, 106). 12  Moananuiätea or Tainuiätea is the name for the great ocean that European navigators call the Pacific Ocean. Hence the famous song about the navigators Ru and Hina, Tei muri Teaotearoa, tei mua te moana atea! Tei muri o Ru, tei mua o Hina! (Teaotearoa behind! Great ocean ahead! Ru behind! Hina ahead!—Henry 1988, 478–480) and the priestly atonement liturgy, E huri i Tai nui ätea! (Throw them in the clean ocean!—Henry 1988, 181, 207, 328, 480; Hoìòre 1992, 13–16). 13  Hence the well-known mäòhi proverb, E taahuri te vaa aita e ama (The vaa capsizes without outrigger). Similarly, in a prophecy during the first arrival of European navigators in

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different aspects of social and communal life after Vaa ama for a couple, Vaa-hiva for a district (people within the prescribed limits; Davies 1851, 307) and Vaa-mataèinaa for a division (of the land owners; Davies 1851, 307). The imageries of Vaa are included in principles and teachings, for instance, in the teaching of the pipi arii prince(ess) trainee, one of King Tetunaènui’s famous precepts states: E noho oe i ni’a i te ihu o te vaa nui ra … E ara ra o te fati te ama Your place is in the front of the great Vaa… Behold not to break the outrigger (Richaud-Tuheiava 2001, 9; my translation)

The Vaa way of life has been replicated in the structures of island life, and has been a life affirming and learning experience for the Vaa community (including those of us in Moananui o Hiva) throughout centuries of voyaging endeavors. It has contributed to the forming of individual as well as communal principles of life, to which many of our people adhere.

Vaa Theology A crew would dare rely solely on human wisdom and expertise, while reading and interpreting all kinds of natural everyday and seasonal signs as displayed by land, sea, sky, and the likes (Crowe 2018, 12–15). Nevertheless, they might not also dare to avoid a primal religiosity connected with the presence and influence of mana (Huia 2017, 45) surrounding and sustaining them in their voyage. In my childhood, when striving to reach an unfamiliar spot even in day time, or when trying to reach a familiar place in the night, I instinctly called upon the imminent almighty support and act of Atua (God) to safeguard me from all sorts of negative, dangerous, and frightening energies, powers, spirits, atua-aitu, and the likes.14 Such was my natural move when I used a Vaa ama in the lagoon and more so in the open ocean, and whenever I walk or ride a bicycle on the road. Hitinià-Hitiraro (Society Islands), the Mäòhi prophets Vaita and Pauè named their new types of sailing ships Pahï Ama Òre or Vaa Ama Òre (vessel or canoe without outrigger; Henry 1988, 16–17, 20–21). 14  Psychologists and psychanalists would not disregard such reality as a result of the Real, be it human-atua relationship, human primal religious birthing, or human imagination and creation moved by bien être state on one side and/or by mal être state on the other side.

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As time goes, it became a customary practice to present and to even set apart the Vaa, its crew, and its passengers to Atua’s undeniable protection, care, and guidance, in order to make it a lively safe voyage for all.15 As a matter of fact, such practice is well treasured from old times up until the present by those who use Vaa and boats or ships, whether they are simple passengers, fishermen, and/or competitors. Reliance on and call for divine active participation in voyages is reminiscent of ancestral voyages over oceanic routes. This is confirmed in the utterances, Tahitià mai i to mätou Tere e te Atua … Ei tere tià ei tere ora, eiaha òe faaruè ia matou i te moana Bless our journey Atua … Be it a rightful and lively one, do not abandon us on the moana. (Henry 1988, 187; my translation)

The image or statue of Atua of the ocean, of the clan, or of the tribe is transferred from the marae to a special place on the Vaa, mostly in the front, so that it looked as if, from then on, the Vaa has become the movable marae.16 When the Vaa lands on shores related to clans, tribes, and villages, there would be a re-dedication of the marae together with the image of the Atua to be placed in a special space of the marae called Âvaa Marae (Raapoto 1977, 53; Davies 1851, 52). This practice is stronger for the Marae Arii (marae belonging to dynasties) where the structure of the Vaa is replicated in the structure of the marae (like Tira and Hoe, Fare vaa, to name a few; Raapoto 1977, 25–26; Guiot 2001, 35–36). Furthermore, in peaceful time after wars and profanation of land or Vaamataèinaa, there would be a ceremony of purification and consecration before people could settle back (Henry 1988, 326–329; Babadzan 1993). Before the event concludes with time of rejoicing, serving priests had to use a dedicated Vaa in order to perform the Tuuraa vaa uta hara (Launching of the vaa conveying sins) which would travel the open ocean in order to face its power of purification and sanctification. To complete the ritual, they recite the chant, 15  It is Mäòhinui-Moananui custom to offer prayers to Atua God before departing from and after arriving in any place by means of Vaa, boat, and ship. 16  This is present in the saying O te moana te marae nui o te ao nei. O Fai te marae au noa (The ocean is the great temple of the world. The ray fish is the swimming temple—my translation; Henry 1988, 365).

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E hoe i tena vaa … E mä te hara a te taata i Tainuiätea Do paddle the canoe … The sin of the sinner will be washed away in the Great ocean. (Henry 1988, 207, 328)17

Since everything come to an end when facing the reality of death, the challenge is to do one’s best to domesticate death, so to speak (Vigneron 1986a, 19–29). The aim is for death to no longer remain a negative reality and a threat but rather to turn into a positive binding pathway to get to another realm of life experience. According to Mäòhi beliefs, the best would be to strengthen the efficient fellowship of the ancestors in the Rohutunoànoà18 (a kind of paradise) and/or in the Havaìinui19 (the birthplace of Mäòhinui-Moananui People).20 As a matter of fact, Vaa would be the best means of transportation of the dead back to the primal Havaìinui (Vigneron 1986a, 19; b, 51–53).

A Mäòhi Protestant Church Narrative When the first members of the London Missionary Society entered the Tefauroa bay of the Island of Tahiti, with the Duff as their Vaa Ama Òre (canoe without outrigger),21 a fleet of Vaa Ama (canoe with outrigger) and Vaa Tauàti (double canoe) was prompt to surround their vessel. This was a custom since the first arrival in 1767 of European navigators (Pearson 1970, 121–154) up to the arrival in 1797 of the Protestant ecumenical missionaries (ÈÈPF 1997, 32, 73). Both parties (relying on respective 17  It is worth noting here the family name TeVaaRauHara (the canoe containing sins) and the vaa name VaaHara (superior canoe; Davies 1851, 307). 18  “The residence of the departed soul in the pö” which can be graded from low-quality rohutunamua to high-quality rohutunoànoà (Davies 1851, 230). 19  According to creation texts of Mäòhi Society Islands (Hitinià-Hitiraro-Avaiki Mua), “Havaìi became land by God Taaroa’s incantation, and by the same token Havaìi became the birthplace of lands, gods, kings, humans” (Henry 1988, 349, 353, 412; Hoìòre 1992, 17–18). This contention is however a burning issue for there are many Àvaìki, Havaìi, Hawaìi, (Jawaìki), Savaìi, within the Polynesian triangle as well as from its margins (Brockway 1987, 221–230; Crowe 2018, 110–117, 118; Kirch 2000; Saura 2019). 20  It is even asserted that the tree to be used for the Vaa was originally planted together with the person’s placenta after birth (Saura 2003). 21  There were Mäòhi expectations of new kind of foreigners who would appear some day and come ashore on vessels and canoes without an outrigger. “Over that which this lopped tree has to teach. They are coming up on a canoe without an outrigger” (Henry 1988, 16, 20; Salmond 2005).

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oceanic vessels in a way) try to convey to each other an inter-humane-­ cultural-religious binding message of welcome, relationship, friendship, and fellowship, beyond geo-political-strategic projects and diplomatic negotiations.22 As the project of church planting grew slowly throughout later decades, the LMS’ Vaa ama òre and more so the Mäòhi Vaa ama and Vaa tauàti contributed much to the spreading of the church and the Gospel in Mäòhinui and Moananui.23 Besides facing the challenges of short and far away outer sea pathways, evangelists, deacons, and pastors had to use frail Vaa ama on lagoons, bays, and channels. All this in order to share and gain from the radiant gems of God’s living word, sparkling out acts of welcome and fellowship, and of lesson and worship with birthing congregations of different island shores and beaches, valleys, and hills. This was unceasing during the Smep’s period from 1860s to 1960s in parts of the Society Islands, and up to this date, in remote archipelagos such as Tuamotu and Ohoteìi, to name a few. At the turn of the twenty first century, the Vaa has gained the status of an essential theological missiological subject of reflection for students studying theology and ministry. A project by a theology student merits a brief mention here. In 2004, the former Pastor Rico a Teururaì used the image of Vaa for his Bachelor of Divinity thesis (2004a) at the Pacific Theological College (Suva, Fiji). He brought to the attention of newly elected Mäòhi Protestant Church leaders critical advises based on Vaa life organization for their good leadership and governance of the church community. This helped church leaders observe from the Papeete-Paofaì Church headquarters the continual movements of people (who get alone or in groups on the Vaa ama and Vaa tauàti) for the purpose of fellowship, leisure, sporting, and fishing. Resulting from engagement with this 22  Accounts by missionaries give a glimpse of their first day experience: “Sunday, March 5th, 1797 … we saw several canoes putting off and paddling towards us … we soon counted seventy-four canoes around us, many of them double ones … not less than one hundred of them dancing and … crying, ‘Tayo!’ [Tayo means friends]” (ÈÈPF 1997, 32; CWM 2018, 78). Moreover, in the 5th of March 2005 commemoration of the arrival of LMS’ first group of missionaries (1797), the Mäòhi Protestant Church Youth Organisation gave a particular place for the Vaa throughout that week’s activities (Hoìòre 2005, 8, 9). 23  Like in 1818, after Luke’s Gospel was translated and printed in Mooreàreà-Afareaitu, and the missionary William Ellis witnessed, La petite baie d’Afareaitu était alors encombrée de centaines de pirogues. Souvent, je voyais trente à quarante pirogues venues des endroits les plus éloignés (The small bay of Afareaitu was then full of hundreds of canoes. Often, I saw thirty to forty canoes having come from remote places; Vernier 1986, 26, my translation).

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student’s Vaa theology, the church has come to further explore and apply Vaa Principles of Way of Voyaging in Life (Teururaì 2004b, 1–3). The Mäòhi Protestant Church and its school of theology and ministry24 had undertaken a radical review of the educational system in valuing the Vaa tauàti to symbolize inter-cultural and inter-religious inter-actions between ancestral Mäòhi Faith and traditional Christian Faith in a complementary way. And so to become a place of inter-disciplinary learning based on the process of “plaiting and weaving Mäòhi Ancestral Ecology, Ethics and Theology with Biblical Worldwide Christian Faith Insights” (Hoìòre 2019).25 As a result of the 2015–2019 operations of the school, three things are noted as impacting the school’s and the church’s existence. First, the lifestyle of the school community drew from Vaa ama and Vaa tauàti (as well as Vaahiva and Vaamataèinaa) to organize, to work, to lead, and to live the reality of diversity in unity between persons and persons, persons and creation, persons and trinity.26 Second, during the 2018–2019 academic year, the Mäòhi Department of Studies offered a course that delivered knowledge on the fundamentals and construction of Vaa.27 Third, in 2019, for his diploma in theology project writing at Terereatau School, the young pastor in probation Yves a Tepuai chose the subject of Vaa Raìvavae (Tepuaì 2019).28 The exercise directed him to 24  The first Theological School in Mäòhinui was opened by English missionaries from the London Missionary Society (LMS) in Papetoai district, Mooreàreà Island in 1813. It was moved to Opoa district, Raiatea Island, in 1821; to Vaitoare in Tahaa Island in 1822; back to Mooreàreà Island toward the end of the nineteenth century; to Tahiti at the beginning of the twentieth century and to the Centre of Papeete City in 1927; back to Tahaa Island in 2015, and was named Terereatau Theological and Pastoral School. Plan is underway for Pü Àiraa Ùpu Rau University, to accommodate Terereatau Theological and Pastoral School together with the Protestant School of Agriculture and Medicinal plants, Farming and Fishing, and Renewable and Sustainable energies (Hoìòre 2019). 25  Firi (to plait sinnet), Fero (to fasten with sinnet), and Raraa (to weave) (Hoìòre 2019; Davies 1851, 86–87, 221). 26  In January 2017, two Vaa ama were launched and named VaaToàHiva (Vaahiva secured by Toà coral, for two to three persons) and Vaahiva-Nati-Ia-Tainuiätea (Vaahiva bonding Tainuiätea, for six persons)—both intended for meditation, relaxing, leisure, fishing, and sporting activities. 27  By mid-June 2019, two classes constructed their respective new Vaa ama for five to six persons to be used for meditation, relaxing, leisure, fishing, and sporting activities, and named them Tere–Hau–Manuia (voyaging peacefully with success) and Hihi–Rä–Hotu– Tai–Hï (sunshine ray bountiful ocean for fishing). 28  In introducing his subject on the day of defense, he quoted a well-known saying, “Being a Raìvavae, means having faith, land, plantation, house, fishing gears, vaa.” Raìvavae is an

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research about Raìvavae Island ancestral and traditional Vaa fundamentals and know hows, and so to pinpoint relevant implications and applications for church life in particular and for Raìvavae Island life in general. Last but not least, both in 2016 and 2019 the Mäòhi Protestant Church Council put forward the Vaa symbol in the concluding part of its communiqué. Referring to Mäòhinui and Moananui ancestral faith, wisdom, talent, and courage, the local, regional, and global church were recalled and exhorted to capture and apply anew those essential healing, life giving, and empowering values in facing the challenges of the present yet future harsh times of mission and witness, A hiò tämau i to Atua i te rei mua o to vaa na, tei faaitoito ia òe i te tauoi e te hoe i to vaa ia hau to tere i nià i te èà o te oraraa nei. Do constantly look at your God in the front of your vaa, who encourages you to steer and row your vaa so that your venture on the path of life be a peaceful one. (ÈPM 2019, 18; my translation)

Vaa from, with, and for Life From being one of the main means of transportation for reaching another place, Vaa also contributed in the founding of Mäòhinui-Moananui life worldview. First, it helped affirm strong links with and respect toward land, sea, space, and creation. Second, it helped enforce structure and value of balanced communal life. Third, it helped confess faith and dedicate worship to the divine. Fourth, it helped plait sinnet or weave mat of trinitarian strands of divine, human, and creation inter-relatedness and inter-actions. In other words, the Vaa represents a journey and a crossing; it is symbolic of making the journey across life, whether it be a journey of faith, education, desire, curiosity, or any other such motivation. This journey is meant to be beneficial to the individual and the community, in the forming, informing, reforming, transforming processes of the journey. With some fruitful practical re-appropriations and applications of Vaa culture, it is worth recalling that the Mäòhi Protestant Church was the Christian institution with mission work beginning in Mäòhinui in the 1790s and in Moananui in the 1820s. Christianity benefited from Vaa island of the Hiro Toopae archipelago (also known as Austral islands), whereby each family has a typical ancestral made vaa.

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whether in the closest unwelcoming tribal island bays of Tahiti or in the remotest inaccessible tribal highland hills of Papua. These means or vessels were frail, but they efficiently covered unforeseen calm and agitated aquatic oceanic elements. Displaying faith which uprooted trees of deep ignorance and displaced mountains of high protests, the Vaa culture witnessed also to the Atua gift of abundant eternal life in the present (here and now). The contemporary Mäòhi Protestant Church has addressed huge distressing eco-politico-religio-societal developments during the mid-­ twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. In 1995, for example, following worldwide protests (with Vaa and boats flotilla) against French nuclear testings, the Vaa rere (flying vaa or plane)29 took the church’s president and general secretary to meet the French state leaders in Paris and deliver a prophetic message. Later, in 2017–2018, together with flotilla of Vaa rere heading to the UN, the Mäòhinui national Vaa rere took the church’s president and a special support team to seat amongst leaders of Nations in New  York and Geneva—and they denounce the French premeditated Crime Against Mäòhi Humanity and Mäòhinui Sovereignty (ÈPM 2017). In the course of the twenty-first century though, Mäòhinui, Moananui, and the world face crises through disguised globalization reminiscent of biblical Babel experiences, which like a typhoon wipes sane relationships away. It is emergency time, knowing the disasters that industrial nations are creating, and they will bring planet Earth to serious problematic situations reminiscent of biblical flood experiences. Old Testament stories recall both, the ark that Noah built for the survival of animals from an imminent flood and the ship that Jonah travelled in to Nineveh (even finished like in a submarine in the belly of a big fish). New Testament texts reported that boats played a large role in the life and ministry of Jesus and some of his disciples were fishermen, and Paul’s missionary task was done largely by ship and he was often in danger at sea. Mäòhinui has a Vaa tauàti on its flag, five individuals symbolizing the respective archipelagos, and with the motifs of sea and sun. The true reality today is that although the Vaa is still part of Mäòhinui daily life, most Vaa are nevertheless made of fiberglass chemical products and used for exercising and sporting purposes—in view of national and international

29  I borrow the term Vaa rere from the Rarotonga language, whereas Mäòhinui name the plane Manureva (space bird).

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Vaa contests, for prizes and pride. This trend only offers benefits in terms of health, wealth, and authority to elite and expert people. This contemporary trend needs to be altered by re-appropriating some fundamentals of Vaa. First, the bio-ecological alternative, which should boost essential tree planting and useful vessel constructing, for the sake of gradually lessening overcrowding on land and sea by overpouring damaging industrial big cars and speed boats. Second, the Mana alternative, which should be boosted anew by the conviction and determination in Tähoê (unity in diversity principle), for the sake of reinvigorating awareness and acts toward demanding Mäòhi Mäòhinui individual-communal dignity—so as to reach socio-ecological welfare and healthcare. Third, the theological alternative, which should be refreshed anew by faith and belief in trinitarian creator-sustainer-savior and triune father-son-spirit Atua, for the sake of releasing from unjust unloving legalist ethical-missional discourses and projects. By way of concluding here, the words of James S.  Bhagwan are complementary: The Church is called to witness by word and action … the Missio Dei— God’s intention for the world … in the Way of Jesus Christ … to continue the salvific action of reconciliation, redemption, recreation and recovery… The symbol of the Methodist Church in Fiji and Rotuma is a takia (a traditional outrigger sailing canoe) with a cross emblazoned on its sail. It signifies the carrying of the gospel of Jesus Christ … Where is this takia today in the storms of change … Yet with every change of leadership, a new crew boards this takia, and there is hope that the journey can continue according to God’s charter. This is an attempt to climb aboard the takia and join its crew; to tap its compass or reorient this vessel in the direction to which it can sail, and guide Fijian society to an Island of Hope. (Bhagwan 2013, 1–2)

Works Cited Babadzan, Alain. 1993. Les dépouilles des dieux. Paris: Edition de la maison de l’homme. Bhagwan, S. James. 2013. Sailing to the island of hope: A Wesleyan ethical framework for 21st century Fiji. Master in theology thesis, Methodist Theological University, Seoul. Bidault, Jacques. 1945. Pirogues et pagaies. Paris: Susse.

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Brockway, W.  Robert. 1987. The whence of Hawaìki. Sciences Religieuses 16 (2): 221–230. Crowe, Andrew. 2018. Pathway of the birds: The voyaging achievements of Maori and their Polynesian ancestors. Honolulu: University of Hawaìi Press. CWM. 2018. Travelling together. Daily devotions. Singapore: CWM. Davies, John. 1851. A Tahitian and English dictionary. London: LMS. ÈÈPF. 1997. 1797: A missionary voyage in the ship duff: Te tere mitionare o Tarapu. Papeete: Èèpf-Haere pö no Tahiti. ÈPM. 2007. Parau faaara Âpooraa rahi âmui Taiohaè-Nukuhiva. Taiohaè: ÈPM. ———. 2017. Parau faaara Âpooraa rahi âmui Teahupoo-Tahiti. Teahupoo: ÈPM. ———. 2019. Parau faaara Âpooraa Rahi Âmui, Afareaitu-Mooreà. Afareaitu: ÈPM. Guiot, Hélène. 2001. La construction navale polynésienne traditionnelle. Dimension culturelle d’un processus technique. Techniques & Culture 31–36: 445–478. Henry, Teuira. 1988. Tahiti aux temps anciens. Paris: Socété des océanistes. Hoìòre, J.  Here. 1992. Sotériologie et théologie de l’inter-religieux-culturel/ polynésien-océanien. In Thèse de doctorat. Montpellier: Institut protestant de théologie. ———. 2005. Te heiva vaa no te taùrua faaroo no Mäti 2005. Veà Porotetani 44–45, Mäti. ———. 2019. SPATS’ 50th anniversary Jubilee. Suva: Pacific Theological College. Huia. 2017. Marae. The heart of Maori Culture. Wellington: Huia. Knitter, Paul F. 1985. No other name? A critical survey of Christian attitudes toward world religions. Maryknoll: Orbis. Pearson, W.H. 1970. The reception of European voyagers on Polynesian islands, 1568–1797. Journal de la société des océanistes 27: 121–154. Raapoto, Turo. 1977. Le Marae: Aperçu sur le sanctuaire polynésien. Thèse de Maîtrise en Théologie, Faculté de Théologie de Strasbourg. Richaud-Tuheiava, Sylvia Vahi. 2001. Code des lois, 9. Tahiti: Ministere de la culture. Salmond, Anne. 2005. Their body is different, our body is different: European and Tahitian navigators in the 18th century. History and Anthropology 16 (2): 167–186. Saura, Bruno. 2003. Between nature and culture: The burial of placenta in French Polynesia. Papeete: Haere po no Tahiti. ———. 2019. Un poisson nommé Tahiti—Mythes et pouvoirs aux temps anciens polynésiens. Papeete: Aux vents des Îles. Tepuaì, Yves. 2019. Te vaa Raìvavae. In Mémoire de diploma en théologie. Hürëpiti: Ecole Théologique et Pastorale Terereatau.

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Teururaì, Rico. 2004a. A contextual understanding of ecclesial authority in the evangelical Church in French Polynesia: Te Vaa Ono (the canoe of six rowers) and Ùtuafare models (family). In Bachelor of divinity thesis. Pacific theological college: Suva. ———. 2004b. A faaitoito i te hoe. Suva: Pacific theological college. Vernier, Henri. 1986. Au vent des cyclones: Püai noa mai te vero. Paris: Les bergers et les mages. Vigneron, Emmanuel. 1986a. Polynésie d’autrefois: L’art de bien mourir. Bulletin de la société des études océaniennes 19 (11): 19–29. ———. 1986b. Recherches sur l’histoire des attitudes devant la mort en Polynésie française. Bulletin de la société des études océaniennes 19 (11): 51–53. Vinton, Kirch Patrice. 2000. On the road of the winds. In An Archaeological History of the Pacific Islands before European Contact., 2000. Los Angeles: University of California Press.

CHAPTER 17

From Atutasi to Atulasi: Relational Theologizing and Why Pacific Islanders Think and Theologize Differently Upolu Lumā Vaai

Theology in the Pacific has matured, but its roots are confined within what Bishop Leslie Boseto from the Solomon Islands called a Eurocentric “theological pod” (cited in S.A. Havea 1987, 21) struggling to find the touch of the Pacific soil. Hence, we find in this collection the struggle to spawn an originality, a criticality, and a theological prowess that is rooted in Pacific life-affirming dynamics of thinking. Theological newness depends on hermeneutical daring: daring to think differently, to disturb the normal, to liberate the oppressed, to re-right the wrong way that has been imposed as the correct way, and to deconstruct the very values and pedagogies we claim to be indigenous and the fairest of them all that have been cloned by the imperial centers. Theologizing in many local theological institutions, while slowly recovering from the colonial theological agenda, revere atutasi (single-layered or single-strandic) ways of theologizing to satisfy the onefication agenda of the gospel of uniformity promoted by the centers of knowledge. This way focuses less

U. L. Vaai (*) Pacific Theological College, Suva, Fiji e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_17

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on the multidimensionality of life and ignores how relationship is critical to such an endeavor. This chapter highlights that because of the important role of relationality in navigating the complexity that many Pacific islanders experience, they think and theologize differently, attuned to atulasi (multi-layered or multi-strandic). Because of this, theological education needs to go through a de-­onefication process to shift from atutasi to atulasi in order to give the islanders the power to articulate and analyze as islanders and not as foreigners; the freedom to be creative without fear of being policed; and the passion to be deeply rooted in our ever flowing trans-generational life-affirming values.

Relational Theology Pacific relational theology is a theology of complexity. It has twofold aims. First, it investigates theologically how diverse cosmological entities, existences, beings, structures, and relations find meaning and identity in the rhythms of connection and disconnection, separation and joining, diversity and unity, individuality and communality, and how the in-/out-­ flowing of the Triune God is integral to the affirmation of life in such complexity. In other words, relational theology is an invitation to navigate the atulasi divine mystery of relationality reflected in the structure of the cosmic-community. It goes beyond an anthropocentric and static focus to retrieve the mutual intertwining of the relational God with diverse cosmic-­ community relations. Second, it employs this relationality as a hermeneutical tool of decolonization to deconstruct the dominant digestive colonial systems that fracture and disrupt the healthy flow of relations in order to reconstruct a relational consciousness that prioritizes life and holistic collective wellbeing. Relational theologizing is therefore about dancing imaginatively to the complex yet relational tune and rhythm of God’s life with us. In this dance, we become free to reposition ourselves in the interweaving of words, movements, sounds, patterns, bodies, meanings, and issues. Without directives and strict boundaries, it invites us to twirl freely and unapologetically from the controlled dancing grounds dictated by the centers of knowledge. It allows us to rediscover God already dancing with us to the rhythms of life, expressed in little practices such as fishing, planting, oral stories, feasting, and birthing to name a few. A theological dance informed by the silent whispers of the vanua (land) and the graceful movements of vaitafe (flowing rivers), transformed by the fluidity and unpredictability of

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the moana (ocean), animated by the mānava ola (breath of life) of the vaomatua (the elder forest), and dirtified by the rising dust from the malae, the ceremonial grounds of the Pacific dirt communities. A dance fused with oral stories, theologies, music, laughter, art and poetry from the village fields, and replenished by the waters and smoke of earth rituals. Theology as dance finds its pulse in the multi-strandic dynamics of diverse yet interwoven life. To create a new world and a new liberating story, theology should assist communities to reimagine God. One who is the source for an all-ness mindset often obscured by an obsession to achieve one-ness. Relational theology ceases to be a liberating force if it fails to address the injustices of the single-strandic development models preached by the gospel of uniformity disguised in the form of familiar faces, normal habits, and typical structures. Atutasi: Single-Strandic Theologizing For almost thirty years swimming and fishing in the moana of Pacific theological education, more and more I am convinced that theology in our region is still enslaved by the conventional atutasi approach of theologizing. We teach students to adopt single-strandic thinking as they define and prove whether God systematically fits into split categories such as a priori or a posteriori, objective or subjective, substance or relation, pure or dirt, male or female, process or solitary. In Christology, we teach students to prove whether Christ systematically fits into categories of either divinity or humanity, center or margin, individual or community, history or faith. In this either/or approach to theology, students get to choose the more powerful categories such as divine, center, male, objective, pure, solitary. Those who opt for the less powerful categories are either told they are wrong or condemned as heretics. Hence, Pacific Christology has lost its subversive and unsettling nature. Theologians in mainline churches often favor writing on Christology that leans toward the lordship of Christ at the expense of Jesus’ justice-oriented mission as a liberator and defender of the weak. Pacific contextual Christologies revolve around a lot of power and the monarchical language of lordship. This is seen, for example, when in theologizing servanthood, Christ is often perceived first as the Big Man (Melanesian chief), Tui (king), Turanga (chief; Tuwere 2010), or Taufalealii (high chief; Tuivanu 2013) before he is seen as a servant. In this way of thinking, lordship precedes servanthood. Can Jesus become a servant without being a king or

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chief? This lordship language falls short when it comes to resisting and transforming from the ground-up unjust social and religious structures. Single-strandic theologizing uses the onefication tool to achieve a single answer or an ultimate fact. Controlled by the gospel of uniformity, we who use this tool are often busy with fending off that which thinks and acts differently. We demonize anything that does not conform to such principles of truth. But have we thought about asking students to rethink the concept of truth? What kind of truth? Whose truth? And who benefits from such truth? Onefication is not about truth, but the control of truth. It is lazy energy. It removes God to the realm of lordship and objective logic and away from the real struggles of the world. It dismisses multiple stories and makes one story the only story. It strives to make visible the face of the one by making invisible the face of the many. This is in fact the real meaning of colonization, which comes from the word colon meaning to digest. Theology in the Pacific has been a slave to this colon narrative where only one culture, one way, one dance, or one destination digests all others in the name of an ultimate truth. I do not question the importance of a thinking that emphasizes systems and categories. However, I question the single-strandic mentality that comes with it and how it is imposed as the only way to understand reality. While the single-strandic approach to theology has its own place in the history of theological discourse in the West especially with relation to its philosophical tradition, it is ill-equipped to diagnose theological and social problems, not to mention offering healthy alternatives. Pacific theologizing runs on it because it is abundant, familiar, and easy to use to control others. Hence, Pacific theologizing has maintained a dichotomous categorization that finds pleasure in splitting and eliminating strands of the mat of life, favoring the one truth over multi-strandic relationships, legitimacy of traditional methods over stories, literary over orality, archival preservation over real-life experience, linearity over complexity, hegemony over multiplicity and diversity, and pure academia over life. The result is that theology has become an upper-class product that weaponizes the powerful while at the same time endorsing a culture of conformity for little people, little practices, and little things. Atulasi: Multi-strandic Theologizing If we theologize from the itulagi (“side of the heavens” or “side of the horizons”) of Pacific relationality, then it looks very different (Vaai and

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Casimira 2017, 6). Most Pacific islanders think in terms of complexity, multiplicity, and negotiability. Their minds are engineered not only according to the rhythms of relationships with the land, ocean, trees, strangers, and the divine but also from the ground-up. So if multiplicity, complexity, and negotiability are in our blood, why do we obsess with a single-strandic approach to theologizing? Is it because for many years we are controlled by the rules and methods of onefication? Or is it because theological education in the Pacific is not doing enough? For Pacific theology to promote wellbeing, it needs an atulasi approach that embraces the dynamic rhythms of complexity, multiplicity, and negotiability. It needs to understand the multifarious nature of life, to be dirtified by the local soil and replenished by the multiple colors of the land,1 to bathe in the river of relational values that provide mana to grassroots communities. To do this, before we try to define the theos (God), which often ends up abstractive and single-strandic, we need to relate first with the logos, the word, the story made flesh, that is already part of our stories, our struggles, and our life with each other. To avoid prying into the “inner life” of God, which this single-strandic approach has forced us to do (LaCugna 1991, 2–3), we start with what we know. Our life. Our story. Who we are. Where we come from. How we see the world. Because the story of God is deeply interwoven with our stories through Christ in the Spirit, knowing our story opens up a mutual God-Us encounter that allows us to dance into the mystery of God in our own way. This is something that Leonardo Boff reminded us about, more than four decades ago, that we cannot define divine mystery unless we understand our own particularities, already part of such mystery, in order to reveal a “new face especially known and loved by us” (Boff 1978, 32). This is something I have also learned from my forebears. We cannot define the ocean unless we understand first and foremost that the ocean is our own blood. So Epeli Hauofa was correct to argue that “the ocean is us,” connected and woven into our physical and spiritual fabric of life (1993). And Teresia Teiawa is on point when she reminded us that “we sweat and cry salt so we know that the ocean is really in our blood” (cited in Hau’ofa 2008, 41). How can we define the ocean, which is a mystery, if we cannot understand the drops of such mystery already present in ourselves? To relate to the mystery, we must understand the place of the 1  It makes sense when Jione Havea spoke of the multiple colours of reality as a gift often misplaced or misunderstood at the intersections of people and land (2019).

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mystery within our own living stories. It is the realization of the strands of such mystery, woven into the multiple strands of our stories, that constitutes us. Relational theologizing, therefore, does not entertain a single-­ strandic approach. It does not elevate the urge to prove an absolute objective truth as its primary task.

Matafelefele: Complexity The name of the Methodist parish in the central Apia town in Samoa is Matafelefele (mata is “face” or “strand” and felefele is “complex”). The name highlights that a church in a cosmopolitan area such as Apia should make as the focus of its mission working with multiple nationalities and complex political and economic issues that transpire in such spaces. Such is a difficult mission because it calls for creativity to cope with diverse ethnicities and myriad social challenges of cosmopolitanism. Relational theologizing finds its heartbeat in the embrace of complexity and therefore calls for a de-onefication of life. This is key to the idea of relationality. Matafelefele alludes to the fact that creation is a mat of complex faces and strands. Relational theologizing, therefore, is not just about understanding how different strands contribute to the whole, but also about understanding how each strand interacts and interconnects on its own terms thus emerging into a comprehensive whole. This de-onefication and embrace of complexity is something that Winston Halapua from Tonga in his moana theology offered (2008, 2010). We cannot just talk about one ocean at the exclusion of others. The Pacific Ocean is distinct yet only finds life through its connectedness to the complex whole represented by other oceans, other lives, and other flows. Tala-Atua (theos-logos) in the light of relationality is how we should organize our thinking about our struggle in faith to understand how God is mutually part of the complex strands within a complicated network of life. This is why creative imagination is critical in navigating this complexity. Creative imagination allows Pacific islanders to think in the let-be way, outside of the static archival methods of interpretation, adopting theological nimbleness like the fuia bird (starling bird) that often enjoys being playful and taking risks, jumping from one branch to the other without fear of being controlled. The challenge for theologians is how to redeem systems and categories which often force them to remain on one branch of the tree, gifted with only one view of the world. The following stories provide the dynamics of how many Pacific islanders are trained when they

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grow up to think in complex modus operandi, outside of confined and static systems and categories. Oral Stories Oral story is the matrix of Pacific knowledge. It does not bow to a systematic and single-strandic categorization. It embraces complexity. It enflames creative imagination. To uphold the beauty of complexity, oral stories utilize the method of allusion (through idioms and metaphors) to promote creative imagination and to protect us from the scientific obsession for specificity which leads to systematic sharp categorization. According to Tui Atua, “Allusion, allegory, and metaphor are linguistic tools that have the ability to make meaning, to privilege beauty, relatedness and keep the sacredness of the other” (Efi 2018, 106). For example, particular birds, fish, trees, rivers, even spirits, are used in stories because they represent reality and life for the different communities. Fish, for example, in most Fijian communities represents identity and it is resilient. Trees for most Pacific islands represent motherhood or life. Rivers often represent fluidity and movement. Spirits represent mana. In this sense, oral stories do not focus on seeking an absolute definition of these but rather on allowing space to reimage life through ongoing reflections and assessments and in that space allows the characters and movements in the story to inform us of our responsibilities to each other. In this respect, theology grows out of stories, whether it is the biblical creation story, the Scottish general Macbeth in Shakespeare’s story, or the story of Fiji’s great flood because two boys killed Turukawa, the favorite hawk that belonged to the god Degei (Reed and Hames 1967, 3–7). To C.S. Song, “Story contains within itself seeds of theology. It is the task of theology to identify theological seeds in stories, investigate the environment in which they have grown, inquire ways in which they impact people and their surroundings as they grow” (2011, 18). This orality approach is adopted by many Pacific theologians. For example, when the bird called the toloa is used in stories or theological articulation it represents the story of God being part of the stories of migration and of the identity crisis experienced by diasporic communities (Aiava 2017). When a coconut is used, it is symbolic of a cyclical and dynamic way of life that embraces the “lowest possible level” of the most vulnerable and the poorest of communities who wholly depend on the coconut tree to live. Sione ‘Amanaki Havea’s classic coconut theology

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simply repositions God to be inclusive of the stories of centuries of struggle of the coconut people under colonization (1987). When a umu (earth oven) is used, it represents the multiple functions and responsibilities as “it lies at the heart of communal life,” from planning and preparation to convergence, and to celebration when a umu is cooked. With its “capacity to exercise a representative metaphorical role,” umu theology evolves from the ground, from what the people do together daily (Vilitama 2015, 212). I would press even further to move from representation to relationship. Symbols do not just represent a reality. They provide the link to such reality that may foster new relationships and connections. Theologians fashioned by the single-strandic approach often struggle to understand why trees, rivers, ocean, mountains, rocks, people, and ancestors are central themes and analogies in these story theologies. This is because orality is relational and therefore all of these characters equally represent something about our stories of struggle and our encounter with the divine and about our responsibilities in it. Orality has a lot to teach theology about inclusiveness and embrace. It does not promote the central character culture in Hollywood movies that create one hero and sensationalize one conqueror. This is because the goal is not to create a single hero and to sensationalize one conqueror and discoverer in order to reach a solitary truth, but rather to allow space for people to reflect critically about their place and responsibility in the wider interconnected story of life. This is why the idea of hunting for facts is problematic—it takes a single-­strandic approach, controlled by the scientific literary urge that splits between fact and fiction. In the African context unfortunately, Lavinya Stennett claims that the legacy of Eurocentric academia has “continued to determine the parameters of knowledge production and decided that the literary mode of documenting and passing down knowledge is the only legitimate form” (2019). This direction, which is still promoted by mainstream theological education in the Pacific, disqualifies other ways used by many cultures to pass down knowledge such as oral traditions and stories. Most often in this trend, the first researcher to document an event or history is consecrated by the academia as the authentic source to be respected as the authority for following generations. But if Eurocentric research tools and analytical models are used based on the idea of documenting the experience of the islanders as opposed to living the experience of the islanders, and if the researcher only lived in the researched communities for a very short period of time, then we have a huge problem with

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what are perceived as facts. In this context, facts are the researcher’s own perception of the researched community. This desire for written sources as facts mutes the inherent racism promoted by the conventional education system for years. While facts are critical to quality assurance, I question the scope and approach used to achieve them. Relational theologizing aims at broadening the scope of the so-called facts and truth so that these are not limited to printed sources. Otherwise, the print cultures will continue to dictate how to understand many cultures that live and breathe orality. In fact, multiplicity of sources and perspectives is not a threat to truth or historical facts but rather an enrichment. In the Pacific worldview, because it is not bound to written sources, truth is always relational. Epeli Hau’ofa reminds us that because of relationality “truth is always flexible and negotiable, despite attempts by some of us to impose political, religious, and other forms of absolutism” (2020, 454). Because truth is found in the process of seeking wisdom, Hau’ofa’s claim resonates well with the Samoan wisdom ole uta ale poto e fetala’i ao le uta ale vale e taofimau (the wisdom of the wise is negotiable while the wisdom of the fool is fixed). Any story, theology, or history that is fixed is ill-equipped to liberate people. Theological education should thus first address the racism and injustice of misrepresentation in promoting fixed notions of truth, even locating and deconstructing the absolute power that comes with it. Wellbeing Stories Wellbeing can be realized through the embrace of the relational dynamics of complex strands of cosmic relations. This recognition is integral to the process of seeking wisdom in the Pacific. Achieving wellbeing is a lengthy and time-consuming process of consulting these complex strands of life. This process involves consulting the land, the ocean, the people, and the vision of ancestors. Asking critical questions in this process is important in order to achieve wisdom. In Samoa for example, there is a wisdom process called moe le toa (let the toa sleep) where deliberation would be postponed to the next day when a wisdom is not reached. The toa is a tree used for creating durable weapons. For the sake of durability, it needs to sleep in water for a lengthy period of time to ensure it is tough to achieve its purpose. The more it sleeps the more it is durable. This metaphor is used for decision making. The more time a decision is challenged with questions in consultation with the earth and the

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cosmic-­community, the more it is durable, and has less costs. Wellbeing (laumalie, lagimalie, manuia) is achieved through ongoing questioning, consultative discernment, and critical dialogue with the whole. This willingness to question and consult with a discerning and listening resolve is key to a theologizing that embraces complexity. It is key to a theology of wellbeing. The goal of questioning is not to achieve an absolute answer, but rather a check and balance mechanism where all of life is embraced and upheld with mutual respect and dignity. Respect therefore is not the absence of questions. It is rather in the questions and the willingness to listen with discernment that we have respect. We see here elements of Martin Heidegger’s “house of being” and “being in the world,” Hans Georg Gadamer’s logic of question and answer in his “dialogical approach,” and also elements of Paul Ricoeur’s “hermeneutics of suspicion” where we are called to suspect and listen at the same time. This is not to use Western philosophies to verify Pacific ways of knowing, but rather to point out that the Pacific has social analytical tools, hermeneutical processes of questioning, and critical engagement—which students of theology neglect when theologizing. Relational theologizing requires islanders to dig deeper into what is theirs if the goal is to achieve wellbeing in a way that is sustainable to their own communities. I have shared in another work, for example, the Samoan triadic analytical process of liuliu (turn to question and deconstruct), liliu (turn to action and reconstruct), and toe liuliu (re-turn to the initial phase of questioning) which is more meaningful when a Samoan person analyses or theologizes (Vaai 2017, 35–37). Both Western and Pacific knowledge and hermeneutical tools should be considered as distinctive yet interrelated strands woven next to each other in the story of theology. One of the core reasons why Pacific islanders employ this time-­ consuming process of consultative questioning and critical engagement, especially in relation to economic and development activities, is because of the mutuality of life. The land, ocean, trees, ancestors are mutually part of us. As family they exist in us and we in them. When they die we die. We are never mere individuals. We are, therefore we live (Vaai 2019). This sense of mutual responsibility is expressed in tattoos, for example: in many Pacific tattooing cultures, what is tattooed on bodies is not just mere art or designs—rocks, ocean, mountains, fish, house, rivers, combs, navigational tools, canoes, to name a few, are inscribed representations of a wider vision of wellbeing. Tattoo is the visual representation of unseen realities, even some claim it is the “embodiment and institution of Atua” (Maliko

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2012, vi). They remind the tattooed people of their deep connection to a wider web of relationships, both visible and invisible, and also their immediate responsibilities. While tattoo patterns represent the different complex strands of culture, family, economy, and spirituality, the inscriptions should also impact on everyday decision making, and actions, reminding their wearers to take an all-ness approach to life for the sake of wellbeing. Tevita Mohenoa Puloka from Tonga has also been talking about the embrace of complexity and relational wellbeing in a Tongan way. He holds that “a straight line is a curve” (Puloka 2007). For Puloka, the way Tongans and many Pacific islanders think and do things is never linear. Using the metaphor of the clothesline, “when unit of laundry hangs on the clothesline the line is fairly straight but when 50 units hang on the line, it curves” (2007, 61). The straight line represents those who take the single-strandic linear approach to evaluate life. They see life through the lens of a singular unit comprised only of the “I.” The curve represents a more relational multi-strandic approach to life and wellbeing, one that is never confined to systems and categories. It sees life through the lens of the communal unit comprised of the “We.” For this reason, any decision making will have to take a curved approach which involves a long process of consultation to make up the “We,” which includes the trees, land, ocean, and ancestors (considered outside of the mainstream straight line of thinking). Gender Stories The debates on the traditional patriarchal language of Father, King, or Lord has been rigorously challenged by feminists and has crawled beyond the academic circles to change the shape of the church. But perhaps the greatest challenge came in the use of personal pronouns such as He and She with reference to God. This approach allows God to be as close as possible to our struggle and oppressive experiences. However Young Lee Hertig warns that such an approach, despite its many positive impacts, is just as guilty as patriarchy because it has used the very fuel that powered the patriarchal engine, that is, “dichotomy” (Hertig 2010, 4). When we use pronouns with reference to God, while they disclose the mystery of God in a way that each gender will feel divine presence and love, they also run the risk of trapping God in our gender-centric interests, making God look like us, and therefore depriving others of the same God.

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Most Pacific languages do not have pronouns. Terms for person such as tagata, tangata, kanaka, or taata in most Polynesian countries are gender neutral. This is a reminder of the fluidity of life and the complex intersecting relationships and responsibilities that gender categorization often neglects. Therefore, many islanders had no problem with the gender of God until they were introduced into this stagnant “divine pronoun culture.” My paternal grandmother won the title of fai-fe’e (the octopus lady) in her village. This is because she weaves, cooks, and breastfeeds as any ordinary woman would, and she also mastered the art of fishing (associated with men). When she goes fishing, she usually catches many octopuses and fish which she distributes to the village families. She even has a huge taro plantation in which most of us children hated to work. But we grew up learning from her an all-ness approach to life by moving freely between what we now assume to be separate categories: domestic versus municipal, private versus collective, masculinity versus femininity, or land versus ocean. And from that fluidity, while maintaining and respecting these different complex strands of life, my grandmother resisted a sharp separation of these, even the separation of roles as proposed by many anthropologists who studied Samoa according to their own analytical models. When Elizabeth Johnson published her ground breaking book She Who Is (1992), perhaps to counter E.L. Mascall’s book He Who Is (1943), it highlighted a war that continues to this day over which gender category fits God better. Perhaps for my grandmother, a single-strandic understanding of God as either He or She is not only humanistic and divisive but overlooks what mats teach us. On mats, one strand, while maintaining its uniqueness, flows into the other, creating a pattern that exists and finds meaning only because of the intersecting and overlapping strands. The challenge is whether Pacific islanders have the courage, or even be encouraged by their lecturers, to use this fluid relational approach when talking about God.

Conclusion Relational theologizing invites a shift from atutasi to atulasi theological thinking. It re-situates theology to recognize and embrace the relational dynamics of complex strands of cosmic relations and multi-strandic ways of understanding reality. These ways have already been gifted by God to the Pacific people. It is just that theological educators need to be more

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open minded to deconstruct the racial dynamics of power in their thinking, to be free from the atutasi single-strandic approach that aims at achieving absolute truth at the expense of the cultural itulagi of other contexts and communities that are different from theirs. Our theological education needs to allow space for islanders (and other ethnic minorities) to be imaginative and creative. We need to mentor them to discover their inherent gifts and potentialities: to be fluid yet critical; to seek the mystery themselves rather than defining it for them; to identify the seeds of theology in their local stories; to shift from one-ness to all-­ ness, must-be to let-be, regulation to imagination, single strand to multi-­ strand; and to have energy to reconstruct a new theology that dares to dance differently from the tunes of global theologies. Unless we move away from the onefication agenda of the gospel of uniformity, theological education will never serve its purpose of liberating life and offering holistic wellbeing. It has to free itself from the perception of having a controlling center that polices and gives a final approval before something is declared authentic. It has to resist theological models forged from the holy corridors of a powerful academic elite who declares these models as the only way for all. Having said this, it is equally important for theological education in the Pacific to carefully navigate through this relational theologizing so that it is not divisive and exclusive. We have to be reminded that the relational way is not the only way to dance theologically. It is not the only strand in the mat of theology. While a multi-strandic approach to theology embraces and recognizes the distinctiveness of all strands, it must ensure that these strands find a way to talk to each other in an honest and constructive way. Even if the other is the colonizer or the abuser! Relational theologizing is not about elimination but rather invitation. Not about condemnation but celebration. It imagines and envisions how to tell the same story of God in a different way. A cosmic relational way. A way that offers salvation for all creation rather than just for one color, one culture, or one creature such as the human.

Works Cited Aiava, Faafetai. 2017. Alofa relations: A quest for an alternative theology for the Samoa Diaspora. PhD Thesis, Pacific Theological College, Suva. Boff, Leornardo. 1978. Jesus Christ the liberator: A critical Christology for our time. London: SPCK.

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Efi, Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese. 2018. In search of meaning, nuance and metaphor in social policy. In Su’esu’e Manogi: In search of fragrance, ed. Tamasa’ilau M. Sualii-Sauni et al., 103–120. Wellington: Huia. Halapua, Winston. 2008. Waves of god’s embrace: Sacred perspectives from the ocean. London: Canterbury. ———. 2010. A Moana rhythm of well-being. In Spirit possession, theology, and identity: A Pacific exploration, ed. Elaine M.  Wainwright et  al., 91–112. Hindmarsh: ATF. Hau’ofa, Epeli. 1993. Our sea of islands. In A New Oceania: Rediscovering our sea of islands, ed. Eric Waddell, Vijay Naidu, and Epeli Hauofa, 2–16. Suva: The University of the South Pacific. ———. 2020. Epilogue: Pasts to remember. In Remembrance of Pacific pasts: An invitation to remake history, ed. Robert Borofsky, 453–471. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Havea, Jione. 2019. The land has Colours. In People and land: Decolonizing theologies, ed. Jione Havea, 1–12. Lanham: Lexington. Havea, Sione ‘Amanaki. 1987. Christianity in the Pacific context. In South Pacific Theology, 11–15. Oxford: Regnum. Hertig, Young Lee. 2010. The Asian American alternative to feminism: A Yinist paradigm. In Mirrored reflections: Reframing biblical characters, ed. Young Lee Hertig and Chloe Sun, 3–14. Oregon: Wipf & Stock. Johnson, Elizabeth. 1992. She who is: The mystery of god in feminist theological discourse. New York: Crossroad. LaCugna, Catherine Mowry. 1991. God for us: The trinity and Christian life. New York: Harper. Maliko, Tavita. 2012. Ole Soga’imiti: An embodiment of god in the Samoan male body. PhD Thesis, The University of Auckland, Auckland. Mascall, E.L. 1943. He who is: A study in traditional theism. London: Libra. Puloka, Tevita Mohenoa. 2007. In Tonga, a straight line is a curve: Poetry as metaphor is a Tongan theology of conservation. Pacific Journal of Theology 38: 59–69. Reed, A.W., and Inez Hames. 1967. Myths and legends of Fiji. Auckland: Reeds. Song, C.S. 2011. In the beginning were stories, not texts: Story theology. Oregon: Cascade. Stennett, Lavinya. 2019. West Africa’s oral histories tell us a more complete story than traditional post-colonial narratives. https://qz.com/africa/1770108/ west-­africas-­oral-­history-­griots-­tell-­a-­more-­complete-­story/amp/. Tuivanu, Tuivanu. 2013. Taufalealii: Reorienting theology of leadership, towards Mission in the methodist church in Samoa. MTh Thesis, Pacific Theological College, Suva. Tuwere, Sevati. 2010. Jesus as Tui (king) and Turaga (chief). Concilium 5: 51–59.

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Vaai, Upolu Luma. 2017. Relational hermeneutics: A return to the relationality of the Pacific Itulagi as a lens for understanding and interpreting life. In Relational hermeneutics: Decolonising the mindset and the Pacific Itulagi, ed. Upolu Luma Vaai and Aisake Casimira, 17–41. Suva: University of the South Pacific and Pacific Theological College. ———. 2019. We are therefore we live: Pacific eco-relational spirituality and changing the climate change story. Japan: Toda Peace Institute. Policy Brief No. 56. Vaai, Upolu Luma, and Aisake Casimira, eds. 2017. Relational hermeneutics: Decolonising the mindset and the Pacific Itulagi. Suva: University of the South Pacific and Pacific Theological College. Vilitama, Matagi. 2015. On becoming a liquid church: Singing the Niuean ‘Fetuaiga Kerisiano’ on a Distant Shore. PhD Thesis. Sydney: Charles Sturt University.

CHAPTER 18

Mauli Apunamo: A Keakalo Invitation to One-Life Koloma Makewin

Can modern Keakalo Christians in Melanesian society dichotomize the spiritual from the physical in the present worldview overtaken by globalization?1 This question requires serious cultural and theological reflection. It raises concerns for investigating the dichotomy that penetrates the worldview and the integral vision of the cosmos in Keakalo society. The impact and effects of globalization are the major forces that have perverted the sacred space in Keakalo (see Makewin 2007). Seeking alternatives for Christians to develop life-affirming communities constitutes part of the people’s struggles addressed in this essay.  Keakalo people are known as Aroma people in Central Province of Papua New Guinea, and in the coastal area some 90 kilometers southeast of Port Moresby, the capital of Papua New Guinea. The Keakalo people and their language are believed to be Austronesian and their ancestors are believed to have migrated from the seas and oceans of the Pacific. The Gospel was first introduced to the people of Keakalo by Rev. James Charlmers, a British missionary in the 1800s followed by Polynesian missionaries through the London Missionary Society. 1

K. Makewin (*) University of Papua New Guinea, Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_18

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In order to respond to this dilemma, this chapter begins by discussing the theology of the Triune God from biblical and theological perspectives. Specific communal attributes drawn from this theology of the Triune God establish the rationale that underpin the communal existence practiced in Keakalo society. Second, this chapter discusses Keakalo communal attributes. Third, this chapter offers an assessment of the negative effects of globalization on cultures that favor communality in the olden days. Finally, this chapter proposes alternatives for life-affirming initiatives.

Notions of God in the Plural In Papua and Pasifika, God is communal in nature from the very beginning. God exists in communion, in reciprocity, and in equal sharing. This understanding of God is parallel with the way God approached and created the world and humankind in the Bible. The theology of the Triune God emanates from the Genesis account of God creating the world and humankind. It is drawn specifically from Genesis 1:26–28 which describes God not in the singular but in the plural. God’s noble dream for human relations is clearly articulated in the words “Let us make man in our image.” The question of who “us” refers to in this passage implies that there was more than one God involved in creating the world. Although the doctrine of trinity is not implicit here the notions of God in the plural are implied. It prefigures what the New Testament teaches about the Triune God. It describes the indescribable God. The pronoun “us” describes the plurality of the Godhead. It expresses a group consisting of related members. It therefore refers to the communion or oneness of divine persons, hence the notion “triune” is implied in this passage. In terms of the grammar of the passage, God in the plural is expressed in the third person singular verb form. We see both the plural pronoun “our” and the masculine singular “his” referring to the same entity— image of creator God. God progressively reveals more of God-self in later scriptures to bring us to that conclusion that they/he make(s) up a Triune God. There is also the idea that the doctrine of Trinity is constructed from the New Testament writings that make mention of the “three persons” such as is found in Pauline letters. The idea of “us” in Genesis points to God in communion and could refer to the heavenly council: the Lord God, the spirit (ruah) of God, and angelic beings.

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This communion in God is the source of communion between God and human beings and with the rest of creation. It is a communion in the spirit; this spirit is the source of life. Image of God Then God said, “Let us make man in our image and they shall resemble us.” The more appropriate translation for “man” here is humankind but it can also be used to refer to an individual human being (as in Genesis 2). Adam in Genesis 1 is translated humankind and includes both the male and female human being. Both are created in the image of God. Both have the imprint of God’s image in equal measure. Cliff Bird (2016, 13) describes three different ways of understanding what being the image of God means. First, it refers to humans having the faculties of God: intellect and reason, freewill and spiritual or moral qualities such as justice, holiness, and righteousness. Second, it could also refer to the relationality and communion that are in God. God exists in communion and in relationship, and thus to be created in God’s image is to live relationally and in communion. Third, it refers not to something that humans possess but to the function given to man and woman by God which is to “multiply and have dominion.” However, to be created in the image of God is to exercise care and stewardship. All these three interpretations of the image of God give a fuller understanding of God, and male and female human beings as created in God’s image. The Triune God The “three in one” concept is difficult to understand, yet we believe that this is what the word of God teaches us. This concept describes an incomprehensible truth about God. We use the word “triune” to conveniently express this incomprehensible truth. The “use” in the New Testament is progressively clearer and refers to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. The Gospel of Mathew teaches us that when Jesus commissioned his disciples to go out into the world to make disciples of all nations and to baptize them, they were to carry out that commission in the name of the triune God (Mathew 28:18–20). Even in the Gospel of John, Philip enquired of Jesus to show them the Father so that they could be satisfied. Jesus replied that whoever has seen him has seen the father (John 14:8–10).

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God’s intention is clear at the beginning that humankind was to resemble them. The communion that exists in the triune God embraces reciprocity and equality as well. There is therefore communion, reciprocity, and equality within the Trinitarian Godhead. Communion, reciprocity, and equality begin from the heart of God. It is the nature of God and God exists in communion, reciprocity, and equality. If humankind is going to resemble the Triune God, life in every human community must be characterized by communion, equality, and reciprocity. These are spiritual and communal virtues that could build communities to live out the heart of God. The book of Genesis was compiled during the period of Babylonian captivity to address the brokenness of this communion, reciprocity, and equality. Cliff Bird explains that this “captivity began about 587 BCE and was a difficult and a trying time for the people of God” as they were “uprooted, dislocated and isolated” (2016, 20). They were uprooted, dislocated, and isolated. Genesis was written to address this critical dire situation  (Bird 2016, 20). It was written to make sense of it all. In this emptiness and darkness of captivity the spirit of God was hovering out of the darkness and holiness of captivity (Bird 2016, 20). God spoke and brought forth light and life (Gen 1:1–2; 1:3–22). It was out of the chaos and disruption caused through captivity, God spoke and brought order and goodness (Bird 2016, 20). Out of the loss of identity through captivity God assured them of who and whose image they bear (Gen 1:26–27). Out of the sense of lost purpose due to captivity God reminded them of their calling (Gen 1:28–30). In part Genesis was written to speak to the situation that the Israelites faced and to create meaning out of meaninglessness and form out of formlessness (Bird 2016, 20). They were to bear the image of God who exists in communion, reciprocity, and equal sharing. They had to live relationally and in communion. Attributes The three most significant attributes that emanate from the preceding discussions are (1) communion, (2) reciprocity, and (3) equality. God exists in communion, reciprocity, and equality. These attributes underline the theological notion that God is relational. God can be found and be experienced in relating to others. It follows that God is communal. God’s noble intention was clear right from the beginning of creation. God intended humankind to live out what can be expressed as “the heart of

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God.” To live out the heart of God requires resembling God and God’s attributes. Humankind was made purposely to resemble God and to be in the image of God. Central to this noble dream of God is an invitation for humankind to participate in living out these communal attributes (or virtues). Humankind was summoned to live out the image of the triune God in the localities where they dwell. In the human communities alone can we be able to find these communal virtues of communion, reciprocity, and equality because they resemble and begin from the heart of God.

Keakalo Worldview Like other Melanesians, the cosmos of the Keakalo people is totally sacred. Much of the communal activities are regulated to uphold or maintain that spiritual order. In all interactions people commune, reciprocate, and share acquired wealth together. Individualism is foreign to the concept of communality. Communality is embodied in the ways people care for each other, and in the ways they share their garden food, fish, wealth with their family members and with the community. Central to their belief is the strong view that there is no dichotomy between the spiritual and the physical. Spiritual and the physical are integrated, hence life is interpreted as One-life. This concept of Oneness forms the worldview of the Keakalo people. There is no dichotomy between the spiritual and the physical. For example, if a person dies and is buried, people believe that his/her spirit dwells amongst the living. If the spirits of the dead can communicate with the living, the seen and the unseen world are integrated. It follows that there is no disintegration between this worldly and the other worldly. This vision of the cosmos is similar to many other parts of Melanesia. Nerville Bartle for example observes that the people in the highlands of Papua New Guinea hold the similar view that the dead are still present with the living (Bartle 2005, 127). This vision of the cosmos that integrates life is not perceived vertically alone but is relational. The Keakalo people believe in a spiritual order that regulates, harnesses, celebrates, and sustains the communal life of the people and informs them of their own religious experience. Bernard Narokobi correctly points out this religious experience of Melanesians. He further states that, “An experience for a Melanesia I believe, is the person’s encounter with the Spirit, the law, the economic, the politics and life’s own total whole,” and this also includes

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nature and people as well (Narokobi 1985, 77). For Narokobi, this is the Melanesian vision of the cosmos and its relationship to it. Keakalo people like other Melanesians do not segregate nature and human life. If we lose our land for example, we lose our place in creation. If we find ourselves alienated or exiled from our land, we find ourselves at odds with ourselves and with all creation. Keakalo cosmology does not divide the spiritual and the physical but embraces the two as One-life, hence the name, mauli apunamo. The phrase in Keakalo language literally means “oneness of life.” It is a concept that describes corporate life of sharing and caring, solidarity, partnership, teamwork, networking, and collaboration. It also identifies and embraces the seen and the unseen world. The source of this integration is the spiritual order. Mauli apunamo opens up to the concept of community. In other words, it speaks of the concept of community arising out of and is rooted in the understanding that nature and people belong to one another. Since the Keakalo cosmos is all spiritual, life becomes an issue of spiritual concern. Each time when I go home to my village in the last forty years, my father reminded me of a unique community experience. Whenever a person is struck by a poisonous snake, people’s interpretation and reasoning of this tragic incident rest on the claim that there is brokenness of the spiritual order of life. Three reasons are common in people’s interpretation of snake bites according to Keakalo cosmology. The victims of snake bites are believed to have broken rules in three areas of communal life. First, the victim may have removed ancestral landmarks or boundaries which is offensive to the spiritual order. Second, victim may have secretly committed adultery or has engaged in extra-marital affairs. Third, the victim of snake bites is believed to be living in broken relationships with their family members and others in the community and therefore have offended the spiritual order. Spiritual Order Mauli apunamo integrates life in the spiritual and the physical realms and consequently gives substance to communality. Communality is a way of life that gives value to relationships between siblings, cousins, and the whole kinship structure in society (see McElhanon and Whiteman 1984). Communality disregards selfishness and greed but enhances sharing and caring within kinship structure. When communality is disregarded it offends the spiritual order. The forests or jungles where people hunt; rich

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fields where people do gardening; rivers, reefs, and the sea where fish are caught; houses and village streets where the people dwell are domains of humans, as well as of nature and the spiritual world. This view defines people’s philosophy. It informs and forms the content of the way people perceive and interact in life. Life is consecrated toward upholding that spiritual order. Communal Way of Life Marriage life, bride price, gardening, and hunting expeditions are few among the many communal activities that will be discussed here. In these family or communal activities relationships between parties are vital. Relationship is therefore a core value that characterizes mauli apunamo. It is deeply entrenched in reciprocity regulated by the spiritual order. In the event relationships are broken or offended by different parties in communities or between immediate family members, spiritual order is insulted. Community affairs directly become issues of spiritual concern. Among some of the aspects of the communal life is the institution of marriage, to which we must now turn. Marriage Marriage between a man and woman is communal. They do not join together as husband and wife only, but their marriage embraces the community as well. Marriage joins together two families and clans represented by the couple who are wedded either by traditional or by church practices. The bond between the husband and wife is a bond between two families, clans, and villages. This bond is further strengthened by mutual support and cooperation shared across the clan when there is need for working together in gardens, house building, payment of bride price, and much more. The families or the clans reciprocate through sharing or work and other activities required in the community. Bride Price The rationale for bride price payment is primarily to accept marriage as communal and is therefore a public act of recognition. In the bride price ceremony reciprocity takes center stage. Before the bride price is paid the bride’s traditional dish (vavine rigana) is cooked and offered to the groom’s family. On the day of the bride price payment the groom’s traditional dish (au rigana) is cooked and offered to the bride’s family. The

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bride’s traditional dish is specifically prepared for the parents of the bride, whereas, the groom’s traditional dish is required to be consumed by all members of the community. This reciprocal exchange underlines the ethos of sharing and equality which is central to the community. Further, when the groom’s family pays the bride price, the bride’s family offers some form of payment in exchange—this is the bride’s family’s return gift (vaoleau) to the groom’s family. It may include wealth of mature bananas or yams, pigs or modern food stuff like bags of rice, flour, and sugar. Reciprocity in this case promotes equal sharing and good relationship between parties. In recent times, the bride’s family reciprocates to compensate the financial stress upon the groom’s family because bride price payments have elevated to around one hundred thousand Kina (Papuan currency) mark. In the first place, the bride price is paid to the parents of the bride and her brothers and sisters. The parents of the bride receive the cash payments and have the discretion to distribute money based on their preferences within the families. Another part of the bride price is paid to the extended family members within kinship structure. While the former is directly paid and shared among the bride’s parents and children, the latter is shared and distributed in different portions to the extended family in the kinship structure. Equality and sharing characterize these activities between the family members of the bride and the groom. Cash money is paid to the bride’s family while extended family members, in the first place, reciprocate with garden foods. Occasionally the mother of the bride is allocated a separate amount of the bride price (laa voina) in recognition of her role in taking charge of the bride from childhood and raising her to womanhood. One other aspect in the bride price payment in Keakalo society is the sharing of the aluao (literally, sitting around and dining together). It empowers and strengthens the relationship between the male and female descent within kinship in the bride price payment ceremonies. The aluao is about reciprocity and it encourages sharing and participation in the ceremony. For instance, five to ten persons from the bride’s family may be paired up and billeted to one household of the groom’s family to have their aluao on the actual day of payment ceremony. This communal sharing in the family joins together members from both sides to dine together and reciprocate garden food and other forms of traditional wealth. The aluao cultural activity in the bride price ceremony reinvigorates and sustains equal sharing and reciprocity.

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Gardening Gardening or subsistence farming is one communal activity that constitutes reciprocity. During the planting seasons, a portion of land is allocated to each member in a household. If a family member (e.g., the youngest or the eldest) plants a garden, the other siblings have a plot allocated for them in the garden. Plots of land space in the garden are equally distributed among all siblings in the family. The person who is planting the garden (eldest or youngest) has the responsibility to distribute portions of land equally across the garden. Even if one of the siblings is absent in the planting season, he/she is always honored to possess some portion of the land in the garden. Whoever plants the garden is responsible for weeding and caring for it until harvest. The responsibility of allocating plots in the garden identifies and summons binding relationships rooted in equal sharing of portions of land for agriculture. Harvesting promotes equality and sharing among family members. When the leaves of the planted yams wither and fall, that marks the harvest season. Every sibling from the eldest to the youngest is present or available to share benefits across the family. The harvest is checked and confirmed by mothers in the family before the harvest is distributed for consumption. By maintaining this group-oriented approach to harvesting and distribution of new yams, trust is established among the siblings in the family. Equality and sharing therefore become a cultural norm that informs and forms the substance of the communal way of life in gardening and traditional agriculture. Hunting The Keakalo practice known as Iwathakala refers to hunting expedition which begins straight after the planting season. The stem Iwatha refers to ploughing spear used for planting or hoeing the garden while the ending kala refers to time of feasting after planting is completed. An alternate phrase that describes this same period is the kori kalana which refers to digging hoe or stick used by women for planting. The Iwathakala is a period of hunting which begins with target-­ spearing of coconut husk by young men of various clans after the planting season. The young man who spears the husk would be the first to enter and burn the hunting grounds for edible animals. This expedition involves young men and women who take time to identify their family origins and establish connectivity. Relatives reciprocate wealth of garden food and other forms of gifts to enhance their kinship relations. Reciprocity and

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equal sharing and distribution of family wealth play a significant part of the planting and hunting seasons. Catches from the hunting expedition may include huge wallabies and pigs which are cooked and distributed between immediate and distant relatives of young men and women. Modern Challenge Most of the common activities in Keakalo society show visible expressions of reciprocity, equality, and sharing as well as communion. Communion, reciprocity, and equal sharing are rooted in mauli apunamo (oneness of life) which is informed by the integrated vision of the cosmos. Mauli apunamo sets the communality of the community. All of creation, all of life is one; every creature in community is connected with every other, living in harmony and security toward the well-being of every other creature. Our communality is in community. Communality springs from the awareness of mauli apunamo. On the contrary, the force of globalization that separates the supernatural and natural realities of life has penetrated every sacred space that inhabits and articulates this communality. It is to this force of globalization which we must now turn.

Disintegration of the Sacred Space With the onset of globalization, the attributes of communion, reciprocity, equal sharing, and participation are devalued and disintegrated. The communal life which once identified people’s mauli apunamo, rooted in the spiritual order integrating the physical and spiritual, is now dichotomized. While the Western economics revolve around the profit and economic growth, the local economy of the people in Keakalo is concerned with people and the totality of life. Life must be seen in its totality. The Keakalo people’s mauli apunamo and communality must be understood in terms of people’s relationship to earth and environment with all their contents, visible and invisible. It is an affirmation of life’s unity—the interrelatedness and the interdependence between human life and nature. Life is sacred because by origin it is sacred. Since the Keakalo cosmos is all spiritual, everything concerning life becomes issues for spiritual concern. As other Melanesians have said, a Melanesian is born into a spiritual world. Life is consecrated toward upholding that spiritual order. This spiritual affirmation of the oneness of life has now being dichotomized.

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Globalization promotes market value of individualism which has penetrated our communal way of existence. This spirit of individualism is fast becoming a norm transforming relationships that are not familial but commercial. What was once a co-operative effort for the whole community in festivities or in gardening, marriage and in death feasts, have now become competitive. The equal sharing of the land for agriculture among siblings based on the spirit of bonding has now become a commercial activity. Consumerism and competition are now norms affecting and transforming relationships. Further, the negative impact of entertainment industry has permeated the sacred space in living rooms and bedrooms. What was once forbidden or tabooed in terms of human sex and marriage are no longer a  sacred space in every private household. Desacralization of tabooed space is a threat to the culture of respect, sincerity and integrity. The cosmos which was once regarded as spiritual has been violated, and even demonized. This is a force negative to communality and to mauli apunamo (oneness of life) in Melanesia and the Pacific.

Conclusion The negative effects of globalization threaten our communities. Amidst this negative force that dehumanizes and devalues our people, we can search for building and living the alternative through forging of new relationships rooted in the values of communion, reciprocity, and equal sharing. The values of communion, reciprocity, and equal sharing were not just the nerve center of our people’s livelihood and existence, but they were spiritual virtues as well. These values are tenets of living in community that promote life which is not hierarchical but egalitarian; they do not promote segmentation or segregation but life that is holistic. Disintegration has no place in Keakalo nor in other Pacific communities. The Genesis theology of creation affirms that God exists in communion, reciprocity, and equal sharing and presents an alternative way of life that is significant to God and to the Keakalo community. Such a communitarian way of living is full of life and is founded in mauli apunamo (oneness of life) which enables nature and humans, the physical and spiritual, to interact for the well-being of every creature in the community. It would therefore be audacious if we do not build communities where communion, reciprocity and equal sharing can be experienced. This is what Maxon Mani (2016, 65)  meant when he said that we need to re-think

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what we say or do about our communal systems. We need to build life-­ affirming communities with these divine attributes because God exists in communion, reciprocity, and equal sharing. To live in communion, reciprocity, and in equal sharing with each other in the midst of false dichotomies is to live out the very heart of the triune God, who affirms such way of living.

Bibliography Bartle, Neville. “Death, Witchcraft and Spirit World in the Eastern Highlands of Papua New Guinea” in The Melanesian Spirit World: A Comparison POINT 29 (Goroka: Melanesian Institute, 2005), 124–164.  Bird, Cliff.  God’s Vision for Human Relations: Bible Study Resources on Human Dignity and Equality. Sydney: Uniting World, 2016. Makewin, Koloma. “The Concept of The Sacred from a Melanesian Perspective.” In The Pacific Journal of Theology II, no. 37 (2007): 94–109. Mani, Maxon. “A Theological and Missiological Response to the Wantok System in Melanesia” In Living in the Family POINT 40 (Goroka: Melanesian Institute, 2016): 57–78. McElhanon, Kenneth and Whiteman, Darrel. “Kinship: Who is Related to Whom” In  Introduction To Melanesian Cultures  POINT 5 (Goroka: Melanesian Institute, 1984): 105–126. Narokobi, Bernard. “What is Religious Experience for a Melanesian” In Living Theology in Melanesia POINT 8 (Goroka: Melanesian Institute, 1985): 69–77.

CHAPTER 19

Ol Woman long Vanuatu oli stap brekem bus!: (Vanuatu Women Breaking New Ground!) Randall Gregory Prior

The expression “brekem bus” refers to using a long-bladed knife to break through tropical bush and clear the land, for the planting of a garden or the clearing of a path. It has become an idiom that means “to pioneer.”

The story of Mary:1 Born on Tanna in the southern islands of Vanuatu, Mary was a young woman with a strong sense that God was calling her to become an ordained pastor in the Presbyterian Church of Vanuatu. With the support of her family and her Presbytery, Mary gained her way into the Theological College located on the northern island of Santo. She was one of a handful of young women in a male-dominated community of students but nevertheless managed the studies well. At the end of three years, Mary 1  Following is an account based on my conversation with Mary, and it is used here with her permission.

R. G. Prior (*) Pilgrim Theological College, University of Divinity, Parkville, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_19

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was ordained. Eagerly and nervously, she took up her first official ministry appointment. It was among her own people on the island of Tanna. It was then that her troubles began. In a cultural context where the roles of men and women are clearly defined and applied, it soon became clear that Mary was crossing into a cultural area that belonged only to men, namely that of public leadership and decision making. The deeply entrenched culture of the people on Tanna started to make its impact felt. At first, it was the men who protested; they began to distance themselves from their new minister, and they ignored the church bell summoning them to Sunday worship. Soon afterward the women and children followed suit, perhaps under the influence of their male heads and tribal elders, or perhaps because they too were uncomfortable about having a woman preach and teach the Gospel from the pulpit. In the face of growing opposition, Mary at first stood firm, but the stress of the situation began to take a toll. After a period of time, the situation reached the point where no one was coming to Sunday worship. For the young female pastor in her first appointment, the experience proved to be soul-destroying. She lost confidence in her calling, became mentally unwell, and withdrew not only from her ordained role but also from the church. Her sense of vocation, stimulated by her Gospel calling, and enthusiastically entered into, had been drained out of her. The details of the story of Mary are perhaps unusual and extreme. But the conflict it represents—between the cultural practices on the one hand, and the emerging trend for women to step into roles of leadership on the other hand—is becoming familiar to growing numbers of women across the islands of Vanuatu. In fact, so familiar and so troubling had this conflict become that in 2012, the national women’s movement of the Presbyterian Church2 decided that the time had come to take action; they declared the topic “Vanuatu Women in Leadership” as a priority issue for the national church, one that must no longer be ignored.3 With that in mind, later that same year they took their case to the male-dominated court of the national Assembly of the Presbyterian Church. Perhaps to their surprise,

 The Presbyterian Women’s Missionary Union (PWMU).  A description of events and steps taken is found in the foreword by Pastor Allen Nafuki, Pastor Nippy Aiong, Elder Cyrilline Baniuri (PCV 2013, 7–10). 2 3

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The Presbyterian Church of Vanuatu, at its national Assembly in 2012, officially endorsed the initiative of the PWMU (Presbyterian Women’s Missionary Union) to take up the issue of “Women in Leadership” as a way of responding to the changes and challenges in the church and in society. It was agreed that the issue needed to be addressed seriously. (Presbyterian Church of Vanuatu 2013, 7–8)

The Shape of the Project Following the historic decision of the national Assembly, a working group was appointed to implement the project. It decided that, in order to take the task seriously, the project would need to give attention to certain priorities: it would provide space for the struggles of the women to be heard, it would provide a venue for discussion between men and women, and it would promote an environment which would lead to concrete changes in the attitudes and practices of the church. At the center of the project was to be the production of educational material—written resources for the church to be informed about and to engage with the challenges addressing both church and society. These educational resources would be gathered from the experiences of women, recording their stories, their experiences, and their insights. In addition, selected men would also be asked to offer their own views on the role of women in leadership. Given the oral nature of the cultures of the people of Vanuatu, all of these stories would be collected orally and then transcribed. Recording the Stories The church committee overseeing the project wanted to give particular shape to the gathering of the material. As a result, committee members decided that the recording of the women’s stories would be guided by a series of eight inviting questions: . Tell your own personal story of how you became a leader. 1 2. On the journey of leadership, what were the challenges you faced? 3. What are the blessings you have received in your journey? 4. If you were speaking to a group of young women who were wanting to become leaders, what advice would you give to them?

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5. How can the leadership of women develop, while also maintaining the support of, and unity with men? 6. What is your view of the way the role of leadership by women will develop in the future? 7. In the stories of the Bible or the Good News of Jesus Christ, what encouragement or insight is there for the support of women in leadership? 8. Is there anything further you wish to say? To guide the input from the men, a different set of eight questions was agreed: . In your own cultural background, what was the role of women? 1 2. How did that change after the arrival of the missionaries? 3. What is the role of women today? 4. What are the challenges being faced by women in leadership roles? 5. What are the blessings which come through the leadership of women? 6. How do you see the future role of women in leadership? 7. In the stories of the Bible or the Good News of Jesus Christ, what encouragement or insight is there for the support of women in leadership? 8. Is there anything further you wish to say? What follows are some of the findings from this project that have arisen in the earliest stages.4 It documents the voices of the women who have so far told their stories—their experiences and insights about leadership. The church gave priority to hearing first from the older women and so it is these that form the content of this chapter. These are the women who have been the pioneers in leadership, the courageous women “we oli bin brekem bus”—those who have laid the foundations for the younger generation of women to build further. Using a metaphor from their own accounts, these are the women who have planted a seed that is now growing and spreading around Vanuatu, both geographically and socially.

4  So far, two volumes have been published documenting the stories of twenty-five women and men (PCV 2013, 2018).

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The Pioneers Among Women in Leadership The earliest pioneers among Vanuatu’s women leaders fall into four distinct categories: those who have been the wives of church pastors, those who grew up as children of tribal chiefly families, those who gained confidence and influence through success in formal colonial education, and those who were simply inspired by a deep sense of the call of God. This chapter tells one selected story from each of those four categories. (i) The Pastor’s Wife Maudie Vatoko (PCV 2018, 11–25 [Bislama] and 26–41 [English]): Born in 1924 and now ninety-six years of age, Maudie Vatoko was the youngest of nine children. Within her own tribal family, she had the benefit of exposure to roles of leadership from birth. Her father, Pastor Sope, was one of the very first indigenous pastors. He came from Mele village on the island of Efate. Older sisters of the family were among the first to belong to the Presbyterian Women’s movement, the Presbyterian Women’s Missionary Union (PWMU), which was established by two pioneer Presbyterian Deaconesses Australia in 1945. Just one month after marrying a trained teacher-catechist from the same village in 1949, Maudie found herself posted with her new husband to an unchurched region on the northern island of Malekula. She writes, “At the time, the people lived in darkness— they didn’t know anything about the Gospel. They fought each other and practised cannibalism. This was our first appointment” (PCV 2018, 28). They were in unchartered territory with minimal resources. “When we first went ashore, there was no-one there except one small family with two men, two women and three children; there was no-one else. We had no money. There were just two houses, and no village, nothing except bush” (PCV 2018, 28). During these six years, Maudie had her first two children. While her husband went about the task of sharing the Christian Gospel, Maudie attended not only to the care of the children but also to anything and everything required to create and maintain a home, and to support her husband in his work. She had learned from her own father’s experience how to begin to relate to these strange bush people: “You become friends with the people by offering them tobacco and matches,” he had told her. So that is what she did. “When I offered them, a smile came to their faces. The next time they came down, I looked and saw that they were carrying

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with them baskets of yam, sugar cane and taro. They put them on the ground and said, ‘Here is some food for you and your husband’” (PCV 2018, 33). Frequently, Maudie’s resources to survive were severely tested. On one occasion, her husband Mahlon had caught some fish for a meal. After cooking it on the beach, one of the local dogs ate some of the scraps, became ill and died. The dog belonged to one of the bush people who reacted by accusing Mahlon of being an agent of evil. So the men decided to take their revenge. An angry party, armed with weapons, came down from the hill to the house where Maudie and her family lived. At the time of the attack, Mahlon was away on a boat trip. Maudie, alone in the house with her two children aged one and three, was in fear for her life; she had to act quickly. She instructed her children to sing a gospel chorus that she had been teaching them, while she herself prayed earnestly for God’s help: “Papa God, we have come here to do your work. It is up to you now. If we die, it won’t be possible to do it. They just fight, but we are here to do your work” (PCV 2018, 35). It had the desired effect. The men, on hearing the children singing, and intrigued by what they heard, put down their guns against the tree and listened. Before long they sat down and went to sleep! Experiences like these were repeated for Maudie and for the generation of women who lived through those early years of local evangelism. Their leadership was molded not by formal education (because they had little) but by experiences which required courage, ingenuity, and improvisation. Maudie partnered her husband Mahlon in establishing several church communities in  locations where the Gospel was previously unknown. Through these experiences, she became one of the generation of women who subsequently took up leadership within the PWMU. In its early post-­ war years, she was secretary to the national executive and was instrumental in building this organization among the women across the islands. “At the time, the women had a great interest in the work of the church; they enjoyed it greatly” (PCV 2018, 38). The PWMU filled a need, serving as the primary arena for resourcing the women for leadership. Maudie comments, By being part of the PWMU, they receive many blessings in their life … they learn how to pray. Also they learn about the Bible and how to read and understand the Bible… Before the work of the PWMU began, women were

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not able to do choir singing, they were not able to speak Bislama, they had no motivation to get together with their friends. (PCV 2018, 38–39)

Now Maudie is able to look back on her uniquely long life with a feeling of deep gratitude. She sees that her life was blessed from the beginning. “I give thanks to Papa God that, although I did not get a good education, I grew up in a Christian family where my father was a big leader of the church … my life started in the home of a pastor and, with my husband as a pastor, this same life continued. So I give thanks to God” (PCV 2018, 41). (ii) The Chief’s Daughter Ann Karie (PCV 2013, 117–32): Just how significant was the influence of being born into chiefly families is illustrated strikingly in the experience of Ann Karie. Ann’s father, Tom Tipoloamata, was a paramount chief of the island of Tongoa. He was also a member of the Advisory Council for the Constitution of the newly independent nation of Vanuatu, and later a member of the National Council of Chiefs. In fact, Ann’s father was considered responsible for proposing the name “Vanuatu” for the nation following its independence in 1980 (PCV 2013, 118). Ann’s mother, Leiwia, was also a revered leader in her own right. Apart from the supportive role of leadership that fell to her as the wife of such a prominent chief, for many years Leiwia was President of the island PWMU group. Ann comments, “I was born into a family of leaders within my own culture, and from the beginning it was expected that I too would become a leader” (PCV 2013, 117). Among her important memories of her childhood, Ann recalls the task of offering support and hospitality to people from all walks of life. “In that way, I learned to talk with and to look after all different kinds of people from the time I was very young.... This experience helped me to appreciate that while people seemed to be well and happy, this was not always the case—underneath they often had challenges, problems and worries” (PCV 2013, 117–118). This childhood exposure to chiefly leadership was complemented by her family’s deep devotion to God. She reflects, In the sort of home I lived in where God was leading us all, all of this gave me great motivation and drive to the point where today I have become a leader. I give thanks because I believe that the university where I have

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received all my learning is the University of Papa God, where, through my experiences and opportunities, God has taught me and equipped me to become who I am today. For me it is not the wisdom of the world which is important but the wisdom of God, as the apostle Paul says in 1 Corinthians 1:18–25. (PCV 2013, 119–20)

While her formal education was limited to Primary School, Ann took every opportunity to develop her understanding and skills. She taught in the local village Sunday School; she took up official leadership roles in the island PWMU; through participation in a training program with the Summer Institute of Linguistics, she deepened her understanding of the Scriptures and gained skills for leading Bible Study and preaching; subsequently, she not only became an elder in the church but the leading elder (Clerk) on her local church Session. Ann’s skills took her beyond the accepted role of leadership among her own gender and into the fraught situation of offering leadership where it was not so readily accepted. In 2004, Ann accepted an invitation to stand as a candidate in the national political elections. She did so at the request of the PWMU who thought it would be a good idea to have a woman in a political leadership. This was new territory for Ann and she was about to experience the controversy of moving into a context of leadership that culturally didn’t belong to women. As the 2004 political campaign unfolded, the very women who at first encouraged Ann to accept candidature came under stern criticism and threats of reprisal from their husbands. Fearful, they started to withdraw. When it finally came to the time of the election, Ann received little support, even from the women who had first urged her to stand. Ann reflects, “It was a difficult and challenging time” (PCV 2013, 121). In 2006 Ann was elected, initially for a two-year term, as the national General Secretary of the PWMU. With the unqualified support—financial and emotional—of her husband, Toara, Ann set about the task of visiting every local PWMU around the islands. Such was the impact of her mode of leadership among the women across the islands, and the trust that she gained from the women, that she had the rare distinction of being reappointed twice, giving her a six-year term in this role of national leadership. By the end of her tenure, she had won the respect of both women and men as an accomplished leader.

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(iii) Educated for Leadership Serah Obed (PCV 2013, 133–42): Vanuatu is one of three nations of the world that does not currently have a woman as an elected member of Parliament, but that does not mean that there are no women in important political positions. One of these women is Serah Obed. Encouraged by her parents, and in particular by her mother, Serah was given educational opportunities that were normally focused on the male children. “In the days when we were growing up, the thought was to educate boys because they will be leaders of the home and the community tomorrow. Girls, because they will definitely move on when they get married, miss out on getting further education … only the boy would get the opportunity” (PCV 2013, 136). Serah performed well enough in her Primary School education to gain a place in the reputable Malapoa Secondary School in the capital Port Vila. Living a long way from home and separated from her twin sister with whom she was especially close, Serah began to create her own pathway to leadership. After gaining impressive results at the end of six years of secondary education, she was hand-picked among a small group of students to work in the Government Auditor General’s Office. After two years, she gained a scholarship for further studies, this time in the Solomon Islands, where she completed a Certificate in Business Studies. This was followed by a further scholarship to do a bachelor’s degree in business studies, majoring in Accountancy, in Australia. Today, Serah holds a master’s degree in business administration and serves in a prominent position in the Department of Finance of the Vanuatu Government. Looking back, she identifies the importance of making decisions that shape your future: The decisions and choices we make do contribute to who and what we are. To be where you want to be requires commitment and sacrifices, therefore becoming a leader will take one a series of stages in life. Those leadership skills do come about when we start making decisions that will affect our lives in times to come. To be where I am today, some of the decisions I made were without the consent of my parents while other decisions were aided by others around me. (PCV 2013, 134)

Her own experience has now become a catalyst for guiding the next generation of women in leadership. “Let me share this with you all young girls out there, you can be who and what you want to be. The choices you make now determine who you will be and what you want to be tomorrow” (PCV 2013, 139).

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But Serah urges an important qualification. Concerned about the growing tendency for young girls to be drawn to the attractions of western society and to turn their backs on the church, she declares, I would rather attend a church fixed program in the evening after a long day’s work in the office rather than going to a bar or a kava nakamal to meet up with friends and catch up with all the gossip of the day. I have a very well paid job and a very high position within the organisation that I work for but I maintain my position at home, in the church and the community. I hold a Masters Degree in Business Administration, but that alone does not make me who and what I am, it is Christ in my life that makes me who I am and where I am today. (PCV 2013, 139)

Her final word: “The main challenge facing women today is recognising who you are in the eyes of those around you and for most in the eyes of God. There is so much talk today about women’s rights; the challenge is seeing your rights in light of God’s work, in what God wants you to be” (PCV 2013, 141). (iv) Called by God Leisale Magawai (PCV 2018, 327–32 [Bislama] and 333–38 [English]): The final category of women leaders is perhaps the most a-cultural; it is those women whose leadership has grown, not out of a chiefly heritage, not as a result of marriage to a pastor, and not from acquiring a good formal education, but simply because, through their involvement in their local village life and church, they have been grasped by a deep sense of call from God that has led them along a pathway to public leadership. This is most vivid in the life of one woman who, from humble circumstance and through pure persistence, came to be selected by the church for deaconess training. Born in 1951 on the little island of Ifira, Leisale grew up in a Christian family. She recalls, I went to Sunday School and then Youth Fellowship. I did evangelism work and all the other things that God asked of the youth members. So I became a regular part of the ministry work of the youth group and participated in what was called “the 4-square program.” I came to the point of realising that I grew up in a family, a Christian family, so I felt the need to follow the

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footsteps and plans of my father and mother, and to do the work of God the Father. (PCV 2018, 333)

In the process of growing up in the Christian community, an event took place that changed the direction of Leisale’s life. It happened to me through the work of the first mass evangelist, at the first evangelism campaign held by Pastor Bill Camden after he arrived in the New Hebrides. With the late Jimmy Anson, we went to Tanna to share in evangelism work at that time. After we had been around Tanna, we came back to Vila where I was the first woman to give her testimony at the closing of the mass evangelism service at Independence Park. I remembered the word of God, saying, “Today is the day for decision, tomorrow is too late.” I took these words seriously. In 1974 I changed my life. (PCV 2018, 33–34)

Resigning from her employment in the colonial British Government national service and acting on advice from the then leaders of her national church, Leisale made application for Deaconess training at the Methodist College in Suva. In her work as a Deaconess, life was constantly challenging, made all the more so because she was not married. In a cultural context where marriage is the norm for all women, and where the husband provides a cultural place of identity for wife and children, Leisale was looked upon as an outsider. This position of vulnerability compelled her to find her strength and encouragement from the only place where she could find it, namely in the fact that God had called her into ministry. The main challenge I have faced in my work as an ordained Deaconess has been to do with the ways of this church of ours. What I mean by this is that in the past men have not appreciated or supported the role of women. However, right up to the present day, through persistent prayer, through the Word of God, I have been able to face all the challenges as I have served God, trying to help the women, running studies among the youth, leading classes for baptism and for confirmation. In all these things, I praise God for what he had given me to do.… It makes my life a mixture of ups and downs. But I praise God who helps me at all times. (PCV 2018, 334–35)

Looking back over her life, Leisale can now see how much she has been blessed as she has taken up the challenges of leadership within the national church. “When I asked God in prayer, he gave it to me, through my faith

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in God. I see that God has given me these things through prayer. I see that I have won the souls of many women who have come into the PWMU, and many souls of the youth. I praise God for all this. I have so many blessings that I cannot name them all; God is so very good” (PCV 2018, 335). In opposition to the dominant cultural view, Leisale heralded the equality of men and women grounded in the Scriptures. “God has created woman, God has created man; that is what the Bible says! We must all go ahead with our roles of leadership but we must do this in the way that God wants” (PCV 2018, 336). On these grounds, Leisale predicted that “in the future one of the women deaconesses or women pastors will be appointed as the Moderator of the Presbyterian Church. That is what I work hard towards.... It won’t be long before there is a woman who is Moderator. Of that I am certain; God knows my heart on this” (PCV 2018, 337). When invited to say what advice she would want to give to the next generation of young women, Leisale’s response was simple and direct, and reflected what she had come to know as the foundation of her own life and the inspiration for her own leadership. “My view is that the most important thing for young people in the future is prayer, Bible reading every day. That is what is important” (PCV 2018, 336). This priority is grounded in the call of God: “I want to say to all women that when you sense the call of God, you hear it and follow it” (PCV 2018, 338). As testimony to her own inner personal struggles in responding to this call and exercising leadership within a culture where marriage is assumed and where men remain dominant, she added, “You must find a husband who is willing to help you and support you to stand up as a woman in leadership; men can play an important role in helping you” (PCV 2018, 338). Perhaps Leisale’s own story of leadership is so much more impressive because she performed it without such cultural support.

A Final Word Each of the women whose stories have been shared—and there are many more that could have been told—are united across their diversity by a single strand, namely that the Word of God has inspired them to step into roles of leadership. Whether as wives of pastors, as children of chiefly families, as among the minority of women who are well qualified in formal education, or as none of these things, it is fundamentally the inspiration of God compelling them to respond to a call to stand up and be counted that

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has been the source of their motivation and courage. They have done so, often at great cost and in the face of daunting obstacles, but in doing so, these women have been heroic—pioneers both within the church and within their own culture. To use a metaphor more contextually Pacific, olgeta woman ia, oli bin brekem bus!—these women have taken up bush-­ knives and cut through virgin bushland to create a new space for women— and men—to stand. There is every indication that it will lead to a better environment for the next generation.

Works Cited Presbyterian Church of Vanuatu (PCV). 2013. Vanuatu women in leadership, Vol 1—Foundations. Melbourne: Gospel Vanuatu Books. ———. 2018. Vanuatu women in leadership, Vol 2—Development. Melbourne: Gospel Vanuatu Books.

CHAPTER 20

Intercultural and Interfaith Encounters: A Turo’ Kalog Reading of Luke 10:25–37 Geraldine Wiliame

Rotu (for Christianity) has played a fundamental role in our islands. It converted our people, provided education, and taught us how to worship the Christian god. However, a drawback of Rotu is that it sets the platform for our congregations to focus on eternal life—understood as heavenly— rather than (1) strengthen our faith and interpersonal relationships, (2) reconcile broken relationships, and (3) deal with real-life situations in our communities. Its purpose has been “to save, to teach, to heal, to civilize, to covert, to control the local people” (Havea 2014) at all costs. Over the years, the focus on heavenly rewards has “demarcated boundaries” to divide our families, relatives, and friends into questions about (1) the religion or church to which one belongs, (2) the category one falls into (insider versus outsider), (3) the place where one stands in the whole scheme of things (center versus margin). We become an-other to each other and we group and classify our own people in the name of faith and culture.

G. Wiliame (*) Davuilevu Theological College, Suva, Fiji © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_20

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Two pertinent questions arise: (1) Is this what religion is about? (2) Who categorizes one as an-other and decides who sits at the margin? To address these questions, I draw attention to Luke 10:25–37, the parable of the wounded man (instead of focusing on the Good Samaritan), as a text of intercultural encounter and an opportunity for interfaith dialogue, using the Rotuman turo’ kalog as an interpretive lens. This chapter is divided into three parts. First, I outline some of the common interpretations of Luke 10:25–37. Second, I introduce turo’ kalog—its meaning, nature, and functions—and discuss how it may be used as a hermeneutical lens. Third, I offer a turo’ kalog reading of Luke 10:25–37 and its implications for intercultural relations and interfaith dialogue.

Common Interpretations of Luke 10:25–37 This parable has been interpreted in many ways with the focus falling upon the Good Samaritan. Origen interprets the parable allegorically, suggesting that the “wounded man represents Adam coming down from paradise (Jerusalem) to the world (Jericho), experiencing the punishment of sin (stripped, beaten and left half-dead) but finally being saved by Christ (Samaritan)” (Lienhard 1996, 137–139). Martin Luther also identifies the Samaritan as Christ but adds that he is the one “who has fulfilled the law and is perfectly healthy and sound, comes and does more than both priest and Levite” (Lenker 1983, 29). Martin Luther King Jr. also sees the Samaritan as a “central figure of the parable but calls for Christian social responsibility to do something more, that is, to tear down unjust conditions and build anew instead of patching things up” (Carson et  al. 2007, 29). Some scholars avoid allegorical interpretations and focus on the ethical imperative of the parable. For example, Suh Nam-Dong (1983) identifies the wounded man as Christ. He states The moaning of the person, who was attacked, deprived of his money, beaten by the robbers and almost dead, is the calling of Christ to passers-by. One’s attitude to the moaning person is exactly his or latent humanity within a human being either awakens or disappears. Therefore, on this moaning, the crossroads between salvation and damnation exists. (1983, 107)

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For Suh Nam-Dong, the mass and suffering of people are identified with the suffering of Christ which is seen in the wounded man. Miranda N.  Pillay (2008) interprets this text from a social-rhetorical approach which identifies with the Samaritan’s act of caring and loving toward the other (wounded man). Along that same line, Anne Elvey interprets Luke 10:25–37 from an ecological feminist perspective, identifying the act of the Samaritan as passionate compassion toward the other (2001, 11). The other in the works by Pillay and Elvey is the wounded man. But in a recent research, Park Hyun Ho (2016), a minjung theologian from Korea, rekindles Suh Nam-Dong’s argument which interprets Christ as the “victim who suffered violence and rejection on his way” (2016, 66). For Hyun Ho, such an interpretation is unique as no commentator has identified the victim in this parable with Christ (Hyun Ho 2016, 66). Given the diverse readings and responses to Luke 10:25–37, I propose that there is a need for an intercultural and interfaith reading of this parable. The following reading focuses on the wounded man, along the lines traced by Suh Nam-Dong and Pillay. To offer an intercultural and interfaith reading of Luke 10:25–37, I propose turo’ kalog as a hermeneutic.

Turo’ Kalog The Rotuman expression turo’ kalog is believed to have originated from when our ancestors showed respect when they called upon their gods—it is a reverential utterance, a vocative expression that reveals a deity’s high standing. Our ancestors used turo’ kalog in a religious and worship setting, as they made a respectful plea, a call to open a face-to-face encounter between them and the gods. The expression turo’ kalog is expected to open the clouds and the horizons for the gods and humans to see into each other’s realms, and to cross into each other’s worlds and engage in dialogue. This type of dialogue is one in which one talks, listens, and agrees with an-other but one may also offer a challenge. One is exposed to vulnerability, fears, and risks when disagreements arise from dialogues. In island life, our ancestors considered such challenges as normal and part of life (Vaai 2014, 45). Nowadays, turo’ kalog functions as a point of connection. It upholds the principle of respect toward the chiefs and the people especially when passing in front of them. The expression is an etiquette, a practice of good manners when passing in the close vicinity of chiefs and esteemed elders; it is a way of saying “excuse me for my intrusion” or “pardon me” as one

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reverentially bows in great respect. It is protocol, etiquette, and reverence practiced in many of our Pacific cultures. Such respect is granted not merely to humans but nature as well. In the olden days, before cutting a tree, the person doing the cutting would say turo’ kalog to inform the tree that it is about to be cut. In Rotuman culture, this turo’ kalog addressed to a tree shows respect to its growth, natural beauty and function, sturdiness and size, and its spiritual presence in nature, and at the same time recognizes life in nature and in the creator’s hand. In other words, turo’ kalog is a holistic conscientiousness of life in god, humans, and nature. Turo’ kalog is a way of life, practiced within the community. It shows respect for things: mighty, grand, multi-purposeful, natural beauty, and awe inspiring. It involves theory and praxis. Such practice is not static but transitional. It marks an end of something and a beginning of another. Turo’ kalog functions as a communicative bridge that links one to another. It becomes a meaningless expression if uttered without sincerity and decorum. However, when used or expressed with the highest form of etiquette and respect, it is chiefly, traditional, and godly. When used with sincerity and protocol, there is no paradox and mystery—it marks a departure point from something and opens new connections. In challenging situations, uttering turo’ kalog requires courage to give the utterance as well as to reveal one’s needs or desires. To detach from a challenging situation in life and to move on requires courage and fortitude; to find new connections in any community also requires courage and commitment. Courage is required when detaching from one’s position, departing from a comfort zone and old familiarities in order to meet face-­ to-­face with another. To move on and be productive in any form of challenge in life, the old vulnerabilities, fears, challenges, and risks come to mind and can be self-defeating if one is not able and spiritually ready to start anew. In the rhythm of life, one encounters agreements and disagreements. Turo’ kalog involves turning and looking when facing the other(s). It is fluid and it signifies a cyclical way of crossing around each other where there is no static center or margin; the center and margin shift and we embrace each other as equals. We recognize life and are concerned with each other.

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Detachment, Connection, Transition I use three moving aspects of turo’ kalog in reading of Luke 10:25–37 toward intercultural and interfaith dialogues: detachment (moving-away), connection (moving-toward), and transitional praxis (moving-beyond). The detachment (moving-away) phase deals with the comfortability, familiarity, vulnerability, and challenges faced by the wounded man. It aims to identify the root causes of the man’s departure from Jerusalem to Jericho and its functions in the story of Luke. It also includes exploring other signs of detachments in the story, their similarities and differences and to explore the question of whether the man’s departure is a form of fear or is it a sign of courage in the context of interfaith. The connection (moving-toward) phase deals with finding connections to make sense of the text and fill the gaps. Since the turo’ kalog orientation is cyclical, this phase includes identifying how different characters turn and look around at each other in the story, their hesitations and their meeting space of dialogue. This phase searches for both complements and for opposites; the challenges of agreement and disagreement in the parable. The third phase is transitional praxis (moving-beyond). As turo’ kalog reading looks to engage with connections, gaps, turns, and twists, such a process will not reach an end but rather a point and process of transition that allow other readers to share their views as well. This phase will look at how the wounded man, being half dead, moved from his position of being injured to the inn and beyond.

Turo’ Kalog Reading of Luke 10:25–37 This parable is a story within a story, within the larger Lukan journey. It reconfigures the “stereotypical picture of the other based on religious rules of purity and holiness” (Pillay 2008, 121). It calls for a “change of perspective in which the other person appears to us” (Thielicke and Schrey 1970, xl). It challenges interpretations of the world and opens to possible ways of interpretations (Mouton 2002, 37), and brings about better understanding of our knowledge and experience of reality (Mouton 2002, 38). The text opens with a face-to-face dialogue between Jesus and the lawyer who stands to challenge Jesus with religious issues such as what to do in order to inherit eternal life (10:25). Standing up before Jesus addressing him as teacher suggests “an attitude of respect for but challenge to

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Jesus’ teaching authority in relation to his own as a lawyer” (Green 1997, 427–8). The lawyer’s concern about eternal life exemplifies that he is also a strict religious observer. His understanding of eternal life is a life beyond earth. In the Luke-Acts narratives, eternal life may be associated with salvation (Walton 2002, 235). The idea of salvation for Luke is not “only some faraway prospect, but something which manifests itself in the reality of people’s earthly lives” (Walton 2002, 235). For islanders, eternal life is an integral part of everyday living (Vaai 2006, 269). It is a daily experience. The lawyer further questions Jesus on who counts as his neighbor (10:29). The lawyer’s question signifies a need of assurance or as Kenneth Bailey (1983) suggests, a “desire to be reassured, that his familiarity with the law is sufficient to ensure his inheritance of eternal life” (1983, 4). His question seeks how inclusive Judaism is with Gentiles. The persistence of the lawyer characterized in Luke as other invites a response which will inevitably challenge even the Lukan distinctions between same and other (Elvey 2001, 7). In a counter-challenge, Jesus tells him a parable. Detachment The narrator presents a man journeying away from Jerusalem toward Jericho. The nationality of the person is not stated, and he is unnamed (10:30). The clues provided in the parable help identify this man. This man could be a Samaritan himself. That could be the reason why the priest and Levite went on the other side, as the text does not expect Jews and Samaritans to be in relationships. That the robbers stripped his clothes and took them away gives the impression that he was either wealthy or from a prominent family; clothing identifies an individuals’ class, religion, and village or clan of origin. Another argument could be that this man is a Jew and a religious person. He is framed by the direction of his journey—from Jerusalem to Jericho. Luke frequently identifies characters by reference to some location and it is highly possible that some of these places held symbolic meaning for Luke’s audience (Parsons 2006, 68). This maybe the case since all the other characters (priest, Levite, Samaritan) in the story are “socially identified” (Robbins 2004, 253). Jerusalem is a semantic frame which presents the conceptual domain of holiness as it relates to the temple in Jerusalem. Both the explicit reference to Jerusalem and implicit inference to the temple and the benefits of sacrificial rituals exhibit a topos of holiness (Pillay 2008, 152).

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While others were travelling to Jerusalem (temple), this man is journeying from Jerusalem down to Jericho. Through turo’ kalog, the act of traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho indicates two aspects. One, this man steps out from being too religious, hierarchical in order to step into living and engaging in a real life experience along the road to Jericho. He detaches in order to return to reality. There is thus detachment here from a top level toward a grassroots level. Second, the man showed no fear in leaving Jerusalem to Jericho. Although he is a silent character, his courage suggests a religious person who is not confined to religious learnings but has the courage to leave the center of religious life and to journey beyond Jerusalem. As Pacific Islanders, we have been seen as receivers, silent interpreters of the Bible and “if we do not name and construct our own Pacific methodologies, some non-Pasifika people will do it for us” (Havea 2013, 25). For interfaith dialogue to be effective, islanders need to step out of our own comfort zones and step in to address what is happening in our islands today. We must not leave it to the academics and the church leaders, but rather involve our people at community level to do the interpretations, the hermeneutics. Connection As one moves to make connections, one faces the push for exclusion and displacement of others. The parable emphasizes a sequence of seeing and passing by on the other side (Robbins 2004, 429). The text emphasizes that each character sees and turns either away or toward somewhere else. The implication is that in seeing, each knows what might be required. But seeing prompts each to create a distance from the wounded person whose proximity has called them into question. Immanuel Levinas (1996) has described this effect of seeing as “an encounter in which the ‘I’ sees the face of the other and receives a call, a vocation to the other in which the ‘I’ is put into question” (cited in Elvey 2001, 8). In the parable, seeing also effects a judgment, that is, “their seeing the man renders them culpable” (Culpepper 1994, 435). To understand the responses from the priest, Levite, and Samaritan, the focus moves to and fro—from the injured person to those who saw him. Robbins says that both the priest and Levite passed by on the opposite side which could mean that they passed by at a distance so as to keep “the information about the wounded man from becoming more fully present

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and vivid to their hearts through their eyes” (2004, 259). In keeping with the Mosaic law, the priest would not subject himself to sin by “touching a bloodied body or a corpse except in the case of his immediate family” (Love 2002, 97). By passing by on the other side, the priest sustains his purity while the injured man is left to die of his wounds. For the Levite to sustain the holiness of his own body, he avoids contact with the injured man. While the priest kept a safe distance as he travelled down the same road, the Levite came to the place indicating that the Levite came to the actual place where the man was. By ignoring the injured man’s need for help, the Levite too left the man to die from his wounds. For the priest and Levite, their holiness was more important than the life of the wounded man. The purity lines are drawn to prevent “unclean” bodies from contaminating “clean/holy” bodies (Pillay 2008, 150). The priest and Levite saw (stigmatized) a vulnerable body that posed a threat to their purity and holiness. It is understandable that the priest did not want to run the risk of uncleanness (cf. Leviticus 21:1–4), and he may have been acting in accordance with Numbers 19:11 (Esler 2002, 193)—“Whoever touches a human corpse will be unclean for seven days” (NIV). As part of a hierarchical religious system, the social world of these two individuals includes an “ideological geography” (Love 2002, 97) which extends from the temple cult in Jerusalem. On numerous occasions in Luke 1–9, Jesus challenges the negative reaction of those who are the custodians of the purity laws, by pointing out that withholding the benefit of healing is a bad reflection on those who withhold such benefits (Pillay 2008, 150). The third person to come along was the Samaritan. He is introduced with a “but” in most translations, indicating to readers that there is something unexpected or interrupted. Firstly, it is a Samaritan rather than a Jew who follows after the Levite. Secondly, instead of passing by on the other side like the priest and Levite, the Samaritan saw the man and had compassion. For the Samaritan, his movement of the heart and guts prompts his careful attention to the physical needs of this other (10:35). Baily comments that the threefold action of the Samaritan—“rendering first aid; transporting to the inn and hence providing safety; paying for care and so providing with means for survival—redresses the violence and neglect in the first half of the story in reverse order: the Levite’s failure to render assistance; the priest’s failure to transport the person to safety and the robber’s rendering the person destitute and half-dead” (1983, II, 41). Robbins notes that the Samaritan turns toward a new form of purposive

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action with his feet. He turns away from his “journeying and go toward” the wounded man in 10:34 (Robbins 2004, 261). Here, a new understanding of holiness emerges, from selfish self-preservation, which is blind to the needs of others to a holiness that enables one to see the need of others and respond with compassion. Such act “re-describes and reshapes reality, presenting alternative worlds and opens new ways of seeing and being” (Mouton 2002, 168). In presenting these three characters, many commentators would agree with the lawyer that the Samaritan acted as a neighbor to the wounded man. Nevertheless, through turo’ kalog, the wounded man and the Samaritan man acted as neighbors to each other. The Greek word for neighbor means “one who is near” (Robbins 2004, 257). The precept love your neighbor was generally understood to “refer first and foremost to fellow Israelites, with an extension to loving the sojourner in the land as yourself” (Robbins 2004, 257). The concept of neighborliness is not only restricted to giving compassion to the one suffering but also the one suffering provides a neighborly discourse for action. The man’s suffering invites the granting of communal-passion. Furthermore, the wounded man functions as equals to the priest, the Levite, and the Samaritan. They were called to face each other and see how their roles function. They faced an opportunity to be conversational partners. Their way of seeing and responding is shaped by their social locations. In the context of intercultural encounter, the injured man on that day recognizes that in the space of religious dialogue, there are agreements and disagreements, challenges, struggles, and fears. Nevertheless, these fractures and interstices are part of the process of dialogue in molding all characters to see beyond their religious and racial stereotyping and to recognize that each character in the story is of equal importance. Another aspect is the place of dialogue. It is at this road from Jerusalem to Jericho that he met with robbers, a priest, a Levite, and a Samaritan. The road from Jerusalem to Jericho is about 27 miles long and is extremely dangerous. The road passed through mostly desert and rocky hills. In addition, it was well known that bandits were on the road and would rob anyone who was alone (Bailey 1983, 41). Jericho was the hometown for priests and Levites. Thus, it was no accident that a priest and Levite were  travelling down the same road. As the man leaves Jerusalem to Jericho, he was met by robbers who stripped his clothes, beat him and left him half-dead (10:30). The man stripped of his clothing presents cultural limits because his naked, half-dead state means that his social and cultural

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identity cannot be established. The road is an open space for common humanity. What brought the priest, Levite, and Samaritan to that place? What is its function in Luke? As mentioned above, a parable functions to challenge and re-describe reality with new understanding. For the lawyer, it is the Samaritan. But it is the wounded man that brought them together. In intercultural and interfaith encounters, facing each other means learning to see one’s own traditions through the lens of another. The place of dialogue also invites religious texts (Jewish and Samaritans laws of holiness, purity) that shape each character to cross and dialogue in the light of each other. Transition At the close of the parable, the question “who is my neighbor” resurfaces again (10:36). Commentators regard the first question as a question of who my people are (Karris 1990, 702) and the second question becomes one of boundaries—how far to extend love (Green 1997, 429). For some, the reversal of the question matters only to the extent that it reinforces the mutual nature of being neighbor: the emphasis is on the relationship rather than the object of neighborly love (Ellis 1981, 160). There is a movement from the beginning of the parable, in which hearing and doing the word of the law concur, to the end, where hearing and doing the law are re-interpreted as seeing and doing what is required and it would seem more than what is required from the stranger. The repetition of the word “do” also reveals progression from “what must I do” (10:25) to “Go and do likewise” (10:37). These transitions are more than a metaphor. The parable requires praxis. Between the question (what must I do?) and the answer (go and do likewise) lies the tension of “how must I do?” The wounded man on the side of the road, who may or may not be a Jew, may be constructed as neither near one (of one’s own kind) nor other (in opposition to one’s own kind) and becomes in this sense completely other. While the text assures that the pattern of compassionate responsiveness to the other is the pattern of divine visitation, it fails to respond to the alterity of its own other, namely the lawyer. At the same time, the text presents a challenge to its own construction of the other—that in seeing (recognizing life in another) and doing one is transformed.

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Conclusion Intercultural and interfaith encounters are unavoidable. They require detachment, (re)connection, and transitional praxes. Detachment denotes stepping out of our own cultural and religious familiarity in order to step in to and address social issues in our society. There is a need to bring interfaith dialogue from the academic level down to the community level where challenges and disagreements are part of the growing process. The shift will require courage. There are multiple ways of (re)connection. The road is a point of connection. It gives space to those who would like to participate in intercultural and interfaith encounters, and space also for those who do not agree. Encounter with people from other cultures and other faiths is about agreements and disagreements. And in the disagreements, each one learns to grow. Giving space allows us to renew and reshape our own traditions. Transitional praxis reminds us that intercultural and interfaith encounters are ways of life and must be realized, recognized in our everyday living. They are not theoretical, reserved for classrooms, conferences, and expensive hotels. No, they happen in the communities. They also remind us that our practices and traditions are not the only way. Moving beyond our own cultural and religious traditions, we may connect better with reality.

Works Cited Bailey, Kenneth E. 1983. Poet and peasant (part I) and through peasant eyes (part II). Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Carson, Clayborne, Susan Englander, Susan Carson, Troy Jackson, and Gerald L. Smith (eds). 2007. The papers of Martin Luther King, Jr. vol. VI: Advocate of the social gospel, September 1948–March 1963. Berkeley: University of California Press. Culpepper, R. Alan. 1994. Seeing the kingdom of god: The metaphor of sight in the gospel of Luke. Currents in Theology and Mission 6: 434–443. Ellis, E. Earle. 1981. The gospel of Luke. NCBC. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Elvey, Anne. 2001. To bear the other: Towards a passionate compassion (an ecological feminist reading of Luke 10:25–37). Sea Changes: Journal of Women Scholars of Religion and Theology 1: 1–17. Esler, P.F. 2002. Jesus and the reduction of intergroup conflict. In The social setting of Jesus and the Gospels, ed. Wolfgang Stegemann, Bruce Malina, and G. Theissen, 185–206. Minneapolis: Fortress.

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Green, Joel B. 1997. The gospel of Luke. Grand Rapids: The New International Commentary on the New Testament. Eerdmans. Havea, Jione. 2013. Fekuki of the Gibeonites (Joshua 9–10), tricking Oceania biblical interpretation. Pacific Journal of Theology II (50): 7–27. ———. 2014. Engaging scriptures from Oceania. In Bible, borders, belonging(s), ed. Jione Havea, David J.  Neville, and Elaine M.  Wainwright, 3–19. Atlanta: SBL. Hyun Ho, Park. 2016. Minjung in the sinking of the Sewol Ferry: A reading of Luke 10: 25–42. Korea Presbyterian Journal Theology 48 (3): 59–79. Karris, Robert J. 1990. The gospel according to Luke. In The new Jerome biblical commentary, ed. Raymond E.  Brown, Joseph A.  Fitzmyer, and Roland E. Murphy, 675–721. London: Geoffrey Chapman. Lenker, John Nicholas, ed. 1983. The sermons of Martin Luther. Vol. V, 19–35. Grand Rapids: Baker. Levinas, Emmanuel. 1996. Transcendence and height. In Emmanuel Levinas: Basic philosophical writings, ed. Adriaan Peperzak, Simon Critchley, and Robert Bernasconi, 11–31. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Lienhard, Joseph T. 1996. The fathers of the church: Origen: Homilies on Luke. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Love, S.L. 2002. Jesus heals the Hemorrhaging woman. In The social setting of Jesus and the gospels, ed. Wolfgang Stegemann, Bruce Malina, and G. Theissen, 85–102. Minneapolis: Fortress. Mouton, A.E.J. 2002. Reading a new testament document ethically. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Parsons, M.C. 2006. Body and character in Luke and acts: The subversion of physiognomy in early Christianity. Waco: Baylor. Pillay, Miranda N. 2008. A social rhetorical reading of Luke 10:25–37 in the context of HIV/AIDS in South Africa. Cape Town: University of the Western Cape. Robbins, Vernon K. 2004. The sensory-aesthetic texture of the compassionate Samaritan parable in Luke 10. In Literary encounters with the reign of god, ed. Sharon H. Ringe and H.C. Paul Kim, 247–264. New York: T&T Clark. Suh, Nam-Dong. 1983. Exploring Minjung theology. Seoul: Hangil. Tannehill, Robert C. 1996. Luke, Abingdon new testament commentaries. Nashville: Abingdon. Thielicke, H., and H.  Schrey, eds. 1970. Faith and action. Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd. Vaai, Upolu Luma. 2006. Faaaloalo: A theological reinterpretation of the doctrine of the trinity from a Samoan perspective. Brisbane: Griffith University. ———. 2014. Va’atapalagi: De-Heavening Trinitarian theology in the islands. In Colonial context and postcolonial theologies: Story weaving in the Asia Pacific, ed. Mark G. Brett and Jione Havea, 41–53. New York: Palgrave. Walton, M. 2002. Why we need socio-rhetorical commentary and what it might look like. JSNT 195: 129–157.

CHAPTER 21

Fanua as a Diasporic Concept: Rereading James 1:21 Elekosi F. Lafitaga

Jione Havea invites cultural musings in response to Tui Atua in his Whispers and Vanities: “Tui Atua’s whispers will be the foundations that home future generations of Samoans, wherever they might be. But it will not help overseas-born Samoans to be anchored to an indigenous culture that isolates or distances them from surviving well in their new homes or locations” (in Efi 2014, chapter 9). Havea raises significant concerns about the relevance of indigenous culture in foreign lands that this chapter probes a little further. Tui Atua surely writes, in my opinion, as a knowledgeable elder of Samoan traditions, setting a cultural foundation for Samoans in particular and Atuvasa1 in general. However, the exclusive nature of the whispers 1  I use the term Atuvasa for “Pacific” instead of its transliteration Pasefika. The term Atuvasa covers what others would mean when they use Pacific as a synecdoche; as a figurative term for ocean, land, and people of the Pacific region. Ocean of the Pacific = vasa; Land of the Pacific = motu o le atuvasa; people of the Pacific = tagata o le atuvasa.

E. F. Lafitaga (*) Kanana Fou Theological Seminary, Pago Pago, AS, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_21

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themselves as Tui Atua explains them could certainly pose a problem for diaspora-born Samoans. The concerns as Havea raises are valid given the understanding that the basic underlying assumptions (core beliefs and values) of our indigenous cultures (outward expressions of artifacts) are embedded within the whispers of oral traditions (one mode of outward expression).2 Havea’s concerns are especially valid when these traditions are tightly linked to the home-islands and its environment (perceived world). These concerns intensify when Havea later asks, “What might happen to island cultures if islands disappear? Will our indigenous cultures drift and relocate?” A simple answer to Havea’s latter question would be a resounding YES.  Frankly, there aren’t any options. The problem is that relocation entails the separation between the hearers of oral traditions and the home-­ islands where these traditions were formed. As a result of such separation, the whispers will become more and more distance, which then jeopardizes the preservation of oral traditions along with the embedded values. Even if the islands do not disappear, the same problem faces those living in the diaspora. Thus, Havea gives awareness to a double threat that places at risk values of indigenous Samoan culture that are embedded within Samoan oral traditions, that is, the double threat of exclusivity as in Tui Atua’s whispers and that of being separated from the home-islands as Havea 2  I utilize the studies of Edgar H. Schein who describes three levels of culture: artifacts, beliefs and values, and assumptions (2010, 23–32). First, artifacts are at the surface level and are visible and feelable structures and processes. These are observed behavior. Second, beliefs and values are ideals, goals, values, aspirations, ideologies, and rationalizations. Third, basic underlying assumptions are at the deepest level of culture. These are unconscious, taken-for-­ granted beliefs and values that include determine behavior, perception, thought, and feeling. Schein explains, “At the same time, culture at this level provides its members with a basic sense of identity and defines the values that provide self-esteem” (2010, 29). Kroeber and Kluckhohn also defined culture: “Culture consists of patterns, explicit and implicit, of and for behavior acquired and transmitted by symbols, constituting the distinctive achievements of human groups, including their embodiments in artifacts; the essential core of culture consists of traditional (i.e., historically derived and selected) ideas and especially their attached values; culture systems may, on the one hand, be considered as products of action, and on the other as conditioning elements of further action” (Kroeber and Kluckhohn 1952, 181). From this definition, Vladimir Zegarac observes three significant elements about culture: “1. Culture does not consist only of physical objects. 2. Culture involves symbolic mental and physical (i.e. public) representations of the world. 3. Only those representations which are relatively stable and which form systems shared by the members of a social group are cultural. Therefore, culture distinguishes one social group from another” (Zegarac 2008, 49). This chapter assumes these thoughts on culture.

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points out. The real question follows the inevitability, “How can our indigenous cultures drift and relocate in the diaspora?” This chapter does not seek for a comprehensive answer, but only hopes to contribute by refocusing our understanding of an ancient atuvasa term—fanua—as a cultural concept and perspective that would remind us of how our cultures adapted to the everchanging environments caused by sailing constantly from one fanua to another. Specifically, this chapter argues that fanua, although defined today as land fixed in a certain location (i.e. homeland), is a cultural and diasporic concept that can be defined as a perception of the natural and spiritual world from which we gain knowledge for all faucets of human life: mentally, physically, and spiritually. When fanua can be understood in this way, it allows our sacred whispers that originated from this perceived world to be linked to our lived experiences of reality regardless of location; offering a possible way of thinking and seeing indigenously in the homeland and the diaspora. It is a view of the natural world interconnected with the divine realm in such a way that creates and recreates atuvasa indigenous culture without being fixed to any specific land. Fanua is an integral element to the worldview of those who find abode within and travel about the atuvasa. The above perception sees fanua as epistemological3 and mobilizing, therefore empowering, for it means that indigenous cultures may travel to the diaspora and still be meaningful there as it was in the homeland, for it contains and preserves the values of our atuvasa cultures. The second part of this chapter will show close parallels in late antiquity, namely the Letter of James—which refers to an innate perception of the world from which laws and principles of Jewish culture emerged. James refers to these as implanted within the believer and reminds the twelve tribes of Israel of these very innate and divine laws of nature as a way to guide them wherever they are dispersed in the world. Finding parallels in biblical texts would not be surprising given that atuvasa cultures are also ancient themselves. The comparison suggests a possible approach to everchanging circumstances, for the Jewish culture as a whole withstood the test of time in the diaspora. Let us now turn to the concept of fanua.

3  David Gegeo defines epistemology as, “a cultural group’s way of thinking and of creating and reformulating knowledge using traditional discourse and media of communication and anchoring the truth of the discourse in culture” (Gegeo 1998, 290).

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Understanding Fanua The Samoan word fanua is often used synonymously and interchangeably with another Samoan word eleele to mean land fixed in a certain location. However, like many atuvasa concepts, fanua has been reduced to an English equivalent as “land” for the convenience of translation and its essence may have been lost due to constant usage in a particular way. While this is not a chapter on the politics of translation, it is in part a restoration of what might be lost therein.4 I begin with a sacred whisper, namely a possible indigenous world view found in Samoa’s creation mythology. According to a Samoan perspective, elements of creation dovetail together, each with a purpose. The mountain tops provide access to the realms of lagi (heavens) where clouds race overhead and the cosmic play endlessly across the vanimonimo or the vateatea (space or open sky).5 Down the slopes to the foot of the mountains, the realm of lagi breaches the realm of lalolagi (beneath the heavens), where papa (rock) and eleele (earth, dirt, dust) are enjoined. This union, often described in Samoan mythology as marriage (see Efi 2005),6 stimulates the vitality of fanua, within which the common tagata (humanity) have taken root. Through this same union lagi have access to the vasa (ocean, open sea) and its wealth; vasa is a sub-realm of lalolagi and gateway to the realm of the underworld Pulotu. Thus, fanua takes its place around the marital union between papa and eleele in this three-tiered realm of reality, which lies at the base of indigenous Samoan world view. But what does it mean that fanua takes its place around the marital union between papa and eleele?

4  Amaama Tofaeono realizes the significance to indigenous interpretation and exposition of the concept “Vanua” (Tofaeono 2000, 182; see also Tuwere 1995, 10). 5  In precreation, there was no vanimonimo or vateatea since Lagi (heaven) and Papa (rock) were not separated. It is when Lagi and Papa separated that there existed lalolagi (the realm on earth), beneath the heavens. The mentioned separation, according to Tuiatua (2014), was caused by a “big bang.” Upolu Luma Vaai adds that the separation of Lagi and Papa also created ao (day) and po (night), presumably the beginnings of time. 6  In telling the origin of the name Samoa, Sio (1984, 1) begins: “There was once a married couple by the name of Papa who is the male and Eleele who is the woman in Manu’a. Eleele became pregnant and Tagaloalagi noticed that Eleele’s mid-section of her stomach would move when she would lay down to rest” (my translation). As Sio tells it, the child of Papa and Eleele was named Moa, the descendent of the first TuiManu’a.

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In Samoan creation mythology, papa and eleele gave life to tagata.7 This does not contradict traditions according to which Tagaloa (the supreme deity of Samoa) created lagi, papa, eleele, and tagata separately (Efi 2005, 3). Due to its metaphorical nature, this is far from simplistic. While papa enjoined with eleele in marital union and then created tagata, other marital unions also created tagata along with Tagaloa. For example, a version states that Tagaloa created tagata for the islands of Tutuila and Upolu8 out of ilo (maggots) using the fuesa (sacred vine), who is said to be a daughter of Tagaloa (Mead 1930, 149–152). While there are various versions, there exists a dominant view that the creation of tagata came about from the offspring of Tagaloa. As Tui Atua states, the divine Tagaloa is the progenitor of humanity. Nonetheless, this chapter is more interested in the correlations between tagata and the marital union of papa and eleele, who are said to be children of Tagaloa and from which existed tagata in Manu’a, and then Savaii, Fiji, and Tonga. The correlating element, as it were, is fanua. This can be seen in the way we metaphorically describe it.9 The placenta within the womb of the mother is often used as a metaphor for fanua. This entails the mother as the metaphor for eleele, papa being the father, and the child housed in the placenta as the tagata (humanity).10 It is for this reason that another Samoan word for placenta is falefale, “that which houses.”11 Just as the human child is nurtured by the placenta, so also tagata is nurtured by fanua.12 Further expansion of 7  I follow with reserve the Samoan creation mythology that stems from the writings of Powell and found in Margaret Mead’s writings. Mead records (1930, 149–55) that fatu (papa) and eleele were the first human pair; fatu was the female and eleele was the male. What is not understood rightly by Mead, and thus Powell, is that papa and eleele are personified and not actual humans. Papa and eleele gave life to tagata but it is not clear how this is envisioned. 8  These are two of the main islands of Samoa. The others are Savaii and Manu’a. 9  Seminal works on metaphor include Lakoff and Johnson 1980; Lakoff and Johnson 1999; Lakoff 1987; Fauconnier and Turner 2002; Dancygier and Sweetser 2014. In biblical studies, see Robbins et al. 2016. 10  Tui Atua utilizes the metaphor of the “placenta,” a bodily organ within female eutherian mammals that provides nourishments with which to sustain the fetus through the umbilical cord. Samoa is not the only culture that utilizes this metaphor. Native Americans have long associated land with placenta as do the Maori culture. 11  Fale means house in Samoan, and the word functions as a metaphor for the placenta. 12  The metaphor seems to have been one of old since the placenta in Samoa has come to be called fanua. The more common word for placenta is the falefale or the to’ala fanau (see Milner 1993, 58 fanua; 412 placenta).

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this metaphor can be seen in Samoan customs where the pute (umbilical cord) of a newborn child is returned to the fanua once it is detached.13 The ritual embodies the symbolic relationship between the child and the placenta or tagata and fanua. What is highlighted in the metaphorical depiction (placenta and child) and ritual above is the provision and nourishment that tagata receives from fanua. Moreover, while the essentials stem from the mother, the nourishment and act of nourishing is allotted to the placenta, fanua. With fanua as placenta metaphor, we note the following correlations: (i) Tagaloa = progenitor (ii) Papa = father (iii) Eleele = mother (iv) Fanua = placenta (v) Tagata = child A critical question remains to be asked. What truths with regard to fanua might one understand from using placenta as a metaphor? In other words, what are we referring to when we speak of fanua? The placenta houses life and it is equipped with the essentials needed to sustain life within a defined space. The placenta also provides the psychological occasion for a life to take its first glimpse of an environment within a created world of time and space, albeit confined. These premises give rise to descriptive truths about what we may mean when we speak of fanua. If we are to understand the placenta as providing fully human life, land or eleele, though a significant component for nourishing life, is not the only natural essential that provides for the wellbeing of tagata. There are other components along with eleele. First, the nourishing of the natural environment (combination of its elements) for tagata is what we understand as fanua. It may mean the nourishing that comes from eleele and its products (land) or the nourishing that comes from the combination of land, sea, and the cosmos.14 13  The symbolic ritual is commonly known to involve the pute and fanua. The way in which the detached pute is “returned to the fanua” would take on several different customs. One is buring the pute in the land, another is tossing it in the ocean, and another is placing it at the top of one’s roof. This would imply, as I will argue further below, that “fanua” is not just refering to land but to the three-tiered world of Samoan worldview. 14  Amaama Tofaeono also defines fanua in his published dissertation as going beyond just land. He sees both land and sea as what constitute fanua (Tofaeono 2000, 31 fn. 54, 72,

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Second, like the placenta, fanua also provides a glimpse of a created world within limited time and space. Herewith we have the cognitive interconnections of the three-tiered reality; the reflective perception of the cosmic and natural world. In this regard, fanua refers to the perceptual nurturing that forms the ontological understanding and self-­consciousness of an individual in relation to the natural environment. This also means the interexchange of human reflections. While papa and eleele are offspring of Tagaloa, they are the conduits of divinity. Thus, third, fanua also becomes the means by which tagata partake of what is divine (mana). Through fanua, tagata becomes a divine-­ creation, that is, both creation and creator; both human and divine (mana). It would explain why tagata was often seen by ancient Samoans to have two sides or beings within a person, itulua. As tagata returns his/her pute to the fanua, he or she symbolically finds physical, mental/perceptual, and divine nourishment in the natural place he/she perceives. From this perspective, the concept of fanua is inseparable from tagata and goes beyond just eleele (earth, soil, dust, etc.). Fanua is the perceived three-tiered reality (placenta), as well as the nourishing interaction between tagata and that reality.

Fanua and Culture The relationship between fanua and tagata is understood fully in the family unit and in the social community that share this nourishment. The dynamic interaction cannot be thought of without the social response to that nourishment, which in turn creates social and cultural behavior and identity. The term for such response and behavior in a particular place in Samoan is agaifanua (customs of a village or community as a result of the nurturing of fanua). The interaction between reality and tagata (nourishment) presupposed within agaifanua is guided by natural principles (tapuafanua), which sustain the balance between nature and tagata. The tapuafanua are embodied in Samoan customs, proverbs, maxims, and oral traditions. The following are some examples:

180–182). I go further and include the cosmos, which is indispensable to the nourishment of life.

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(i) O le taeao nai Saua—an incredible event in which Tagaloa puts the severed body of Pava’s son together with the juice of the ‘ava plant.15 (ii) Ua feiloa’i i luma o nu’u, a e le o tua o nu’u—“We meet in front of the village and not behind.” The front is usually associated with respect and peace, while back is associated with disrespect and conflict. (iii) E sua le ‘ava, a e toto le ‘ata—the ‘ava branches are dug up while the root is reburied, reflecting the way in which the consumption of life must include regrowth. (iv) E lele le toloa, ae maau i le vai—the toloa bird will fly everywhere, but always return to its home waters. (v) E fofo a e alamea alamea—the alamea fish will also heal the injuries it causes. These tapuafanua are discovered from the perception of the natural world and are formed in genres like myths and pithy sayings in order to maintain equilibrium in creation. They prescribe behaviors and actions in light of what is natural/unnatural and what is right/wrong. The natural behaviors of agaifanua emanate customs, values, and identity of tagata. On the contrary, behaviors considered unnatural are described in Samoan as tu’ufanua or tufanua which means “being inconsiderate of the nourishing of nature, or fanua.” These tapuafanua are not only taught but are also innate, as what flows from the placenta into a child become innately situated within tagata. As such, tapuafanua in its various forms maintain balance. Fanua creates a link between our indigenous worldview of the divine, natural reality, and humanity. Moreover, “placenta” as a conceptual metaphor for the sensible world is ancient indigenous thinking, a part of the intellectual culture of atuvasa.16 That this metaphor is prevalent throughout the Pacific region suggests that it is one that our ancestors took with 15  As the story goes, Pava’s son interrupts the ‘ava session between Tagaloa and Pava. As a result, Tagaloa cuts the son in two. Having seen that Pava was deeply saddened, Tagaloa poured kava onto the severed body which then became reattached into life. The story becomes an issue of sacred space conducted by elders that must not be breached by children. It is also a story of the flow of life-giving divinity from Tagaloa onto elements of nature whereby life is resuscitated. 16  Many islands of the atuvasa use the metaphor of placenta/afterbirth for a variant of fanua: Easter Island, Kapingamarangi, Marquesas, Nuguria, Nukuoro, Penrhyn, Raivavae, Rennellese, Takuu, Tuamotu—henua; Maori, Pukapuka—whenua; Mangareva, Rarotongan, Tikopia—fenua; Niue, Tongan—fonua; Samoan, Tokelau, Tuvalu—fanua.

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them as they hopped from one island to another. In other words, the concept of fanua is a diasporic concept, from which Samoan vocabulary that describes culture takes root. What becomes evident is that any place inhabited by tagata is potentially conceptualized in light of fanua for fanua is whatever (island-)world the tagata finds a home, where the nourishing of the three-tiered reality continues to provide, gravitating toward tagata and tagata toward it, as all are of the divine Tagaloa, the progenitor of papa and eleele.

The Epistle of James The Epistle of James reflects a similar emphasis when it highlights the relations between God, nature, and believer, illuminating the concept fanua as discussed earlier.17 Living in the diaspora is nothing new to Israel as seen throughout the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Testament. Written around as early as before 50 C.E., the epistle of James, as the title goes, is no exception. It begins with a greeting from James to those who live abroad, that is, in the diaspora,18 James, the servant of God and Lord Jesus Christ. To the twelve tribes who are in the diaspora. Greetings! (1:1)

The epistle admonishes the twelve tribes of Israel on how to carry themselves in the diaspora according to the divine ways of which they have been taught and informed.19 In particular, ways that have been implanted within their nature by God. The epistles of James states in 1:21,

17  The word “placenta” occurs only once in Deut 28:57 (KJV, “afterbirth” in NIV). The LXX translates the Hebrew noun (‫ )שליה‬for “placenta” as τὸ χόριον but this Greek noun does not occur anywhere else in the New Testament. However, there is an inflection form within the Greek noun, τὸ χωρίον, which is translated to mean place, piece of land, or field (e.g. Mt. 26:36; Mk 14:32; Jn 4:5; Act 1:18). However, the term “placenta” as a metaphor for land does not occur anywhere in the Bible. 18  The author of the letter could not have been the Apostle James, the brother of Jesus, who died around 44 C.E. Whoever it was must have been someone significant and influential within Jewish-Christian circles. 19  This is especially seen in the dominance of the Greek participles and middle/passive voice as the audience are reminded of what they themselves must do and of what needs to be done.

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Therefore, you should put away all moral impurity and abundance of evil in humility so as to be able to accept the implanted reason in order to save your souls.

The phrase “implanted reason” (ἔμφυτον λόγον) has philosophical intertexts that point toward Stoicism and the idea of natural law.20 It is here that we may hear agaifanua, tapuafanua, and divine nourishment in fanua. James: Stoicism as Hellenistic Intertexture The Stoics believe natural laws equate with right reason (λόγος ὀρθός)21 which can only be thought of with the divine mind—that which determines right and wrong. In other words, these natural laws are divine. Cicero implies in his treatises on Laws that these laws, as it were, existed long before written laws were ever written down. They existed simultaneously with the divine mind: For reason did exist, derived from the nature of the universe, urging men to right conduct and diverting them from wrong-doing, and this reason did not first become Law when it was written down, but when it first came into existence; and it came into existence simultaneously with the divine mind. (Cicero, De Legibus, 2.10)

According to Stoic thought, these laws as logos would be internal to the human individual. The initial internalization of this logos is referred to by Stoic thought as preconceptions (προλήψεις), which are implants (ἔμφυτοι) 20  Past scholarship includes discussion on whether or not James used Stoic thought and ideas. It isn’t whether the ideas themselves are present or not, but whether or not James draws from Stoicism or Christian sources. Due to the lack of space, I take the stance that what we find in the epistles is the fusion of Greek and Jewish philosophical thoughts (so Jackson-McCabe 2001, 16; who follows cue from Meyer and Boismard). 21  For example, SVF 3.613: τον τε νόμον σπουδαῖον εἶναί φασι, λόγον ὀρθὸν ὄντα προστακτικὸν μὲν ὧν ποιητέον, ἀπαγορευτικὸν δὲ ὧν οὐ ποιητέον. “It is said that the law is perfect, right reason being a commandment, on the one hand, of things to be done and, on the other hand, prohibition of things not to be done” (my translation). This would be the standard understanding and definition of Stoic thinking about law as it is widespread throughout ancient literature. See also Cicero, De Nat. Deorum 1.36: “Zeno thought the law of nature to be divine and moral, as its function is commanding what is right/good and prohibiting what is contrary.”

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within an individual. The concept of “preconceptions” and “conceptions” in Stoic doctrine can be seen in the words of Aetius: When a man is born, he has the controlling part of his soul like paper well prepared for writing on. On this he inscribes each one of his concepts (τῶν ἐννοιῶν). The first kind of inscription is through the senses (διὰ τῶν αἰσθήσεων). For perceiving something, e.g. white, they have a memory (μνήμην) of it when it has gone away. And when many memories of the same type have occurred, then we say that we have experience (ἐμπειρίαν), since experience is a multitude impressions of similar presentations (φαντασιῶν). Of the conceptions, some occur naturally by means of the aforementioned modalities and without conscious effort, while others come about by our instruction and attention. These latter are called conceptions only, but the former are called preconceptions as well… A concept is an image (φαντάσμα) in the mind of a rational animal, for when the image comes to the rational soul, it is called a concept, taking its name from the mind (νους). For this reason, what comes to irrational animals are images only; while those which come to us and to the gods are generically images but specifically concepts. (SVF 2.83; trans Hankinson 2003)

In the above quote, preconception is both a species of conception and a contrasting species with conception. The difference is that preconception naturally and initially occurs within humanity. On the other hand, conception is taking that preconception and developing it into human reason (Jackson-McCabe 2001, 73–74).22 For the Stoics, living a life identical with the will of Zeus orders the sages’ lives in accordance with nature, and so enables the smooth flow of life (Hankinson 2003, 59). In Samoan terms, preconception is tied with fanua while conception with tapuafanua. Preconceptions result from the dynamic interaction between fanua and humanity. We shall call preconceptions fatu-a-fanua.23 Conceptions is taking that nourishment and creating natural principles (tapuafanua) of moral behavior (agaifanua) in order to maintain the balance between humanity, nature, and the divine. James refers to preconceptions in what is naturally implanted (ἔμφυτον λόγον) within a person in Jas 1:17 (cf. Rom 1:18–23; Act 17:28). James 22  Jackson-McCabe states, “Nature takes the human animal this far; henceforth is it the responsibility of the individual to cultivate his or her logos into the ‘right reason’ of the sage, which is natural law.” 23  The Samoan word “fatu” means heart, which feeds the essentials to every part of the person to sustain life.

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asks Israel in the diaspora to peel back the layers of impurity in order to access that which are most close to nature, that is, that which is closest to the Divine. This natural logos develops into human reason, which allows one not only to listen or speak, but more importantly for James is to act upon such reasoning. In Jas 2:8–11, we come across an example that lies at the natural root of Israel’s cultural values and divine reasoning—namely, love for the neighbor. The command to love the neighbor without partiality becomes one of James’ central mandate for Jews living in the diaspora. As such, one attains a life in accordance with nature as it falls in line with God’s will wherever a Jew calls home on earth. In other words, loving one’s neighbor becomes one of Israel’s means of maintaining balance between creation and the divine God of Israel. James: Jewish Wisdom Intertexture The emphasis upon nature in highlighting the relationship between God and humanity is a motif prevalent in Jewish Wisdom literature. The Wisdom of Solomon, for example, exalts: “From the greatness and beauty of created things the Creator of them is by analogy perceived” (Wis. of Sol 13:5). From the lens of tagata, the sage reflects upon the nourishment of fanua, the interaction between the Creator, created things, and tagata. In 7:17–18, the sage expounds further, stating: For it is he [God] who gave me unerring knowledge of what exists to know the structure of the world and activity of the elements … the cycles of the year and the positions of the stars, the natures of animals and the tempers of wild beasts, the powers of spirits and the reasoning of men, the varieties of plants and the virtues of roots.

This epistemological view of nature must accompany agaifanua (moral and right act) as seen in James. In keeping with wisdom traditions, those sages and scribes responsible for early Jewish apocalyptic literature (e.g., 1 Enoch) speak of a process of renewal because of fallen angels and humanity acting immorally (faatu’ufanua). In the Animal Apocalypse (1En 83–90), for example, Enoch petitions God to save a remnant rather than destroy the whole of humanity for defiling earth (1Enoch 84:5–6). The idea is that only those acting morally, with agaifanua, deserve the fanua, while those acting immorally (faatuufanua) should not, for the equilibrium between the Divine and creation must prevail throughout.

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Conclusion Considering the definition of fanua in this chapter, we may suggest that agaifanua (values and behaviors in accordance to fanua) and tapuafanua (natural laws) are products of those preconceptions that are innately implanted within Samoans/atuvasa people. Those preconceptions are made possible through the interaction between tagata partaking of what is divine through natural realities, hinting toward what is (not) natural and moral. These would include the physical, conceptual, and divine nourishments received by fanua, that is, by one’s perception and experiences of the surrounding reality of the cosmos, land, and sea. As James admonished Jews living in the diaspora by referring to what is naturally implanted by the Divine, so may a call be made for Samoans/atuvasa living in the diaspora. This is a call for being in tune with fanua, the atuvasa worldview defined by the nourishing values of nature and realities. The appreciation of fanua leads to the appreciation of agaifanua for the former prompts initial preconceptions (fatuafanua) which in turn creates conceptions (tapuafanua) that are embodied in the particularities of customs, genealogy, wisdom sayings, and oral traditions to name a few. These particularities change through time and space, but fanua and fatuafanua as source and means of nourishment remains with tagata regardless of location. As of now, we have whispers of customs and traditions to rely on in the diaspora. There will be a time that these whispers become too distant and obsolete for they are not accessible to all and were created at a particular time in history. The transporting of our culture onto new times and distant lands must be done with more confidence and understanding. Many refuse to let go because of fear of losing culture. However, if we don’t let go and create new traditions and customs we will inevitably face what we fear. How can we maintain our cultural values abroad, then? We could be on more solid grounds if we remind ourselves that the various traditional and cultural whispers, which were formulated in a homeland, actually embody fatuafanua and tapuafanua that stem from our atuvasa world-­ view of God, nature, and humanity via the perspective of fanua. As long as these universal elements remain more or less intact, we will have an atuvasa culture and realize that it is okay if our particular customs and traditions (agaifanua) change and take on new forms. Fanua travels with us throughout the atuvasa and beyond. With it comes our innate values (fatuafanua) and cherished principles

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(tapuafanua). The embodiment (agaifanua) of these will change, especially in a more diverse society. As long as we take our atuvasa worldview (fanua) to our diasporic homes and remind ourselves of the cherished tapuafanua, the agaifanua of a new homeland would be just as Samoan/atuvasa as the ones we began with, where ever we go.

Works Cited Dancygier, Barbara, and Eve Sweetser. 2014. Figurative language. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Efi, Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese. 2005. In search of harmony: Peace in the Samoan indigenous religion: A paper for the colloquium organised by pontifical council for interreligious dialogue 12–15 January 2005. https://www.library.auckland. ac.nz/external/ebooks/TupuolaEfiTuiatuaColloquiumpaperDec05.pdf. Accessed 18 Feb 2019. ———. 2014. In Whispers and vanities: Samoan indigenous knowledge and religion, ed. Tamasailau M. Suaalii-Sauni et al. Wellington: Huia. Fauconnier, Gilles, and Mark Turner. 2002. The way we think: Conceptual blending and the Mind’s hidden complexities. New York: Basic. Gegeo, David. 1998. Indigenous knowledge and empowerment: Rural development examined from within. The Contemporary Pacific 10: 289–315. Hankinson, R.J. 2003. Stoic epistemology. In The Cambridge companion to the stoics, ed. Brad Inwood, 59–84. Cambridge: Cambridge University. Jackson-McCabe, Matt A. 2001. Logos and law in the letter of James: The law of nature, the law of Moses, and the law of freedom. Leiden: Brill. Keyes, Clinton W. 1928. Cicero: On the republic; on the laws. Loeb Classical Library. Harvard: Harvard University Press. Kroeber, A. L. and C. Kluckhohn. 1952. Culture: A critical review of concepts and definitions, 47, 1. Cambridge, MA: Peabody Museum. Lakoff, George. 1987. Women, fire, and dangerous things: What categories reveal about the mind. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. 1980. Metaphors we live by. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. ———. 1999. Philosophy in the flesh: The embodied mind and its challenge to Western thought. New York: Basic. Mead, Margaret. 1930. Social organization of Manu’a. Bernice P. Bishop museum, bulletin 76. Honolulu: The Museum. Milner, G.B. 1993 (1966). Samoan dictionary: Samoan-English, English-Samoan. Aotearoa: Polynesian. Robbins, Vernon K., Robert H. von Thaden Jr., and Bart B. Bruehler, eds. 2016. Foundation for SocioRhetorical exploration: A rhetoric of religious antiquity reader. Atlanta: SBL.

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Schein, Edgar H. 2010. Organizational culture and leadership. 4th ed. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass. Sio, Gatoloaifaana Peseta S. 1984. Tapasa of Folauga i Aso Afa: Compass of sailing in storm. Apia, Western Samoa: U.S.P. Centre. Tofaeono, Amaama. 2000. Eco-theology: Aiga-the household of life; a perspective from living myths and traditions of Samoa. In World Mission script 7. Erlanger: Verlag für Mission and Ökumene. Tuwere, Sevati. 1995. An agenda for the theological task of the church in oceania. Pacific Journal of Theology II (13): 5–14. Zegarac, Vladimir. 2008. Culture and communication. In Culturally speaking: Culture, communication and politeness theory, ed. Helen Spencer-Oatey, 48–70. New York: Continuum.

CHAPTER 22

Weaving Liberation for West Papua Rosa Moiwend and Jason MacLeod

Please, come and sit down on the Pasifika1 mat. Let us story together and weave liberation for West Papua. As the late Father Walter Lini of Vanuatu said, “Melanesia will never be free until West Papua is free” (Cullwick 2013). To that we add, the Pacific will never be free until West Papua too is free. Pacific people are family people. That means we need each other. Our shared liberation is bound up in one another. But first we have to know each other. We need to (re)weave our connections and commitments. In this chapter, we do that through storying about the noken (see Fig. 22.1),2 the distinct woven bags beloved by all Papuans.  Pasifika is the name of the organization that we co-lead in and for West Papua. Further explanation is given below. 2  In Papua New Guinea you might know these as billum. In West Papua we call billum, noken. There are many kinds of noken, made from all kinds of materials, some natural, some introduced. Noken is a Byak language word that has been adopted across West Papua to 1

R. Moiwend Pasifika, Jyapura, West Papua, Indonesia J. MacLeod (*) Pasifika, Brisbane, QLD, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_22

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Fig. 22.1  A noken. (Photo: Rosa Moiwend)

The movement for liberation in West Papua begins in West Papua. West Papuans are the leaders of the struggle. So, as a West Papuan, I (Rosa) will start weaving the noken of our stories. Then I invite Jason to join the weaving. As we weave we take the raw materials of our lives (who we are and why we do what we do), turn them into threads (bonding together), then proceed to make the body of the noken (a structure and place of power) and the handle (made useful by specific skills and knowledge). The noken will carry all our pains and our hopes. Through the metaphor of the noken we share our praxis of liberation3 in the context of West Papua. Figure 22.1 is a noken that comes from the Mee tribe. It is made from bark and dyed with traditional colors. Mee people call this Aghiya.

describe all traditional (and modern) woven or knotted bags. Each tribe in West Papua has their distinct style/s and their own name in their language. In 2012, UNESCO inscribed the noken on the “List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding.” 3  As we have learned from liberation movements in Latin America and South Africa, liberation is not a “topic” or an “issue” but a struggle. Liberation movement is about praxis.

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Introducing Rosa My name is Rosa Moiwend. I am a West Papuan woman, born of a mother who comes from two tribes in West Papua. My maternal grandfather is from the Muyu tribe. Our village is called Ninati, located near the border with Papua New Guinea. My maternal grandmother is from the Mee tribe, one of the central highland tribes of West Papua. My father is from the Malind tribe of Merauke, on the southern coast of West Papua. I have multiple identities, but I share a common West Papuan identity with other West Papuans. Furthermore, since West Papuans share the same island with Papua New Guineans, we also have similar cultural practices, and a common identity as Melanesians. So when we talk about Papuans, we look at us as a whole, as one, from Sorong to Samarai, from the east to the west, from the north to the south: One people, One land, One Destiny. I was born into a family strong in cultural practices. My mother is the oldest daughter so she has to perform kastom roles which also influenced me as her eldest daughter.4 From my mother I learnt about how women operate in my grandmother’s kastom and how they play leadership roles. These values have shaped me into who I am in the movement. Because of my mother and maternal grandmother, I can see the role of women in the liberation movement for West Papua. My late father was an artist. I grew up in an environment where visual arts, symbols, stories of kastom and indigenous philosophies were strong. My dad talked about identities, self-determination and liberation through his art. That is my starting place. Being West Papuans, we identified our land as a land of the bird of paradise. One nice afternoon, my dad, who had just finished his painting, asked me to come and see his work. It was a beautiful piece of art. A bird of paradise with a luxuriant yellow tail. I said, “Bap (that’s what I call him), this is a very beautiful bird of paradise performing at its best.” Then my dad laughed at me. He asked me, “Are you sure what you see? Look at it carefully.” Then I paid close attention to the painting. I was surprised that there were two birds of paradise in the painting. One is a male bird, which visually is so beautiful, with the yellow tail that many of us are familiar with. The other one, the female bird, is standing steady on the branch, in the corner of the painting; not so attractive with its drab brown color. My dad was so happy because I found it. I asked him, “Why did you put the 4

 Kastom refers to cultural norms, traditions, values, knowledge and practices.

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female there?” “They are both there,” he said. “But when people talk about liberation, they might only refer to the male bird because it is visible, but not the female, which is invisible. You can see it, so what do you think?” asked my dad. “Liberation,” I said to my dad, “should be for both, the male and female birds of paradise.” Painters like my dad, and weavers like my mum, begin their creations with a vision. My vision—which is also our vision as Pasifika and a team— is that men and women, and young people too, need to be equally involved in the struggle for liberation, if it is to be as powerful as possible. We also need to have a beautiful vision of merdeka—a deep understanding of freedom—one that goes beyond the state and capitalism (cf. MacLeod 2012, Chap. 3). We will lightly touch on that, but it really is a story for another time.

Introducing West Papua Rosa  In West Papua, we talk about the island of New Guinea as a bird of paradise, resting just above Australia. Its head looks to the west and its beautiful verdant vertiginous tail flows east, all the way down to Samarai, a small island at the tip of Papua New Guinea. From Sorong in the western most part of West Papua, which is occupied by Indonesia—another country, different from Melanesia and the Pacific, stretches toward a distant horizon, one island after another, all the way to Jakarta, the capital, over 3000 km away. While both sides of New Guinea island are home to similar, but diverse, Melanesian cultures, their histories have been quite different. Papua New Guinea made a peaceful transition to independence as a nation state in 1975. West Papua, however, has been a pawn in political and economic power plays dating back to the 1800s, when the Dutch established a few small colonial outposts. After Indonesia became independent in 1945 the Dutch retained control of West Papua. In 1962, West Papua became the first territory ever administered by the United Nations. The UN governed the country for nine months before handing temporary administrative rule over to the Indonesian government on 1 May 1963. Since then there has been a conflict between the Indonesian State and the indigenous people, a conflict characterized by a stark power asymmetry. Both female and male birds of paradise, of all species, are in danger. We are currently enduring the third wave of colonization. First the Dutch,

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then the Japanese, and now, the Indonesia government. Since 1963, there has been a long struggle against the bloody occupation of our land by the Indonesian state. The underlying root causes of conflict and violence in West Papua are structural, multiple, complex and varied. They include: (1) Historical grievances. In 1969, less than 0.01% of Papuans were coerced to “vote” in favor of West Papua’s absorption into the Indonesian state. This occurred through a process known as the Act of Free Choice in 1969, a sham determination of West Papuans “political will” supervised by the United Nations. West Papuans call it “the Act of NO Choice.” It was neither free nor fair; (2) State-sanctioned human rights violations and impunity. Amnesty International estimates that over 100,000 have been killed but with international journalists and human rights activists effectively banned, no-one knows what the real cost of the occupation has been in human life; (3) Economic and environmental exploitation. West Papua is home to the world’s largest gold mine and the world’s third most extensive rainforests after the Amazon and the Congo; (4) Unregulated migration from other parts of Indonesia. The population ratio has dramatically shifted from 96% Indigenous Melanesian in the 1960s to close to 50% Indonesian and Papuan. In the main cities, Papuans are already a minority in their own land; and, (5) Marginalization of the indigenous Papuan population and institutional racism. This was seen most recently in the uprising of August and September 2019 when Indonesian police, soldiers and militia, racially abused West Papuans. When we rose up, demanding an end to racism, a call that quickly escalated into calls for full independence, they violently repressed us. These grievances form a narrative of betrayal and suffering at the hands of the “international community,” the Indonesian state, and global capital, resulting in high levels of frustration and a near total distrust of the central government. The overwhelming majority of Papuans, particularly the students and youth, want independence. We see the Indonesian government with its police, military and corporate tentacles, presiding over a slow-motion genocide.

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With all of these problems, I knew I had to do something. The calling from the land, our mama graun (Mother Earth), is so strong. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it by myself. I needed to weave myself into the bigger weaving of our struggle. And while being part of that weaving, I also have to create my own weaving, my own space to contribute more. While weaving my own process, I met Jason. He had already been woven into the struggle. So, I invite Jason to weave himself into our stories here.

Introducing Jason Thank you, Rosa. My name is Jason MacLeod. On my father’s side my family has been in Australia for five generations. We came to Australia, a land of over 500 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander nations, after we were cleared off our own small island in the Western Hebrides of Scotland. We were pushed off to make way for sheep, more profitable and less troublesome than my people, who were considered drunkards, dirty, lazy and argumentative, by the English at the time. My mother migrated to Australia with her parents from England. Rosa and I met in 2008 and started working together. I had already been involved in the movement, recruited in 1991 by a Breadfruit Tree. Let me try to explain. I was three weeks into a slow meander down the Keram River, in Papua New Guinea, by dugout canoe. A crocodile was carved on the prow. The story of the village where I traded for the canoe decorated my paddle. It was a Friday night. I awoke with a throbbing headache. My head felt as though it were about to explode, and pain shot down my spine. A severe fever had taken hold of me, and I was in no position to go anywhere. As night slowly turned to dawn and the village began to stir, the family I was staying with showed me to the village headman’s house where I could rest. Within half an hour, I vomited and then fell unconscious. For three days, I lay racked with fever, slipping in and out of consciousness. Miraculously, I had fallen ill just thirty minutes’ walk from one of the three health clinics located along the more than 600 kilometers of the Keram River. People from Bunam village carried me to neighboring Kevim village, where the local health workers, Chris and Marilyn Mangon from Simbu, literally saved my life. They were like the unseen innkeeper who took care of the wounded traveler in the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37). Then, when I left, Chris and Marilyn gave me gifts! It was an experience I will never forget. And in the process, I incurred a debt

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to the hospitality and generosity of Melanesian people (and humanity) that can never be repaid. After three days, I regained consciousness. When I was well enough to walk, the first thing I did was go outside. Now, I am not one for visions. I had never had a vision before, and I have not had one since. But there, in Kevim village, on the edge of the forest by the banks of the Keram River I had what I can only describe as a mystical experience. When I walked out of the house where I had spent a week recovering, my spirit was immediately drawn to a breadfruit tree on the edge of the village. Instead of seeing the outer form of the tree, I saw its living heart. A stream of light was flowing through the tree into the ground, linking earth, tree, river, sky, sun and village into one seamless flow of pulsating light. I knew then, with certainty, with a kind of knowing that lodged deep inside me, that the interconnectedness and holiness of all life was no fanciful idea: it was a living and constant reality. And I had seen it! I hauled myself up into that tree. I hugged the trunk tight. I cried like a baby. The local people thought I had totally lost my mind! They gently pulled me down and took me fishing. My original plan had been to travel the world in search of ever-wilder experiences. I would travel around the world searching for and consuming one new experience after another. But as I looked around me, that idea no longer made any sense. The Mangons and the people of Bunam village had given me my life back. They asked nothing in return. In an instant, everything came into focus for me. The only choice that made sense was to give back to society, to embrace the web of holy relational reciprocity, to joyfully attempt to fulfill obligations that I could never fully repay, and to attempt to do so with a sense of irrepressible gratitude. The easiest and most interesting route home was to cross the border from Papua New Guinea to West Papua then travel back to Australia by island hopping through Indonesia. When I landed in Jayapura, the capital of West Papua, I was still recovering from whatever it was that sent me to the frontiers of oblivion. I had lost close to 20kgs on the Sepik and I was not a big person to begin with. The food was delicious so for a while I did little but eat to gain weight. One day I was eating Es Buah-Buahan—a bowl of condensed milk dribbled over shaved ice, fruit and jelly—from my favorite street stall in Imbi Park, when an old Papuan man came up to me. In broken English he told me his story. I did not understand every word,

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but the meaning was crystal clear. Tears streamed down his face as he recounted how his whole village and entire family had been wiped out in the massacres that took place in and around Wamena in the West Papuan highlands in 1977. Then he took my hand and asked me if I could get him guns. I laughed—mostly out of surprise and shock. I knew nothing about guns. But I did promise that I would return home and recount his story. When I arrived back in Australia, I learnt how much my own government had betrayed West Papuans. It was history that had been hidden from me. I discovered that in 1969 on Manus Island, Australian police arrested Wim Zonggonau and Clemens Runawery on no charge, forcibly preventing them from boarding a light aircraft to alert the international community to the bloodstained travesty of democracy that was taking place in West Papua. I learnt how Australian (and other) transnational mining corporations like Rio Tinto, International Purveying Incorporated and BHP Billiton exploited West Papua’s enormous resource wealth, while successive Australian (and other) governments helped facilitate this plunder by arming and training the Indonesian security forces. I joined the ranks of the newly outraged. Rather than try and learn on other people’s time, I started to educate myself. Slowly I looked for ways to support the struggle. As a result of this applied scholarship, some West Papuan friends invited me to share lessons from the history of nonviolent movements and other struggles for self-­determination. That process led to a program of training and education inside West Papua on nonviolent struggle (see MacLeod 2019). That was how Pasifika, the organization Rosa and I co-lead, formed, and that was how Rosa and I met. It was clear to me from the beginning that Rosa is a highly gifted facilitator, educator and analyst, so over time we began to work in Pasifika as colleagues and comrades, both committed to animating the movement from our different, but complementary, perspectives. But invitation is not a one-off process. As someone who is other-than-­ Papuan I am a guest in this movement. I can never assume a right to contribute. The process of accompanying the movement is one that always happens in relationship, and like all relationships, it ebbs and flows. Mistakes are bound to occur, so humility and forgiveness are essential. Relationships are the heart, and raw materials, of building a movement.

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Weaving the Noken Rosa  That’s right, a noken needs looking after. To last, it needs to be made with care. In West Papua, with a few notable exceptions, women are the ones who make/weave noken. But although women are the principal creators, it is not only women who make noken; it is a process of men and women working together. Traditionally, in Mee culture, men harvest and collect bark from trees, especially big trees, while women harvest and collect material from shrubs, and small plants, selecting materials to make natural colors. Men begin the process of preparing the bark. When the bark is ready, they give it to the women. Pieces of bark are rolled and twisted together to make bark yarn. This particular knowledge is owned by women. The process needs special skills and patience. It takes time. A woman can do it by herself but mostly women do it together, while sitting down and talking. When the bark yarn is ready, the women start weaving. Different tribes have slightly different techniques, patterns and styles. Here, I refer to what I have learnt from my mother and maternal grandmother. My grandmother started making noken as a child. In Mee language, we call it Aghiya. When she married my grandfather, she also learnt about the Muyu style and pattern. In Muyu language noken is called Men. My grandmother passed the knowledge and skill of making noken to my mother. Like my grandmother, my mother learnt Aghiya as a small child. In this story, I will explain the process of making noken in the Mee style. Some of the names I use are Mee words. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet learnt about the way Malind—my father’s tribe—make noken. And although my father has influenced me greatly, I won’t be sharing those stories here. After the yarn is ready you have to make the frame for the noken, which is called kebone in Mee language. Kebone is very important because it determines the shape and size, and “holds” the noken. After making the kebone, the women continue weaving the body of the noken. Weaving joins pieces of yarn, creating a beautiful pattern which forms the noken itself. The pattern and size of the noken determines the function of the noken. Before European missionaries came to West Papua, all of the materials for noken were made of bark yarn and other natural and local materials like orchid skin, grass seeds, dry insects, birds feathers and shells, which decorated the noken. When missionaries came, they introduced new materials such as wool rope, synthetic beads and new styles of crochet and knitting. West Papuan women, with their skills and knowledge of weaving,

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adopt these new things into their weaving, adding wool, joining different materials, or attaching new materials as decoration. Sometimes they use new materials to make noken with their own way of weaving. Many of the young generations make noken using the new technique of knitting and crochet. So, it has become part of the culture now and is developing all the time. We keep indigenous knowledge of how to weave noken, while also adapting and adopting the new. Having been involved in the movement for a while now makes me realize that the liberation of the two birds of paradise is so important. In the liberation movement in West Papua, women play significant roles. An example is Anganitha Manufandu who led the Koreri movement against the Japanese occupation in 1940s. West Papuan women were also involved in the formation of New Guinea Raad. These were key intellectuals who helped prepare West Papua to be an independent country, but they are virtually forgotten. Then when the OPM (Organisasi Papua Merdeka or Free Papua Movement) was formed just after the 1969 Act of [NO] Choice, women were part of that movement. During the 1980s women activists like Priscila Yakadewa organized many actions including high-risk flag raisings that took place in Jayapura. The active participation of women in the struggle continues. Young women are leading our movement. However, West Papuan women still face patriarchy and repression from the state as well as from our own societies. So the liberation movement is for liberation and self-determination of both West Papuan women as well as West Papua as a nation. We are fighting two struggles at the same time, one against the state and another within our societies. For me, as part of the women’s movement in West Papua, liberation and self-determination for West Papua as a nation will never be realized without the liberation of West Papuan women. For that reason, I committed myself to work on both of those goals. At the same time as we committed to investing in women, people from West Papua and the Pacific were being drawn back into one another’s orbit.

(Re)weaving into the Pacific Mat Jason and Rosa One of our first interactions with people from the Pacific—as Pasifika—was in 2013. We were invited to attend a gathering of NGOs and Churches in Fiji. At one point in the meeting, the donor, who had organized the meeting, started to dominate the agenda, not just

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in terms of content, but also shaping the culture of the partnership, and the power relations between the “donor” and “recipients.” This made many of us feel deeply uncomfortable. Some of the participants felt an intervention was called for. Rosa  During a break, the meeting room was cleared. A woven pandanus mat was spread on the floor and a Kava Bowl was placed on the mat. One of the elders sat on the mat next to the Kava Bowl. As participants returned to the room the leader invited people to sit on the mat. I sat down straight away. I immediately understood what was happening. Other Pacific islanders also began to sit on the mat as the Kava ceremony began, a Pacific ritual of talanoa, of storytelling and dialogue. At some point a few people invited other people, including those representing donor organizations, to sit too. Jason sat at the back, in solidarity, but not leading the movement. Jason  I remember feeling confused at this point, unsure of where my place was, and what I was meant to do. Rosa and I have talked about this a lot. In the context of my involvement in the movement in West Papua I am slowly learning that I always need to wait for an invitation. I may have an opinion but as a team we need to discuss things first. I can play my role, but I am also not free to jump in and do as I please. My role has to be in harmony with a process led by Papuans. Jason and Rosa We are organizers, each with our different and complementary skills. We are also activist educators, teaching people about nonviolent struggle and how to build the movement. We are researchers and documenters of struggle too. Our role is to support leaders, not only those who head up the prominent political organizations but everyone who is leading a process, large or small, and drawing others into collective action. Our desire is to make space for different parts of the movement to come together, to strengthen the capacity of the movement to analyze and strategize. One of the campaigns Pasifika was involved in was called Bring West Papua Back to the Pacific Family. The goal of the campaign was for West Papua to become a member of the Melanesian Spearhead Group (MSG). We worked on this campaign for years. We helped make space for different

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components of the struggle to come together. In the beginning we started working with young people who were connected to both the leadership and to the grassroots. As these young people from different groups, genders and parts of the struggle built trust with one another, they put pressure on their leaders to cooperate.5 At the same time the Vanuatu Government, the Vanuatu Council of Churches and the Malvatumauri National Council of Chiefs agreed to host a reconciliation and unification meeting in Port Vila. The end result was the formation of the United Liberation Movement for West Papua (ULMWP). That was in December 2014. The ULMWP then went on to seek membership in the Melanesian Spearhead Group. During this time so many people—inside and outside the country—were busy doing the kind of things that movements do: facilitate strategy meetings; fundraise; create campaign materials like posters and videos; connect with solidarity groups from across Melanesia; contact the media … so many things. Finally, in June 2015, Melanesian leaders accepted the ULMWP as an observer of the MSG. It wasn’t full membership, as West Papuans wanted, but it was a valuable connection. For the first time in history, representatives of Indonesia and West Papua sat in the same room, across the table from each other, on an equal footing. As you can imagine, after we won there was a big celebration. We were all so happy as we excitedly recounted the campaign. Our leaders thanked many people. Rosa  Later that night we reflected on what had happened. We noticed that the role we played in the campaign wasn’t really visible. Then during the evening prayers, the priest talked about John the Baptist, and his role in preparing the way for Jesus Christ (Matthew 11:9–11; Matthew 18: 21–22). I realized that organizers like us are similar to John the Baptist, preparing the way. We are not the ones who will liberate West Papua, but we do have a significant role in making liberation possible. John the Baptist was also committed to nonviolent action, just like Jesus was. They both stood against empire, but they did it non-violently: not meekly, but with militant, determined, disciplined, nonviolent action.

5  We understand that for theological praxis to be liberating it must be totally animated by love. It is love that heals discord (1 Corinthians 3:1–8; Romans 12:9–10; Matthew 5: 43–48).

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Of course, Jason and I are not the only “John the Baptists” in the movement. Another is our brother Jione Havea (editor of this book). We met a few years ago, at a meeting in Nadave. At that time fewer Pacific Islanders knew about West Papua. The issue had faded from many people’s attention. Without telling me what he planned to do Jione placed a chair in the centre of the room and invited me to sit on it. I am quite an intuitive person. I also trusted Jione, so I sat down. Without saying anything Jione used masking tape to bind me to the chair. A few people noticed but didn’t say anything. When Jione started on my head, covering my mouth, one of the participants, Joey Tau, a journalist from Papua New Guinea, stood up. “Stop” he said, clearly distressed. “This is my sister, you can’t do this!” Jione was unmoved. As he kept going with the tape Joey put down his phone, jumped up, ran over and started to take it off. He called other people. “Hey come and help me!” The reflective discussion after this event was an “aha moment” for many people. People realized there was a mainstream cluelessness, or lack of awareness about and commitment to West Papua, that was being played out in the Pacific. Jione’s intervention animated people. As my friend, Joey, exclaimed, “West Papua is our sister, our brother, our family, but we have closed our eyes and ears.” This discussion continued across the sea to Madang, Papua New Guinea where a transformative space was created (2014). That “Madang Wansolwara Dance” created a space for young people to form Youngsolwara, “a regional movement of a collective of activists from the Pacific.”6 Youngsolwara became another John the Baptist, and Joey became one of their key organizers, weaving other people into the struggle. John the Baptist teaches people about a new life and a new way of living; we too teach. John the Baptist agitates; we agitate too, disturbing people’s comfort so they become open, ready to receive “Jesus.” That is what it means to be baptized into the movement, to be committed, to accept responsibility for your sister and brother, to accept responsibility for the living earth, sky and waters. To act because we are family. John the Baptist prepares the way for Jesus. But in the context of a liberation struggle Jesus is not an individual or a leader in the movement. Jesus is in the movement giving it life, and transforming us so that we may 6  See Youngsolwara, https://youngsolwarapacific.wordpress.com/about-youngsolwara pacific/.

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liberate others. Jesus is the West Papuans who have the power to liberate themselves. Jesus is the one with the power. Jesus is also that power of light and liberating love inside each person. John the Baptist is making space for people to discover that liberating power within themselves. Jesus is also a separatist. He stood against the empire and was targeted by Rome. Jesus suffered. He was tortured, crucified and killed by the State. Jesus proclaimed a Jubilee that Papuans long for (Luke 4:14–19). All this suffering and desire are also experienced by the movement, not occasionally but virtually every day in West Papua. Jason and Rosa Our secret—the important Truth many of us hold onto—is that Jesus defies death. We are living in the darkest night, full of unimaginable terror. Even the moon and stars have been blotted out from the night sky. Sometimes we walk without any light. But we know that dawn will come. We don’t know when. We don’t know how, but we know Jesus will be raised up by God to liberate us. And the shocking thing is, this liberation will be for everyone. Not only men. Women too. Not only the elders but young people and children. Not only West Papuans. But other Pacific peoples and even Indonesians too. Not only the living but the ancestors and all parts of the living world. Everyone. Everything. That is also part of the mystery of liberation.

Back to Weaving the Noken Rosa  We approach involvement in nonviolent social movements in the same way as making a noken. There are four parts to making a noken but each part is intimately connected to all other parts. First, you must gather the materials. Traditionally the Mee people made the thread from bark and used other plants, including skin from the stem of orchids (kulit batang anggrek) for color and decoration. The materials are turned into yarn or thread. Plants are used to dye the thread or in the case of orchid leaves are wrapped around the thread. In recent times modern materials are also used to make nokens in colorful style. The raw materials of social movements are individual people. Specifically, it is their commitment, values, self-belief and identity. It is the reason why people feel moved to act, or why they don’t. When half the

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population—women are ignored, or not integrated into the movement— then the noken is not as strong, powerful, beautiful and life-giving as it could be. Why would any movement intentionally weaken itself?7 When organizing a movement, individual relationships, identities and commitments need to come together. The process of joining materials is not easy or simple. Bonding happens slowly through spending time with each other, talking, analyzing and making little steps toward working together, first in small groups, then in bigger groups. The strength of the noken depends on the materials and the process of joining them. In a liberation movement, commitments, values, relationships, shared understandings, making agreements and keeping them (the basis for trust), and other conditions for collective action, are key. Without the right materials and an enabling, participatory and careful process for bringing them together the movement becomes weak and fragile. The second step is to weave the kebone, the frame of the noken. The kebone includes the handle, but that part is finished at the end. Some kebone have specific styles or patterns of weaving, where the yarn joins together in a thick formation of the structure. The kebone determines the body of the noken, its shape and size. In the West Papuan liberation struggle, kebone are the core principles which frames our movement. The most important of these principles are self-determination and liberation. They hold us together. They bring West Papuans and people other-than-West Papuan in solidarity. A strong kebone helps us develop common goals from our shared interests. The kebone is a place of power. This power is distributed to the whole noken. The strength of the noken also comes from the body of the noken and from the materials. Kebone is also structure. The structure won’t be effective unless it is connected to the materials—relationships, identity, knowledge and even suffering. Kebone holds collective action, gives it shape, direction and power. If the structure does not distribute power throughout, the noken will be weak. With a solid, strong and stable kebone, a noken—a liberation movement—will be able to contain the values, identities, struggle, even 7  Jesus’ relations with women witness to the equality of men and women. Jesus surprised his disciples by addressing women in public (John 4:27–30), an action that contravened all social norms. He accorded women equal spiritual status as men (Luke 13:16). He taught and ministered to women and was respectful to them. Jesus trusted women. He recognized their power as leaders of movements. It was women who first received the news that Jesus was alive after the crucifixion (Matthew 28:1; Mark 16:1; Luke 24:10; John 20:1, 11). But the men did not believe them (Luke 24:13).

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the blood and tears of the West Papuan people. It will be able to expand without losing strength. The third step is the process of weaving itself. The weaver starts the kebone. They are the organizers. The weaver unifies people, Papuans inside the country and allies outside the country, in Indonesia, in the Pacific and in other places around the world. Solidarity activists who accompany the movement bring their identities and skills but those need to be in service of what Papuans want. Different people coming together to take action is like bringing the different threads of the noken together. It is relationship work with a shared purpose, shaped by a shared analysis and contained and guided by a clear structure. The final step is to make the handle. This is what makes the noken functional. The handle of the movement is the skills and knowledge of the people about how to survive, build power and resist. Most importantly the handle is the strategy tools and the individual campaigns that make up a movement. The more these skills and knowledge are developed, the more they are shared, and the more they are deeply connected to the materials, the stronger the handle will be. The handle is intimately connected to the frame. In other words, your theory of change, whether that is conscious or unconscious, helps determine the tools available. Inside the noken is the suffering of the people. The memories are passed down as a legacy, a legacy of trauma. A theologian named Johan Baptist Metz once called this kind of history the “memoria passionis,” the memory of suffering. The memoria passionis is like magma. Hidden from view, it contains an enormous latent energy capable of overturning existing realities. (Theo van den Broek OFM and J. B. Hernawan cited in Giay 2001)

The noken carries all this, our suffering as well as our successes. Our past as well as our present trials. Our current capacities and our future longings.

Conclusion Jason and Rosa We used the four steps in making a noken—gathering materials, making the kebone, weaving the body of the noken, and creating the handle—to shape this story. The materials are our stories, our values and commitment. They are also relationships and our interests, or reasons

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for being involved in a struggle for liberation. The kebone is our framework which includes a praxis of nonviolent action and self-determination. It also includes the vision and analysis of the problem and the issues we build campaigns around. The weaving is our praxis: training, education, facilitation, action research, organizing and mobilizing. This is the day-to-day work of drawing people in, supporting them, accompanying different initiatives, crafting organizations and processes that help structure the work: in other words, building a movement. The handle is the tools we use, especially our skills and knowledge around strategy and nonviolent people power, what we call civil resistance. Pasifika’s noken is based on deep identity and tradition but it also contains modern materials. We invite you to weave with us, together, toward the liberation of West Papua. We also acknowledge and give thanks for the invitation to be part of this weaving.

Works Cited Broek (OFM), Theo van den and J. B. Hernawan. 2001. Memoria Passionis Di Papua: Kondisi Hak Asasi Manusia Dan Gerakan Aspirasi Merdeka: Gambaran 1999. Jakarta: SKP and LSPP. Cullwick, Jonas. 2013. Vanuatu PM made strong stand for West Papua, Kanaks At MSG. Pacific Islands Report, 8 July 2013. http://www.pireport.org/articles/2013/07/08/vanuatu-­pm-­made-­strong-­stand-­west-­papua-­kanaks-­msg. Giay, Benny. 2001. Towards a New Papua. Inside Indonesia, July–September. http://papuaweb.org/dlib/jr/ii/67/giay.htm. Accessed 5 May 2020. MacLeod, Jason. 2012. Merdeka and the morning star: Civil resistance in West Papua. St Lucia: The University of Queensland Press. ———. 2019. Animating freedom: Accompanying indigenous struggles for self-­ determination. The James Backhouse Lecture, Carindale: Interactive Publications. UNESCO. 2012. List of intangible cultural heritage in need of urgent safeguarding. https://ich.unesco.org/en/USL/noken-­multifunctional-­knotted-­or-­woven-­ bag-­handcraft-­of-­the-­people-­of-­papua-­00619. Accessed 5 May 2020.

CHAPTER 23

Sex: Suicide, Shame, Signals Jione Havea and Diya Lākai Havea

In the public ears of Pasifika, to echo the late Marcella Althaus-Reid, sex is indecent. And because sex is bodily and performed with someone outside of the family, it is deemed inappropriate to talk about it among family members of the opposite sex. Relatives do not have sex with or reveal their nakedness to one another, so they should not participate in public forums where sex or nakedness is discussed or implied. If relatives of the opposite sex are at such forums (including social media) the male or female (if not both) relatives would (get up and) leave, and the gathering would understand. The cultural excuse commonly given is that the egade (Nauruan for “sacred relationship”) between brothers and sisters is violated if they are together in the same place where matters of sex and nakedness percolate, and the theological excuses go back to the time of the missionaries (who were not comfortable with the nakedness of our people, nor with their

J. Havea (*) Trinity Theological College, Auckland, New Zealand Public and Contextual Theology Research Centre of Charles Sturt University, Parramatta, NSW, Australia D. L. Havea North Melbourne Primary School, North Melbourne, VIC, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 J. Havea (ed.), Theologies from the Pacific, Postcolonialism and Religions, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-74365-9_23

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fertility practices) and to the church fathers who indoctrinated the view that sex was dirty and a (cause of) sin (see Kanongata’a 1992). We—the co-authors, and anyone who wishes to come along in this reflection without needing to agree with everything we suggest—do not live in the missionary era or in the shadows of the church fathers. We live in a time of cultural negotiations, and we find divinity and enlightenment in and through sex. We gratefully attribute to sex the mystery of our coming into existence, and into each other’s life, and we appreciate the important function of sex in the regeneration of the circle of life. As humans, we are sexual beings. We admit also that sex is not a privilege of humans, but our musings are presented through our human experiences. We do not privilege human interests and orientations, but we think in our human bodies. We do not see sex as indecent, and we feel that it would benefit Pasifika to address and reflect on sex theologically and publicly. This suggestion flows against the surges of native traditionalists, who would also submit homosexual and transsexual bodies to the male-female divide even though gender and sexuality are fluid. Why should we leave the future of Pasifika theologies to the (in)securities of traditionalists? Why are we not as fluid in our theology as everything else around us is? With this chapter, we issue an invitation for talanoa (see Chap. 1) on the subject of sex in a publication that imagines the future of theologies in Pasifika. Our aim is to make sex a theological subject in that future, and we encourage the current and future generations of Pasifika theologians at home and in diaspora to find “our own voices” (cf. Forman 2005) in that future.1 One of the controversies with our chapter and this collection is that we propose the subject of sex in the place of a doctrine of sin—a theological subject in mainline systematic theologies.2 This chapter therefore peeks into the “nakedness” of systematic theologies, and we will not be surprised if sin became a theological subject because it benefitted the mission of those theologies—they needed to define sin and name sinners (our black and brown ancestors), whom they could save (through education and indoctrination) with their theologies of salvation, incarnation, hope, 1  This is an urgent call because “our stories” continue to be told by outsiders even at these post-colonial and post-independence days. 2  Most textbooks on systematic theology have a chapter on sin, in which sex is addressed in relation to the so-called original sin for which Eve and women in general are blamed.

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end-times, heaven, eternity, and such likes. Instead of sin, we focus on sex, but we turn sex over so that it is not as indecent as missionaries positioned it in the old days. We come to the subject of sex with curious eyes and open minds, and our exploration includes personal stories—of our own and a few presented to us—around awareness of the body as a decent facility (structure, capacity, gift) and with sex and sexuality as contexts for theologizing. Sex involves bodies, practices and senses, and to address one requires taking the others into account. But first things first: moana.

Moana In theological circles, the shapes and characteristics of moana have been tapped in previous reconsiderations of Pasifika theologies and recently in the promotion of dynamic leadership (Halapua 2010). Those theological moves were made before Disney came out with its 2016 Moana animation, but here we pick on Disney. We watched Disney’s Moana twice in the first week of its release, and countless number of times at home singing at the top of our lungs, I am Moana and we know the way! We too paid our lunch money to the box-­ office and to the ka-ching’s of one DVD shop, but we have only had talanoa around the plot of the movie. One of those talanoa included this exchange: Why did Moana’s father hide the canoes? Because he did not want the village people to go into the deep sea. But the sea is right there. They should go if they want. They didn’t know how to navigate. What does that mean? They did not know how to canoe around the sea. You know why? Because the father was hiding the canoes.

The solution is simple: if the Motunui people had access to the canoes (vaka), they would have learned to navigate around the moana. Picked by the sea and guilt-tripped by her tattooed grandmother (the fai [stingray] tattooed on her back symbolizes sex in several island cultures), Moana had to go through the trouble of finding and bringing Maui to restore the heart of Te Fiti before the canoes are released from the cave on the island. The natives of Motunui may be village people, but they are sons and daughters of navigators and they quickly learned to know the way of the ancestors (tūpuna).

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To be fair, a critique of Disney is warranted: Even though Disney is fully aware of the constrictions and burdens of copyright, patent and trademark rules—for example, when the movie was dubbed into German it turned out that someone in Europe owns the “Moana” trademark so Disney used “Vaiana” (vai means water) as the title of the movie and the name of the leading female character—Disney did not honor the rights of the traditional owners of the legends of Maui, who are oral- rather than literary-­ preferring villagers. Disney harvested the legends of Maui and sidestepped one white man’s burden (trademark) but turned a blind eye to Moana cultures. Sadly, natives of Moana have also stuffed banknotes into Disney’s coffers. On that note, it is vital that we reclaim the energies of moana from Disney and European trademark owners, and to do so in the Pasifika way of talanoa. We do not need to be nativists, but we should not let Disney and the UN have the final say on moana and talanoa.3 For our part, in this chapter, we weave talanoa and moana in the stories (talanoa) that we tell (talanoa) and we invite talanoa (conversation, engagement) from readers across the moana. To borrow the words of Qoheleth (Eccl 11: 1), with this chapter we put our talanoa upon the waters. Talanoa helps bring shameful and hurtful matters out of the closets and chests of Pasifika. To the rhythms of talanoa we tell stories on the subject of sex in three steps: first, a life and death situation (suicide) that makes talanoa on sex imperative; second, the unreasonable discomfort (shame) of adults with the subject of sex; and third, some proposals (signals) for how sex could become a household and decent subject in theological education in Pasifika and beyond. In other words, going backward over our three steps: the future of Pasifika theologies is in the hands of theological educators and learners who nurture (signal) theologies that embrace the ideological struggles (shame) of our elders as well as disrupt the currents that cause self-inflicted bleeding (suicide) in local and diaspora communities. The future of Pasifika theologies is in our kautaha (collaboration), rather than in the hands of past or passing theological traditions and tendencies.

3  The UN uses “talanoa” to label its platform for assessing the climate change situation in response to COP events (see https://unfccc.int/process-and-meetings/the-paris-­ agreement/the-paris-agreement/2018-talanoa-dialogue-platform).

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Suicide On some Sundays when we are in Auckland, Aotearoa New Zealand, we attend church with one of the Tongan communities. There are other churches closer to our flat (apartment), but we choose this particular church because that is the one where a seventeen-year-old female committed suicide over the eucharist table in 2010. Members of the church speculate that she climbed onto the pulpit with the noose on her neck, threw the line over a cross-bar, secured the line and then jumped to her death. When the stewards came to open the church for worship the next morning, she was hanging there. Dead. Over the altar that the church sets aside for the body and blood of Christ hung a young female body. Lifeless. Alone. Church members, however, do not talk about why she committed suicide. They rather telltale about something else. We, on the other hand, want to bring this tragedy into talanoa for it is not a one-off. The number of suicides is growing in Pasifika migrant communities, including both male and female victims spread across the range of age and marital status (Tiatia-Seath 2015). The age group of Pasifika migrants with the highest risk of committing suicide is between 12 and 18 (but in 2019,  one of the victims was a 46-year-old Tongan father of four children). In 2017, attempted suicide was reported at 8.6 per cent for Pasifika youth in Aotearoa and this figure would increase if unreported cases are added (see Tiatia-Seath et al. 2017; Fuatai 2017). It would be higher still if those who considered (but did not attempt) suicide are also added, given that a 2012 wellbeing survey revealed that 70 per cent of Pasifika high schoolers were happy at their homes. This means that 30 per cent were not happy, and the extreme cases in this group would have considered and/or attempted suicide. The key question is clear: Why are young people not happy at home? We presume that there are connections between why young people are not happy at home and why some of them consider and/or attempt suicide. Our concern in this chapter is not with the prevention of suicide (for which see Tiatia-Seath 2015; Pope 2015) but with calling attention to causes that are so obvious (like logs in the eyes of Pasifika families) but ignored in communal and theological talanoa. Within Pasifika diaspora communities, three reasons are usually given for why people attempt suicide: first, the burdens of cultural inferiority due to belonging to a minority community (read: racism, bullying); second, the burdens of surviving with low income in a foreign and strange land (with expectation to also

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contribute to responsibilities at home); and third, a combination of high stress and mental illness (Schmidt 2019; Sinisa 2013). These three reasons intersect, but the hushed-up causes of suicide include sex and sexuality (implied but not named in Sinisa’s study and noted but not explored in Pope’s study)—the subject matter of this chapter. In the 2000s and onward, the 12–18 age group is sexually more active than their parents were at that age. At home, the parents are strict (as their parents were with them during the moral high grounds of the 1970s and 1980s) on their children; outside of the shadows of the parents, young people have sex—but they do not always use contraception or protection, and some of the females get pregnant and/or sexually transmitted diseases. The fear of getting into trouble with their strict parents is enough to push some young females to abortion (sometimes with the nagging of the partner) and/or to suicide. Add to this quandary the unbearable shame that Pasifika Christian communities dish out against mothers who give birth outside of wedlock or marriage to so-called illegitimate children. Catch-22. Times two. Abortion and suicide are therefore ways out of the censorships at home and the vicious circle in the community. This problem, in our humble opinion, arises because the father was hiding the canoes. We use “canoes” (vaka) as a metaphor for alternatives that would enable the troubled young women to steer away from the need for abortion and suicide. To illustrate the kind of canoes that we have in mind, are the following admissions by young Pasifika people: In diaspora: The boys have sex here [in prison]. This place is not like in the movies where girlfriends come for a conjugal visit. There are bitches and wives in each block [of cells], and you get blessed for a price. Sometimes you have to bless your mates. But we are not homosexuals. Sex has nothing to do with homosexuality. But rape is always a problem. It’s the worse crime in here. In her home island: I am 17 now, and I have several partners already. Recently I’ve been afraid of getting pregnant SO I hooked up with another girl, but we are not lesbians. We just don’t want to have babies yet.

These are “canoes” because they are opportunities for young people to bless and be blessed without the burden of getting pregnant or falling victim to the stigma that their strict parents and condemning community pin on them—as ones who stray from the fold (read: sinners). The hang-up over

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homosexuality is inherited from the parents, but these young people can hang up the hang-ups of their parents. These are nontraditional “canoes” but they are liberating and life-­ affirming, which are the blessed goals at the very heart of theology and ministry. Our contention here is simple: open the community “caves” (closet, chest) and bring such “canoes” out, and not only will we prevent some abortions and suicides, but we will also pump the hearts of mission and theology. We can then all sing, we are moana … we know the way! Speechless Jasmine (played by Naomi Scott) is the princess in the Disney movie Aladdin (2019) who was told by the wicked Jafar (played by Jonathan Freeman) to be silent, after he overthrew Jasmine’s father as Sultan of Agrabah. Jafar ordered the guards to place Jasmine under house arrest and as she was led out, she broke out in the song Speechless. Jasmine was not going to walk away silently (as if she had swallowed sand), her voice drowned out in the thunder of Jafar’s hatred (like a wave that has broken upon her to wash her away) and centuries old rules that tell women to stay in their place, seen and not heard, for they are assumed to have nothing to say. This time Jasmine decided not to be underestimated, nor be speechless. After watching Aladdin for the first time, Diya Lākai drew her mother into talanoa: Why did he say that she should be silent? Because she is a girl, and at that time girls were not supposed to speak. That’s not fair. Girls should talk. Like boys.

Even at the age of five Diya Lākai was aware that the speechlessness of girls is not fair and that the divide between boys and girls should not be tolerated. We bring this awareness to suicide. Our worry is that young women and young men attempt suicide because they feel as if they are drowning in the sand—buried, excluded and made speechless—and at the end of the line, suicide ensures that they remain speechless. The community (including theologians) on the other hand should not be speechless in response. Speechlessness is not fair and so our challenge, appropriating the last line of Jasmine’s rendition, is to work toward ending the story of speechlessness and suicide. In Pasifika, we end speechlessness through the events of talanoa. We end speechlessness by recognizing that other people have

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stories (talanoa), by letting them tell (talanoa) their stories, and by engaging them in conversation (talanoa). Put another way, speechlessness is not in the DNA of talanoa people. Talanoa is an alternative “canoe” that speechless, buried and drowning people could use to ride away from the breaking waves of abortion and suicide. The realities of suicide in Pasifika communities, in diaspora and at the home(is)lands, make talanoa on sex necessary.

Shame The speechlessness of Pasifika communities on the matter of sex does not help anyone. Speechlessness does not help community members who are drowning in the sand of age-old rules and traditions, and it does not help communities to lift the ban (tekeroi in iKiribati) that exacerbates their shame. This is a critical charge given that lifting the ban (read: forgiveness, reconciliation) is one of the aims of mission and theology in Pasifika. Honor and shame are at the roots of most island cultures, and Christian teachings and practices enforce and build upon these cultures. The bulk of the honor and shame cultures swells on matters relating to the body, and the heftiest portion falls upon the body of women. Virginity for example is at the top of the honor list, and Pasifika churches have taken this condition (identity, status) as a symbol for purity (churches’ honor list). A virgin woman is considered pure, and purity in this honor system is defined according to heteronormative biases that ignore homoeroticism and nonpenetrative sexual practices. The purity of a man, on the other hand, does not depend on his sexual experiences. The burden of proof in this purity (honor) system falls heavier upon the body of women, and this too is not fair. It is also not fair that this zeal for honor is an opportunity for shaming women, and women who cannot prove that they were virgins upon marriage live with the stain of this shame. Unfairly also, from the other side of the honor-shame frame, is how modern Pasifika cultures of shame do not progress toward tekeroi (lift the ban) as our forebears did. We blame early missionaries for rejecting the mana in tekeroi and in other magical practices as the dark ways of natives.4

4  Nowadays, tekeroi is the iKiribati equivalent of a blessing over food—one pronounces tekeroi over the food, and then eats—rather than a ritual that permits one to take something or enter some place that have been marked as tapu (sacred, prohibited).

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Three areas of shame are critical for our reflection, and these are more problematic for adults than for younger people. We frame our discussion around more talanoa. Two Mommies Diya Lākai was still three years old when her mother wanted to introduce her to the fact that some children are adopted, so those lucky children have two sets of parents: You know Diya, there are many kinds of families. (no response) Yes, many families are like ours. One daddy. One mommy. And one beautiful child. (no response) And some families have two daddies and two mommies … (with excitement, Diya cuts her mother off) I know mommy. My friend Evie has two mommies!

Dah! The hang-ups that older people have over so-called sensitive issues are not shared by younger people. Having two mommies is normal in the eyes of three-year-olds (and Diya Lākai has even asked if she can have another mommy), even though they were talking about two different situations—adoption and homosexuality are sensitive in the ears of Pasifika elders, but both become normal when parents listen to their children. Wee-Wee Thingy It was a Saturday morning when Diya Lākai was still four years old. She woke up and came into our bedroom and started talking about the wee-­ wee thingy, because her teachers have been talking about body parts: You know Lākai, that’s where boys and girls are different. (no response) Boys have a different kind of wee-wee thingy from girls. No papa, boys and girls are not different there. But they have different wee-wee thingies. No papa, some girls have the same wee-wee thingy as boys.

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Transgender is real and normal in the eyes of this four-year-old, and we assume that it is normal also in the eyes of other Pasifika children. Here also, the hang-ups of parents could easily be lifted (as in tekeroi) if they simply listen to their children. Private Parts After school one day when Diya Lākai reached the talkative age of five, our talanoa turned into more private matters: Do you know what private parts mean, papa? What? It means parts of your body that you should not show other people. Like what? Like your bum and your booby. Why not? Because private parts are private. But i see your bum and booby every day. That’s ok because you are my private papa.

The line between public (community) and private (home) are drawn early in the minds of children. The thicker and deeper that line becomes, the higher the chances are for children (but also for youth and older people in general) to become alienated and to drown in the pressures of the public. Mercy Ah Siu-Maliko recently (2021)  proposed a model for doing public theology in Samoa and Pasifika, drawing upon her research on domestic violence in Samoa (2016). Part of her study deals with the burden that public rules (as in the principles of faa Samoa and the practices of the Christian church) have on the lives of people. Suicide is an event in which the private (an individual’s life) is extinguished in part because of pressures from the public (e.g., village and church communities). One of the matters that we in Pasifika tend to be speechless about is the line between private and public spheres—we seem to know, and we expect the next generation to pick it up on the run—and where one’s whanau (family) stand in that intersection. Whanau cross over between immediate and extended limits (families), and this often means that not much is private. The blending of the private and the public complicates the relational makeup of our cultures (cf. Vaai and Casimira 2017) and deserves fuller unpacking at another occasion. For this reflection, we simply draw

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attention to the blending (a consequence of the liquidity of Pasifika cultures) of private and public matters and its impact on the subjects of shame and sex. So What? The foregoing reflection problematized both the cultures of shame in Pasifika and speechlessness as response to shame. There is work to be done on both fronts. How might we shift our theologies out of the shadows of shame, and out of complacencies in the life and death situations of suicide?

Signals In this final section, we signal some of the stumbling blocks that trip up some of our people. Here also, we keep our focus on the subject of sex. Myth of Whiteness Pasifika has come some way, but not far enough, from the myth of whiteness. We too put on the proverbial white mask (problematized by Frantz Fanon), and this can still be seen in many of our churches where the so-­ called Sunday whites are the honorable outwear. Brown native bodies covered (read: masked) in white fabric is the symbol of—or more appropriately, the fabrication of—purity on Sundays and a white wedding dress announces that one was a virgin. Purity and virginity are fabricated (whitewashed) by making one look white on the outside. This drive was forced at some places (including at mission houses) where native bodies were scrubbed to get rid of their dark skin. Blending with the blood of lightness (white people who were assumed to be Christians, in contrast to the blood of darkness as a reference to native people) was preferred and, in some cases, forced. This used to mean seeking a white man to father ones (grand)children because that was one way to bring lightness into one’s household. The aim was to become white in the inside as well, and this was forced at some places (including mission houses) where native women were raped to give them white blood. In the 1960s, migration of laborers to predominantly white countries (most went to and through Aotearoa New Zealand) contributed to shifting the perspectives of both islanders and the white population. The features of islanders (and most island things) were exoticized by the white

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population, and the islanders exhibited their (sometimes tattooed) brown bodies and wore their island fashions with pride. With this shift came the appraisal that islanders look like coconuts: brown on the outside but white in the inside. For the working out of the future of theologies in and of Pasifika, we ask: Do we not need to be brown in the inside as well? This question is important for Pasifika islanders in diaspora who struggle with their brownness in white settings; since this struggle pushes some islanders toward suicide, this query is imperative. This query is vital for islanders at the home(is)lands as well, for they too buy into the myth of whiteness and some of them are minority in their own cultures. In the case of Tokelau, Niue and the inappropriately named Cook Islands, for instance, there are more natives in diaspora than at the home(is)land. In their case, who and from which island context determine(s) their native culture? At home and abroad, Pasifika natives experience cultural inferiority in different ways. Contributing to this dilemma is, on the one hand, the assumption that there was a pure native culture that became hybridized when mixed with other cultures and, on the other hand, the assumption that some cultures are superior. The former partners with nativism, and the latter is an offspring of white mission and white colonialism. Here we simply signal that such conundrums need to be unpacked in the future of Pasifika theologies. Two Roots On some occasions, especially when she wants a compliment or a treat from her parents, Diya Lākai would say, “I am Indian and Tongan. I am special.” We of course taught her to say this, and she has learned to stroke our egos. But for us as parents, we want her to grow up knowing that having two roots makes her special. This is a healthier way of thinking than the insensitive (half-caste) label that formed our thinking when we were at her age. To have two roots means that one has access to at least two languages, and a third is necessary if the parents do not know each other’s native tongue. Being polylingual is also a sign that one is special. And language is a point of connection to (is)land and identity. In the case of Diya Lākai, she learned this at the ripe old age of five: Papa, my friends tell me that Tonga is only a language.

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Really? And what did you tell them? I said, Tonga is real like India.

A language comes from a real place so there must be connections between language and (is)land, and both language and land shape identity.5 Since Pasifika languages have taken in words from other languages (starting with bible translations), and since Pasifika islands have received people of foreign roots and languages, Pasifika identity is mixed up. And given that our legends go back to ancestors who navigated and roamed moana, native identity and culture were already mixed up before colonialists and capitalists landed on the shores of Pasifika. In light of this awareness, one of the challenges for Pasifika theologies in the future is to embrace the poly-­ rootedness of Pasifika. So What? There are other signals to watch for in the voyage of Pasifika theologies, and we reflected on two above to signal that the subject of sex requires engaging with local ideologies and cultures. Due to (re)migration, moana ideologies and cultures have blended with pa ̄langi (foreign) ones and we invite Pasifika theologians, present and future, to help natives at home(is) land and in diaspora be happy at home.

Onward We close with an invitation: As sex sparked the mystery of our coming to life, so may sex spark theological talanoa that keep the confused, the drowning and the speechless, alive. In decently.

Works Cited Ah Siu-Maliko, Mercy. 2016. A public theology response to domestic violence in Samoa. International Journal of Public Theology 10: 54–67. Forman, Charles W. 2005. Finding our own voice: The reinterpreting of Christianity by Oceanian theologians. International Bulletin of Missionary Research 29 (3): 115–122. 5  In this connection, given India’s many languages, to be Indian requires Diya Lākai to learn many Indian languages.

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Fuatai, Teuila. 2017. New plan for community hit hard by suicide. Newsroom, May 29. https://www.newsroom.co.nz/2017/05/22/30047/tongan-­youth-­ suicide-­resource-­is-­an-­nz-­first#.Accessed 13 Apr 2019. Halapua, Winston. 2010. Moana methodology: Promoting dynamic leadership. In Talanoa ripples: Across Borders, cultures, disciplines, ed. Jione Havea, 132–148. Auckland: Massey. Kanogata’a, Keiti Ann. 1992. A Pacific women’s theology of birthing and liberation. Pacific Journal of Theology II (7): 3–11. Pope, Sonia Teuila. 2015. Cultural identity as a protective factor for suicidality among Tonga secondary students. Honours Dissertation, University of Auckland, Auckland. Schmidt, Veronica (ed). 2019. Together alone: New Zealand’s silent Pasifika mental health crisis. RNZ: Te Reo Irirangi o Aotearoa. http://shorthand.radionz. co.nz/together-­alone/index.html. Accessed 13 Apr 2019. Sinisa, Valenisia. 2013. The reflections by tongan parents or caregivers on various factors that may have contributed to the suicide of their child. master of counselling research portfolio, University of Auckland, Auckland. Tiatia-Seath, Jemaima. 2015. Report to the health research council of New Zealand and ministry of health for the Pacific partnership programme. Auckland: University of Auckland. Tiatia-Seath, Jemaima, et  al. 2017. Suicide mortality among Pacific peoples in New Zealand, 1996–2013. The New Zealand Medical Journal 130: 1454. h t t p s : / / w w w. n z m a . o r g . n z / j o u r n a l / r e a d -­t h e -­j o u r n a l / a l l -­ issues/2010-­2019/2017/vol-­130-­no-­1454-­28-­april-­2017/7224. Accessed 13 Apr 2019. Vaai, Upolu Lumā, and Aisake Casimira, eds. 2017. Relational hermeneutics: Decolonizing the mindset and the Pacific Itulagi. Suva: Pacific Theological College.

English Index1

A Ambiguities, 64, 131, 195, 198, 199, 201–203 Angry, 184, 190, 191, 268 An-other, 277–279 Anthropocene, 182–185, 188, 190 Anticipation, vi, 4, 11, 198 Authority (of scripture), 53, 59n9, 119–124, 123n2, 134, 143, 148, 149, 171, 181, 195, 197, 197n4, 198, 202, 213–215, 231, 242, 282 B Blessings, 32, 37–43, 81, 82, 96, 171, 172, 213, 265, 266, 268, 274, 330n4 Bridge, 68, 196, 280

1

C Calendar, 38–42, 145 Canon, 120–123 Capitalism, 83, 154, 157, 163–165, 308 Celebration, 4, 10, 18, 42, 45, 68, 77–87, 104, 107, 109, 110, 112–114, 135, 146, 242, 247, 316 Chief, 9, 19, 51, 81, 129, 130, 140, 142–144, 148, 149, 160, 162, 171, 175, 196n2, 199n6, 237, 238, 269, 279 Christianity, 25, 48, 50–54, 56, 58, 72, 78, 84, 89, 90n5, 125, 128, 139–142, 144, 148, 150, 153–165, 193, 194, 201, 229, 277 Christology, 69, 71, 94, 191, 237 Church-state relations, 193–195, 201

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ENGLISH INDEX

Climate change, vii, 5n4, 10, 64, 66, 67n4, 157, 158, 182, 184, 186, 189, 326n3 Climate crisis, 65, 65n3 Climate justice, 183 Climate rejection, 67, 67n4 Coconut theology, vii, 8, 9, 22, 31, 43, 207, 241 Colonization, v–vii, 17, 20, 28, 48, 52, 59, 93, 238, 242, 308 Commissioning, 208, 210 Common household, 34 Communality, 236, 252, 255, 256, 260, 261 Communion, 33–35, 37, 42, 84, 86, 108, 173, 252–255, 260–262 Community, 15–28, 31, 33, 42, 52, 64n1, 66, 68, 69, 74, 77, 78, 82–85, 90, 99, 104, 107–110, 108n3, 110n4, 114, 120–122, 125, 129, 130, 134, 149, 150, 153, 154n2, 157, 160, 171, 173–176, 178, 179, 188, 189, 199–201, 203, 215, 216, 223, 227–229, 236, 237, 239, 241–244, 247, 251, 254–258, 260–263, 268, 271–273, 277, 280, 283, 287, 295, 312, 326–330, 332 Conception, 162n9, 299 Connection, 7, 8, 16, 17, 20–22, 43, 65, 68, 79, 104, 135, 162, 163, 185, 195–199, 197n4, 202, 210, 211, 236, 242, 245, 279–281, 283–287, 305, 316, 327, 334, 335, 335n5 Conscience, 198, 199, 202 Constitutional, 123, 125, 201, 204 Contextual theology, 22, 25, 64, 67, 69, 89, 190, 207 Core value, 127, 133, 134, 172, 257 Cosmology, 256

Creation, 10, 18, 31, 65, 65n2, 67, 68, 73, 73n5, 74, 80, 94, 99, 99n10, 126, 128, 135, 162, 178, 182, 189, 190, 199, 221, 224n14, 226n19, 228, 229, 240, 241, 247, 253, 254, 256, 260, 261, 292, 293, 293n7, 295, 296, 300, 308 Cross, 25, 26, 57, 71, 74, 108, 190, 191, 231, 279, 286, 311, 332 Crowd, 51, 111, 212–216 Cultural images, 64, 94 Cultural metaphor, 110n4 Customary lands, 158 D Dance, 4, 10, 16, 48, 48n1, 49, 51, 55, 57, 58, 63–74, 107, 109, 113, 114, 125, 154n2, 236–239, 247 Dawn raids, 155 De-heavening, 25 De-onefication, 236, 240 Detachment, 281–283, 287 Development, vii, 17, 20–22, 28, 53, 54, 57, 86, 87, 139, 155, 156, 158, 194, 230, 237, 244 Dialogue, 3, 5n4, 52, 58, 59, 83, 84, 127, 133, 195, 200, 202, 244, 278, 279, 281, 283, 285–287, 315 Diaspora, vii, 8–11, 90, 103, 110–112, 134, 170, 176, 290, 291, 297, 300, 301, 324, 326–328, 330, 334, 335 Digestive center, 15, 17, 18, 20–24, 26, 28 Dirt, 1, 10, 15–28, 164, 237, 292 Dirtification, 15, 19, 22, 24–28 Disaster, 96, 156, 157, 181, 182, 184, 186, 189–191, 230

  ENGLISH INDEX 

339

Disciple(s), 72, 79, 86, 107, 111, 208, 210, 211, 211n5, 213–216, 230, 253, 319n7 Discipleship, 92, 170, 189, 207–216 Divine inspiration, 120, 121

Ghost, 91, 96n9 Globalization, 83, 90, 154, 157, 158, 164, 165, 208n2, 230, 251, 252, 260, 261 Groaning, 70, 74, 190

E Earth, 16–18, 33, 37, 38, 40, 64, 65, 74, 79, 83, 91, 108, 111, 120, 128, 129, 162, 182–184, 189, 212, 230, 237, 242, 243, 260, 282, 292, 292n5, 295, 300, 311, 317 Education, 15, 16, 19–20, 49, 51, 55, 57, 59, 60, 92, 132, 140, 179, 194, 195, 207, 229, 236, 237, 239, 242, 243, 247, 267–272, 274, 277, 312, 321, 324, 326 Empire, vi, 5, 6, 74, 150, 316, 318 Encounter, 51–54, 59, 67, 93, 112, 112n6, 153, 161, 165, 201, 222, 239, 242, 255, 277–287 Enthusiasm, 89, 90, 98 Environment, 33, 34, 56, 57, 65, 66, 71, 74, 78, 82, 93, 103, 110, 111, 128, 129, 135, 157, 158, 162, 163, 173, 189, 200, 203, 241, 260, 265, 275, 290, 291, 294, 295, 307 Equality, 21, 84, 254, 255, 258–260, 274, 319n7 Equal sharing, 252, 254, 258–262 Evil, 16, 96, 96n9, 112, 163, 181, 182, 184–188, 268, 298 Exorcism, 92

H Hardships, 170, 172, 177 Hermeneutic, 21, 22, 37, 38, 44, 71, 92, 94, 216, 222, 279, 283 Honor, 64, 112, 125, 142, 162, 171, 173, 174, 198, 202, 215, 326, 330 Honorific, 125, 129–132, 140 Hope, vi, 4, 11, 24, 53, 67, 69–71, 73, 74, 81, 157, 172, 178, 184, 187, 190, 204, 208, 231, 291, 306, 324

G Gender, 71, 141, 162–164, 214, 245–246, 270, 316, 324 Geopolitics, 64, 74

I Identity, vii, 8, 16–17, 23, 65, 68, 87, 104, 113, 123, 125, 127, 154, 158, 171, 173, 176, 236, 241, 254, 273, 286, 290n2, 295, 296, 307, 318–321, 330, 334, 335 Immutability, 18 Imperialism, 93 Implanted reason, 298 Indigenous, vii, 20, 22, 38, 47, 48, 53, 54, 60, 64, 65, 67, 68, 70–72, 74, 92, 93, 95, 109, 119–135, 140, 142, 149, 159n5, 161, 165, 172, 195, 207n1, 221n1, 235, 267, 289–292, 292n4, 296, 307–309, 314 Indigenous reference, 3, 10, 119–135 Individualism, 77, 108, 112, 114, 163, 255, 261 Industrial revolution, 163

340 

ENGLISH INDEX

Inter-connected, 32, 35, 37, 42, 43, 135, 242, 291 Intercultural, 228, 277–287 Interfaith, 201, 277–287 Interwoven, 2, 37, 43, 237, 239 Invisible, 21, 32, 35–37, 43, 44, 197n4, 238, 245, 260, 308 L Last Supper, 85–86 Laudato Si, 34 Leadership, 142–144, 148, 149, 171, 175, 227, 231, 264–274, 307, 316, 325 Liberation (theology of), 49, 86–87 Life-sources, 196, 197, 203 Liturgy, 37, 53, 56, 68, 80, 84–86, 223n12 Local discipleship, 211 Local place/space, 92, 208, 210, 212 Logos, 2n3, 4, 97, 239, 298, 299n22, 300 M Marginalization, 50, 170, 194, 201, 309 Marginalized, 109, 150, 178, 194, 204 Matriarchy, 141 Measles epidemic, 156, 157, 164, 186 Memory, 68, 72, 73, 133, 142, 196–199, 299, 320 Mental health, 154, 157 Messiah, 106, 107, 211, 212, 216 Ministry, 19, 48, 60, 91, 92, 94, 104, 104n1, 105, 107, 113, 141–143, 145, 146, 149, 150, 169, 172, 173n1, 178, 179, 185, 208–214, 208n2, 211n5, 216, 227, 228, 230, 264, 272, 273, 329

Missionaries, 3, 6, 7, 10, 39, 52, 54, 58, 59, 64, 65, 69, 72, 78, 79, 85, 86, 91, 93, 95–97, 99, 103, 107, 109, 132, 139–150, 160, 163–165, 184, 201, 226, 227n22, 227n23, 228n24, 230, 251n1, 313, 323–325, 330 Movement, 21, 23, 49, 53–55, 68, 69, 89, 90n3, 93, 105, 143, 145, 159n5, 203, 227, 236, 241, 264, 267, 284, 286, 306, 306n3, 307, 310, 312, 314–321, 319n7 Multi-method, 195, 197 Multi-strand, 247 Mythology, 292, 293, 293n7 N Nature, vii, 32, 33, 34n1, 36, 37, 39, 55, 56, 60, 64, 69, 73, 83, 91, 97, 99, 107, 110, 120–123, 129, 134, 142, 149, 161–163, 162n9, 173, 186, 187, 190, 195, 197, 198, 202, 203, 215, 237, 239, 252, 254, 256, 257, 260, 261, 265, 278, 280, 286, 289, 291, 293, 295–301, 296n15, 298n21, 299n22 Neighbour, 68 Neo-liberal economic theory, 158 O Obedience, 85, 199, 202, 204 Oceanic, v, 35, 44, 92–94, 92n6, 97, 190, 191, 225, 227, 230 Offering, 36, 44, 82, 146, 147, 169, 170, 173, 173n1, 174, 174n2, 177, 209, 238, 247, 267, 269, 270, 291 Onefication, 3, 17, 235, 238, 239, 247

  ENGLISH INDEX 

One-life, 11, 251–262 Oneness of life, 256, 260, 261 Oral (orality), 3–5, 10, 58, 72, 73, 120, 125, 125n3, 133, 139, 188, 197, 236–238, 241–243, 265, 290, 295, 301 P Pacificness, 20 Patriarchal system, 23, 215, 216 Patriarchy, 60, 141, 150, 157, 163, 245, 314 Pentecostal, 89, 90 Physical, 49n2, 64, 68, 90, 96, 133, 145, 154, 239, 251, 255, 256, 260, 261, 284, 290n2, 295, 301 Plurality, 123, 124, 128, 252 Pneumatology, 10, 89–99 Politics, 201, 255, 292 Prayer, 43–45, 82, 105, 106, 161, 225n15, 273, 274, 316 Preach, 91, 181, 185, 186, 190, 264 Preconceptions, 298, 299, 301 Preparedness, 189, 190 Purity, 18, 19, 108, 145, 281, 284, 286, 330, 333 R Rebirthing, 98 Reciprocate (reciprocity), 107, 112, 252, 254, 255, 257–262, 311 Reconciliation, 5n4, 53, 81, 83–85, 90, 178, 223, 231, 316, 330 Redeemer, 44, 141, 142 Relationality, 23, 32, 33, 35, 36, 38, 42–44, 107, 236, 238, 240, 243, 253 Relationship, 16, 20, 23, 24, 27, 32, 33, 35–38, 42, 43, 51, 60, 71, 74, 80, 85, 90, 96, 99n10, 105, 106, 114, 122, 128, 129, 135,

341

141, 142, 149, 161, 163, 171–175, 189, 194, 195, 199, 209, 224n14, 227, 230, 236, 238, 239, 242, 245, 246, 253, 256–261, 277, 282, 286, 294, 295, 300, 312, 319, 320 Religion, vii, 31, 52–54, 59, 78, 82, 113, 120, 123–125, 127–129, 134, 135, 139, 140, 149, 150, 157, 159–161, 161n8, 193, 194, 277, 278, 282 Remembrance, 196–199 Resilience, 26, 189–191 Resistance, 80, 160, 161n8, 182, 204, 211, 215, 216, 321 Responsibility, 26, 57, 71, 128, 140, 141, 174, 178, 188, 189, 197, 198, 201, 211, 241, 242, 244–246, 259, 278, 299n22, 317, 328 Resurrection, 26, 71, 81, 94, 105, 108, 190, 211n5 Re-traditionalization, 177 S Sacramentality, 31, 32, 38, 44, 45 Sacrifice, 27, 81, 82, 129, 147, 169–171, 174, 176, 211, 213, 271 Scripturalize, 119–135 Scripture, 3, 10, 54, 56, 97, 107, 119–124, 134, 252, 270, 274 Secularization, 90 Seeing, 5, 33, 68, 109, 157, 272, 283, 285, 286, 291, 311 Sex, 4, 11, 157, 261, 323–335 Shalom, 98 Shame, 71, 148, 174, 323–335 Sharing, 18, 19, 25, 26, 45, 57, 77, 82–85, 108, 109, 111, 112, 114, 129, 148, 215, 252, 254, 256–262, 267, 313

342 

ENGLISH INDEX

Shy, 98 Sign, 33, 35–37, 44, 56, 85, 86, 90, 106, 145, 172, 176, 189, 224, 281, 334 Single strand, 247, 274 Sites (of struggle), 123 Social and cultural system, 215, 216 Social cohesion, 84, 172, 174 Social location, 68, 195, 199–200, 203, 285 Sociorhetorical, 195 Space, v, vii, 17, 21, 23, 42, 50, 57, 58, 64, 67, 92, 103, 104, 107, 108, 110, 114, 122, 127, 153, 157, 162, 170, 172–175, 193–195, 199–204, 208, 214, 216, 225, 229, 230n29, 240–242, 247, 251, 259–261, 265, 275, 281, 285–287, 292, 294, 295, 296n15, 298n20, 301, 310, 315, 317, 318 Spirit(s), vi, 6, 23, 25–27, 34, 49, 67–69, 79, 84, 89–99, 106, 132n5, 133, 134, 145, 147, 161, 188, 207n1, 224, 239, 241, 252–255, 261, 300, 311 Spiritually, vii, 280, 291 Spiritual order, 255–257, 260 Step-change, 183 Stewardship, 178, 253 Strangers, 27, 72, 96, 239, 286 Submission, 198, 201, 202 Suffering, 19, 22, 26, 27, 48, 69, 74, 108, 181, 182, 184–189, 191, 279, 285, 309, 318–320 Suicide, 4, 11, 170, 177, 323–335 T Textures, 38, 195, 197, 200 Theodicy, 181–191

Theology, vi, vii, 1–11, 15–28, 31, 32, 43, 47–61, 64, 66–70, 77–87, 89, 92–95, 97, 98, 107, 119, 124, 126, 150, 178, 182, 185, 187, 189–191, 203, 207, 221–231, 235–244, 246, 247, 252, 261, 324–326, 329, 330, 332–335 Traditional knowledge, 64, 124, 196 Traditions, 7, 10, 18, 24, 35, 52, 58, 64, 66, 71–73, 82, 94, 97, 99, 104, 105, 113, 120, 120n1, 121, 123–128, 125n3, 133, 135, 143, 145–147, 153, 163, 173, 177–179, 196n2, 197, 238, 242, 286, 287, 289, 290, 293, 295, 300, 301, 307n4, 321, 326, 330 Transitional, 280, 281, 287 Trans-Tasman migration policy, 155 Trinitarian(ism), 28, 32–35, 37, 43–45, 94, 97, 98, 229, 231, 254 Trinity, 18, 26, 32–35, 37, 43, 66, 91, 95, 96, 113, 228, 252 Turning, 21, 66, 177 V Victorian piety, 146 Village, 9, 78, 83, 104, 114, 125, 129, 130, 139, 142–144, 146, 147, 149, 154–156, 162, 171, 173–175, 177, 209, 210, 212, 222, 225, 237, 246, 256, 257, 267, 270, 272, 282, 295, 296, 307, 310–312, 325, 332 Virtues, 60, 95, 126, 135, 194, 201, 254, 255, 261, 300 Visible, 35, 36, 90, 153, 238, 245, 260, 290n2, 308, 316 Voices, 8, 48, 49, 63, 64, 114, 121–126, 128, 134, 150, 170, 177, 186, 190, 191, 204, 216, 266, 297n19, 324, 329

  ENGLISH INDEX 

W Way of life, 18, 27, 28, 64, 70, 127, 149, 153, 156, 157, 163, 165, 241, 256, 257, 259, 261, 280 Weaving (stories), 4, 7, 71, 84, 123, 160, 221, 228, 305–321 Web of relationship, 35, 37, 43, 245

343

Wellbeing, 23, 25, 26, 154, 236, 239, 243–245, 247, 294, 327 Word of God, 121, 143, 253, 273, 274 Worldview, 20, 22, 24, 25, 50, 53–55, 58, 68, 95, 96, 135, 161–165, 170, 172, 173, 221, 229, 243, 251, 255–260, 291, 294n13, 296, 301, 302

Pasifika Index1

A Agaifanua, 130, 135, 295, 296, 298–302 Aganuu, 130, 135 Aiga, 128, 162, 164, 165, 171, 209, 210, 216 ‘Aitu, 95–96 Alofa, 27, 66, 135, 172, 174, 177, 209 A-niu, 4, 9, 89–99 Atuatanga, 53 Atutasi, 235–247 Âvaa, 225 Àvaìki, 226n19 E Ekalesia, 142, 171 F Fa’aaloalo, 172

1

Fa’afeagaiga (faafeagaiga), 141–143 Fa’ahikehe, 96, 96n9 Fa’aSamoa (faasamoa), 127, 140, 142, 147 Fafine, 70, 73, 74 Fāiā, 193–204 Faife’au (faifeau), 140, 143, 174, 174n3, 177, 208–213, 215, 216 Fakaha ̄ ‘Otua, 31 Fakatupu, 31 Fale, 1, 2, 6, 8, 65, 83, 84, 95, 146, 155, 185, 293n11 Faletua, 142 Fanua, 7, 17, 81, 86, 129, 162, 289–302 Fatele, 10, 63–74, 188 Fatua’iupu, 196, 196n2, 197 Feagaiga (feagai-ga), 140–143, 193–204, 209 Fenua, 7, 81, 82, 223, 296n16 Fiema ̄lie, 98

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PASIFIKA INDEX

H Haka, 10, 47–61

P Popo uli, 208, 212, 214

I Ifoga, 85, 135 Itulagi, 16–17, 20, 22, 24, 238, 247

T Taata, 221, 246 Tafatolu, 65 Tagata, 246, 292–297, 293n7, 300, 301 Tainuiätea, 223, 223n12, 228n26 Tala-Atua, 240 Talanoa, 2–11, 38, 92, 109, 182, 202, 315, 324–327, 326n3, 329–332, 335 Tangata Whenua, 47–61 Tapuafanua, 295, 296, 298, 299, 301, 302 Taulaga, 147, 169–179, 216 Tautua, 171, 172 Te ao Māori, 51, 59 Theomoana, 97 Tikanga, 50, 57 Tofa saili, 135, 199 Tu ̄-akoi, 68, 74 Turo’ kalog, 277–287

K Kauafua, 63–74 Kava, 8, 37, 38, 56, 80–84, 272, 296n15, 315 Kōrerorero, 47, 58 L Lagisoifua, 196, 197, 200, 203 Lauma ̄lie, 97–99, 244 Lotu, 84, 143, 145 Lovo, 80, 103 M Ma ̄hina, 37–42 Mana, 11, 31–45, 59n9, 66, 161, 224, 239, 241, 295, 330 Marae, 55n5, 57, 225 Ma ̄tauranga, 53 Moana, 2, 5–8, 10, 23, 35, 37, 43, 65, 73, 74, 97, 103, 184, 223, 237, 240, 325–326, 335 Moko, 59 Muna, 65, 185 N Nuu, 210, 216 O Otualogy, 89

U ‘Ufi, 37–42 ‘Umu, 10, 80, 81, 103–114, 242 V Va,̄ 17, 172–174, 177 Vaa ama, 222–224, 222n7, 222n8, 226–228, 228n26, 228n27 Vaa rere, 230, 230n29 Vaa tauàti, 222n7, 223, 226–228, 230 Vanua, 7–10, 16, 23, 68, 80, 81, 97, 236, 292n4 Va¯ ta¯pu’ia, 173

Name Index1

A Atua, 53, 225, 244 C Chamorro People, 160 Congregational Christian Church Samoa (CCCS), 170, 172, 174–179, 208–210 F Fa’a Mati, 145, 146 Faiga Me, 145–147, 150 Fauea, 143, 159 Finau, Patelesio, 6, 7, 43 H Havaìi, 226n19

1

J James, 210n4, 231, 289–302 Job, 70, 74, 184 K Kanak, 84, 87 Karie, Ann, 269 Kingdom of God, 105, 178, 179, 190, 211, 212 Kingdom of heaven, 98 L Leisale Magawai, 272 London Missionary Society (LMS), 85, 140, 140n1, 143, 160, 160n7, 163, 201, 226, 227, 227n22, 228n24, 251n1 Lotu Taiti (church from Tahiti), 144

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NAME INDEX

M Mahlon Vatoko, 268 Mäòhi (Ma’ohi), vi, 87, 221n1, 223–224n13, 226, 226n21, 227 Mäòhinui, 221–231 Mäòhi Protestant Church, 221n1, 226–230, 227n22 Māori, 47–60, 48n1, 103, 223n11, 293n10 Maudie Vatoko, 267–269 Moananui, 1n1, 221–231, 221n1, 223n10 Mooreàreà, 222, 228n24

Presbyterian Women’s Missionary Union (PWMU), 265, 267–270, 274 Protestant Christianity, 160

N Noah, 70, 182, 190, 230

T Tahitinui, 222, 223 Tong, Antone, 186, 187 Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Taisi Efi, 120 Tuilovoni, Setareki, vii

O Obed, Serah, 271, 272 P Pacific Conference of Churches (PCC), 78 Pacific Theological College (PTC), 38, 78, 227 Presbyterian Church (of Vanuatu), 263–265, 274

R Roman Catholic, 95, 123, 160, 160n7 S Sailors’ Sect, 159 Samoa Victims Support, 157 Sione ‘Amanaki Havea, v, vi, 18, 22, 31, 43, 92, 207, 241

V Vatican II, 32, 33, 36, 43 Vavae Toma, vii W Williams, John, 140, 143, 144, 159, 161

Place Index1

F Fiji, 5n4, 17, 22, 23, 68, 80, 86, 160n7, 221n2, 227, 231, 241, 293, 314

P Papua, 85, 230, 252, 309 Pulotu, 132, 132n5, 161, 292

G Galilee, 71, 96, 208, 208n2, 210–212, 211n5, 216

R Raìätea, 221n2, 228n24

I Ifira, 272 K Kiribati, 83, 160n7, 186 M Malekula, 267 Mele, 267

1

S Samoa, 9, 17, 19, 27, 38, 80, 81, 84, 85, 96n9, 119–135, 139–150, 155–165, 155n3, 160n6, 160n7, 164n10, 172, 175, 186, 193–195, 193n1, 196n2, 201, 202, 204, 210n3, 240, 243, 246, 292n6, 293, 293n8, 293n10, 293n12, 332 Solomon Is, 5n4, 82, 160n6, 160n7, 235, 271

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PLACE INDEX

T Tanna, 263, 264, 273 Tonga, 21–23, 38, 38n2, 39, 43, 80, 81, 83–85, 89–91, 94, 96n9, 99, 143, 159, 160, 160n7, 221n2, 240, 245, 293 Tongoa, 269

Tuvalu, 64–66, 65n2, 68–73, 160n7, 184–186, 296n16 V Vaitupu, 65n2 Vanuatu, 86, 263–275, 305