If you ask a Maori in, for example, a settlement such as Ruatoria where Maoris constitute a majority of the population, what he understands by religion, expect him to scratch his head in thought, before at length replying ‘Whose religion?’

Religion and Christianity may be synonymous words for him, but what they mean will vary between ‘a human recognition of a superhuman controlling power’, on the one hand, and ‘the preaching of one thing and too often the doing of something else’, on the other.

Such issues as whether there was at some stage an entity that can be said to be the origin or architect of creation, and whether such an origin or architect had a single material form, if any, were and continue to be subjects of much speculation. Our typical Maori’s tribal upbringing makes him familiar with the capacity of superhuman controlling powers to exist as they choose—in a single form, or transformed at will into numerous manifestations.

What immediately concerns him are such issues as the effectiveness of the relationship between a person and a superhuman controlling power in magnifying that person’s capacity to work his will; or the constraints and obligations upon that person in order to sustain the relationship. The ability to accommodate these issues rests a great deal upon knowledge based in turn upon korero tahito (ancient explanations). These may be called ‘myths’, if that word refers to material the main purpose of which is to express the beliefs and values of people.

That the korero tahito persist in influencing the Maori’s mind is evident during hui (large social gatherings). Whether it is the occasion of a huritau (birthday), or tangi (a gathering to deal with a bereave­ment), each elder present uses the forum. Gazing around in assessment of those present, he rises in his turn to his feet and with measured dignity expounds in solemn rhetoric. To make his points he invokes the imagery of the tribal myths, with apt gesture, and with references to the symbolism, for example of the art and carving of the meeting-house.

The following passage is transcribed and translated from a speech by a tohunga Arnold Reedy, recorded in 1966. It conveys something of the way in which biblical ideas and korero tahito continue to interact, in the Maori way of thinking.

Should I happen to meet with [the Apostle] Paul I would probably say to him, ‘By Gosh, Paul, those thoughts conflict greatly in my mind.’

The reason is that Adam is the ancestor of the Hebrews and of the Israelites. Whereas ours is this other: Io the Parent. That’s ours. From Him/Her are Papa and Rangi and then the Tamariki. Such is the Maori whakapapa, right from Tikitiki-o- rangi.

There, then is the difference between our God and the God of the Hebrews. The God of the Hebrews and Israelites they say has His residence in Heaven. Ours, and the God of our ancestors, resides there too. But they know that Tikitiki-o-rangi is the name of the residence of Io; it’s there.

What er... Paul is saying looks, to use an English term, very much confused, in my view.

Because, take Adam: Then said the God of the Hebrews, ‘Let us create man after our image.’ And so the God of the Hebrews created Adam. But when that Adam was born into this world, others resided there too, and he considered them: ‘What an ineffectual state of affairs. ’ For sexual organs simply dangled there with nowhere to go, nowhere.

Let us observe the formalities in our discussion! [an elder’s (female) voice]...

People were born. What Paul is telling us here is that nobody was born. How did he manage it? He took hold of one of his ribs and yanked it out, and then said, ‘This is Eve.’ They had union and Cain and his younger brothers were born, the generations of whom Paul speaks; these are the Hebrews and the Israelites.

Look here, ours, not so; ours goes this other way. Thetamariki ofPapa and Rangi resided, but that God continued to reside above, the beginning and the ending. The visaged one, the faceless one. Io, Io the Parent, he is the beginning, he is the ending.

But the tamariki of this couple [Papa and Rangi] resided between them. Gradu­ally, eventually, a stifled sense overwhelmed them; they of course being all male, there were no female ones. Some began to say, ‘Let us kick our parents into separating, so that we may emerge into the ordinary world of light.’ Others spoke. Tu Matauenga began to say, ‘Let us slay our matua, slay them.’ And others were saying, ‘No, that is too shameful.’ From that time hence, Tu Matauenga is god of war, of bloodshed.

Some began to say, ‘How shall we proceed?’ Tane lay down and raised his feet. Hmm! He began to kick, causing gradual separation, and hence was called by that name of his, Tane-toko-Rangi [Tane sunderer of the sky]—and so, there is separa­tion, there is separation.

But at the separation of Papa, I of course do not agree with what Paul says; there is strong conflict in my mind, the matter is this other way.

Rongomaraeroa was guardian of fern; that’s the Minister of Agriculture. Is it not so? Tu Matauenga, Minister of War—War Department. Er..., Tane-nui-a-rangi: that was god of the forests. Minister of Forests...

Tangaroa, Tangaroa of the Marine Department. They now have these posts, they have. (Money had not been invented at that time.)

But here is the problem. These people were all male; there was no female. These people considered their situation: ‘By golly, comrades, this is a distressing state! Just us, wherever you look it’s the same.’ Each one with his (male) sexual appen­dages. Gradually they became highly distressed by their own company. They began to ponder, ‘What shall we do, what shall we do?’

‘It is well!’, Tane-nui-a-rangi informs them, ‘it is well. I have the prescription for our disorder.’ He, Tane-nui-a-rangi, proceeded to the beach at Kurawaka and arrived. He began to heap up sand, more sand. He pondered his appearance, and began to mould (the heap) into shape similar to his own. But he added length to the hair... etc.

‘O Ropi [the female elder, Mrs Ngaropi White], these are the words of Wi-o-te- rangi, O Ropi.’

The Maori on the street of Ruatoria, nowadays at least, is content with the knowledge that he has access to the expertise of tohunga like Arnold Reedy. To outsiders he is inclined to present a front of learning, as a defence against anything that might question the worth of his tribal culture; the treasures transmitted to him by his ancestors.

Before turning to the main task I will note something about myself. The aim is to indicate some of the traditional constraints under which I write, and also to provide some data concerning the reliability of individual sources. I am of Ngati Uepohatu, a tribe whose unextinguished fires, lit by our explorer ancestor Maui, burn in the Waiapu valley near East Cape. The continuously burning fires refer to the state of being un­conquered, and in turn refer to the tribe’s unsullied prestige; that is the purity, inter alia, of its korero tahito.

My understanding is that each tribe has its own system of ancient explanations. The apparently permanent migration of some Maori into the tribal territories of other Maori has complicated the picture in some ways. And in relation to that and other matters, I recall an often quoted precept of the ancestors which goes: if you must speak, speak of your own. I speak of korero tahito and accordingly speak of Ngati Uepohatu ones. Our korero tahito have in the telling more or less depended in the past upon such factors as the appropriateness of the emotional climate in which it is told, the messages stated by the surroundings on the occasion, the body language of the narrator and the attributes that the human voice lends to words. Written presentation takes these things away. More than that, it tends to rigidify what has and should remain pliant. Flexibility in our korero tahito enables them to accommodate the capacity of the narrator to render them more relevant to the issues of the day. It is therefore with misgivings and a sense of danger that I must explain that this telling is only for this time, and that tomorrow I would tell it another way.