When we talk about religion, what do we really mean? SBS recently aired an Insight episode titled “Spiritual Divide” and published a companion article that expands on the stories of some of the participants. Together, they showed how Australian media still struggles to engage with genuine religious diversity.
In both pieces, “religion” meant Christianity, occasionally Islam, and briefly Hinduism. Jewish, Buddhist, and Sikh voices were absent. The episode split participants into two groups: the first half featured Christians, a young Muslim woman, and a young Hindu man. The second half turned to ecstatic dance, Paganism and witchcraft, Starseeds, and Aboriginal spirituality. While the word “alternative” wasn’t used, the binary structure implied it: “real” religions on one side and eccentric diversions on the other.
This framing doesn’t just misrepresent spiritual diversity; it actively perpetuates the very “divide” the show claimed to examine. Presenting traditional faiths as serious and everything else as colourful diversions—or worse, delusional—reinforces hierarchies instead of fostering dialogue.
The problem of representation
Before turning to the questions that the show raised, we need to ask: who gets to speak for minority spiritual communities? Media often chooses participants for their spectacle value or social media following rather than their theological depth or community standing.
This was evident in “Spiritual Divide”. Imagine if Christianity were represented only by prosperity gospel televangelists, or Islam only by extremists. The bias would be blatant. Yet minority faiths are regularly reduced to our most provocative rather than our most thoughtful representatives. Sensational figures generate clicks and confirm stereotypes. A “witch as spectacle” sells better than a serious discussion of nature-based spirituality or feminist theology.
Respectful representation means engaging with practitioners who embody the depth of their traditions. Until media applies that standard equally, public conversations will remain superficial.
Colonial frameworks and sacred hierarchies
The handling of Aboriginal spirituality revealed a deeper problem. Placing Indigenous practices alongside contemporary spiritual movements reflects ongoing colonial attitudes about legitimacy. Indigenous spirituality isn’t a lifestyle choice; it is the foundational, sacred tradition of this continent, with a continuity that stretches tens of thousands of years.
Aboriginal spiritual practices endured invasion, forced conversion, the Stolen Generations, and legal prohibition. Presenting it as just another option in the modern spiritual marketplace erases its unique role as the original religious heritage of this land. This isn’t just poor journalism; it’s an extension of colonial violence that treats Indigenous practices as cultural relics rather than sacred traditions.
Problematic questions, personal answers
The questions host Kumi Taguchi asked revealed as much as the answers themselves—often more. Their assumptions about conversion, authority, and legitimacy exposed the show’s underlying biases. Here’s what they missed, and how these topics actually unfold in lived experience.
Origins: family and upbringing
How religious was your childhood? How would you describe your religious upbringing? How did your family influence your religion?
These questions assume religion is something families either “have” or “don’t have,” missing how belief gets transmitted through culture, assumptions, and unspoken values. Even “non-religious” households can pass down Christian frameworks through holidays, moral concepts, and cultural assumptions.
My own Roman Catholic family lived faith mostly in private. Beyond baptisms, weddings, and funerals, church attendance was rare. Easter and Christmas marked family time more than liturgical events. Religion wasn’t performed in our house. Yet my family’s quiet devotion and respect for other faiths shaped my openness to find my own path.
Finding path: belief and belonging
Did you feel the church was supportive? What attracted you to your faith? What were those services like? Have you ever questioned your religious identity?
“What attracted you to your faith?” assumes a conversion narrative—a moment of choosing that doesn’t reflect how many people actually encounter the sacred. Religion is often reduced to congregational worship; yet, belonging takes many forms, including connection to land and country, private practice, ritual, and solitary reflection.
At ten, church teachings felt wrong, though I couldn’t articulate why. Greek mythology revealed new ways of understanding divinity, and, as a girl, I was drawn especially to Artemis. Polytheism led me to feminism, the Goddess Movement, and ultimately witchcraft. Through my Cuban heritage, I also found my way to Lukumí, deepening my spiritual tapestry. There was no single moment of attraction—just a gradual recognition of where I belonged.
Definitions: practice and identity
What is spirituality? What is religion? Who seeks witchcraft? What does your spiritual practice look like?
These questions treat spirituality and religion as opposing categories when, in reality, they often interweave. Spirituality encompasses practices and experiences that connect us with something larger than ourselves—nature, community, mystery. Religion is one expression of that urge: structured, communal, with shared stories, rituals, and frameworks.
For some, witchcraft is simply a practice—a set of skills, rituals, and ways of working with energy, nature, or spirit. That’s valid, especially for those who want the tools without a religious framework, or for those who carry wounds from organised religion. For me, as a Wiccan, witchcraft is part of a religion grounded in a lineaged community and shared rituals.
People turn to witchcraft for many reasons: empowerment, connection to nature and ancestors, or alignment with values of healing, creativity, or resistance. My spiritual practice weaves relationships, rituals, and reflection. As a Wiccan, I follow the cycles of the moon and the seasons. My Lukumí roots connect me with the Orisha through offerings, prayer, and respect for ancestors. Some days, my practice is simple: meditation, lighting a candle, making offerings to the spirits. At other times, it involves formal ceremonies, such as seasonal celebrations or initiations. At its heart, my practice is about connection: with the sacred, with the land, with spirit, and with people.
Relationships: family and relationships
Did your new faith affect your relationship with your parents? What did your parents think of your conversion? Does your husband feel the same way?
The questions frame conversion as the default spiritual experience. While this fits some participants, such as the young man who converted to Russian Orthodoxy, it overlooks those whose faith developed gradually, was passed down culturally, or never involved a dramatic shift at all.
My parents respected my choice to leave Catholicism, and my husband, though not a practitioner, supports me fully. For many, however, spiritual exploration can strain family ties. These bonds illustrate how faith is never purely personal; it lives within webs of relationships and community expectations.
Visibility: privilege and persecution
Is it easy to be open about your religion? Is it easier now than a generation ago? Do you get hate online? Is Australia a spiritually enlightened country?
“Spiritually enlightened” is meaningless without asking: by whose measure? Christianity has long been the cultural default in Australia. According to the 2021 Census, 43.9% of Australians identify as Christian, but this represents a significant decline from 61.1% in 2011. Meanwhile, religious diversity is growing, but often remains invisible in public conversations.
I’ve never hidden my spirituality. I’ve had the privilege of family acceptance, education, and growing up in a diverse city. Others lack that safety. Rural practitioners, those in conservative communities, or those with fewer resources face real risks. Online harassment of Pagans and witches often carries violent, misogynistic undertones. The internet magnifies hostility, but it also creates spaces of connection and learning.
The real question isn’t whether Australia is “spiritually enlightened” but how religious privilege operates, and who is denied visibility or safety in expressing their beliefs.
Authority: institutions and power
Is there a right way to practice faith? Is converting others part of your beliefs? What would it take for you to convert?
The assumption that every faith has one “right way” reflects a Christian framework. Paganism resists central authority; yet, traditions do have established standards, lineages, and initiations. There’s also room for solitary practice and personal revelation. “Right” depends on context, tradition, and individual calling.
Taguchi asked one non-Christian what it would take for her to convert, while treating Christianity’s evangelism as normal. Yet conversion isn’t universal. Some traditions forbid it. Others frame it as an invitation rather than an obligation. My approach is to share my own experience rather than prescribe another’s path.
Money: Spirituality and business
How much does it cost? How much do you charge? Should spirituality be monetised?
Nowhere was bias more apparent than in questions about money. Taguchi grilled the Pagan, Starseed, and Aboriginal participants about their spirituality-based businesses, while Christians—whose institutions collect tithes, run tax-exempt empires, and charge for rites of passage—faced no such scrutiny.
I don’t charge for training in Wicca, but I do charge for other services, such as divination, spiritual care, and education. Unlike a Catholic priest or a Hillsong pastor, my vocation is not supported by a wealthy, tax-exempt, taxpayer-supported institution. Pagans and witches in Australia don’t own and operate hospitals, aged care facilities, schools and universities, or run op-shops. Our resources are small, yet our spiritual needs are just as real and important.
Commercialisation happens everywhere, from megachurches to astrology apps. The issue isn’t whether spirituality costs money, but how those costs affect access, equity, and exploitation.
Transformation: modern challenges and shifts
What’s your take on modern spirituality? Why are people turning away from religion?
Much discourse frames declining church attendance as loss. However, what appears to be decline can actually be transformation. People are questioning patriarchal authority, seeking more individual pathways, and weaving new forms of community.
In my community, I see people seeking acceptance and a sense of belonging that they haven’t found elsewhere. This includes queer people whom traditional churches have rejected, those interested in social justice and environmental action who want their spirituality to align with their values, and individuals reclaiming sovereignty over their own bodies and choices. The ‘spiritual but not religious’ movement often reflects this desire for connection without institutional control.
When media frames seeking as a binary, tradition versus experiment, it discourages genuine exploration. Better coverage would ask: How do you make meaning? What sustains you? Where do you find connection?
Moving forward
Faith and spirituality resist tidy categories. They’re living, shifting, and as diverse as their practitioners. Australia’s religious landscape has always been more complex than the colonial Christianity that dominated it: from the world’s oldest continuous spiritual traditions to the newest immigrant communities, to contemporary Pagan revivals and New Age pathways.
The title “Spiritual Divide” itself emphasises conflict over diversity. Australians are seeking — not always in the same places, but often for the same reasons. Media should reflect that richness, not reduce it to spectacle.
The hunger for meaning, connection, and transcendence is universal. How we choose to explore and honour that hunger reveals what kind of spiritually diverse society we’re building together.