I’ve been staying at Stevenson’s at Manase, a big, rambling resort on the coast of Savai’i in Samoa. It’s a breath-taking location – palms and coral sand, sunsets and crystal, warm waters – but the buildings hint at another story.
It looks like it was built with bold vision and hope in the 1980s or 90’s. Signs of the original ambition are still visible: the Bentley Brasserie, Ana’s Place, and other names that suggest someone once dreamed big here. But time has done its work.
Lights don’t turn on. Wi-Fi extenders blink but do nothing. Undersized circuit breakers trip at the slightest load.
The concrete steps to the sea are cracked, worn and dangerously slippery.
A thousand small things need fixing, but owners or staff have simply learned to walk past them.
‘TripAdvisor’ reviews reflect the mixed reality: some are glowing, others are scathing, but one thing is consistently praised – the warm Samoan hospitality provided by the staff and the beauty of the setting. And that’s no small thing. A warm welcome, hospitable staff and a beautiful location go a long way.
Still, good hospitality can’t replace good systems. Warm hospitality doesn’t fix wiring. Smiles don’t patch broken steps.
It’s got me thinking about maintenance.
Everyone wants to build. But who will maintain?
There’s energy and excitement in beginnings – in starting something new. The thrill of a ground-breaking project. The hope in launching a business, a ministry, a movement. These are the stories we love to tell, the ones that end with ribbon-cuttings and foundation stones, bearing names.
But maintenance? That’s quieter. Less glamorous. It’s slow, patient, invisible. There are no plaques for fixing the lights or repainting the railings. No legacy in tightening the hinges or replacing the fuse box.
And yet, it’s what keeps things alive.
I found myself thinking of the “whisky priest” in Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory, who dreams of being the heroic priest, who builds a new church, gets his name on the foundation stone, and leaves the next twenty priests to pay it off. He longs for the glory of the beginning – but not the grind that follows.
But what if you build it, then neglect it, and then they come, but complain? What if the real work, the truly faithful work, is not in starting something, but in sustaining it?
That’s when I remember the image Jesus gave us of God – not as a grand architect or CEO, but a gardener. Not a one-time builder, but God, the maintainer; the one who fixes, tends, prunes, watches, returns. The One who understands that living things need constant care.
“I am the vine, and my Father is the gardener.” Jesus says (John 15:1). It’s a portrait of ongoing attentiveness. A quiet, daily maintenance of life and growth. Not dramatic. Not headline-worthy, but holy.
While the world celebrates founders and builders, God is depicted as the one who tends: patiently pruning, weeding, watering, waiting. Jesus describes God as the gardener, and himself as the true vine. It’s an image not of grand gestures, but of constant care – of maintenance.
Our churches, our communities, even our relationships – these don’t survive because they were well-built, but because someone loved them enough to maintain them.
But this isn’t just about someone else’s resort.
It’s made me reflect on how we maintain what we’ve built at the Shiraz Republic. I, too, love creating new features – new paths, new experiences, new ideas. There’s joy in innovation, pride in fresh paint and new signs, but what about the things I walk past? The cracked paver. The sticky door. The sign faded by years of sun. The many little things that aren’t quite right, but have merged into the background.
This time away has reminded me that little things matter.
On my return, I’ve resolved to take a fresh look around our churches and at the Shiraz Republic, to try to see with a stranger’s eye. To ask myself, “What will a first-time visitor notice?” To listen more closely to the gentle, hints our visitors give us when something’s not working quite as it should. And to respond, not just with warmth, but with action and repair work that says, “We are listening and responding.”
My mother told me, “A stitch in time saves nine.” And maybe those stitches, the daily, often unnoticed, works of care, are the truest signs of faith. Building is only part of the story. Maintenance is where integrity and commitment live.
Brian Spencer – Minister