Godless but Not Cultureless: Māori Atheism, Identity, and the Quiet Challenge to Norms

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): A Further Inquiry

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/07/09

Part 3 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 being Māori and openly atheist in a culture where spiritual belief is assumed. Facing teasing, coded dismissal, and social tension, he challenges the stereotype that atheism is “white,” advocating for Indigenous humanism rooted in values, participation, and honest identity.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: In the North American Indigenous context, something that often happens is this: to reject the common beliefs—whether those are traditional spiritual systems or Christian indoctrination brought through colonization—is usually seen as rejecting Indigenous identity itself.

Because of colonization, many Indigenous people in Canada and the US identify as Christian. So, if you’re an Indigenous atheist, it’s often seen as adopting a “white” belief—or, I guess, more precisely, a white rejection of religion. Atheism is framed as a white thing.

Eru Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, I’ve come across that sentiment here, too. I’ve had family members say similar things when I tell them I’m going to speak at an atheist group or do an interview like this. They’ll say something like, “Oh yes, that’s you, and your funny white friend,” or “That’s your weird white thing.”

Jacobsen: [Laughs] So there’s a little dig, but it’s not hostile?

Hiko-Tahuri: It’s more of a friendly poke than a grave insult. There’s no real malice behind it. It’s like a teasing jab, not a deep cut.

Jacobsen: And at least they’re not using racial slurs like you’d sometimes hear in North America—words like “cracker”thrown around with some edge to them.

Hiko-Tahuri: Right, it’s gentler here—more of a soft ribbing than anything else.

Jacobsen: I’ve heard similar things from North American Indigenous people. Atheism is often perceived as white, so any Indigenous person who identifies that way is viewed as having abandoned their roots—when really, they’re just thinking independently.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. That’s the dynamic. But honestly, I don’t care what other people think. I do me. I don’t have the energy to worry about other people’s opinions of me. If something comes up—and it rarely does—I’ll deal with it then. But in the meantime, I live my life.

Hiko-Tahuri: I won’t worry about what the rest of the Māori community thinks about me. I was even on Māori Television, here in Aotearoa, talking openly about being an atheist.

One of the more common comments I received afterwards was, “Oh, he needs to learn more about his culture.”

Jacobsen: This is a sophisticated way of saying, “He’s ignorant of our ways—therefore, he doesn’t accept our ways.” It’s a coded dismissal.

Hiko-Tahuri: Ironically, I practice more of our customs, speak more Te Reo, and participate more fully in the culture than many people making those comments.

Jacobsen: So, would you say that reaction is patronizing within the Māori community?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. That’s precisely what it is.

Another interesting thing is how certain people are automatically respected in the Māori community based on appearance. For example, if you’re an older Māori man wearing a clerical collar—any religious collar, regardless of denomination—you’re automatically afforded the status of someone to be respected.

Jacobsen: For clarity, could that collar belong to a Christian denomination or another tradition?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, it doesn’t matter what religion it is. If you wear the collar, you get that reverence. And I’ve met some of those men—they’re not particularly insightful or wise. I wouldn’t trust them to lead anything other than a church service. But because they hold that religious role, they’re treated with deference. So they’re seen as kaumātua—elders—because of the position, not because of actual wisdom or age.

You can be a 30-year-old wearing a collar and be treated like an elder. That’s one of my frustrations with how religion plays out in some Māori spaces.

Jacobsen: Would you distinguish here—again, using international terminology but applying it to a Māori-specific context—between indigeneity as culture and indigeneity as religion?

Because what I’ve come across in other interviews is a concept some call “Indigenous humanism.” It’s a framework where people continue participating in Indigenous practices—storytelling, ritual, community events—but without the supernatural belief component.

But on the flip side, I’ve also seen some Indigenous frameworks begin to mirror structured religions: hierarchy, sacred texts, holy oral traditions, and supernatural entities—almost resembling traditional Abrahamic models with “gods,” sacred teachings, powers, principalities, and so on.

Some Indigenous atheists and humanists I’ve spoken with are worried about this trend—a kind of religious revival forming around indigeneity itself. Their concern is that it could become dogmatic and undermine secular and Enlightenment-based thinking.

Hiko-Tahuri: I get what you’re saying. I haven’t seen that happening here, at least not in a widespread or formalized way. But part of that could be numbers. You’d need a critical mass of people adopting that framework for it to take shape. 

It’s less about isolated belief and more about institutionalization. It doesn’t evolve into that kind of system if you don’t have the numbers, but I understand the concern. Once belief systems become formalized, there’s always the risk that they become exclusionary or dogmatic.

We do not have that many of us, so we have not even had the chance to break ourselves into different “types” of atheists. We have not even come together for a group chat to discuss our thoughts. So no, I have not seen anything like that fragmentation yet because we are such a tiny group in New Zealand.

There has not been enough critical mass within atheism to split into more specific beliefs or approaches.

Jacobsen: If your initial feeling after publishing the book was one of relief—and the reaction was much more subdued than anticipated—do you now see people entering the atheist or humanist space, especially Māori, with this almost irrational sense of fear, only to realize, “Oh… it’s fine. It’s not a big deal”?

Hiko-Tahuri: Honestly? No, we do not even really see that reaction. Because so few people talk about it publicly. When we gather, we have roles to fill. We are there to work—we have responsibilities. There is no time to sit and have long philosophical debates about belief.

Jacobsen: That sounds like a cultural distinction. Take something like the Catholic Church—they gather, sit, listen, and sing. It is contemplative. But you are describing something very different.

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes. For example, there is much to do if we’re at the marae. We have protocols, hospitality, food to prepare, cleaning, hosting—so much practical work. We do not pause to reflect or debate belief systems during those moments.

At most, you might hear someone say, “Oh yeah, that cousin over there’s a bit different—he doesn’t believe in God.” And that’s it. That’s probably as deep as it goes.

Jacobsen: So the culture itself, in those moments, emphasizes function and participation over theology.

Hiko-Tahuri: We are caught up in the activity of the occasion, not in philosophical contemplation about the universe’s origins.

Jacobsen: So—what was the general reaction to the book? Good, bad, ugly, neutral, controlling?

Hiko-Tahuri: [Laughs] Honestly? Most people I knew contacted me to say, “Why am I not in it?”

Most reactions were driven by self-interest—”little me” stuff. Many people who read the book were curious if they were in it. A lot of the feedback was, “Oh yeah, that’s just you being you.” I’ve always been considered a bit weird anyway.

Jacobsen: [Laughs] Familiar.

Hiko-Tahuri: Other than that, people would say things like, “I never thought about that,” or “I didn’t know you couldn’t believe in God.” Because belief is so deeply embedded in Māori identity from such a young age.

Jacobsen: Is it similar to beliefs around wairua—the spiritual essence or spirit?

Hiko-Tahuri: Very much so. Wairua—the spiritual dimension—permeates everything. It’s so ingrained that when someone steps outside of it or says, “I don’t believe in that,” it’s beyond what many people are prepared to consider. They ignore it. It’s too far outside the norm to process.

Jacobsen: Did the book catalyze others—within the community or the broader New Zealand public—to come forward or speak out?

Hiko-Tahuri: I don’t know. I don’t want to claim that other Māori atheists came out because of my book. I can’t say that for sure. But we have a Facebook group called Atua Kore, which means “godless.” It has about 500 members now.

Jacobsen: That’s a solid number.

Hiko-Tahuri: It is. And yes, we’ve had a few people post in that group announcing that they’re atheists—that they’d made the decision, and it was huge for them. That happened after the book came out, but I won’t say it was because of it. I don’t know.

Jacobsen: Are there any prominent atheist or humanist figures in New Zealand generally—Māori or otherwise?

Hiko-Tahuri: No real high-profile names come to mind. One of the cultural dynamics in New Zealand is what we call “tall poppy syndrome”—we tend to cut down the people who stick out. So, self-promotion is frowned upon here. You don’t boast; you don’t elevate yourself. You keep your head down.

Jacobsen: Honestly, North America could use a little more of that.

Hiko-Tahuri: [Laughs] Maybe! But because of that, unless you’re already in the community, you’ve probably never heard of any of our local atheists or humanists.

Jacobsen: Are there any other books, aside from yours, by Māori atheists?

Hiko-Tahuri: Not yet.

Jacobsen: That’s wild. Okay, let me put this on the record: open offer. If we can gather around 100,000 words’ worth of conversations with Māori atheists, agnostics, or humanists—fully inclusive—I’ll help compile it. You can tell me your life story, “coming out,” and reflections. No pressure.

Hiko-Tahuri: That sounds good.

Jacobsen: It’s an ironic “coming-to-Jesus” phrase. [Laughs] But really, the point would be to normalize it. To show that being a Māori atheist isn’t a big deal—it’s just one way of being. That #NormalizeAtheism message. You’ve got 500 members in the Whakapono Kore group. Surely, some would be up for it.

Hiko-Tahuri: Maybe. But I don’t know how many would want to go public. That’s always the challenge. Out of those 500 members in the Atua Kore group, I know about four people willing to speak publicly.

Jacobsen: So basically, the secretary, vice president, president, and treasurer?

Hiko-Tahuri: [Laughs] Pretty much—except we’re not that organized. It’s not even my group; someone else started it. I’m just a member like everyone else.

Jacobsen: What is the Taranaki Maunga?

Hiko-Tahuri: Oh yes, I am granting personhood to the mountain. That’s an environmental protection mechanism more than a spiritual or belief-based one. It’s a legal framework designed to safeguard the mountain.

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