Every now and then life hands you a moment that shows just how easily we mistake our own assumptions for universal truth. Some of these moments have nothing to do with religion at all — they’re simply reminders that the way we see the world is not the only way it can be seen.

Years ago, my wife told me she couldn’t eat a piece of fruit because it was “blue.” I looked at it. It was orange — a persimmon. Perfectly innocent. But in Japanese, unripe fruit is described as blue. The literal word didn’t carry the same meaning across cultures. Without shared context, the “plain meaning” wasn’t plain at all.

Or consider how in Māori culture mountains, rivers, and forests are understood as living entities. New Zealand law now recognises some of these as legal persons. Many Westerners misinterpret this as treating them as human, because they read the word “person” through a strictly Eurocentric lens. Again, the literal meaning isn’t literal at all unless you share the worldview behind it.

These moments remind me how easily we assume our own way of seeing is the only way. And nowhere is this more apparent than when people discover I’m a Quaker.

SPICES and the Fear of Indoctrination

A few years ago, in a discussion about indoctrination, I mentioned that I had raised my children according to Quaker values. I used the word values, not beliefs. Even so, several people gasped as if I’d confessed to locking my children in a basement with a stack of tracts.

One person even blurted out, “You don’t deserve to have kids. It’s disgusting to indoctrinate children.”

It took a while to convince them that all parents pass on values — whether they name them or not. And that Quaker values are not a list of doctrines but a set of ethical commitments often summarised as SPICES: Simplicity, Peace, Integrity, Community, Equality, and Sustainability.

Once they realised I wasn’t secretly drilling my children in obscure theology, most of the alarm subsided. Mostly.

But it showed me how tightly some people equate “religion” with “indoctrination,” even when the reality is something quite different.

The Anti‑Religionist Interrogation

Then there was the social gathering where someone, after a few beers, declared that all religions are misogynistic, bigoted, intolerant, indoctrinate children, control people through fear of hell, and are a blot on society.

Normally I let such sweeping statements pass, but I was with a friend who has learned a fair bit about Quakerism from me. She bravely — or foolishly — interrupted and said, “That’s not true. Barry’s religion is none of those. Prove me wrong.”

I may have cringed.

The anti‑religionist, delighted by the challenge, began firing off yes/no questions.

“Does his religion have women clergy?”
“No.”

“Does it have gay clergy?”
“No.”

“Non‑European priests?”
“No.”

He smiled triumphantly. “See? That proves my point.”

My friend paused. “You haven’t asked whether they have straight cis‑male clergy.”

He frowned. “Well… do they?”
“No.”

At this point, his confidence wobbled. He moved on to doctrine.

“Do they teach original sin?”
“No.”

“The divinity of Jesus?”
“No.”

“The resurrection?”
“No.”

After a few more questions, all answered “No,” he threw up his hands and declared, “There’s no such religion,” and stomped off.

Some onlookers laughed — partly because he was known for his inflexible views, partly because he’d been outsmarted, and partly because they knew I’m a Quaker. Others looked confused, so I took the opportunity to explain the essence of Quakerism.

It was a funny moment, but also a telling one. For some people, a non‑authoritarian religion is literally unimaginable.

Homeopathy Christianity?

Another blogger once described Quakerism as “so watered down and diluted that it’s Homeopathy Christianity — totally ineffective.”

I admit I laughed. But it’s also wildly inaccurate.

If Quakerism is “ineffective,” it’s curious how much social change a few drops have produced: abolition, women’s suffrage, conscientious objection, restorative justice, LGBTQ inclusion, environmental protection. Not bad for something supposedly diluted.

But again, the assumption was clear: if a religion doesn’t tell you what to believe, doesn’t police your thoughts, and doesn’t threaten you with hell, then it must be meaningless.

Practice, Not Belief

All these stories point to the same misunderstanding: many people assume that religion is fundamentally about belief — about creeds, doctrines, and intellectual assent. And if a tradition doesn’t enforce belief, they assume it has nothing left.

But at the heart of Quakerism is practice, not belief.

Quakerism doesn’t ask you to believe the right things. It asks you to live the right things — as best you can, in community, with humility. And even here, there is no prescribed list of “right things.” There are guides that centre on relationships — peace, integrity, equality, community, simplicity, care for the earth — but ultimately it is left to each of us, individually and communally, to discern what right action looks like in the moment. It is a practice of continual listening rather than a rulebook of fixed answers.

And Quakerism isn’t unique in this. Many mainstream denominations — especially in Aotearoa — have branches that, in their own distinctive ways, also emphasise lived values over rigid doctrine. They, too, contain strands that are open to diversity, grounded in relationship, and wary of authoritarian certainty. Quakerism is simply one example of a wider truth: religion need not be coercive, dogmatic, or closed to interpretation.

Living peaceably is hard.
Living with integrity is hard.
Living simply in a consumerist world is hard.
Living equality in a hierarchical society is hard.
Living community in an individualistic culture is hard.
Living sustainably in a world of convenience is hard.

Quakerism doesn’t ask you to believe the right things. It asks you to live the right things — and to keep listening for what that means.

If that looks “wishy‑washy” or “diluted,” perhaps it’s because people are looking for doctrine where Quakers look for practice.