The Praxis of Being a Good Neighbour in a Time of Climate Change

Abstract

In the geopolitics of climate change the low-lying islands of Tuvalu are a ‘weak actor’. They are often referred to as the ‘canary in the mine’ concerning the planet’s future in the midst of a superwicked problem. The islands are overwhelmingly Christian in profession: the default practice is to turn to the book of Job and Noah in seeking to understand their plight. They are seldom referred to in theological works beyond the ‘liquid continent’ of Oceania. There is no theological college on any one of these eight atolls and reef islands. In this kind of context the prospective theologian is likely to be a climate activist, a political figure and an advocate for indigenous knowledge. This coming together of formative influence leads to an embodied public theology that draws upon themes to do with what does it mean to be a good neighbour.

1. Situating Our Selves

The presence of theological themes in the geopolitics of perilous times is often difficult to discern. It can lie hidden—or, at least, obscured by the need to present an argument in the global commons that is accessible to a much wider constituency than that most familiar with the rhetoric and purpose of theology. The prospects for transparency are likely to be less in transdisciplinary issues, like climate change, where theology finds itself on the sidelines. It is, at face value, an ancillary discipline. It is, in a sense, always having to compete for the right to participate in a public space that is populated by those whom Parker Palmer (1983) described as ‘the company of strangers’.

For a nation like mine—the low-lying islands of Tuvalu—that is a daunting situation—se tokogamalie. The legacy of nineteenth century missions is that almost everyone on this small nation of 11,000 people living on 8 islands in the moana loa—the Pacific Ocean, ‘the liquid continent’—is Christian. The principles of faith overtly sit alongside traditional cultural values in shaping the common life of the nation. The extent to which Christian belief permeates the self-understanding of the state is clearly evident in the words of the national anthem and the Constitution. The former declares allegiance in the key line, Tuvalu mo te Atua (Tuvalu for the Almighty). The Constitution demonstrates the degree to which belief in the ‘good providence and blessings of God […] the Everlasting Lord and giver of all good things’ is woven into how these highly vulnerable islands are seeking to address the existential threat to their way of life—faka Tuvalu.

The Constitution was amended in 2023. It warrants closer attention because it is the first constitution of any nation to presume the dangers posed by climate change and sea-level rise. Lisepa Paeniu (2024) describes how this version broke with the constitutions of 1978 and 1986 which had never mentioned climate change or ‘the permanent claim [of Tuvalu] over its territory irrespective of climate change.’ The Preamble recognized that there is an ‘urgent need for meaningful work’ to be done ‘with the rest of the world to protect and secure Tuvalu’. Now the Principles undergirding the Constitution were then extended to embrace ‘[o]ur right as the people of Tuvalu, both present and future, to a full, free and secure life’. This emphasis on security was bound up with an affirmation of gratitude to God and a conviction that the stability of Tuvaluan society and the happiness and welfare of the people of Tuvalu, both present and future, depend very largely on the maintenance of Tuvaluan values, culture and tradition’.

Paeniu discerns how the revised Constitution strengthened the emphasis on traditional standards, values and practices. In her critique she argued that customary values had thus been favoured over a recourse to the protection of human rights and the rights of minorities might be vulnerable as a consequence (ibid., p. 2). The contrary case was put by Simon Kofe and Jess Marinaccio who argued that the decision to ‘safeguard Tuvaluan culture and values’ was due to ‘worries that globally standardised human rights might compromise Tuvalu’s community-driven and consensus-oriented traditions.’ (Kofe and Marinaccio 2023).

What most set the amended Constitution apart is its declaration of permanent statehood. In a manner without precedent it laid claim to a statehood that ‘shall remain in perpetuity in the future, notwithstanding the impacts of climate change or other causes resulting in loss to the physical territory of Tuvalu’. It then defined the area covered by the state ‘through ‘baseline coordinates’ irrespective to changes due to sea level rise designed to preserve culture, governance, and nationhood in the event of the worst-case scenario (Talia 2025). Kofe and Marinaccio (2023) envisaged how this ‘groundbreaking step’ will have ‘a critical role in climate change activism and will strengthen Tuvalu’s legal standing in combating the climate crisis, especially if land is lost due to climate impacts.’

The most radical initiative so far taken in response to this daunting situation is the steps taken by Tuvalu to replicate itself as a digital nation. The Future Now (Te Ataeao Nei) Project was launched via a video speech played at COP 27 in Sharm El-Sheikh. It was delivered by Kofe (2021) in his capacity at the time as Minister of Justice, Communications and Foreign Affairs. Its purpose is set in place a raft of digital resources that seek to preserve ‘ancestral knowledge and value systems’ and enable a people unsettled from their homeland ‘a way that imitates real life and helps to preserve shared language and customs’ (Varada 2023). In effect, Tuvalu is creating a ‘digital Ark’ which preserves ‘artefacts of sentimental or symbolic value, such as the sound of children’s language, elders’ stories and the culture’s dances and festivals’ (Bushell-Embling 2023).

In terms of sovereignty ‘access to government and consular services and all accompanying administrative systems [would become available on] the cloud’. Kofe further advised that ‘[i]f we have a displaced government or population dispersed across the globe, we would have a framework in place to ensure that we continue to coordinate ourselves, continue to deliver our services, manage our natural resources in our waters and all our sovereign assets.’

This Project raises the possibility that Tuvalu may well become ‘the first purely digital sovereign nation to exist in the metaverse’ should its physical territory become ‘no longer viable.’ (Woods 2024). It can be seen as an innovative response to the threats posed by climate change that offers a potential ‘blueprint for [other] future nations to capture their own physical nation’. The metaverse would thus become a platform that will enable ‘future Tuvaluans … [to] have an immersive experience, via a virtual copy of Tuvalu that would be maintained via uploaded data’. It is an initiative that provokes an intriguing set of legal considerations. Sarah Krause has noted that there are no laws specifically designed for digital states. Existing legal frameworks presume that a state cannot exist without permanent territory. It is the present convention that maritime boundaries are determined with reference to a state’s land territory. Krause suggests that the case Tuvalu might lodge for permanence could rest in a general principle of international state law: ‘[o]nce a state exists, it is presumed that is statehood will continue to endure.’ (ibid.). Yeo (2024) likewise notes that ‘[c]urrent international law is ill-suited to countries facing loss of territory or habitability die to climate change.’

The Project has been likened to a form of ‘strategic climate diplomacy’. Its necessity arises out of the perceived failure of the international response to climate change (Khaira 2022). It represents an alternative for a ‘fading culture’ to options that rely on building sea walls, reclaiming land, and moving away altogether (Yeo 2024). It is clearly creating an impression that time is running out for the continuation of life as currently known on Tuvalu. Sophie Yeo cites a recent assessment by NASA scientists that ‘much of Tuvalu’s land including its critical infrastructure, will sit below the level of the current high tide by 2050’ (ibid.). The Report anticipates that ‘sea level impacts beyond flooding—like saltwater intrusion—will become more frequent and continue to worsen in severity in the coming decades.’ (NASA Sea-level Change Team 2023). There is some difference opinion, though, as to whether now is the right time to draw the conclusion that Tuvalu will disappear. The former Prime Minister, Enele Sopoaga, has criticized the idea of becoming a digital nation on the grounds of there being no basis in international law for such. He has also rejected the assumption that ‘Tuvalu will disappear even with sea level rise’ (Yeo 2024).

This then is the setting in which I find myself and like others on our islands proclaim to the world beyond the tautaloga, the horizon, ‘Here I am! Here I am!’ Our people through no fault of their own find themselves amongst the most vulnerable people on the planet to the impact of climate change. Our carbon emissions are minuscule. It has been estimated that Tuvalu produces 0.01% of the world’s carbon emissions (Boyle 2023). According to the work of Tafue Lusama (2004) writing on the book of Job, the people of Tuvalu are ‘innocent victims’. It is time to leave behind an understanding of a highly judgemental God—te Atua faamasino—and seek out a ‘new climate story’ (Lusama 2022, pp. 135–172). The popular temptation has been for the islanders to wonder ‘what have we done wrong that God is angry with us?’. It has been a common practice to turn to the rainbow covenant in the Noah story to declare that God will not allow the islands to be flooded (Talia 2025, pp. 29–32). There is no theological college or library on Tuvalu. Our people find themselves in this kairos moment of time needing to negotiate our way through a coming together of cultural values, Christian belief and practice, the lived realities of a changing climate, the intricacies of climate science and the geopolitics of climate change.

It is a daunting prospect. It necessarily involves us respecting our ancestors as well as our seeking to preserve a home for our children and future generations. The wisdom of the ancestors is always present. On Tuvalu this wisdom continues to be mediated through the muna o te fale and through performative fatele. The Samoan theologian Upolu Vaai (2021) rightly captures how even the dead live in and around us. That is why most Pacific islanders read history as a living relationship. It is never deemed a frozen past or a dead tradition … everything around us, seen and unseen, dead and alive, are members of vibrant living [cosmic] aiga family.

At the other end of the life cycle is Kato Ewekia—a youth climate activist. In a rather perceptive way he reflected on how [w]e really, really love our home and we want how our elders taught us how to be Tuvaluan, we want our children to experience it—not when it disappears and future generations will be talking about it [Tuvalu] like it’s a story (Singh 2024).

The digital, replicated version is not the same. The difference is embedded in intergenerational justice. In the context of Tuvalu this expression of a future ethics is being played out in real time. Its theoretical principles here are familial and close. It is usual to focus on children and the yet to be born. That is understandable but in cultures like Tuvalu, where ancestral bones have been exposed through wave erosion, a fresh question arises: do ancestors (whose presence lives on) have rights? Do not the living have the rights to dwell on the land (the fenua) where one’s placenta is buried like those who have gone before them? In the midst of this kairos moment the people of Tuvalu perform a customary fatele—a song and dance: ‘Here I am! Here I am!’ The personal here is more than personal. It is communal. It is a whole culture—past, present and future.

2. The Subjective Turn

There is a curious ambiguity here that resides in the heart of an emerging discipline like a public theology. The reference to theological themes presupposes abstractions, ethical values and standards. It sits alongside words like presence, strangers, and the importance of participation which, in turn, assumes the irreducibly personal senses of hearing and seeing, as well as acts of speech. These are particular to selves. In other words, entering the public space anticipates an embodied subjectivity, individuals, in relationship to others. There is an irony here. There has been very little work done in the field of a public theology that is, in any way, autobiographical. One of the few instances where this has not been the case is in the biographical account of the work of Duncan Forrester and the setting up of the Centre for Theology and Public Issues in the University of Edinburgh (A. R. Morton 2004).

This account of Forrester’s journey into becoming a public theologian is an exception to the rule. The very nature of the public assumes something other than the personal. It is within this ambivalence that this article is written. It is in this instance an account of a present politician engaging with the powers that are seeking to address what has been described as a ‘superwicked problem’ (Levin et al. 2012)—climate change—in the immediate wake of having finished a doctoral thesis about to be published as a book on what does it mean to be a neighbour, a tuakoi? How might an embodied theology of climate change engage with COP conferences, ecumenical bodies, and meetings of the association of small island states on behalf of low-lying, vulnerable nations, like my home of Tuvalu?

It is not easy to write like this. The focus on the self is deeply problematic. The indigenous peoples of Tuvalu are communal. In that respect they are like others in societies that comprise the liquid continent—the moana loa (the open ocean) that is the Pacific. In recent times Upolu Vaai and Unaisa Nabobo-Baba have written of the need to decolonize personhood and recover the relational self (Vaai and Nabobo-Baba 2017). It is a calling that is framed within societies that are organized around codes of honour and shame —and island ways of living in which respect, service and hospitality rather than personal achievement are most operative. It is not easy in such cultures in which the sense of community extends into including the ongoing presence of ancestors to draw attention to the self. It seems wrong—despite the ready presence of so many Pasifika peoples now active in the fifth estate by courtesy of Facebook. Writing on ‘the shaking of foundations’ of fa’aSamoa (the Samoan way of life) Sam Amosa (2020) has drawn attention to the more outspoken ways in which his people are now expressing likes and dislikes of customary ways. Charles Uesile Tupu (2022) has discerned the same. The Tongan postcolonial (and diasporic) biblical critic Jione Havea meanwhile rejects the capitalized form of ‘I’, preferring to make use of the lower-case version. There is an irony here, of course, because this departure from standard practice draws more attention to the self simply because it is out of the ordinary. There is a certain wariness as well to this risky business of standing up, being visible. Havea (2018) describes how often natives/islanders are made to feel inferior.

Tafue Lusama from Tuvalu was, nevertheless, willing to allow aspects of his self to be acknowledged in his desire to formulate a ‘new climate story’ for the sake of the national church to leave behind its passivity. He notes how growing up on the island of Nukulaelae it was forbidden to ask why a cyclone happens and question God (Lusama 2022, p. xvi). It was his experience of Tropical Cyclone Bebe (1972) that would establish his subsequent quest for a fresh understanding of God away from the missionary legacy of te Atua faamasino—a God of judgement (ibid., p. 102). I have spoken on a youtube video sponsored by the Catholic agency, Caritas, how ‘it keeps me awake at night to think about my children’s future.’ (Talia 2022).

The positioning of the self is perhaps changing but the cultural restraint remains. This hesitation with regards the placement of the self in the public space does not stand in isolation. The communicative traditions of the islands are ones of orality, story, song, and dance. For most Pasifika cultures the primary space for the discussion of great themes is not in published arguments in literary form. The preferred space is seated around a mat engaging in talanoa. Havea (2010) describes talanoa as ‘story, act of telling (of memories, stories, longings, and more), an occasion of conversation (teasingly and critically, and usually informally)’. For her research into domestic violence in Samoa Mercy Ah Siu-Maliko (2021) relied on talanoa in order to explain what a public theology is. On my home islands of Tuvalu it is arguably a better practice to listen for the indigenous ‘wisdom of the household’—muna o te fale—which is handed down from one generation to the next. In a way that significantly from a western theology the theological response to climate change is also mediated through the customary practice of dance. Through movement, through dance, a fatele is a performative form of knowledge that reaches back in time for the sake of living in the present. It is communal and thus enables the community to belong, one with another, and address the changing contexts they face in perilous times.

This turn to indigenous wisdom and practice is rather removed in tone and content from the scientific accounts of melting glaciers, warming and rising seas and the measurement of carbon emissions from fossil fuels. It is not expressed in and through statistics and graphs that are part and parcel of what is commonly perceived to be the ‘alien language’ of climate science, ‘a foreign construct’ (Nunn 2009). The tension between the two is highlighted in the writings of Patrick Nunn and Johannes Luetz, in the first instance, and then again by Wolfgang Kempf.

Nunn and Luetz show a concern for the issues of resilience and behaviour change. The critical insight lies in their awareness of how those who consider climate change solely through the lens of a secular science misunderstand these communities: those seemingly exposed to the relentless advance of sea level rise and the impact of climate change possess very different worldviews. Nunn and Luetz observe that ‘[a]lmost everyone living in the Pacific Islands region has a religious affiliation expressed through practice and which influences everyday decision-making to a degree that many people from outside this region sometimes consider astonishing’. The pattern of Christian belief that has arisen is one that bears the legacy of nineteenth-century missionaries, some pre-Christian practice and, now, in some instances, a postcolonial critique as well. It is an expression of faith that is informed by its local context and history. Nunn and Luetz (2021) further observe that ‘where religious beliefs come into conflict with secular ones, the former generally prevail’.

Some care needs to be exercised here. Kempf takes issue with the secular critique of the indigenous turn to the Noah story. The assumption that Tuvalu will not succumb to rising sea levels on account of the covenant Yahweh made with Noah after the flood often features in the public media in the west. It can appear to be a religiously derived form of climate change denial. It can appear to render the church passive and function as an obstacle to initiatives taken on behalf of mitigation and adaptation. Kempf (2017) argues that there is a much more complex process at work at the intersection of science and indigenous reception. The turn to Noah can also be seen as an attempt, to a step, towards seeking to understand climate change and the perils it presents. Hannah Fair (2018) has also noted that the ark can be read in subversive ways: are indigenous peoples those who have been left to fend for themselves in the water while the wealthier nations were able to afford the ticket to climate privilege and safety. Seforosa Carroll (2019) argues that the Noah saga can be read as a call to prepare, to make ready and is as such a text of resilience.

That there should be this level of potential disjuncture is indicative of the challenge to represent in indigenous people in the geopolitics of climate change. The tendency is to look upon low-lying islands like Tuvalu as the ‘canary in the mine’ of global climate change. They attract descriptions of being Titanic states (without enough life-boats) and being Job-like nations. Geoff Mann and Joel Wainwright have likened the strength and power of capitalism—politics of climate change—to a Leviathan (Mann and Wainwright 2018). On the international stage Tuvalu fits the description by which Terence Halliday (2020) determines what constitutes a ‘weak actor’: Who sets the agenda? Who attends the meetings? Who is included in the ‘informal corridor politics and inter-sessional meetings’? Whose voice is included? What space, if any, is made for ‘small, marginal or peripheral states?’.

It is into these cross-currents that I wish to place myself. The former editor of the journal, Theology Today, identified a ‘positioning question’ for theologians: ‘where are you from? The underlying assumption embedded in the question is that how we respond will reflect the formative influences that have made their way into our theologies. In my case I am a climate activist; I have attended numerous COP conferences; I have been the co-chair of the United Nations’ Indigenous Forum on Climate Change; I have completed a Ph.D. in theology which is about to be published under the title of Tuvalu, Theology and the Geopolitics of Climate Change. I am now the Minister of the Environment, Climate Change and Home Affairs. The question that presents itself to me in the setting of this journal is one of how does theology intersect with complex politics of this superwicked problem.

3. The Quest for a Relevant Theology

Writing towards the end of his life Jürgen Moltmann (2020) called for the world’s religions spirit of hope for a world in danger. The now aged Moltmann was under no illusions. For the greater part of his adult life Moltmann has been wrestling for a theology that affirms life over death, for hope in the midst of a world where life itself is insufficiently affirmed. It is ‘unloved’. The current ‘destruction of the environment we are causing through our present global economic system’ stands in a line of war, holocaust, terrorism, and ‘the nuclear suicide programme’. The manner in which the biosphere of the planet has been so utilized through Western science and its accompanying technological civilization lies behind the most urgent of questions: ‘Must a human race exist or survive, or are we just an accident of nature?’ (ibid., p. 9).

It is Moltmann’s conviction that ‘[what] we today call the ecological crisis’ is, in fact, ‘a total crisis of our whole life system’ (ibid., p. 11). What is required for this changing paradigm is a ‘new ecological theology’. It must let go of a theology that allowed for the ‘lordship over the world’ practised by ‘the godlike human being’ (ibid., p. 15). Moltmann is effectively critiquing a dominion theology and anthropology rising out of interpretations of Genesis 1:28–29 (ibid., pp. 24–27). It is, of course, at a significant remove from indigenous worldviews that were relational and held spirituality, humanity and nature close together. For the peoples of Tuvalu life is lived within the kauafua (the household of creation) by way of knowing how to live in relationship with the moana (ocean), umaga (the cultivation of the land) and te unaniu (the preservation of fruits). This protest Moltmann is mounting on what might be seen as a ‘majority tradition’ in the Christian faith is similar intent to Lusama’s reconceiving of God in the island context. For the sake of a more relevant theology in a time such as this Lusama directs attention away from a God of judgement and punishment—te Atua faamasino—to one that is more relational, more reverential of nature and the place of humanity within—te Atua fesokotaki. In Moltmann’s terms homo sapiens should not see itself as the ‘centre of the world’ but accept a status of ‘cosmological humility’ (ibid., pp. 17–20).

Moltmann is reading the global crisis through western eyes. It is from this cultural position that he argues the case for a ‘common earth religion’. The modern, globalized, urbanized world is a world of ‘many religions—one earth’. Moltmann discerns that now is the time to recognize that the earth itself provides a space for encounter and co-operation between world religions (ibid.). In so doing they must show a deepening concern for this world, life on this blue planet, rather than project their hopes only on to ‘the world beyond’.

How well such an option might be received in Tuvalu is a moot point. The state understands itself to be Christian. There are very few of citizens on other faiths. It has been rare, for instance, for a representative of another faith to share in an island organized side event at a COP conference. The one exception was the presence of a Muslim leader at COP 26 in Glasgow. It is, nevertheless, precisely at this point that a theology emanating from Tuvalu must address the geopolitics of climate change. The reality is that Muslim-majority countries are among the world’s largest oil producers, hence fossil fuels responsible for the increasing level of carbon emissions that exacerbate global warming and its effects.

The COP conferences held in Dubai (2023) and Baku (2024) featured for the first time an inter-faith pavilion. The Dubai conference was preceded by a Faith Leaders’ Summit which issued the Abu Dhabi Interfaith Statement on Climate Change (2024). Its provisions were separated into a preamble, a call to action and a declaration of commitment. The statement steered clear of any espoused belief, doctrine or reference to any particular religion. It understood itself to established in ‘the spirit of unity, shared responsibility and Human Fraternity (sic)’. The faith leaders acknowledged their ‘profound interconnectedness with one another and the intricate web of life that envelops us.’ They ‘recognize[d] the Sacredness and Sanctity of Life and Nature, honouring the inherent value of all living beings and the landscapes they inhabit on Mother Earth.’ They saw themselves as ‘embracing the mantle of Love, Stewardship and Care for Creation’ and desire ‘to safeguard the Earth.’ It imagined that ‘people of faith’ might fulfil the role of being ‘environmental peacebuilders’. The call to action was an act of advocacy and exhortation. It was directed towards governments, businesses, policy makers and financial institutions. The faith leaders committed themselves to a suite of practices that were designed to service a pledge to ‘Justice, cause no Harm and Peace with all Sentient Beings including Nature, fostering a harmonious existence that enriches both humanity and the planet.’

The cluster of ideas to be found in this Statement is similar to what might be found in the aims and aspirations of a network of activists. Its religious expression is indirect and would require exegetical commentaries to make the necessary connections to a particular faith. Its probable purpose was to convey the concerns of these faith leaders to the COP conference that was to unfold a fortnight later and which would receive their Statement. It was not really designed to be fed back into the life and witness of any one faith.

It is this concern for the geopolitics of climate change that prompted me to explore the possibility of a theology of climate change that revolves around the theme of being a neighbour. The attraction of this conceptual framework lay partly in its capacity to be understood in multiple cultural settings. In my own indigenous culture the word for neighbour is tuakoi. It carries expectations and customs particular to the communal life of Tuvalu. It does so in a way that is recognizable and practicable (Talia 2025, p. 27). For a Bible-conscious people like those on Tuvalu the invocation of the neighbour can also find a mooring in the parables. The default practice has been to turn to the book of Job and the Noah saga for a way of interpreting the menace of climate change and rising sea-levels. The turn to a theology of the tuakoi proposes an alternative organizing biblical text—the parable of the (good) Samaritan —and Jesus’ question back to the lawyer intent on knowing what he must do to have eternal life—‘which of the three was the neighbour?’.

This theme of being a neighbour resonates in island life. It provides as such a hermeneutical lens by which the indigenous people may interpret the climate crisis before them in a way which inserts a moral and theological dimension. There are obvious geopolitical benefits beyond the tautaloga (horizon). Being a neighbour is common to secular discourse and it is also found in other faiths. In her account of hospitality Mona Siddiqui (2015) has described how in Islam there are two kinds of neighbours—the near neighbour (who is kin) and the one who is ‘far away’. In the hadith there is an hierarchical order of neighbour, but in Islamic thought the neighbour is never an enemy. This distinction between two kinds of neighbour is especially apt in a time of climate change. In a highly interconnected world the neighbour can be close by (a near one) and on the other side of the world. In his encyclical, Laudato Si’, Pope Francis (2015) writes of the care of our common home. In Fratelli Tutti (Pope Francis 2020) he envisages how the theme of neighbour can be a symbol of friendship, an instrument for ‘the renewal of hope’ in the face of shattered dreams. In this encyclical the Pope reads the parable from the perspective of recognizing our neighbour as the one who has fallen along the way. Through the parable the Pope argues that Jesus is summoning ‘us to rediscover our vocation as citizens of our respective nations and the entire world, [and become] builders of a new social bond’. It furnishes those in positions of advantage to ‘move beyond ourselves’.

The parable is set in another time, another place. It does not deal with climate change and rising sea levels. It is nevertheless well suited to an indigenous exegesis while being mindful, at the same time, of the need to respect its original setting and purpose. Ma’afu Palu (2017) has warned ‘the Pasifikans’ of the risks associated with severing links with the biblical narratives and Jesus from his first century context. Lauri Thurèn (2014) has written of the need to ‘unplug’ the parables from ‘harmful modifications’.

These reservations do not compromise the benefits of an intertextual reading of the parable. Ruben Zimmerman (2008) has argued for what he calls an ‘aesthetic ethic’. The command Jesus makes to ‘go and do likewise’ stands outside the narrative of the parable proper. It implies application and imagines how we ‘look closely’ to what is happening in analogous situations. In this indigenous reading in a time of climate change that is both diachronic and cross-cultural there are three overarching concerns.

The first has to do with the representation of the characters in the narrative. The man left wounded can be seen as a variant on the plight of Tuvalu—with some differences. In the Tuvaluan translation of the parable ‘a man’ is initially described by the word tagata, meaning a person. Once he becomes a victim he is a fakalofa. In indigenous culture the fakalofa may be an outsider, maybe homeless, but would retain dignity and (unlike the parable) always be cared for. A direct correspondence also breaks down inasmuch as the people of Tuvalu ‘are facing the need facing the need to come to terms with the likelihood of having been robbed of land, a way of life and an integrated culture.’ They retain agency, though. They ‘have not been left half-dead on the side of the road without a voice.’ (Talia 2025, p. 165). In this re-reading of the parable the one wounded by climate change asks ‘am I not your tuakoi (neighbour)?’. This question loaded with moral purpose is directed towards the three who pass by on the other side and look away. They are fakasili. It is not hard to see how they might correspond to the climate equivalents of Stanley Cohen’s (2001) three stages of denial—literal, interpretative and implicatory. Their sidestep into denial is exposed through the Samaritan’s practice of compassion (fatumanava). The inn-keeper is the one who provides an interim ethic of care and a temporary home for the wounded ‘man’ who has become displaced.

The second concern arising out of this intertextual reading has to do with ethical obligation. In a series of public lectures Samuel Wells (2018) identified the ambiguity of the neighbour: ‘the neighbour is the person who through intrusion, manipulation, limitless need, or infuriating invasions, presents us with impossible demands.’ The fact of the matter is that neighbours can be the source of the most intense conflict as can be seen in Gaza and Israel, Ukraine and Russia. Yet here in the parable the Samaritan (the neighbour demonized by the Jew, and vice-versa) exemplifies compassion. Writing on behalf of ‘Christian citizens of the world’s wealthiest nation’ Maureen O’Connell (2009) has argued the case for compassion (‘the capability to suffer with another’) as a moral imperative. It may be an ‘upheaval’ and an ‘interruption’. It is nevertheless an expression of the call to ‘lov[e]our neighbor in an age of globalization’ marked by ‘gross inequality’ and ‘dehumanizing suffering’. The nature of this imperative is theologically reinforced through Jesus advising the lawyer at the close of the parable to ‘go and do likewise’.

In a time of climate innocence and vulnerability the role of the inn-keeper looms larger than it has hitherto in most interpretations. It often appears almost as an after-thought and its open-endedness—what happens next—creates a sense of incompleteness. It is this very sense of things being left in suspension that tugs away at the consequences of rising sea-levels and the potential loss of land, sovereignty, and cultural integration. Where will the displaced be housed? Who will provide the long-term care beyond the initial act of deliverance? Will the inn of the parable become a refugee camp? The intertextual, diachronic, cross-cultural reading of the parable ends not with a question, but a statement. The fakalofa of the parable is lying before you (Talia 2025, p. 201).

In its most recent ecumenical statement on climate change the Pacific Conference of Churches recognized the potential for this parable to furnish a geopolitical response. In my capacity as Minister of Climate Change I was asked to address the opening session. The underlying assumption of what was said was that the churches in the region should not be afraid of speaking truth to power and being held hostage on issues that we did not cause. The parable framed this address and informed the shape of the subsequent declaration, the Tuakoi Lei Declaration. The concept of neighbour had never been invoked in the politics and ecumenical life of the Pacific. The Declaration set out a list of what it means to be a good neighbour. It began with being a good neighbour to the other and being good neighbour within creation. These two served as a transition into identifying the category of a good neighbour to the impact of climate change—hence.

a good neighbour to communities experiencing and at serious risk of the impacts of climate change;

a good neighbour to those who were here, are here now and are yet to come;

a good neighbour to countries whose lifestyles and economic models are based in the fallacy of unlimited growth and whose denial and culpability are taking our people and planet beyond the red line of 1.5 degrees;

a good neighbour to those who stand up and fight injustice

The Declaration captured the ecumenical call to ‘our world to embody neighbourly love, compassion and hope’ (Pacific Conference of Churches 2024). The specificity of its being grounded in the parable gave it an edge that was not as present in the Abu Dhabi Interfaith Statement.

For the peoples of Tuvalu the customary and theological theme of neighbour has already acquired a political significance. It has done so in a way in which the practice of referring to Noah and Job has never done—and can never do. In late 2023 Tuvalu and Australia signed the Falepili Treaty Union. Among its provisions Australia recognized: (a) ‘the desire of Tuvalu’s people to continue to live in their territory where possible and Tuvalu’s deep, ancestral connections to land and sea; and (b) the statehood and sovereignty will continue, and the rights and duties inherent thereto will be maintained, notwithstanding the impact of climate change-related sea-level rise.’ The word falepili here is of some importance. The Treaty declared that the union was based ‘on the values of good neighbourliness, care and mutual respect’. What was, in effect, a preamble observed that these values came under the umbrella of the concept of falepili which underpinned the whole agreement. It was thus a diplomatic deployment of the idea of being a neighbour and performed as such with reference to climate change. The agreement included a ‘special human mobility pathway for citizens’ of Tuvalu ‘to live, study and work in Australia. The language of mobility was preferred rather than that of climate-displaced persons. Writing in response to its establishment Taukiei Kitara and Carol Farbotko acknowledged that falepili is a foundational cultural practice that assumes a ‘looking after one’s neighbour as if they are family’ (Kitara and Farbotko 2023; Mathiesen 2024; Tindall et al. 2022). It carries the idea of expecting nothing in return which is problematic. The Treaty demonstrated the realities of geopolitics inasmuch as it gave Australia rights with regards to security and defence. The larger concern is the growing influence of China in the region.

4. The Realpolitik of Global Geopolitics

It is not a practice of contemporary politics and diplomacy for religious and theological ideas to feature prominently. That is a state of affairs that is readily intelligible. The global political order is pluralist. The record of COP conferences bears witness to as much failure as it does to progress in addressing questions like the phasing out of fossil fuels and the setting of targets to keep the limit of global warming to 1.5 degrees (Hales and Mackey 2021). The future prospects do not warrant as such a facile optimism. Henry Shue ([2014] 2016; 2018) has rightly described how very difficult it is to balance matters of voice, economy and ecology, equity and compound injustice, present and future generations in deliberations to do with a warming climate, carbon emissions, and security. It is a formidable combination without actually taking into account how Earth System scientists warn that some tipping points may already have been exceeded and the future patterns of a warmer planet are already locked in. In these interdisciplinary politics religions do not constitute the primary technical knowledge. For all their merit papal encyclicals, the Abu Dhabi Interfaith Statement, and Islamic declarations like the Al Mizan Covenant for the Earth (Khalid et al. 2024) are declarations of solidarity and advocacy. They are more often than not inclined to emphasize what is common to humanity and not necessarily deal with the differences within and among faiths. Contrary to Moltmann’s call there is no world-wide ecological theology or global consensus on what an ecological religion would look like.

In the light of this rather intimidating realpolitik it is far from clear how this parable and the theme of a good neighbour might play itself out in the political and diplomatic domains. That is despite the observation made by Nick Spencer in his work on The Political Samaritan. The compassionate heart of the parable has been highly active as a metaphorical presence in so many ways. Spencer (2017) reports how he is deployed to justify economic policy, to vindicate military intervention, to defend overseas aid, to shape refugee, asylum and immigration policy, to preserve health provision, and to address international crises. And he is deployed to legitimise state intervention, and to argue for military involvement, and to praise personal activism, and to encourage voluntarism, and to overcome religious, or ethnic, or national differences, and to inspire moral universalism, and to berate indifference and to condemn political opponents. And in many other ways.

It is evident that the parable has not always been ‘unplugged’: the Samaritan has not always been subject to a rigorous exegesis.

In matters of climate change it are more than likely that a religious belief will constitute one of several motive forces embedded in why a particular stand is made. For those of us from Tuvalu the existential threat to our physical territory, our indigenous way of life and a concern for future generations is clearly to the forefront of our climate activism. It is a matter of survival: ‘it’s about preserving the very essence of what makes us Tuvaluans.’ (Talia 2024). That is no surprise. It is infused with deep-seated sense of what did we do to deserve this level of menace. The answer, of course, is nothing. There is equally a need to possess skills and expertise in matters of climate science, law, politics and familiarity with indigenous knowledge and other forms of mitigation and adaptation. It is less likely that a profession of faith will assume a public witness on the geopolitical stage.

The agenda for a high-level ministerial roundtable is of a different order. It is inclined to gather around ambitions, goals and outcomes. It privileges a rhetoric of climate finance, governance, resilience, infrastructure, energy packages, a host of anagrams, and local initiatives like a coastal adaptation project. For Tuvalu the issue of climate finance is one of adaptation finance so that ‘no country …[goes] into debt to protect itself against impacts of climate change’.

The parable and the neighbour nevertheless presents itself as a hidden transcript of resistance and advocacy. It can function then at multiple levels in a relatively anonymous but insistent mode. It becomes a strategic instrument. Its mode of expression is one of inference. What constitutes being a neighbour can mean exercising a representative role at COP 29 in Baku on behalf of the Alliance of Small Island Developing States. The Alliance forms a collective of global neighbours with particular concerns for ‘the non-negotiable target’ of 1.5 degrees and the transition away from fossil fuels. It can then mean being the spokesman at relevant press conferences. Those delivered at Baku on behalf of this collective were clear: ‘the current state of mitigation efforts is simply not sufficient.’ The sense of kairos was captured in the concluding lines that the ‘time for half-measures and vague commitments is over.’

There is no explicit reference to neighbours or Samaritans, but lying behind these ‘talking points; is a recognition of how ‘our [common] survival’ depends upon ‘the global resolve’ to protect the future. The theme of neighbour can be hidden away in discourses to do with partners, co-operation, and dialogue. The most likely possible public performance of a discourse to do with good neighbours—and, by inference, the parable—arises out of the Falepili Union Treaty. It is a Union that assumes these qualities and practices. On the basis of this agreement I have spoken in my capacity as climate minister on Australia’s policy with regards coalmines. In the immediate wake of its signing Tuvalu took exception to approvals given by the Australian government on expanding the life of three coal mines. The decision was reckoned to be ‘immoral and unacceptable’ (Hurst 2024; A. Morton 2024) and appeared to undermine the spirit of the Treaty. It is possible that the Australian signatories have not fully appreciated the nuances of the underpinning principle of falepili. Australia’s staged policy of transition away from fossil fuels has taken precedence over the concerns of Tuvalu and other Pacific neighbours who insist that fossil fuels are ‘killing us’.

The fakalofa is lying before you. For low-lying islands dealing with rising sea levels and the impacts of climate change the parable of the (good) Samaritan resonates strongly. It provides a hidden transcript for those who need to make a stand on the geopolitical stage.