In the Pacific, religion — or lotu — is part of our bones. It shapes how we gather, how we grieve, how we see ourselves and others. From the cradle to the grave, it guides our relationships, rituals, and responsibilities. It is deeply woven into our vā — our sacred relational space — and is often the first place we turn in times of crisis.
But what happens when religion stops being a source of healing and hope, and becomes a source of harm? What happens when religious belief is used to control others, deny reality, and justify violence?
I’m an ordained Methodist faifekau, a scholar of the Bible and religion, and a proud native of Tonga. I’ve spent decades walking with Pacific communities, inside and outside the church. I have seen the strength of our faith — how it sustains us through grief, migration, poverty, and injustice. But I have also seen its darker side: when faith becomes fear, when power masquerades as piety, when delusion replaces compassion.
This is not an attack on religion. It is a call to reclaim its sacred purpose. Because when religion becomes delusional — when it refuses to engage with reality, when it silences dissent, when it harms instead of heals — it becomes dangerous.
The recent findings of the Royal Commission into Abuse in Care have laid bare the extent to which faith-based institutions failed to protect the vulnerable. Survivors have told harrowing stories of abuse — emotional, physical, spiritual — perpetrated by those who were meant to care for them. Many were Pacific and Māori. Many were children. And many were told, by people in positions of religious authority, to stay silent and “leave it to God.”
I have spoken with survivors who were made to believe their abuse was a test of faith. Who were told that forgiveness was more important than justice. Who were retraumatised by churches more concerned with protecting reputations than people. These are not isolated incidents. They are part of a pattern where religious institutions place control above care, and doctrine above dignity.
We saw this delusion erupt into public view earlier this year during the Auckland Pride Festival. Destiny Church members arrived en masse to protest, shouting anti-LGBTQIA+ slogans, using haka and scripture as weapons of condemnation. They attempted to cast the rainbow community as enemies of faith, when in truth, many of those in that crowd were people of deep spiritual courage.
What took place was not protest — it was spiritual violence. It was a public demonstration of religious dominance, dressed in cultural symbols and justified with scripture. It sent a clear message to queer Pacific and Māori people: you are not safe here. You do not belong.
Let me be clear. There is nothing Christ-like about attacking people for who they are. There is nothing sacred about shouting people down. This kind of religiosity is not rooted in truth — it is rooted in fear. It is the performance of faith without the presence of love.
Delusional religion shows up in more subtle ways too. It’s in the theology that tells women to endure abuse as “submission”. It’s in the preaching that equates mental illness with spiritual failure. It’s in the silence when a young person comes out and is met with prayer instead of presence. It’s in the charismatic leader who claims divine authority to avoid accountability.
This kind of religion distorts the gospel. It uses fear to maintain control. It demands obedience but refuses accountability. And it punishes those who dare to ask questions or tell the truth.
A lot of these patterns didn’t originate with us — they were imported. Colonial Christianity brought with it a theology of empire: hierarchical, patriarchal, and obsessed with moral control. Our Indigenous ways of knowing were dismissed as superstition. Our complex understandings of gender and spirit were erased. Our values of collective care and open talanoa were replaced with silence and shame.
Today, many of our churches continue to reflect these colonial frameworks. We see it when only men are allowed to preach. When the sins of the powerful are excused, and the struggles of the marginalised are judged. When the church becomes more invested in appearances than in people.
And yet, our ancestors knew a different way. They knew that the sacred is found in the everyday. That leadership is about tautua (service), not status. That the vā is to be nurtured, not broken. A reindigenised faith draws on these truths — not to romanticise the past, but to reclaim the wisdom that was colonised out of us.
I have seen glimpses of what this reindigenised, decolonised faith can look like. I’ve seen it in churches where karakia is spoken alongside prayer, where Māori and Pacific liturgies uplift the mana of all people. I’ve witnessed talanoa circles where survivors speak and are believed. Where queer leaders are not just tolerated, but honoured. Where the pulpit is shared by those with lived experience.
I’ve seen faith that looks like food parcels, like climate justice marches, like housing advocacy, like mental health fono. I’ve seen faith that listens before it preaches. Faith that weeps. Faith that apologises. Faith that transforms.
A reindigenised faith is one where our vā is healed, not policed. Where difference is embraced as divine. Where leadership looks like humility. Where the church becomes a refuge again. Not a place of trauma, but a place of talanoa, truth, and tino rangatiratanga.
So how do we get there?
First, by listening. The Royal Commission has given us a mandate: Listen to survivors. Believe them. Centre their stories. Let their courage shape our theology.
Second, by reckoning with our past. This means naming our complicity in harm. It means confronting the colonial frameworks that still shape our ministries. It means taking seriously the ways in which our theology can wound.
Third, by reforming our practices. Churches must establish safeguarding policies, embed cultural accountability, and create real consequences for spiritual abuse. Leaders must be trained not just in doctrine, but in trauma-informed care. We need new liturgies, new language, new ways of being community.
And finally, we must return to the heart of the gospel: love, justice, liberation, and life. Anything less is not worth defending.
Religion is not the enemy. But delusional religion is. The kind that refuses truth. The kind that weaponises scripture. The kind that prioritises power over people. We must have the courage to call it what it is — and to walk a better way.
Our people deserve better. Our young people deserve better. Our queer, disabled, poor, and traumatised deserve better. And the God I know — the God who brings light to dark places — is not afraid of the truth.
So let us believe, but believe bravely. Let us lead, but lead humbly. Let us hold on to the sacred — and let go of the delusions.
Reverend Professor Nāsili Vaka‘uta is a Tongan scholar of the Bible and religion, and a Methodist faifekau based in Tāmaki Makaurau. He is the principal of Trinity Theological College and director of the Centre for Advocacy, Research & Empowerment (CARE). His work focuses on justice, gender, Oceanic hermeneutics, and the wellbeing of Pacific communities. The views expressed in this article are his and do not necessarily reflect the views of Talanoa ‘o Tonga.
This article is part of an ongoing HRC-funded project: “The Lotu Factor: Delusional Religiosity, COVID-19, and Tongan Wellbeing in New Zealand.”
Source: E-Tangata
