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whole of humankind and the rest of creaturely existence—and not just one with the
people of Israel (de la Torre 2011, p. 124).
This need to create some distance away from the possibility of punitive theories of
retribution lies behind Lusama’s appeal to the book of Job. The problem is now one of
the perceived absence of God in the face of innocent suffering: ‘Why do the poor and
the marginalized suffer undeservingly while the rich who gain their wealth through
wicked ways of manipulation and exploitation, enjoy life abundantly?’ (Lusama
2004, pp. 88–94). This reading is consistent with the ‘Otin Taai Declaration of
2004. The Pacific Council of Churches rejected the idea that the covenant with
Noah provides a divine ‘guarantee’ that God ‘would not flood the earth again’: high
tides and surges ‘are not an act of God’. They are ‘a result of human economic and
consumer activities that pollute the atmosphere and lead to climate change’ (World
Council of Churches 2004).
It is not then difficult to find examples of claims being made that this promise
of no more floods leads to passivity, ‘an avoidance of praxis’ and a particular type
of climate denial (Kempf 2017, pp. 28–29). In a report featuring Kiribati published
in the same year as the Communiqué Richard Johnson noted that ‘[f]or a deeply
religious population, this story is as good as science’ (Johnson 2019). To understand
the Noah covenant in this way does not mean islanders who hold this position are
unaware of rising sea-levels and the risks associated with water and food supplies
being compromised through salinization. It does not lead to a literal denial of climate
change as a matter of course. In the three-fold pattern discerned by the sociologist,
Stanley Cohen, this form of denial may be classified as interpretative (Cohen 2001,
pp. 7–9). It accepts that there is climate change but it is understood through the lens
of the Noah saga and there is little that can be done to mitigate the risk.
The signs of climate change are evident but viewed through a counter-narrative.
That alternative may assume the Noah covenant but be expressed in another form—as
it was in the case with President Taneti Mamau who insisted that ‘Kiribati will [not]
sink like the Titanic ship’. That will not happen because ‘[o]ur country, our beautiful
lands, are created by the hands of God’ (Doane 2017). The contrary interpretative
rather than literal form of denial may be then supported by regular reminders of
the Noah story like the appearances of rainbows and the occasional scientific claim
suggesting that either Tuvalu or Kiribati is growing, rather than shrinking (Birbo
and Woodroffe 2013; Kench et al. 2018). Strictly speaking, the bow in the text is not
necessarily to be understood as a rainbow: it may indeed be a warrior’s bow being laid
down as a sign of peace (Okoye 2018, pp. 112–113; Hamilton 1990, pp. 317–318;
de la Torre 2011, p. 124).
These alternative ways of coming at the text demonstrate the importance of culture
and life-setting in the reception and appropriation of Scripture. Writing with reference
to the Noah narrative Talia argues that the way in which this story has been read is
through the legacy of western missionary endeavour. It carries with it as such ‘certain
ideologies’ that lead to the silencing of indigenous voices. Those ‘patterns of belief’
limit the need to ‘engage in dialogue’ and the capacity for the text to ‘speak to us’
in order to ‘locate the will of God’ (Talia 2009, p. 70).
C. Pearson
whole of humankind and the rest of creaturely existence—and not just one with the
people of Israel (de la Torre 2011, p. 124).
This need to create some distance away from the possibility of punitive theories of
retribution lies behind Lusama’s appeal to the book of Job. The problem is now one of
the perceived absence of God in the face of innocent suffering: ‘Why do the poor and
the marginalized suffer undeservingly while the rich who gain their wealth through
wicked ways of manipulation and exploitation, enjoy life abundantly?’ (Lusama
2004, pp. 88–94). This reading is consistent with the ‘Otin Taai Declaration of
2004. The Pacific Council of Churches rejected the idea that the covenant with
Noah provides a divine ‘guarantee’ that God ‘would not flood the earth again’: high
tides and surges ‘are not an act of God’. They are ‘a result of human economic and
consumer activities that pollute the atmosphere and lead to climate change’ (World
Council of Churches 2004).
It is not then difficult to find examples of claims being made that this promise
of no more floods leads to passivity, ‘an avoidance of praxis’ and a particular type
of climate denial (Kempf 2017, pp. 28–29). In a report featuring Kiribati published
in the same year as the Communiqué Richard Johnson noted that ‘[f]or a deeply
religious population, this story is as good as science’ (Johnson 2019). To understand
the Noah covenant in this way does not mean islanders who hold this position are
unaware of rising sea-levels and the risks associated with water and food supplies
being compromised through salinization. It does not lead to a literal denial of climate
change as a matter of course. In the three-fold pattern discerned by the sociologist,
Stanley Cohen, this form of denial may be classified as interpretative (Cohen 2001,
pp. 7–9). It accepts that there is climate change but it is understood through the lens
of the Noah saga and there is little that can be done to mitigate the risk.
The signs of climate change are evident but viewed through a counter-narrative.
That alternative may assume the Noah covenant but be expressed in another form—as
it was in the case with President Taneti Mamau who insisted that ‘Kiribati will [not]
sink like the Titanic ship’. That will not happen because ‘[o]ur country, our beautiful
lands, are created by the hands of God’ (Doane 2017). The contrary interpretative
rather than literal form of denial may be then supported by regular reminders of
the Noah story like the appearances of rainbows and the occasional scientific claim
suggesting that either Tuvalu or Kiribati is growing, rather than shrinking (Birbo
and Woodroffe 2013; Kench et al. 2018). Strictly speaking, the bow in the text is not
necessarily to be understood as a rainbow: it may indeed be a warrior’s bow being laid
down as a sign of peace (Okoye 2018, pp. 112–113; Hamilton 1990, pp. 317–318;
de la Torre 2011, p. 124).
These alternative ways of coming at the text demonstrate the importance of culture
and life-setting in the reception and appropriation of Scripture. Writing with reference
to the Noah narrative Talia argues that the way in which this story has been read is
through the legacy of western missionary endeavour. It carries with it as such ‘certain
ideologies’ that lead to the silencing of indigenous voices. Those ‘patterns of belief’
limit the need to ‘engage in dialogue’ and the capacity for the text to ‘speak to us’
in order to ‘locate the will of God’ (Talia 2009, p. 70).