The Boston church that founded the "Sandwich Islands Church" in 1819, and what came after
 | Nānā i ke kumu. Look to the source. I just came back from Boston for an AI strategy class, but I was also there to nānā i ke kumu. This time, the source found me. To be crystal clear, this is not aimed at any faith. These are my raw reflections after sitting in an old church and facing hard truths. Salem was supposed to anchor this huakaʻi. It holds rare glimpses of kūpuna life before western contact, and I figured some time to kilo small details would ground me. They did. The artwork on a huawai pāwehe made me curious about the artist. I could imagine a kupuna tightly weaving the connected hawele rope. But it was an unplanned side trip that did the real work. Park Street Church anchors one edge of Boston Common. I had never heard of it before I arrived. I am sure I walked right past this red brick church in the 90s and never looked up. I was lucky. Members with ties to Hawaiʻi invited me in and gave me all the time I needed. This is a remarkable church, and its members should be proud of centuries of humanitarian work. A huge plaque out front lists the milestones they celebrate. William Lloyd Garrison’s first anti-slavery speech. The first chartered branch of the NAACP. The first time “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” was ever sung. Our own aliʻi outlawed slavery in 1852, more than a decade before the United States, and I got curious whether some of that conviction was carried by people tied to this very church. Why? Because right near the top of that same proud list sits this one. Sandwich Islands (Hawaii) Church Founded 1819. That is us. In 1819, this congregation sent America’s first missionaries to Hawaiʻi. They had taken in and converted four young Hawaiian men who had found their way to New England, and it was likely those men who turned the mission toward our islands. The four boarded the ship alongside the missionaries, to plant the first American colony here and to save our souls. I wonder if they would have come had they seen what their children would do. Before Cook landed in 1778, there were upwards of a million of us. We had lived alone in the middle of the ocean for so long that we had no defense against sicknesses already burning through the rest of the world. Syphilis. Tuberculosis. Measles. TB is not some history book lesson to me. I caught it myself as a kid and spent a year swallowing two chalky pills a day that made me sick just to get well. The missionaries arrived in the middle of a great dying. By the time they stepped ashore, barely four decades after Cook, we had already lost the vast majority of our people. Some of our own aliʻi pivoted and began dismantling our traditions, and the missionaries accelerated the push away from our hula, our mele, nā akua, and our kāhuna. The missionaries were instructed to cover these islands with fruitful fields, pleasant dwellings, schools, and churches, while refraining from all interference with the local and political interests of the people. Park Street Church and the ABCFM grew from the same Boston roots. A decade after the first missionaries reached Hawaiʻi, the ABCFM sent reinforcements, including Dwight Baldwin and William Alexander, who were stationed on Maui. A generation later, their sons Henry and Samuel turned that mission ground into cane and founded Alexander and Baldwin. More descendants of missionaries, joined by other American and European settlers, planted plantations, organized waves of immigrant labor, and amassed western fortunes. Even that was not enough. They wanted the whole Kingdom. They helped engineer an illegal overthrow and imprisoned our Queen. There is a saying credited to Desmond Tutu. When the missionaries came, the people had the land and the missionaries had the Bible. They said let us pray. The people closed their eyes. When they opened them, the people held the Bible and the missionaries held the land. One of the four Hawaiian men who sailed with that first wave would later take up arms to defend his homeland. He was already too late. Piece by piece, the descendants of those missionaries took the land. Tutu spoke of Africa, but he could have been speaking of us. Tūtū, in my language, means grandparent. He never knew our word for him, but he spoke like one. By the time the dust settled, they had lowered our flag and raised their own. Barely 37,000 of us were left to watch it climb. The plaque ends with, To God Be the Glory, Great Things He Has Done. From a pew in Boston, that reads as a proud celebration. I thought about this sign as I skipped the subway for the long walk back to my hotel. In the end, I think that glory often belongs to the one holding the chisel. I am not throwing daggers. I am forcing myself to sit in discomfort instead of sleeping through the static. Every strand of the hawele in Salem sits behind glass. This sign sits behind glass too. Both carry cords of hope, healing, and deep wounds. Pull one and you pull them all. I pulled this one. ʻIke i ke kumu. Photos at https://olagon.substack.com/ [link] [comments] |
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