Māori Boy Atheist: Eru Hiko-Tahuri on Integrating Māori Values with Secular Humanism

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): A Further Inquiry

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/06/25

Part 1 of 5

Eru Hiko-Tahuri, a Māori creative and author of Māori Boy Atheist, explores his journey from religious upbringing to secular humanism. Hiko-Tahuri discusses cultural tensions as a Māori atheist, advocating for respectful integration of Māori values like manaakitanga and whanaungatanga within secular contexts. Hiko-Tahuri reflects on navigating Māori identity as an atheist. He emphasizes integrating Māori values like manaakitanga and whanaungatanga into secular spaces. Through storytelling, funerary practices, and community rituals, Hiko-Tahuri demonstrates that cultural richness and humanist principles can coexist without reliance on supernatural belief.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today, we’re joined by Eru Hiko-Tahuri, a multifaceted Māori creative and intellectual voice based in New Zealand.

Eru Hiko-Tahuri: Thank you for having me.

Jacobsen: He’s best known as the author of Māori Boy Atheist, where he chronicles his journey from childhood religious observance to secular humanism. Alongside writing, he engages audiences as a radio host, musician, and airbrush artist, integrating cultural expression with personal storytelling. Since launching Māori Boy Atheist, with editions available in English, Te Reo Māori, and French, he has contributed meaningfully to rationalist and skeptic communities, offering insights on navigating Māori spirituality as an atheist.

The book was first published in 2015 and has served as a platform to explore the intersection of Māori identity and secularism. His public talks and podcasts, notably The Heretical Hori, encourage free thought and integrity within the indigenous context. They combine art, reflective media, and cultural dialogue to foster conversations on belief, identity, and resilience. Through those platforms, I aim to respectfully explore and challenge ideas, especially within Māori communities where belief systems can be deeply personal and culturally intertwined.

Thank you very much for joining me today—I appreciate it.

Hiko-Tahuri: It’s a pleasure to be here.

Jacobsen: How do core humanist principles align with traditional Māori concepts such as mana, mana motuhake, and whanaungatanga?

Hiko-Tahuri: Whanaungatanga speaks to kinship and the interconnectedness of people. That aligns closely with humanism, emphasizing dignity, respect, and empathy. You treat others as people first—essentially as extended family. It’s about looking after the people within your sphere, which reflects humanist ethics well.

Jacobsen: How can secular humanist organizations incorporate Te Ao Māori—the Māori worldview—into their activities without endorsing supernaturalism while respecting and integrating those cultural values?

Hiko-Tahuri: That’s a great question. It’s not always straightforward, but let me give an example from personal experience. When someone in our family passes away, we take them to the marae—a tribal meeting ground—where they lie in state for three days. During that time, relatives come to mourn, share memories, cry, laugh, tell jokes, and say goodbyes.

Depending on travel or family arrangements, the person is buried or cremated on the third day—sometimes longer. This process reflects core Māori values like manaakitanga (hospitality, care) and whanaungatanga, which coexist naturally with humanist principles of community, respect, and shared humanity. These values shape how we live and commemorate life without invoking supernatural beliefs.

Employers in Aotearoa generally understand that if someone goes to a funeral, they might be gone for three days—that’s just the time it takes. All of that work, by the way, is done voluntarily. We gather at the marae. Some families will care for the food, and others will help with arrangements. You can even sleep there.

We sleep beside the body for those three days. We keep them with us. We talk to them. We joke about them. We tell stories. We insult them lovingly. We laugh. We cry. It’s all done out in the open, and it’s for everyone to witness. That’s just the way we do it. It’s a good, profound way of grieving together as a collective.

Jacobsen: And within a secular humanist context, this isn’t just about superficial inclusion—it’s about acknowledging different ways of being. That kind of grieving is profoundly human and deeply cultural. It’s not about hierarchy—this isn’t about one way being better than another.

Take my Dutch heritage, for example. They’re big on windmills, dikes, black licorice, and clogs. The traditional way of burial there is usually more private—placing the body in a mound of Earth and marking it with a cross or a headstone. The grieving tends to happen separately from the deceased.

But for you, it’s different. Being with the body, telling stories, laughing and crying beside them—all part of the process. I wouldn’t say one way is more valid than the other. These are just different cultural processes for the same human experience. One does not invalidate the other.

Hiko-Tahuri: This is just the way we do it. I don’t judge how others handle it, but this is the way I prefer because it’s how I grew up. It’s what feels real to me.

And yes, there are usually religious aspects involved in the funeral proceedings. When those moments arise, I sit quietly and let them happen around me. I do not participate in those parts because I cannot in good conscience. And that’s one of the problematic areas—Indigenous and non-religious. Those are the tensions.

Jacobsen: How do you navigate those tensions?

Hiko-Tahuri: That’s the most challenging part, honestly. Knowing when to stay quiet, step back, and speak. It isn’t easy.

Jacobsen: Were there aspects where you didn’t feel tension at all? Or places where the friction started to show?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. One of the earliest points where tension emerges is during the pōwhiri—the welcoming ceremony when people arrive at the marae. That includes a series of formal speeches. It’s in that speech-making process where religious content often appears. That’s where the rub tends to start.

Jacobsen: Do you find conversations with others in the Māori community become more difficult when you do not endorse the spiritual or supernatural aspects of the culture?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. It can be challenging. Not always, but often. Some people are very accepting. Others feel that rejecting the supernatural is rejecting the culture itself, which is not my intention. But the tension is real.

Jacobsen: So you’re engaging in the same practices but not endorsing the supernaturalism around them. Is that difficult for people?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. Many people do not understand that distinction. There have been many times when I’ve been told, “You’re not Māori if you don’t believe in these things.” That has happened quite a few times.

Jacobsen: That is unfortunately common. I have encountered similar stories in speaking with Indigenous people—particularly from North America. The closest equivalent, in terms of how it’s discussed internationally, is often with African Americans in more conservative or evangelistic religious circles: Baptist, Pentecostal, Methodist—hardline Christianity in Black communities in the United States.

Suppose you’re a woman in those communities, and you reject the concept of God or Christianity entirely. In that case, you’ve forfeited your “Black card.” You’re suddenly seen as no longer fully part of the community.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes.

Jacobsen: And that is not just an identity issue—it’s social. You’re giving up a significant source of communal support in a society that will not necessarily provide support to you proportionately. So, there are deeper sociological and economic implications at play.

I’ve heard similar things from North American Indigenous people, too—they say, ‘You’ve given up your Indigenous card.

Hiko-Tahuri: Somehow, you’re less Māori or less authentic if you’re secular. On the marae or in the community, that feeling can be present.

Jacobsen: Would you say it is quite that extreme in New Zealand?

Hiko-Tahuri: Probably not to the same extent. New Zealanders are generally pretty liberal. Highly religious people here are sometimes even seen as a bit unusual. We’re more secular than many places—certainly more than I’ve seen in North America. So, it is not as intense, but it can still be challenging.

This is especially true among people in what we might call the Māori Renaissance—those who are just now reconnecting with their heritage. Typically, the first people they learn from are religious, so religion is deeply woven into the cultural learning they receive. Then they meet someone like me, who speaks the language and participates fully in the culture but is openly non-religious—and that creates tension for them. It challenges their framework.

Jacobsen: If you look at the traditional Māori worldview—how human beings were made, how the world came into being—what aspects can be reconciled with a humanistic way of looking at things, and what aspects cannot? And maybe you could give us a bit of a background primer. What’s the general picture?

Hiko-Tahuri: In the Māori creation narrative, everything begins with Te Kore—the void or nothingness. From Te Korecame Ranginui (Sky Father) and Papatūānuku (Earth Mother). They were bound together in a tight embrace, and between them lived their many children—some say seventy, others say fewer.

Because the children were trapped in the darkness between their parents, they decided that their parents had to be separated to live with light and space. This led to a conflict among the children—each had a different view on handling the situation. Eventually, Tāne Mahuta, the God of forests and birds, pushed his parents apart, creating the world of light, Te Ao Mārama.

These children—atua, the closest term to “gods”—became personifications of natural elements. So there’s Tangaroa for the sea, Tāwhirimātea for weather and storms, Rongo for cultivated food, and so on. There’s debate around what atruly means—whether they’re deities or ancestral forces—but they represent aspects of the natural world in human-like form.

These stories explain natural forces through personification. Of course, much of it doesn’t align with what we know from science about how humans or the Earth came into being. But some aspects resonate. For instance, each atua has a personality—just like humans do. This humanizes nature and gives people a relational framework for understanding their environment.

So yes, while the cosmology isn’t scientifically accurate, the relational values and metaphors can still be meaningful. That’s where the humanist alignment might be found—not in literal belief but in symbolic or cultural interpretation.

It reminds me of reading Joseph Campbell—how mythologies worldwide echo similar patterns. Eventually, you realize that they can’t all be true—and most likely, none of them are. That was my journey. Campbell was instrumental in helping me unpack much of what I had assumed. Once you see that every culture has a creation story—and they often contradict one another—you start questioning which, if any, are “true” in a literal sense.

Jacobsen: I’ve found it helpful to separate spirituality in the supernatural sense from spirituality as a personal or communal meaning-making practice, especially in conversations like this and other interviews. In other words, spirituality that gives a person purpose or peace doesn’t need to invoke the supernatural.

Hiko-Tahuri: Absolutely. That distinction has been vital for me, too. 

Jacobsen: When people say “spiritual,” I sometimes ask: Do you mean supernaturalism or practices that foster wellbeing or connection? Prayer or meditation, for example, can have measurable health benefits—lowering stress and calming the nervous system—without requiring a belief in the supernatural.

So yes—looking at spiritual practices in the edification or enriching sense—not in the supernatural sense—what practices are done in the community or individually, or at least encouraged, that might be comparable to things like attending Easter or Christmas mass? Or personal rituals like being told to read a specific scripture in the morning, pray for ten minutes, hold a rosary, and recite ten Hail Marys?

Hiko-Tahuri: I was thinking about practices of personal unification. A lot of our communal activities involve singing. We’re a people who love to sing together. You will hear singing at any large gathering—a meeting, a ceremony, or a funeral.

Yes, some of the songs are religious, but what’s significant is that you have 300 people singing in harmony. And the richness of sound—those layers of harmonies—is incredible. Whether it’s traditional waiata, more contemporary songs, or even religious hymns, singing together is powerful. Even if the content has spiritual roots, the experience is about unity, connection, and shared emotion.

Jacobsen: That resonates with me. We’re both secular humanists and atheists. I can relate to my time in a university choir. I was in it for about two and a half years, and we sang many classical European music—Bach, Mozart’s Requiem, and other choral works.

Sometimes, we performed modern songs with a 1950s vibe. I remember people using phrases like “cat” and “daddio” or “you dig,” like something out of an Eddie Murphy or Richard Pryor scene. I sang bass, and we once collaborated with musicians from the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra in a 500-seat church. The acoustics were stunning.

It was technically Christian or sacred music—cathedral music, I’d call it—but the overwhelming sense of awe, the physical resonance, the unity of voices… It was a spiritual experience in that broader, secular sense of the word.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, I’d call that spiritual too. It taps into a level of connection and emotion you do not find anywhere else.

I do not avoid using “spiritual” in that context. It describes an experience of profound meaning, joy, or connection. I am not using it to refer to supernatural beliefs.

I’m not one of those people who avoids the word altogether. I use it for deeply moving experiences that are transcendent in an emotional sense. Just because a word has a particular religious usage does not mean it is limited to that meaning.

Jacobsen: Yes—most words have secondary meanings. So, use the second meaning! And if someone asks, explain it.

Hiko-Tahuri: Absolutely.

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