The Pharisee in the Pulpit: How Fijian Christianity Lost Sight of the Mirror
In many of our churches across Fiji, a peculiar faith is preached. It is a faith more concerned with the geography of Jerusalem than the geography of the human heart. It speaks more of a chosen people in a distant land than the divine spark in the person sitting next to you. Unknowingly, it has become more aligned with the Christianity of the Pharisees—whom Jesus condemned—than with the Christianity of Jesus Christ himself.
The central tenet of this modern Pharisaism is external validation. Where the historical Pharisees clung to strict adherence to Mosaic law as a sign of holiness, some expressions of Fijian Christianity; influenced by colonial and political Zionism, display a fervent focus on a physical Israel, future prophecies, and outward rituals. This faith is built on a foundation of otherness: the holy land is there, not here; salvation history happened then, not now; God’s chosen are them, not us.
This is a profound departure from the radical, unsettling message of Christ. It rebuilds the very walls of separation that His ministry sought to dismantle. The apostle Peter experienced a revelation that shattered this paradigm: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him” (Acts 10:34-35). The early church concluded that the covenant was for all of humanity through faith. There are no exclusively ‘chosen people’; we are all God’s people.
When asked to name the greatest commandment, Jesus did not say, “Pledge allegiance to a foreign state.” He said, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart… and love your neighbour as yourself.” He insisted the entire law hangs on this. Everything else is commentary. This commandment is universal, directed at every human being, without exception.
The transformative power of Christ’s teaching is that it demands we stare into the mirror. “The kingdom of God is within you,” He said (Luke 17:21). It is not a remote destination to be visited, but a state of being—cultivated through compassion, humility, and justice, right where we are.
The colonial introduction of Christianity to Fiji often came with a Pharisee’s handbook. It taught us to externalize God—to see Him as a distant, white patriarch whose favour was earned by rejecting our own world, our Vanua, our ancestors. It was a theology of displacement, convincing us our sacredness was elsewhere, white and that we were secondary in a divine plan. How can this be? In doing so, it committed the error Jesus condemned: prioritizing external abstract ritual over “the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faithfulness” (Matthew 23:23).
The irony is profound: we venerate a man born in Bethlehem, who broke Sabbath laws to heal the sick and ate with sinners, yet we often practice a religion of exclusion, judgment, and meticulous outward observance that reinforces the very barriers He died to tear down.
True Christianity is not about looking to the Middle East for a sign of salvation; it is about looking into the eyes of your neighbour and seeing Christ. It is the recognition that Na Kalou na Vanua is not heresy but a profound truth—that the divine is immanent, present in this world, even right here in Fiji and within us. When God said, “Let us make mankind in our image,” He was describing a spiritual capacity for love and moral consciousness granted to all. God is a mirror of our highest being. To know God is to know ourselves truly and to choose love.
The challenge for Fijian Christianity is a choice: Will we continue down the path of the Pharisees, seeking holiness in external lands and rigid doctrines? Or will we embrace the liberating message of Christ himself—that there are no chosen people, only a chosen path: the path of love? The kingdom of God is within, demanding we see the divine in our own reflection and in all we meet.
Real Christianity is not an escape from the world, but a courageous engagement with it, beginning with the person in the mirror. It asks not, “Do you support the right nation?” but “Have you clothed the naked, fed the hungry, and loved the unlovable?” The answer—the state of our own hearts—is the only Zion that truly matters.
It is time for Fijian Christianity to have the courage to look squarely at its own reflection.
The images from Gaza haunt the conscience of humanity: endless columns of desperate families fleeing under bombardment, children sleeping in rubble, parents starving themselves to feed their offspring, and the constant, grinding terror of displacement after displacement. According to recent UN reports, over 250,000 people have been displaced from Gaza City in just the past month alone, adding to the nearly two million already displaced throughout the territory. As I write these words, countless Palestinian families—including an estimated 1,000 Palestinian Christians—are being forced from homes that have become uninhabitable ruins, joining what the International Displacement Monitoring Centre identifies as one of the largest displacement crises in the world today.
From a Christian perspective, this catastrophic human suffering demands more than political analysis; it requires theological and moral reflection rooted in our deepest convictions about human dignity, divine compassion, and justice. How might Jesus of Nazareth—the Palestinian Jew who knew the trauma of displacement as a refugee in Egypt—view what is happening in Gaza today? What does the forced displacement of an entire population reveal about the state of Christian witness in the world? This question beckons us beyond simplistic binaries and comfortable religious nationalism into the uncomfortable territory where faith meets solidarity with the crucified peoples of our time.
Biblical Landscapes of Displacement
The narrative of forced displacement is tragically familiar within Scripture. The Hebrew Bible tells countless stories of exile and displacement—from Adam and Eve expelled from Eden to the Israelites dragged into Babylonian captivity. God’s people knew the anguish of being driven from their land, the terror of living under occupation, and the bitter tears of displacement. The Psalmist captures this trauma vividly: “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion” (Psalm 137:1).
These stories were not mere historical artifacts to Jesus; they formed the spiritual imagination of his Jewish identity. When Matthew’s Gospel tells us Joseph fled to Egypt with Mary and the infant Jesus to escape Herod’s slaughter of innocents, it places God himself in the position of a displaced person. The Incarnation thus includes the experience of forced migration—God becomes a refugee, sanctifying the experience of those who flee violence today. This theological truth should fundamentally shape how Christians view Gaza’s displaced millions: in their faces, we encounter Christ himself, who identified with the displaced and marginalized so completely that he said, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40).
How Would Jesus View Gaza’s Displacement?
Based on the gospel accounts, Jesus would likely respond to Gaza’s suffering with three distinct postures:
1. Radical Identification with the Suffering
Jesus consistently demonstrated what Palestinian theologian Munther Isaac calls “Christ in the rubble”—the Christ who identifies not with powerful rulers but with victims buried under the debris of violence. In Gaza today, Christ is present in the child buried under concrete, the mother mourning her family, the father searching for bread. Jesus’ ministry was characterized by this intentional solidarity with those on the margins: the sick, the impoverished, the ritually unclean, the occupation-weary residents of Galilee. His compassion (literally “suffering with”) was not abstract pity but gut-wrenching identification . As Graham Joseph Hill writes, “The cross holds no nation; it holds brokenness, and it holds both Israelis and Palestinians”.
2. Unflinching Truth-Telling
Jesus would undoubtedly name the realities in Gaza with prophetic clarity. He would condemn Hamas’ horrific attacks on October 7th that killed approximately 1,200 Israelis and took hundreds hostage. But he would also condemn the disproportionate response that has left over 65,000 Palestinians dead, mostly civilians, and created famine conditions. Jesus never remained silent in the face of injustice, whether confronting religious leaders about their hypocrisy or driving money-changers from the temple. His example challenges us to speak truth without partiality, recognizing that “we cannot apologize for truth: and yet we must not weaponize it. We must speak truth rooted in lament, not in tribal vindication”.
3. Rejection of Dehumanizing Theologies
Jesus consistently challenged religious frameworks that justified ignoring human suffering. He healed on the Sabbath, touched the unclean, and ate with sinners—all acts that privileged human need over rigid interpretations of religion. In Gaza, Jesus would undoubtedly reject theologies that privilege one people’s security over another’s right to exist, or that use Scripture to justify endless violence. He would confront what Munther Isaac identifies as the “matrix of coloniality, racism, and theology” that enables the current violence . His ministry reveals a God whose compassion is “indiscriminately available to all”, not a tribal deity who takes sides in human conflicts.
The Crisis of Christian Conscience
The tragedy of Gaza’s displacement is not merely humanitarian; it represents a profound crisis of Christian conscience. While millions suffer, many Christians have remained silent, defensive, or openly supportive of policies that lead to civilian casualties and mass displacement. This failure stems from what Palestinian Christian Dr. Fares Abraham identifies as “the absence of Christ-honoring compassion during these darkest moments of our humanity”.
This moral failure has theological roots. For decades, certain strands of Christian theology—particularly forms of Christian Zionism—have uncritically supported Israeli policy while minimizing Palestinian suffering. This theology often spiritualizes away Palestinian rights and interprets biblical prophecies in ways that require unquestioning support for the Israeli state. As the Gaza war strains these theological models, even evangelical scholars are questioning whether their frameworks have “exhausted a group of evangelical Bible professors pursuing unity on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict”.
The result is what Munther Isaac rightly calls complicity: “The denial is so loud. It’s nothing short of complicity” . When we fail to name atrocities—when we hesitate to call out the killing of 17,000 children or the deliberate creation of famine conditions—we become like the religious leaders who passed by on the other side in Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan . Our silence echoes that of German Christians who largely failed to protest the Nazi persecution of Jews—a historical parallel that should unsettle every Christian conscience.
Beyond Bunker Mentalities: Toward a Cruciform Compassion
Christian response to Gaza’s displacement requires moving beyond what Graham Joseph Hill calls “bunker mentalities” that shrink our moral imagination . Nationalism, he argues, “shrinks the heart. Tribal identity makes vacuums in compassion.” Instead, we need a spirituality that embodies what the ancient Christian tradition called orthopathos—right emotions—particularly the virtue of compassion.
Table: Elements of Christian Response to Gaza’s Displacement
Theological Concept
Traditional Response
Transformed Response
Compassion
Pity from a distance
Identification with suffering
Solidarity
Charity for those like us
Justice for all oppressed
Land Theology
Exclusive divine promise
Shared homeland for all
Security
Military protection for one
Human security for all
Peacemaking
Absence of conflict
Presence of justice
This compassion is not mere sentiment but what the Latin root (compati) literally means: to suffer with . It moves beyond sympathy (“feeling for”) to identification (“suffering with”). This compassion becomes incarnational—taking flesh in concrete action:
1. The Spiritual Practice of Lament
Christian tradition offers us the language of lament—the spiritual practice of grieving honestly before God. Lament refuses to rush to resolution or theological justification. It sits in the dust with Job, weeps with Jesus at Lazarus’ tomb, and cries out with the Psalmist, “How long, O Lord?”. Lament creates space to “weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15), holding the cries of Gazan mothers alongside Israeli survivors of Hamas’ attacks. This lament must include both Israeli and Palestinian suffering, refusing to play a morbid calculus of comparative victimhood.
2. Prophetic Truth-Telling
Following Jesus requires naming injustices without partiality. We must condemn Hamas’ violence and call for the release of all hostages while also condemning Israel’s disproportionate tactics, blockade, and creation of famine conditions. This includes using accurate moral language—even when it makes us uncomfortable. When evidence mounts from numerous Holocaust scholars, genocide experts, and international bodies that Israel’s actions meet the legal definition of genocide, Christians must have the courage to name this reality.
3. Concrete Solidarity
Compassionate orthopathos must translate into orthopraxy—right action. This includes supporting humanitarian efforts, advocating for ceasefires, demanding our governments stop supplying weapons used against civilians, and welcoming displaced people. It means pressuring governments to “open windows for water, food, and medicine, without strings attached”. As Hill powerfully states, “We don’t bless bombs. We bless bread. We don’t sanctify oppression. We wash feet”.
4. Theological Reformation
We need to develop theological frameworks that transcend the partisan divides that have captured Christian witness. This requires rejecting the “us versus them” binary thinking that contradicts the inclusive vision of the gospel. As the Christians in Conversation on the Middle East group has modeled, we need spaces where “self-critique” and genuine listening can occur across theological divides. This theological reformation must center the image of God in every human being—Israeli and Palestinian alike—and recognize that authentic Christian hope “lies not in political solutions but in the Prince of Peace who will one day make all things right”.
The Courage to See Christ in the Rubble
The forced displacement of Gazans represents one of the great moral crises of our time—a crisis that demands Christian response rooted in the life and teachings of Jesus. This response begins with recognizing what Palestinian theologian Munther Isaac calls “Christ in the rubble”—the Christ who identifies with victims buried under the debris of violence . It continues with embracing a compassion that suffers with those who suffer, and it culminates in courageous action that protects life, demands justice, and refuses to choose between victims.
The way of Jesus—the way of the cross—invites us to stand in the crack where grief meets hope. It calls us to reject nationalistic idolatries and tribal loyalties that shrink our hearts. It challenges us to embody what Graham Joseph Hill calls “cruciform ethics” that “doesn’t shy from calling out abuses but does so without rhetorical weaponry”.
As the world watches Gaza’s displacement with either horror or indifference, Christians face a choice: will we be chaplains to power or sanctuaries for the broken? Will we bless bombs or bless bread? Will we sanctify oppression or wash feet? The answer will determine not only the credibility of our witness but the fidelity of our discipleship.
In the end, the question is not whether God is present in Gaza’s suffering—the Incarnation assures us God is profoundly there, buried in the rubble with the suffering. The real question is whether we will have the courage to join God there.
“Grief cracks the heart open wide enough to carry courage.
1 Understanding the Theological Distinction Between Biblical and Modern Israel
The core of Christian fundamentalist’s argument rests on a theological conflation of modern Israel with biblical Israel—a position that numerous Christian scholars and theologians have robustly challenged. Modern Israel is a secular nation-state established in 1948 through geopolitical processes, while biblical Israel represents a covenant community within God’s salvation history . The New Testament itself demonstrates that God’s promises to ancient Israel, find their fulfillment in Jesus Christ, through whom blessings extend to all peoples.
Theologically, Romans 11 speaks of spiritual grafting into God’s covenant people through Christ—not political support for any modern nation-state. The Apostle Paul’s metaphor emphasizes the inclusive nature of God’s salvation available to Jews and Gentiles alike through faith, not ethnic or national affiliation. This understanding prevents the theological error of equating modern state policies with divine endorsement.
2 The Ethical Imperative: Principled Non-Alignment in the Face of Injustice
The Pasifika Conference of Churches (PCC) advocates for principled non-alignment—a position that engages all parties while refusing to remain neutral in the face of injustice . This approach reflects Jesus’s command to “love your neighbor” (Matthew 22:39) by prioritizing human dignity, international law, and civilian protection over partisan political alliances .
Reverend Bhagwan and the PCC have explicitly condemned all forms of violence—including Hamas’s initial attack—while emphasizing that criticism of the Israeli government’s policies does not constitute antisemitism. Their statement affirms: “We grieve every life taken and reject every hatred—antisemitism, anti-Arab racism, and Islamophobia”. This balanced position recognizes the historical suffering of Jewish people while acknowledging the current plight of Palestinians.
The PCC’s call for Palestinian recognition at the UN General Assembly stems from the same commitment to self-determination that Pasifika nations have sought in our own decolonization journeys. This consistency is what Reverend Bhagwan means by an “Ocean of Peace”—a vision that demands ethical coherence rather than selective application of principles .
3 The Pasifika Context: Why Fiji’s Embassy Decision now is Problematic
The Fiji government’s decision to establish an embassy in Jerusalem at this time, contradicts international consensus that the city’s status should be resolved through final-status negotiations . The PCC has cautioned against this move precisely because it prejudges Jerusalem’s status and potentially normalizes ongoing violations of international law .
Prime Minister Rabuka’s claim that this is “not a religious decision” but rather “strategic engagement” rings hollow when considering Fiji’s own peacekeeping history in the region. Fijian soldiers have witnessed firsthand the devastating consequences of conflict, including the 1996 Qana massacre where Israeli shelling killed 106 Lebanese civilians sheltering at a UN compound. This historical context makes Fiji’s diplomatic move particularly morally troubling.
The PCC’s critique is not about rejecting dialogue with Israel but about ensuring that engagement serves peace with justice. As Reverend Bhagwan notes: “We cannot talk about the killing of thousands of people, unarmed civilians, children, the destruction of humanitarian spaces and at the same time talk about relationship with the countries that are perpetrating this violence” .
4 Conclusion: Toward a Consistent Christian Witness
Christian support for the modern state of Israel is not a theological imperative but a political choice—one that must be evaluated based on its alignment with Christian values of justice, peace, and human dignity. The Pasifika Conference of Churches offers a theologically robust and ethically consistent framework that:
Distinguishes between biblical Israel and the modern state of Israel
Affirms the equal worth and dignity of both Israeli and Palestinian people
Advocates for peace based on international law and human rights
Rejects all forms of violence and discrimination
This approach honors Christianity’s Jewish roots while recognizing that the church’s primary allegiance is to God’s kingdom—not any earthly nation. As Jesus told Pilate: “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36). Our call as Christians is to bear witness to this alternative reality where peace is established through justice, reconciliation through truth, and security through equal rights for all .
Rev. James Bhagwan and the Pasifika Conference of Churches, exemplify this prophetic witness—one that speaks truth to power while extending compassion to all affected by conflict. This is not abandonment of Christian roots but rather its fullest expression.
The fascinating and deeply reported account of the Pasifika’s allegiance to Israel reveals a complex tapestry of faith, identity politics, and geopolitical strategy. From the Negev Desert to the jungles of Malaita and the government offices of Draiba, a powerful narrative—the myth of the Lost Tribes of Israel—has been woven, binding remote island nations to a distant conflict in the Middle East. However, this unwavering support, born from a desire for significance and spiritual homecoming, appears to many observers as a profound paradox. While presented as a righteous stand for an “elder brother,” this alignment, championed by fundamentalist Christian leaders, often overlooks a critical examination of both scripture and the stark reality of Israel’s modern actions, culminating in what can only be described as a tragic abdication of moral responsibility in the face of the devastating genocide in Gaza.
The allure of the Lost Tribes myth is undeniably powerful, especially for nations historically relegated to the margins of global affairs. For the people of Fiji, the Solomon Islands, and others, the story is not mere folklore; it is a theological and historical anchor. It transforms them from inhabitants of “the ends of the earth” into central players in a millennia-old biblical saga. As Robert Kaua in the Solomons articulated, this belief provides a “lifetime commitment,” a sense of divine purpose that elevates their national identity above one of mere post-colonial struggle. This deep-seated need for a glorious past and a significant future is a potent force. When combined with the evangelical framework that views the modern state of Israel as a prerequisite for Christ’s second coming, it creates an ideological imperative to defend it unconditionally. The emotional resonance is clear: the Fijian marchers waving Israeli flags and blowing shofars genuinely feel they are championing their own family.
Yet, this fervent belief is dangerously susceptible to manipulation, both from within and without. The reporting exposes a startling cynicism among the myth’s most prominent champions. The retired Solomon Islands warlord Jimmy Lusibaea admits the story was a useful tool for morale, a banner under which to wage a holy war, yet he privately expresses uncertainty about its truth. Fiji’s Deputy Prime Minister Viliame Gavoka, who leverages the myth for political capital, squirms and stammers when asked directly for his belief, eventually conceding it’s a useful narrative to make people “buy into what you believe in.” Most telling is the preacher Mikaele Mudreilagi, whose vision in the desert propelled him to activism. When pressed, his conviction crumbles into a hesitant “if” and a “possibility,” a far cry from the certainty he preached to his followers. These leaders are not true believers; they are entrepreneurs of faith, packaging a palatable prophecy to consolidate power, win elections, and gain relevance.
This internal manipulation is compounded and encouraged by external actors who recognize the strategic value of these votes on the world stage. Organizations like the International Christian Embassy Jerusalem (ICEJ) actively cultivate and celebrate this support. Their president’s praise for the Fijian branch’s “amazing impact” reveals a clear understanding that these Pasifika nations are a diplomatic lifeline. In forums like the United Nations and the International Court of Justice, where Israel faces near-total isolation, the votes of Fiji, Nauru, and Papua New Guinea are priceless. The establishment of the so-called Indigenous Embassy in Jerusalem is a masterstroke of propaganda, weaponizing the concept of indigeneity, to shield the Israeli government from accusations of settler colonialism. By presenting Pasifika Islanders as “indigenous advocates” for Israel, it creates a moral equivalence that is both historically inaccurate and ethically grotesque, effectively using the descendants of one colonized people to launder the reputation of a modern occupying power.
This brings us to the most troubling aspect of this alliance: the profound and willful moral disconnect it requires. The fundamentalist Christianity that underpins this support is highly selective. It cherry-picks the Old Testament—the covenants with Abraham, the glory of King Solomon’s Ophir—while systematically ignoring the unsavory bits: the genocidal commands, the prophetic calls for justice, and the entirety of Christ’s teachings in the New Testament centered on mercy, peacemaking, and love for one’s enemy. This faith has been utterly brainwashed, into aligning with a Western, conservative political project that values nationalist expansion over universal human dignity.
The brutal reality in Gaza is the ultimate test of this cherry-picked faith. As Israel’s military campaign, under the leadership of Benjamin Netanyahu, has unleashed a horrifying scale of destruction—leveling entire neighborhoods, killing tens of thousands of civilians, and creating a man-made famine—the response from these Pasifika champions has been to double down. They frame it solely as a war of good against evil, of Israel against Hamas, refusing to engage with the disproportionate and collective punishment being meted out upon a largely helpless population. To stand with Israel is one thing; to offer unqualified support for a campaign the International Court of Justice has found to be “plausibly” genocidal is another entirely. Their “missile prayers” are not for the ceasing of violence or the protection of all innocent life but for the victory of one side, blind to the mountains of corpses being created in their name.
The great tragedy is that this position betrays the very indigenous and spiritual values these nations claim to hold. Pasifika cultures are traditionally built on community, reciprocity, and a deep connection to the land. To see leaders like Gavoka and Mudreilagi use their influence to endorse the dispossession and slaughter of another people connected to their land is a bitter irony. The compassionate wisdom of their own cultures, which should inspire calls for reconciliation and ceasefire, is drowned out by the drumbeat of apocalyptic zeal and realpolitik. They pray for a time when “the two flags unite,” as Kaua did, while their government’s actions on the world stage empower the very forces making that dream impossible.
In the end, the story of the Pasifika’s support for Israel is a cautionary tale about the power of story and the danger of faith divorced from critical ethics. The Lost Tribes myth provided a beautiful dream of belonging and purpose. But in the hands of cynical leaders and foreign interest groups, it has been weaponized into a narrative that justifies overlooking a horrific reality. It is a testament to the fact that the most potent myths are not those that are true, but those that we desperately want to believe—even if that belief requires closing our eyes to a genocide and abdicating our shared responsibility for our fellow human beings.
Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian 