Cultural Integrity Without Supernaturalism: Eru Hiko-Tahuri on Being a Māori Atheist in a Post-Christian New Zealand

How does Eru Hiko-Tahuri navigate Māori culture, atheism, and secular humanism in modern New Zealand?

Part 5 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 secular life as a Māori creative in a post-Christian Aotearoa. He shares experiences balancing cultural heritage with nonbelief, writing secular karakia, creating inclusive art, and challenging assumptions around Indigenous identity, civic rituals, and institutionalized spirituality in Māori public life.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: So, when you begin mapping the geography of Māori secularism—as a relatively new concept—are there any aspects of traditional Māori governance that could be considered appropriately secular? That is, are there spaces where ritual or spiritual practices are distinctly set apart or is everything more or less integrated?

Eru Hiko-Tahuri: So, in most traditional Māori contexts, everything tends to be intertwined—spiritual, social, political, and cultural dimensions are not separated in the Western sense. In that way, Māori culture is similar to many traditional religious cultures, where secularism, as we understand it in liberal democracies, was never really a category.

Jacobsen: Now, tapu—the concept of sacredness or restriction in Māori culture—retains significant cultural power. But from a secular Māori perspective, like yours, tapu can be understood metaphorically rather than metaphysically. It functions symbolically to mark respect, boundaries, or social norms rather than indicating belief in the supernatural. What does that mean in practical terms?

Hiko-Tahuri: Take karakia, for example—these are often translated as prayers or incantations. I don’t perform them myself. But in spaces where karakia are expected—such as ceremonial openings or public gatherings—I’ve written secular alternatives, essentially nonreligious invocations. I cannot authentically engage in the religious or supernatural aspects, but I can offer something meaningful and culturally respectful that fits the moment. That’s how I bridge the gap: by replacing the supernatural element with a secular expression that still honours the cultural context.

Jacobsen: This reminds me of the situation in Canada. Canada is a federal state divided into municipalities, provinces, and territories, and then the national government, which is functionally similar to the U.S. structure of counties, states, and federal governance. In 2015, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled in Mouvement laïque québécois v. Saguenay (City) that opening municipal council meetings with prayer violated the state’s duty of religious neutrality. It effectively made official prayers at government meetings unconstitutional.

Following that decision, organizations like the British Columbia Humanist Association began investigating compliance across municipalities. Despite the ruling, they found that many local governments continued to include prayer in official meetings. In response, the Association sent letters to these municipalities pointing out the legal ruling, sharing data, and urging them to comply with the law by removing religious observances from public sessions. This kind of advocacy led to meaningful change in some regions.

So, when I consider your experience, I think of it in that light. You’re not opposing cultural participation or public service; instead, you’re drawing a line where religious practices—like prayer—are included in civic spaces where they may no longer be appropriate, especially in pluralistic or post-colonial contexts. Countries like Aotearoa, New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the United States, and South Africa all fall under the category of “post-colonial” states grappling with how to reconcile Indigenous traditions, secular governance, and religious pluralism.

So, let us return to the historical backdrop. Christian missionary efforts primarily drove colonization in Aotearoa, New Zealand. I understand that many of those involved were of European heritage—like my own. When people refer to “post-colonial” in this context, they often mean a phase following that religious and political imposition—perhaps even envisioning a society in a reconciled, pluralistic state where Indigenous and settler cultures have negotiated a new equilibrium. Would you say that is accurate?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, that is broadly correct. Among post-colonial nations, I would say Aotearoa, New Zealand, has gone further than many in terms of acknowledging and integrating Māori language, culture, and perspectives into public life. You can see the effects of that on things like the census data. As of the most recent census, about 53% of New Zealanders identified as having no religion. That makes New Zealand a post-Christian country, at least in terms of demographic majority. Christianity is now a minority belief, which shifts the dynamics.

Jacobsen: And how does that shift affect your everyday life, particularly as someone who identifies as an atheist and a humanist? Does it allow you to live more comfortably and authentically?

Hiko-Tahuri: Absolutely. As I mentioned earlier, overt religiosity is a bit unusual here. People who are very religious are more of a minority now—and may be looked at as slightly outside the norm. The country itself is pretty secular. Yes, we still have prayers at the beginning of some public meetings, but those are more about tradition than belief in most cases. There are calls to remove such practices, and I support that. However, overall, New Zealand has a very relaxed and liberal society. People do not care what others believe or do not believe. There is a strong cultural inclination toward individual freedom and tolerance, so we rarely see heated debates or conflicts over religion here.

Jacobsen: Tell me more about your podcast, Heretical. Is it still running, and where can people find it?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, it is back. I originally launched it some time ago but had to pause due to other commitments. I have now restarted it. The first season includes 10 episodes, where I read my book chapter by chapter. The book is free—I never wrote it to make money; I wrote it to tell a story. That story forms the basis of the podcast. I have also added another episode where I talk about a strange encounter I had with what I would describe as a cult-like group who tried to recruit me. That experience was eye-opening and worth sharing. There will be more episodes in the future. I plan to delve into some of the more common arguments for theism—things like the cosmological argument—and explore why I do not find them convincing. These kinds of discussions are not often had within our community, so I think it is essential to create space for them.

Jacobsen: What about your music and your airbrush art? Do elements of secularism or humanism show up in those creative outlets?

Hiko-Tahuri: Not so much in my music, no. It is more of a personal expression, and I keep it separate from my secular identity. But everything I create reflects my worldview in some way, even if not explicitly.

I have been playing in the same band with friends for about 25 years now. We only get together to play once every five years or so these days, but we are just a bunch of old mates who enjoy making music together. I played my first gig when I was 14 years old for a country music club here in New Zealand. I got pulled into country music because there really were not many other musical options in the small town I grew up in.

Music has always been part of my life, but I have never chased fame or done it for recognition. I do it because I love it. The same goes for painting. I have created a few pieces where I’ve expressed thoughts on some of the more absurd or troubling beliefs in the Bible. For example, there is that passage—1 Timothy 2:12, I think—that says women should remain silent and not teach. I did a painting responding to that. I also painted a Celtic cross overlaid with Māori designs to symbolize how religion, especially Christianity, colonized us just as much as the English did. I have sold or given away some of those pieces, but really, art is something I do for personal fulfillment rather than profit.

Jacobsen: How do emerging networks like Māori atheist and freethinker communities offer space for collective doubt or help individuals express personal doubts within a shared context?

Hiko-Tahuri: That is a good question. I do not know if that is even the aim of the group I joined. It is not my group—I just found it and joined. For me, it was more about discovering that there were other people out there who think like me and also look like me. That alone was meaningful. We have not tried to turn it into a collective movement. Māori atheism is still in its infancy. Until I wrote my book, I had not encountered any serious discussion about it, at least not that I could find. That group did exist beforehand, but I stumbled upon it afterward.

So, right now, most of the Māori atheists I see are solo actors. We speak up when we feel like it, but there is no organized collective activism or shared identity. We are in such an early stage of development as a community that it has not yet coalesced into anything more structured or strategic.

Jacobsen: Since we last spoke, have you had any recent thoughts on the protocols and principles of Indigenous declarations?

Hiko-Tahuri: No, I have not looked into it lately. I know that the New Zealand government initially chose not to sign the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, though it eventually endorsed it in 2010. But beyond that, I have not followed recent developments very closely.

Jacobsen: I have not had a chance to read into some of those areas, but I would like to. What about the precise etiquette and civic customs—honouring those customs that come from the subculture while not reciting the prayers? What is the balance being struck there?

Hiko-Tahuri: Yeah, I think that is one of the most challenging parts—figuring out what you can do respectfully while maintaining personal integrity. If we are talking, for instance, about pōwhiri—that is, the formal welcome ceremony—part of that involves speech-making. And during those speeches, spiritual language is often invoked. It is hard to categorize it strictly as religious, but it carries spiritual overtones.

Navigating is a challenge because there is a specific formula for constructing those speeches within our culture. They follow a traditional structure that includes spiritual references—things I do not believe in. So, I often have to rework those parts, recreating the tone and form without the religious or supernatural elements. It is difficult and takes much careful thought. That is probably the main struggle for Māori atheists who speak the language and actively participate in cultural life. We are trying to maintain the integrity of our heritage while adapting it to a secular worldview.

Jacobsen: Have you ever had an experience—either due to your ethnic background or lack of belief—where someone got confrontational with you? The proverbial finger-wagging, shouting match? I cannot imagine that happening much to a Kiwi.

Hiko-Tahuri: No, we are generally not that confrontational in New Zealand. And there are a couple of practical reasons, too. Because of how I look—my physical presence—people usually do not get up in my face. I am around six feet tall, and I guess I have a face that might be intimidating. So, people do not tend to push those boundaries. I am not aggressive or threatening at all, but sometimes, just my appearance is enough to make people think twice.

Jacobsen: That reminds me—there was a story out of the U.S. involving Eminem. I think gang members were extorting him—either the Crips or the Bloods. But apparently, there was a Samoan-American gang so feared that even the Crips were hesitant around them. Eminem hired them for protection, and they ended up defending him and collaborating on music. I believe they even put out an album together.

It was a pretty wild story. It shows how much physical presence and group identity can shape interactions—whether in music, culture, or personal safety. It is funny how those dynamics play out in so many different places.

Hiko-Tahuri: It can be imposing. I am five-eleven, but I am not baby-faced. Still, I have heard of incidents where Māori women in New Zealand—especially those who wear moko kauae, the traditional tattoo—get hassled often.

Jacobsen:How so?

Hiko-Tahuri: By members of the public, saying things like, “You shouldn’t be here,” or “You look intimidating,” or “You shouldn’t be in this park.” One of these incidents happened just last year in a local park. A woman was told she could not be there when someone’s kids were around, as if she was somehow threatening—just for wearing the moko kauae. These things do happen, particularly to women. I have noticed that it never happens to me. Maybe that has something to do with physical presence or perceived threat, but yes—it is a pattern. That does happen, and fairly often. 

Jacobsen: I am out of the questions, too. So, am I missing anything? What do you think?

Hiko-Tahuri: I do not think so. I cannot think of anything else at the moment. That was a solid session.

Jacobsen: Thank you so much for today. 

Hiko-Tahuri: Yes, that sounds great. Thank you very much.

Jacobsen: All right. Take care.

Hiko-Tahuri: You too. Bye.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen is a Writer and Editor for A Further Inquiry. He is the publisher of In-Sight Publishing (ISBN: 978-1-0692343) and Editor-in-Chief of In-Sight: Interviews (ISSN: 2369-6885). He writes for The Good Men Project, International Policy Digest (ISSN: 2332–9416), The Humanist (Print: ISSN 0018-7399; Online: ISSN 2163-3576), Basic Income Earth Network (UK Registered Charity 1177066), A Further Inquiry, and other media. He is a member in good standing of numerous media organizations.

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