The Rupturing of Samoa’s Foundations: On the Importance of a Public Theology

Abstract

The Samoan general election of 2021 provoked an unprecedented constitutional crisis. It represented yet one more symptom in a shaking of the foundations—not just in politics but within the very nature of Samoan society. The nation’s past stability had resided in the cultural virtue of respect, which permeated its key pillars—the church, law and fa’a Samoa (the customary Samoan way of life). There had been several tremors prior to the election. These had involved court cases involving the church where the Congregational Christian Church Samoa was shown to be in the wrong. These tremors and the more substantial shaking brought about by the constitutional crisis pose several awkward questions as regards the way in which the Christian faith and the Samoan cultural way of life–fa’a Samoa—are commonly regarded as more than complimentary. They also call into question the church’s default practice of silence in the face of public issues. Is it now time to nurture and encourage the public role of the faifeau (minister) for the sake of the common good in a time of significant change? In the absence of a prophetic theology, the tremors and shaking of the foundations signify the necessity of taking some further steps in the development of a local public theology.

1. Introduction

1.1. Questions

The 2021 election provoked a constitutional crisis. It ended sixty years of political stability in Samoa that had created the impression that this set of islands was an icon of democracy within the region. The politics of independent Samoa were much more settled than its neighbours: Fiji now had a history of military coups (James 1994, pp. 242–63; Fraenkel et al. 2011); Tonga had experienced a volatile set of democracy riots directed against the king’s authority; the Solomon Islands had been ravaged by civil unrest and ethnic rivalry between the Isatabu Freedom Movement and the Malaita Eagle Force (Jeffery 2018). Writing in The Conversation, Patricia O’Brien (2021) insisted that democracy in Samoa was now hanging in the balance. In The Interpreter, Kerryn Baker and Asenati Chan Tung described the result of the election as ‘nothing short of a political earthquake’ (Baker and Chan Tung 2021). For a nation not accustomed to featuring in the global media ‘the world was watching’. For their part, the crisis left citizens unsettled for an extended period as they waited for its resolution.

This unprecedented crisis arose out of disputed election results: it created significant uncertainty with regards to how the Constitution should be interpreted and the matter resolved. It naturally raised questions as to its significance with regards to the well-being of the country. Should it be seen as a ‘bump in the road’ as suggested by Iati Iati (2021) in an opinion piece in the English-language The Samoan Observer? Was it a good test for democracy carrying a suggestion that some reform of electoral processes be required—hence potentially a good thing? Or did it represent something much deeper and seldom explored? Was the crisis a symptom of a fundamental shift that was unfolding in the ways in which the pillars of Samoan society relate to one another? Had the established order been ruptured? For Anna Powles writing in the East Asia Forum, it signified that there were ‘cracks’ in the ‘complex web of traditional practices and relationships [that are] interwoven modern politics with traditional structures like the Tama-a-Aiga—the four chiefly titles of Samoa’ (Powles 2021).

Those references to a political earthquake and a bump in the road readily lend themselves to the metaphor of the shaking of the foundations. It is a most apt term for considering what this electoral crisis signifies for the nation and its implications for the church and its theological vocation. The way into this discussion depends upon a distinctive feature of Pasifika theology. The current practice is to emphasize the principle of orality. In a manner that differs from a Western theology is the role assigned to proverbial expressions and the etymology of words. The indigenous language of Samoa is Gagana. The idea of a shaking of the foundations is expressed as ua malepe faavae. The key word here is faavae. It is the word for foundation. In seeking to map the political and social construction of the nation, the foundation is constituted by the inter-relationship of fa’a Samoa (the Samoan cultural way of life), the Christian faith, the legal system and the Constitution. These four constitute the pillars that support the foundation. That they should fulfil such a function is, of course, indicative of how Samoa has been affected by colonialism and globalization. The traditional, customary values of fa’a Samoa now find themselves expressed in a context that is a legacy of nineteenth-century Western missionaries, democratic principles and global discourses to do with human rights.

One further point of tension is the impact of diasporic experience on indigenous culture. Writing in The New Catholicity, Robert Schreiter distinguished between integrated and globalized concepts of culture (Schreiter 2004, pp. 47–60). In a survey of attitudes taken just before the 2021 election being born in and having lived most of one’s life in Samoa was deemed to be a marker of being a ‘true Samoan’. The study showed how features of an integrated concept of culture—of where one was born, the capacity to speak the language, to respect traditions and customs, to ‘feel’ Samoan—ranked very highly. It concluded that ‘most Samoans tend to engage with their democracy and government through local and traditional pathways, rather than national institutions’ (Leach et al. 2022, pp. 408–29). The experience of living and studying overseas lends itself to a more globalized understanding of identity: it can represent a reinvention through exposure to fresh skills and insights and a plurality of influences. In the past (as well as the present), the Samoan diaspora has been noted for the extent of sending remittances back to the homeland to assist family members. With the passage of time, its political impact is becoming more visible—sometimes through legal presentation, financial assistance, organizational networks, lobbying and online opinion.

Steven Vertovec has observed how diasporas in general around the world are playing a more overt transnational political role (Vertovec 2005). There is insufficient research on the Samoan experience. The constitutional theorist Tamasailau Suaalii is adamant that the temptation to blame Samoans living abroad for distorting island politics is a ‘red herring’ (Mayron 2021). Some care is needed, though. Charles Uesile Tupu gives an account of the Samoan Solidarity International Group that has received a Western education and is adept at Twitter (as it was) and Facebook: its vision is to create a network of Samoan communities throughout the world all working toward a cohesive global entity that will educate Samoans to achieve a better understanding of their identity through a program of re-introduction of Samoan culture and traditions, as well as provide them with opportunities to gain higher education coupled with social awareness of their position in a world (Tupu 2021). This network has branches in Australia, New Zealand, the United States and Samoa. It organized a protest march (which, at the time, was unusual) in response to government policies of customary land tenure.

That the electoral results should have provoked a constitutional crisis invites some scrutiny of the cultural metaphor of fa’avae and its etymology. How should the word be interpreted and is it susceptible to other possible renderings? The conventional understanding is to break the word up into two parts: fa’a means ‘to give’ and vae refers to ‘feet’. It is not hard to see how conceived in this way, fa’avae conveys the sense of being able to stand on one’s own feet, to be independent and furnish a sense of stability and permanence. Such a reading would imagine that those four pillars were largely in harmony with one another and guaranteed social and political security. It is by this account a compound word that carries expectations of being still, static and firm—except it is not the habit of this principle of orality to provide a single, tidy definition. In Gagana, there is a less frequently used breakdown of the word. In this instance a hyphen is inserted and fa’avae becomes fa’a-vae. Instead of being immutable and fixed, in its hyphenated form, the word now signifies flexibility, mobility, movement and change. Instead of the metaphor of a foundation being used in a more conservative mode to support the received status quo, now it implies a radical initiative to provide a foundation that is capable of carrying the gaps and fractures that have come about through the tremors and shakings.

1.2. Staging the Crisis

This turn to the fa’avae presumes an informed reading of the Samoan context. That is not simply because of some postcolonial critique of theologies that are often presented as if they are normative. In the wider Pasifika region, a raft of biblical scholars and theologians like Jione Havea (Havea 2021), Nasili Vaka’uta (Vaka’uta 2011) and Upolu Vaai (Vaai and Casimira 2024) have been at the forefront of alter-native methodologies and the decolonizing of a theology that is essentially the legacy of the nineteenth-century mission. Such work might well exercise a hermeneutic of suspicion towards a public theology that draws upon insights from beyond the region. It is a potential criticism that should be addressed.

Writing in the very first edition of the International Journal of Public Theology, Will Storrar declared that public theology had now entered a kairos moment and was no longer simply a Western theology. It had now become glocal (Storrar 2007, pp. 5–25). What this definition signified is that its basic disposition and values circulated around the globe but were responsive to and expressed in local form. The discipline of a public theology possesses its own vernacular hermeneutics—a term first deployed by R.S. Sugirtharajah (Sugirtharajah 1999). The pioneer of a public theology in Oceania, Mercy Ah Siu-Maliko, is adamant that public theology ‘as it emerged in the West cannot be adapted wholesale in the Samoan context’ (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, p. 178).

It is indeed a mistake to read the constitutional crisis in Samoa through the experience of liberal Western democracies. There is a particularity to what unfolded in Samoa that necessarily presumes a due awareness of the distinctive way in which the Christian faith relates to the political and social order. How these are held together determines the structure, the foundations of life in Samoa and bear eloquent witness to those moments when fractures and cracks begin to appear. There are two basic considerations from which other things flow.

The first of these is the intimate connection between gospel and culture. The Samoan way of life is known as fa’a Samoa. This term is subject to the complexity of definitions but may nevertheless be described as an ‘umbrella term for a worldview’, ‘the essence of Samoan existence’ and ‘the ideals of Samoan culture’. It is manifested through custom, hence usage (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, pp. 61–94). In her pioneering work on a public theology in Oceania, Mercy Ah Siu-Maliko observes that there is close interweaving of the Christian faith and fa’a Samoa (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, pp. 61–63). The two are perceived to be virtually synonymous. Ah Siu-Maliko describes the relationship as one of ‘fusion’ and a ’formal marriage’ (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, p. 86). Whereas subsequent ventures in a public theology were prepared to recognize a more substantial dissonance, Ah Siu-Maliko’s work only concedes that this ‘cosy relationship sometimes leads to collusion’ (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, p. 184), albeit one that should be subject to scrutiny and reformation.

The tenor of Ah Siu-Maliko’s public theology is to ground the discipline in a selection of core cultural values (aga tausili)—like fa’aaloalo (respect), alofa (love), tautua (selfless service), amiotonu (justice) and soalaupule (consensual dialogue)—which were deemed to be consistent with the gospel (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, pp. 111–32). The identifying of these core values and assigning them priority is to be found also in the work of Tui Atua, Elsie Huffer and Asofou So’o and the biblical theologian Frank Smith in his study of the gospel of John (Efi 2009; Huffer and So’o 2001, pp. 281–304). Ah Siu-Maliko is mindful of how there has been a ‘blending’ and an ‘intertwining’ of Christian and these core values (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, pp. 122–32). She notes how these values have made their way into the government sector’s code of ethics, and how it is incumbent upon employees to uphold them according to the Public Service Act (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, pp. 132–33). Ah Siu-Maliko is the first to weave them into a public theology. She argues that ‘an authentic Samoan public theology must be committed to these values around issues of concern in Samoa’s spheres of family, village, church, and society’ (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, p. 178). In her methodology, her research was conducted through intentional talanoa, that is, the cultural practice of communal storytelling. In the service of her field research, this indigenous methodology becomes a way of ‘listening to the Public’ (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, p. 178).

There is an irony in Ah Siu-Maliko’s position, nevertheless. Her work was exceptional in several senses. The received tradition, the existing pillars of Samoan society, has not encouraged women doing theology. The seemingly private issue of domestic violence, which she was addressing, lay hidden and was not perceived to be a public issue of concern. Her turn to the theological method of talanoa was consistent with the decolonizing practices of Havea, Vaka’uta and Vaai but is one which, in her case, was carried out without the patronage and protection of the theological academy and the established churches. Ah Siu-Maliko was thus breaking with tradition to explore fracture lines that align across gender: her emphasis on talanoa was designed to attend to the experience and opinion on what is a public theology as well as how domestic violence is to be interpreted. Ah Siu-Maliko’s assumption of the close interweaving of gospel and culture is confirmed in and through the second consideration. The Constitution is established on a foundational confession of the Christian faith. At the time of her research, the relevant clauses read:

In the Holy Name of God, the Almighty, the Ever Living, Whereas sovereignty over the Universe belongs to the Omnipresent God alone, and the authority is exercised by the people of Samoa within the limits prescribed by His commandments is a sacred heritage; Whereas the Leaders of Samoa have declared that Samoa should be an Independent State based on Christian principles and Samoan custom and tradition.

(Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, p. 185)

Between this period in time and the electoral crisis, the Constitution was revised: for the first time, Article 1 refers to the free and sovereign state of Samoa being a ‘Christian nation founded on God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit’. The Christian definition of God has become more precise and potentially signifies more of a theological claim than hitherto (Wyeth 2017). It is in view of the revision that Fepa’i Kolia’s comments on the nature of this relationship become more germane to the current discussion. They show why the constitutional crisis of 2021 becomes a theological problem as well.

Since independence in 1962, the church and state have worked side by side to develop the Samoan people. Government leaders are often church leaders as well, which therefore reinforces the mutual beneficial relationship between these two important sectors of society. Hence, democracy, culture and Christian values have integrated well in a manner that is acceptable to the local community (Kolia 2006, p. 147).

The shift to this Trinitarian understanding in the Constitution raises a number of questions to do with purpose and implications (especially in the light of the subsequent crisis). References to God are common in island constitutions throughout the Pacific; the triune definition is not.

The most obvious risk lay in how to reconcile this tighter declaration of Samoa being a Christian nation with the acknowledged right to freedom of religion. Bal Kama (2017) explored the ambiguity here first by citing the accompanying explanatory memorandum openly declaring ‘the dominance of Christianity in Samoa’. The placing of the reference to the Trinity in the actual Constitution rather than its Preamble meant that it ceased to be symbolic and became enforceable in a court of law. It opened up the potential for parliament ‘to impose restrictions on certain religions or religious practices that are not Christian’. The Council of Christian Churches appeared to support the amendment on the grounds that it might restrict Islam and secularism in the country (Kama 2017). In this respect, its inclusion could be seen as a defensive response to the slight but perceptible changes that were beginning to be seen in the religious foundation of the nation.

What might be the consequences of the explicit reference to the Trinity for Ah Siu-Maliko’s interweaving of the Christian faith and fa’a Samoa was likewise unclear. In a letter to the editor published in the Samoan Observer on the 10 February 2017, Fatilua Fatilua argued that this inclusion imported into the Constitution internal theological divisions on how to understand the doctrine: ‘we are risking alienating some of the faith groups within the Christian community in Samoa’. Might it possibly lead to situations where what was deemed to be an acceptable interpretation would be determined by legislation or government regulation? Might this definition open up potential lines of fracture?

The other side to this coin was that the naming of the Trinity in the Constitution might put in place a set of respect and reverence for the other in a time of crisis. Well before the constitutional crisis broke, Upolu Vaai’s had sought to re-interpret the Trinity from a Samoan perspective (Vaai 2006). Through the deployment of a hermeneutical lens based on the cultural value of faaaloalao, Vaai sought to overcome the ‘virtue denial of the doctrine in contemporary Samoan spiritual and ecclesial life.’ This symbol was understood as one that ‘defines the relationship between persons, between a person and creation, and between a person and God’ (Vaai 2006, p. 58). It is as such a ‘cosmic principle’. It is one which presumes respect, honour and reciprocity. Vaai was not seeking to amend the Constitution ahead of time but did argue that the Trinity conceived in this vernacular manner should inform daily Christian living.

This more positive rendering would have presumed a significant theological shift in the outlook of all the churches. The problem here was two-fold. The first recognized that the Trinity did not stand in isolation from other theological beliefs. The difficulty in this regard lies in the kind of Christology most commonly professed. It is inclined to be heavenly, otherworldly, with an emphasis on sacrifice and not especially concerned with how the public ministry of Jesus, let alone the dangerous memory of Easter, might address everyday living.

The diasporic theologian, Risatisone Ete, studied the hymnody of the Christian Congregational Church of Samoa. He did so mindful of the importance of hymn singing in a culture which is built upon a principle of orality—the spoken rather than the written word. He detected nine sections in the hymn book dedicated to Christ, but none had to do with his earthly life as recorded in the synoptic gospels: he is ‘enthroned on our praises and is mute to our sufferings’; ‘No mention is made of the controversial Jew from Nazareth who proclaimed God’s Kingdom of justice, who blessed the poor, healed the sick, and had table fellowship with outcasts.’ This Jesus is most commonly presented as a matai, the highest rung of the Samoan hierarchical order. Ete boldly claims that this cultural referencing renders Christ impotent to challenge or defy any oppressive precepts through additions that uphold his status and bestow him power. In effect, it allows Jesus to be shaped by the ideologies or fa’a Samoa rather than the required opposite, letting the fa’a Samoa somehow be informed by the liberating gospel of Jesus Christ (Ete 2009, pp. 60–61).

What emerges in this deep dive in the relationship of gospel to culture is a one-sided Christology. It is a potentially passive option that is reinforced by the representation of God as triune in the Constitution. In his public theology to do with customary land titles, Charles Uesile Tupu drew upon the work of Sarah Coakley in order to make the case for a Christo praxis (Tupu 2021, pp. 151–54). What Tupu was seeking to break through was an observation shared with Ah Siu-Maliko and Ete. All three contend that despite the reference to (the triune) God in the Constitution, the church and its faifeau (ministers) were accustomed to silence. Tupu urged for the ‘breaking of the silence’ (talepe le filemu) (Tupu 2021, pp. 67–69). Ete concluded that Christ was elevated to a realm of abstracted privilege, mobilising him to a saving work in the spiritual realm and pushing his concerns outside the socio-political arena (Ete 2009, p. 61). The possibility that the church through its existing practices of theology is able to address the shaking of the foundations that the crisis of 2021 reflected is limited. It lacks the necessary tension. Observing from the outside, Matt Tomlinson noted in his God is Samoan that the churches in Samoa lack a prophetic theology (Tomlinson 2020, p. 66).

1.3. Tremors

The shaking of the foundations is an image taken from Isaiah 24:18-20 that was deployed by Paul Tillich in the aftermath of war. It seemed an apt prophetic word for a generation that ‘had forgotten about such shaking’. It was a grim message that reflected a coming to terms of what had transpired in the wake of forces that had spoken of happiness for everyone and the idolatry of progress. It is a suggestive image, though one which in the way Tillich preached upon is rather removed from the shaking of the foundations in contemporary Samoa. It is, most likely, a prophetic text that has not been preached in these islands, despite the gathering shocks that seem to be accumulating and affecting the well-being of fa’a Samoa.

Those shocks take a variety of forms. Some are intimately connected into how Samoa finds itself inside world affairs and is no longer immune from its pressures. This wider background had, of course, seen potential points of tension emerging in the established alliance between fa’a Samoa and a political economy increasingly vulnerable to the forces of globalization. That is nowhere more evident than in the way in which the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (to which Samoa is a signatory) breaches the concepts of faaaloalo/respect and va/sacred space at all levels. The higher cost of living that comes about by way of the global capitalist economy—often mediated through the policy of overseas banks—like the Asia Development Bank (Tupu 2021, pp. 41–50; Jayaraman and Ward 2002, pp. 99–113) at the expense of the former subsistence economy has adversely affected the well-being of the aiga, or extended family system. Neither Ama’amalele Tofaeono’s use of the metaphor of the aiga for an indigenous reading of the household of creation, nor Upolu Vaai’s call for the decolonization of Pasifika selves and history can actually mute this impact (Tofaeono 2020). There are other shocks into which this metaphor of the shaking of the foundations can be placed which are more internal to life in Samoa. They are local, and they bring forth fractures in the pillars that have upheld the nation.

The metaphor readily conjures up an image of earthquakes. They are never a singular event. They can come with tremors (luluina) and after-shocks. The country suffered much damage from the 2009 earthquake (mafuee) and its associated tsunami. Many were left homeless. It is thus a metaphor that possesses currency, and the capacity for adhesion and understanding. Sometimes the tremors come before the ‘big one’; sometimes it comes without apparent warning.

The shaking of the foundations that was reflected in the constitutional crisis was preceded by a number of tremors that affected the church in particular. The first of these seemingly came out of nowhere and was unforeseen. Its implications have seldom been reflected, which in and of itself can reflect the way in which tremors can sometimes attract only the most cursory of interest. In this instance, the church was taken to court by one if its own ministers (faifeau). That this was the case broke with cultural convention as well as the inherent biblical reserve about taking a fellow Christian to court. What further compounded the issue in this first court case was the way in which it showed that the church in Samoa was no longer immune to events that happened outside national borders.

The dispute itself surfaced in Queensland, in Australia. The head minister, the Revd Elder Kerita Reupena had instructed each parish in the diocese to contribute funds for the purchase of land to build a multi-purpose centre. The dispute escalated when Reupena threatened to strip one of the other Elders Minister Matafa of his status as a church minister for refusing to adhere to these directives. As a result, Reupena took his case to the Elders Committee in Samoa. After several attempts at reconciliation following normal procedure and biblical warrant the Committee decided to dismiss Reupena. The matter escalated with Reupena taking his case to the Supreme Court. It found in his favour, determining that Reupena had been denied a fair hearing by the Committee and thus the principle of natural justice had been denied (Amosa 2020, pp. 39–52).

The second case is of a very different nature. The nature of fa’a Samoa is its establishment on a culture of honour and shame (Macpherson 2005, pp. 109–33). In this instance, the Revd. Dr. Afereti Uili found himself relieved of his status as a minister after allegations had surfaced involving an unnamed woman. What was especially significant was Uili’s status. He was a former Principal of Malua Theological College and had been Secretary of the Congregational Church. Given his high profile this case attracted even greater attention. Uili took the unidentified woman to court and was exonerated (Likou 2017). It was evident that the church had made its decision based upon the allegations without investigating sufficiently the claims. Once again, a minister of the church (faifeau) had been denied natural justice and procedural fairness. Uili’s reputation had been damaged, and the General Assembly was duly obliged to pay compensation.

Now it would be relatively easy to underplay the significance of these two court cases. The practice of the church as an institution can proceed on with its usual mode of conduct, as if little or nothing has happened. Such instances might well be seen in other national contexts as momentary embarrassments that happen from time to time. But such a reading would be a mistake in this particular setting, given the role of the church in Samoan society and the sheer novelty of what had just transpired. These court cases might well only be tremors and seemingly involve only individuals and not warrant a concern for the public relevance of faith. The difficulty of this position is that it ignores the way in which the court cases established a precedent—the church was taken to court, twice, and lost, twice, and was held accountable to principles that were derived not from its own cultural and biblical understandings but by principles of law.

In the light of what are momentous shifts in the tectonic plates upon which the pillar of the Samoan nation sits, the court cases that the Congregational Christian Church lost seem relatively minor. They nevertheless expose its vulnerability in the emerging new order and disclose the imperative for a realignment of its capacity for voice and its self-understanding of how it is now situated. Both Uili and Reupena were not prepared to accept traditional practice. The first case shook the foundations (fa’avae) in several ways. It brought the customary understanding of church practice into collision with contemporary legal practice. It exposed how the church could not rely on its past status and privileged position. The protocols of fa’a Samoa were breached.

The internal wisdom of the church on these matters governed by Matthew 5:25 was also left to one side. Here, Jesus refers to the importance of settling matters before the adversary takes one to court. The underlying assumption is that the Christian community is committed to forgiveness and reconciliation and should be able to handle these matters out of court. This shift in thinking and practice was reflected upon by Fatilua Fatilua in an exegetical essay on 2 Corinthians 6:1-11. Fatilua was not concerned with what the court case might be saying about the foundations of Samoan society: what his work signified was that there was now a discussion on whether it was right to take the church to court and that sometimes it was necessary to do so for the sake of the church itself. In other words, the rule of law might help the church to be true to its calling (Fatilua 2016, p. 5). In Uili’s case, the court had decided against the church in a matter—that of personal morality—which it had assumed to be its area of preserve. It is now subject to challenge in the public domain. The church had stood firm on issues of morality and lost.

In both instances, there emerged a new phase of public opinion where contrary views could be firmly held. In the domain of social media and letters to the editor, there was not necessarily the customary practice of tautua, humility and civility. In terms of a Western understanding of the public sphere, the fourth and fifth estates were beginning to challenge the established interweaving of gospel and culture. The reputation of the CCCS was now being bandied about in public in a way that would never have been the case in the past. In the past, fa’a Samoa was able to plug holes and cracks whenever they started to surface; these court cases suggest that is no longer the situation. The stability of the past was being broken down because what might be considered to be the public domain was being transformed.

This emergence of a digital public opinion might at first glance seem like a corollary of the importance of free speech and a free media that a democracy takes for granted. In the context of fa’a Samoa, though, it presented a challenge to the cultural virtues of respect and humility. It was now possible to break through the structures of silence and post, in some instances, outrageous comments and do so anonymously. Its practice masked a further development. The rhetoric of the public square, public opinion, the common good and the construction of a civil society were not known to fa’a Samoa.

In a way that is not necessary in a Western public theology, in Samoa, there is pioneering work to be conducted in order simply to identify what the public realm is. In her work on domestic violence, Ah Siu-Maliko had seen no need to imagine anything other than current cultural institutions. For a consulting of opinion, she made use of the talanoa process. In his focus on the village and customary land issues, Tupu did see that for a faifeau to perform a public ministry outside of a narrowly defined church life, something else was required. He suggested the malae—by analogy, a village square— as a metaphor for the public space. The preferred option in this instance of the constitutional crisis and the shaking of the foundation is the one Amosa 2020 takes on the vaipanoa.

This term describes an open and unrestricted place where all can access—unlike the malae which is more restricted and contained. The usual meaning of vaipanoa is an open space, area, gap and side. Va means space, area and gap. The letter i means in, and panoa refers to an endless openness—so va-i-panoa is unlimited open space without boundaries. Concerning the discipline of public theology and what Sebastian Kim describes as theology in the public spaces, vaipanoa is inclusive, accessible and encompasses all margins of society.

Now, it is here that the practice of a Pasifika theology demonstrates the principle of orality. It pays attention to the spoken word and how words are etymologically made. The word can be read as va-i-pa-noa. The emphasis now falls on pa, meaning barriers or enclosed, and noa, meaning openness. This nuanced understanding of vaipanoa attracts the idea of a ‘gap’ emerging or present in a restricted and enclosed area or space. Gaps and cracks are symbols that something has penetrated a once solid and rigid structure, and it could well be a sign of the times in the Samoan context. The court cases highlighted emerging gaps and cracks appearing in perceived restricted and enclosed spaces in between and among the church, law, government and fa’a Samoa. That is not the end of the matter. Vaipanoa can also be interpreted as vai-pa-noa. In this case, vai is water symbolizing life and re-newness, pa is water bursting, and it also means barrier; noa is an open, exposed space or area and also means ‘without concealment.’ Thus, vai-pa-noa is ‘bursting-through barriers’ or a ‘breaking open of barriers,’ giving a sense of unlimited renewal and is life-giving. In terms of public theology, this rendering of vaipanoa relates to the unlimited ability for citizens of Samoa to enter any debate or conversation that was traditionally held back for a select number in society.

2. The Constitutional Crisis

In the past, there had always been a smooth transition from one parliamentary term to the next. That was in and of itself a reflection of the relational and communal nature of Samoan society, where the maintaining of peace is regarded as being of paramount importance. It was also a reflection of how this line of political stability was a consequence of the dominance of one political party—the Human Rights Protection Party (H.R.P.P.). This party was formed in 1979. It was set up by Va’ai Kolone and Tofilau Eti Alesana in order to provide a viable alternative to the government led by Tupuola Efi. The H.R.P.P. formed the government in 1982 and would be in power, almost continuously, for the next forty years. At the time of the election, its leader, the incumbent Dr. Tuilaepa Sailele Malielegaoi, had been in office for more than twenty-two years: he was the world’s second longest-serving prime minister (Ely 2021; Iati 2013, pp. 443–63).

The possibility of a more strongly contested election in 2021 was also due to the emergence of a number of contested issues as well as the formation and presence of several rival political parties. The principal opposition party would turn out to be the recently established FAST (Faatuatua I le Atua Ua Tasi Samoa) led by Fiamē Naomi Mata’afa. It was itself a product of internal ruptures within the HRPP: Mata’afa had been a member of the H.R.P.P. since 1985 and had become Deputy Prime Minister in 2016. In terms of the shaking of the broader cultural foundations the causes of this internal rift are illustrative. They flowed from differences in policy with regards to a series of new laws, in the first instance designed to strengthen the Land and Titles Court. This body had oversight over customary land issues and chiefly titles. Tuilaepa’s government had also set in motion a highly unpopular plan to tax church ministers and limit the number of chiefs per family.

Writing on the election campaign, Kerryn Baker and Asenati Chan-Tung identified with past practice. Hitherto Tuilaepa had been able to initiate some significant changes—like changing the side of the road on which to drive, ‘jumping across the international date line’ (to be on the same day as Australia and Aotearoa New Zealand) and the introduction of a parliamentary gender quota. Mata’afa would, in due course, become the country’s first female Prime Minister.

In the past, the political life of the country had been determined by personal association and cultural respect. There had been individual upsets in the polling but no critical crises of governance. The HRPP had previously run multiple candidates in some electorates so that it was possible to remove an underperforming candidate. This time, the FAST party decided to run a party-based campaign. They argued that the changes to the status of the Land and Titles Court had weakened the Supreme Court’s capacity to exercise checks and balances; they were also able to represent those who would feel aggrieved at the government’s attempt to limit the numbers of chiefs per family, hence intervening into the established practice of fa’a Samoa. On the matter of taxing ministers La’aulialemalietoa Leuatea Polataivao Fosi Schmidt (Retzlaff 2020) (once a senior member of the H.R.P.P. and a former Speaker of the House) used the Congregational Christian Samoa’s media outlets to run a weekly program about what FAST would do when they get into power. The tax would be removed.

Baker and Chan-Tung described how the FAST party carried out a campaign with ‘roadshows and outreach programs in all constituencies broadcasted life on social media’. In a manner at odds with received practice, it was a campaign that was able to engage with the Samoan diaspora (who could not vote), which was able to make its voice heard on social media and through financial donations. The FAST party had adapted to a changing political and public context.

The crisis was a consequence of the election returning a hung Parliament for the first time ever. Both the H.R.P.P. and FAST had secured twenty-five seats each. The situation became more complicated when the electoral commission enacted Samoa’s 10% quota on the number of women in parliament. This was a response to the convention to give women and girls equal rights to access services and opportunities and not be discriminated against based on gender. The electoral commission enacted this quota and as a result complicated the already difficult constitutional crisis Samoa was in. It was initially far from clear as to how this unprecedented situation would be resolved. The lawyer and political commentator, Fiona Ey, declared that ‘we have no clear answer about what we do in this case’ (Ely 2021). The country was in a state of limbo, and it appeared as if the Constitution itself offered no guidance (Ely 2021).

What transpired were multiple legal cases which eventually found in Mata’afa’s favour. The difficulty lay in Tuilaepa’s reluctance to concede defeat. This refusal was of a different order from that of Donald Trump in the United States. There was no accusation of electoral fraud: there was no pressure upon returning officers to upend the count. There was no march of supporters on the parliamentary buildings.

The disruptive and prolonged nature of the crisis caused great emotional havoc among Samoans and Samoans in diaspora. It seemed as if the elections had resulted in an entrenched political paralysis. The unfolding of events was reported in the news media and commented upon on social media. The Head of States needed to be relocated to his home in Falelatai from his official residence in Apia. There had been threats to his life posed on social media (Vai 2020). In his opinion, ‘only God could provide a solution to the impasse’ (Powles 2021).

Now, it is evident that the Christian faith was implicated in the election. The faifeau tax was part of the FAST manifesto. Schmidt made use of the Congregational Church’s media outlets. These things were part of the election campaign, not the aftermath of the constitutional crisis. In this midst of the deepening uncertainty, the churches were silent—with one exception, the Roman Catholic Archbishop Alapati Lui Mataeliga.

In a surprising initiative, Mataelinga openly criticized Tuilaepa from the pulpit (on the eve of Independence Day). In a ‘fiery sermon’, the archbishop used the word ‘dictatorship’ on several occasions; the political leaders were reminded that they were public servants and that the Constitution and the rule of law lay at heart of democracy. The tone and content of this sermon was unprecedented in the history of Samoa. It was delivered with Tuilaepa (himself a Catholic) sitting in the front of the congregation. Mataeliga warned that ‘power stinks’ and that the crisis ‘will not end well’. Out of concern for the Samoan people, he informed the congregation that the Catholic church was prepared to act out of love for Samoa: ‘we will march in the country and will carry the cross and the word of God with prayers and hymns.’

Mataeliga acted upon the intent of his sermon, sponsoring a protest march in the capital, Apia. When the police were asked to intervene, he took the Bible from someone else, ‘held it high and continued to walk towards the Government building and no one dared stepped in to stop him as the march continued on.’ The march eventually led into the cultural practice of an ifoga, a public ritual of apology and the seeking of forgiveness. On the occasion of his funeral in 2023, Mata’afa, now Prime Minister, argued that Mataeliga’s actions from the pulpit and on the march were a litmus test of the steadfastness of our faith. In the midst of these trials and tribulations, Mataeliga’s leadership and stalwart counsel inflamed the hope that God was in control and would not leave nor forsake Samoa. He was forthcoming and straight talking in his reminders to the leaders and the citizenry of the essence of our quest for independence, solidarity and the struggles our forefathers endured to earn our sovereignty.

Mataeliga’s stand was an extraordinary act of a prophetic and public witness. It made no reference to the Trinitarian formula now set in Article 1 of the Constitution. It was not an exercise in decolonization inasmuch as it presumed the independence of Samoa as a sovereign state. It was not even a deliberate experiment in a formal, disciplined public theology. Mataeliga’s actions reflect the fracturing of the political-social compact. They are a sign of the times insofar as they bear witness to a rupture—the shaking of the foundations. They are out of the ordinary but at the same time, they depend upon the claims of the Christian faith and its professed role in the Constitution and the high esteem in which faith is held in the culture of fa’a Samoa. It is indeed a response that takes place initially within the familiar context of worship. When it moves beyond its liturgical setting of the mass, it relies on the conventional symbols of the cross and the Bible. It is almost sacramental. What is of particular interest is the perceived need Mataeliga felt to break silence and hold out the prospect of an alternative line of relationship between gospel and culture. Mataeliga’s witness is an isolated theological and ecclesial response to the crisis but is suggestive of something more active, prophetic on behalf of a common good. The necessity for such has once again been demonstrated due to renewed political turmoil. In January 2025, the Minister of Agriculture and Fisheries was dismissed pending criminal charges. Within days, he was followed by three more cabinet ministers and thirteen associate ministers.

3. The Importance of an Indigenous Public Theology

The shaking of the foundations should be seen as a kairos moment for a theology in Samoa. How the practice of the discipline has unfolded in this particular setting bears witness to the concern expressed by David Ford in his discussion of the ‘ecology of theology’. Following David Tracy and others, Ford was clear that theology has a responsibility to three audiences—the church, the academy and the public. The one of those three most likely to go missing is the public (Ford 2000, p. 9). The public silence of the churches (with the exception of Mataeliga) in the tremors and shakings leading into the constitutional crisis is ample proof of that.

Ah-Siu Maliko argues that initiatives need to be taken in the theological colleges and in the processes of ministry formation. That necessity will need to overcome the inherent conservatism of the respective denominations. She notes that these institutions currently ‘have strict rules and regulations that guide the behaviour of their students. The teaching staff (mostly clergy) are governed by the policies of their churches’ (Ah Siu-Maliko 2021, pp. 161–67). Tupu was more precise and described the anatomy of this silence in terms of hierarchy, status, age and respect (Tupu 2021, pp. 81–89). This descriptive work led to a call to ‘overcome the silence’—taofia le fa’afitauli (Tupu 2021, pp. 93–97).

In order to fulfil this public vocation, the church in Samoa would benefit from participating more proactively in the glocalized nature of the discipline. The principle of contextuality is respected and is evident in the first three Samoan forays into this field. The reserve that is now felt in some circles in Oceania—‘the liquid continent’—with regards to theologies from further afield that is a feature of decolonising Indigenous theologies is understandable and, in certain important respects, necessary. There is another side to this coin, though. The temptation to look upon theologies from beyond as a form of imperialism does not take into account how liberating public theologies have arisen around the globe. They respond to domestic issues, define and interpret the public sphere in a way that is true to their context and likewise wrestle with the legacy of Western theology that was once regarded as normative. If this line of response is fair, then insights from other contexts—including the West—arguably have a continuing role to play, albeit if handled with care. Tupu made extensive use of public theologies from Africa, Asia and Latin America, as well as the West, in constructing a Samoan public theology of contentious issues surrounding customary lands.

The principles of good praxis for a public theology proposed by John de Gruchy are helpful here in meeting the potential critique. Writing in the very first edition of the International Journal of Public Theology, de Gruchy argued that there is not one but many public theologies. He suggested a set of principles, thereby implying a guide or framework for its diverse representations. In these circumstances, the contextual task is to engage critically through an indigenous lens with this template or one that is similarly comprehensive. De Gruchy nominated the following: a public theology

• Does not seek to give preference to Christianity but to witness to values that Christians believe are important for the common good.
• Requires the development of a language that is accessible to people outside the Christian tradition and is convincing in its own right; but it also needs to address Christian congregations in a language whereby public debates are related to the traditions of faith.
• Requires an informed knowledge of public policy and issues, grasping the implications of what is at stake, and subjecting this to sharp analytical evaluation and theological critique.
• Requires conducting theology in a way that is interdisciplinary in character and uses a methodology in which content and process are intertwined.
• Gives priority to the perspectives of victims and survivors and to the restoration of justice; its sides with the powerless against the powerful and seeks to speak truth to power, drawing its inspiration from the prophetic trajectory in the Bible.
• Requires congregations that are consciously nurtured and informed by biblical and theological reflection and a rich life of worship in relation to the context within which they are situated, both locally and more widely.
• Requires a spirituality that enables a lived experience of God, with people and with creation, fed by a longing for justice and wholeness and a resistance to all that thwarts well-being (de Gruchy 2007, pp. 38–41).

How to position the case for being a public faifeau can take an interesting turn. Nigel Biggar is an ambiguous figure in this regard. His recent publication on Colonialism has sought to modify aspects of the postcolonial critique of empires. Not surprisingly, it has sparked controversy. However, his more explicit writings on Christian ethics in the public domain is of a different order. In his Behaving in Public, Biggar enquired as to how can Christians speak authentically and responsibly in public (Biggar 2011, p. 63). What might it mean for them to behave with integrity? Biggar is, of course, writing in a very different kind of context from the one which is to be found in Samoa. The United Kingdom is more secular, more pluralist and polyglot. This comparison does not invalidate his argument that the church should not sacrifice its confessional truths in the public sphere: its sense of integrity requires it to ‘behave’ as such (Biggar 2011, p. 78).

Biggar argues that on occasions, Christians need to contribute to the public discourse and become prophetic rather than be seen as a source of wisdom. This is a point upon which the church in Samoa should deliberate. The faifeau has always been regarded as a wise man. Biggar’s call is a timely one given the situation of tremors and shaking foundations arising in Samoan society. The demand for the public faifeau resonates with what a public theology is according to Deidre King Hainsworth and Scott Paeth, who believe that ‘as Christians are in the world, so must the church be, and thus the church must have a public theology’ (Hainsworth and Paeth 2010, p. ix). The call for a public faifeau is in line with what Sebastian Kim believes a public theology ought to do: to encourage open inquiry and critical debate for the common good of society. The shaking of the foundations lays an imperative for theology in Samoa to find its public voice.