Reflection for Sunday 10 August 2025 

Covenant/Feagaiga 

Rev. Dr. Feiloaiga Taule’ale’ausumai 

The actual lectionary reading appointed for today which we are not using is about the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. And let me be honest with you—I did not want us to go there. It’s one of those passages that holds the weight of centuries of interpretation, controversy, and fear. It’s heavy. And, quite frankly, it’s often been used in ways that do more harm than good. 

But saying that reminds me of something that happened earlier this year when my uncle passed away. He grew up a staunch Samoan Methodist family, and as their tradition, one of the most senior ministers was invited to preach at his funeral. The entire district, including the hierarchy of ministers, were present and participating in this very structured occasion. 

To my absolute horror, the preacher chose that very same text—Sodom and Gomorrah—to preach at my uncle’s funeral. I remember sitting there stunned, almost breathless, thinking, “Why on earth would anyone choose this passage for a funeral?” 

But then, as the preacher unfolded the message, I began to understand where he was going. He explained that the focus wasn’t on judgment or destruction—but on Abraham. Abraham, who stood before God and pleaded for the lives of others. Abraham, who dared to question divine justice. Abraham, who was called to intercede. The preacher definitely preached in Hell fire and brimstone fashion so whatever he had to say whether it was good or bad it was hard to hear beyond his yelling and shouting from the pulpit.   

However, the preacher did manage to find a parallel in the life of my uncle. A man who, in his quiet and consistent way, had stood in the gap for others. A man of faith and of service. A man who had interceded for his family and his community, not with dramatic gestures but with a life lived in faithful obedience. 

It reminded me that scripture—when interpreted with care and discernment—can reveal unexpected insights. But it also reminded me that scripture, when interpreted carelessly or rigidly, can wound. 

During my sabbatical, I visited one of the local churches in Auckland.  The minister was one of my students at Knox Centre for Leadership and Ministry when I lectured there a few years ago. The sermon that day focused on “covenant”, specifically God’s covenant with Israel.  I wondered at first, I wonder where he is going to go with this and what stance will he take.   

As I listened, I began to feel deeply uncomfortable. The minister was essentially justifying the actions of modern-day Israel, claiming that because they are the “chosen people,” they had every right to defend their land—and to do what they were doing in Gaza. 

He framed it all as divine entitlement. He linked the modern political state of Israel with the biblical Israel of covenant times, and used that to make theological sense of what many of us see as violence and oppression. 

I felt horrified. I wanted to get up and walk out. I couldn’t believe that in a peaceful Sunday service, this young minister was using scripture to justify human suffering. The sermon didn’t wrestle with the complexity. It didn’t acknowledge the innocent lives caught in the crossfire. It was all wrapped in a kind of spiritual nationalism—a belief that some have more divine right than others to land, to power, to protection.  And in the end he concluded with a sort of apologetic stating the horrors of war and tried to provide a balanced perspective, but it was too little, too late. You can tell it was just an add on.   

After the service, they kindly invited me to lunch. We went to a local Thai restaurant in Takapuna.  I sat across from the minister, and I didn’t know what to say. So I simply said, “You’re braver than I would ever be in choosing that particular scripture and preaching what you preached.” That’s all I could manage in that moment. I didn’t want to start a theological debate over food. His children were present and I did not want to get into a heated discussion over Sunday lunch. 

 A Story from Our Own Covenant Tradition – Samoa 

And as I reflected more deeply, I realised that this isn’t just about Israel—this is about how covenant is understood and misused everywhere, including in our own Pacific heritage. 

I have shared this before but just to jog your memory.  In Samoa, before the arrival of missionaries, there was a sacred covenant between the brother and the sister—a relational, spiritual, and cultural covenant. The brother viewed life through his sister. She was considered the inner pupil of his eye, the most sacred lens through which he saw the world. Because of this, the sister held great mana, great power—power to bless and curse. And the brother’s role in life was to serve and protect her, honouring her dignity and sacred role within the family and wider society. 

This covenant shaped not only gender roles, but also the very way power was distributed in Samoan society. The sister was revered, and her role as Feagaiga (covenant-bearer) placed her at the centre of sacred relational life. 

But when the missionaries arrived, they came with a new theology—one which said that no human being should have the power to bless or curse. That power belonged only to God, and they—the missionaries—claimed to be God’s chosen messengers. 

So, in an act of spiritual colonialism, they replaced the sister. They said, “We will now be the new Feagaiga—the covenant makers, the holders of divine authority.”  All spiritual leaders or ministers of the covenant were for men only.  The women who were the leaders of worship and matters of the spiritual realm were usurped by the missionaries.  The missionaries established a spiritual order where covenant, blessing, and authority were no longer shared with women in the way Samoan society once had honoured. 

Today, the Feagaiga still exists in Samoa, but it is a shadow of what it once was. The sacred role of the sister was diminished by a theology that claimed to speak for God while silencing women. 

Interestingly, in Tonga, the equivalent figure is the fahu—the eldest sister. And unlike in Samoa, the fahu still holds those sacred powers. She still blesses. She still stands in that covenantal space. Her mana has endured.  Her wishes take precedence over everyone else’s’.  I remember doing a Tongan baptism and the family had put aside a beautiful tapa cloth and woven mat for me.  I was told that someone would come and put it in my car.  By the end of the festivities I was gifted with a Koha of money but no tapa cloth and mat.  I was told embarrassingly some time late with a huge apology that the fahu had requested it for herself.  Fahu trumped minister.  So history caught up with itself that day.  Although I was not male.   

This history reminds us that how we interpret covenant matters.  It can liberate or oppress.  It can honour sacred relationships or erase them.  And when covenant is misused—as it was both in biblical times and in the Pacific and all around the world—it can distort the image of God, especially when power becomes the focus rather than love, service, and community. 

Hebrews 8:6–13 – The Covenant Reimagined 

This brings us to Hebrews 8:6–13, a text that invites us to reimagine what covenant truly means. 

This passage in Hebrews describes the transition from the old covenant to the new, with Jesus as the mediator of something better—a covenant not based on ancestry, gender, land, or tradition, but written on the hearts of people. 

“This is the covenant that I will make… I will put my laws in their minds, and write them on their hearts… I will be their God, and they shall be my people.” (v.10) 

The old covenant—like the one made at Sinai—shaped a people through law, land, and lineage. But the new covenant is about transformation. It’s not based on inheritance but on relationship. It’s not inherited by birth, but received by grace. 

 This new covenant does not exclude women, Samoans, or Palestinians. It does not elevate one nation over another. It is not mediated through missionaries or political states. It is mediated through Christ, who calls us into a covenant of peace, mercy, and justice. 

So when I hear people today justify war and occupation in the name of a covenant made thousands of years ago, I want to ask: Which covenant are you talking about? Because the covenant of Jesus is not about territory—it’s about transformation.  If Jesus is the mediator of a better covenant, then the values of that covenant—mercy, justice, peace—must also be better. 

Many Christians look at the situation in Gaza and struggle with the theological claim that Israel’s actions are justified by divine right. But Hebrews 8 tells us plainly: the old covenant has become obsolete. 

And so, we must ask:  Is what we are seeing today the covenant of God? 

Does it look like Jesus?  Does it resemble peace?  Is it written on the heart?  If the answer is no—if it does not look like mercy, love, and peace—then it is not the covenant of Jesus. 

As Pakeha, Pacific people, as Samoans, as tangata whenua, as tangata moana, tangata te tiriti, we know what it means to live in covenant—with land, with ancestors, with each other. Let us be wary of any theology that uses covenant to silence, to dominate, or to erase. 

Let us return to the covenant of Jesus.  A covenant that cannot be colonised.  A covenant that includes the sister, the brother, the stranger, the refugee, the wounded, and the hopeful.  Let that covenant shape our faith.  Let it shape our politics.  Let it shape our hearts.   Amen. 

Audio of selected readings and reflections

Audio of the complete service