Practical Atheism

“The fool has said in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” — Psalm 14:1

You’ve probably never said those words—“God does not exist”—out loud. But you’ve lived them. We all have. That’s the terrifying brilliance of Psalm 14:1. It doesn’t accuse our lips; it brings the gavel down upon our hearts.

Look carefully. This verse doesn’t merely condemn the outspoken skeptics or militant secularists. Yes, it wraps the noose around the necks of men like David Hume, Bertrand Russell, and Christopher Hitchens. But hanging next to them is a rope with your name on it.

How is that possible? Because this text isn’t only about the they/them’s out there. It’s about me. It’s about every professing believer who has ever faced temptation and chosen sin. Every time we’ve doubted in the dark, feared what man might do to us, or leaned on our own understanding—we have said in our hearts, “There is no God.”

That is what sin is: a fundamental denial of the Lordship and dominion of the Triune God. And whether we like to admit it or not, that atheistic impulse does not merely haunt the lecture halls of secular intelligentsia. It sleeps in our beds. It rides in our cars. It slips into our prayers. It hides behind our theology.

Here’s the point: we may believe in God with our mouths and yet deny Him with our mood. We may recite Scripture with our children and erupt in anger moments later. We may preach the finest sermons exalting Christ and then worry about money like fatherless orphans. This is the practical atheism that still lives in us like a cancer, hoping to spread and master us.

YOU ARE A PRACTICAL ATHEIST

Psalm 14 does not say the fool shouts from a stage or debates Christians online. It says he whispers—in the quiet recesses of his own heart. Not in militant tones, but in subtle affections that run counter to his professed belief in God.

Often, it is the ordinary, creaturely habits of the heart—the ones we’re most prone to excuse—that indict us as atheists. We live as though God is not in control, not watching, not there.

• We say God is near—yet we live like we’re alone.

• We say He is sovereign—but we tremble at headlines.

• We say He is good—but grumble when we don’t get our way.

• We say He sees—but sin in the dark.

• We say He reigns—but panic when our plans fall apart.

• We say He satisfies—but chase comfort like addicts.

And here is the grisly truth: these aren’t minor lapses. They are indictments—charges against the character and existence of God. We are effectively saying, “God, I know You exist, but pardon me while I act like You don’t.” That is practical atheism.

Think about anger. Most of our anger does not arise from a zeal for holiness. Most of it erupts from frustration over circumstances we believe we could have ordered better. And when I lash out at my spouse, when I speak sharply to my children, when I allow bitterness to take root in my soul, I am making a bold theological claim: “I should be God.” I am saying, “I could have given myself a more favorable situation. I would have written a better script.” Our anger is often nothing less than resentment toward God for failing to follow our plan.

You can be angry with God without denying His existence, but in your behavior and belief, that’s exactly what you’re doing. You are living as if you know best and He does not exist. That, again, is practical atheism.

Even our prideful comparisons—our need to be seen, heard, and affirmed—are not harmless personality quirks. They are declarations of independence. Toxic proclamations of unbelief: “God is not just. God will not provide. I must fend for myself.”
And if that is true, then the atheist is not a distant villain. He’s the man or woman staring back at you in the mirror.

THE CONSEQUENCE OF PRACTICAL ATHEISM

Psalm 14 doesn’t end with a whispered heresy. It shows what happens when that whisper takes control:

“They are corrupt, they have committed abominable deeds; there is no one who does good.”

When you begin to deny God internally, you will eventually destroy yourself externally. When you forget His presence, you invite perversion. You may still attend church, read your Bible, and smile in the foyer—but inside, something begins to rot.

You begin to lose your ability to weep over sin. You start laughing at what once made you grieve. You begin normalizing what once nauseated you. Eventually, you become numb to holiness—and you don’t even notice the tar pit you’ve sunk into.

This doesn’t mean you will become a murderer or a heretic. It means that when you live like God does not exist, your heart becomes calloused. You may sing hymns. You may tithe. You may serve in ministry. But all the while, you live as your own functional deity. Because when you stop fearing God and start fearing everything else, you become a practical atheist.

This is how you can sit in a Bible study while lusting after someone else’s spouse. This is how Christian parents can raise spiritually indifferent children. This is how a man who has attended church for fifty years can quake with fear over the market and his 401K. This is how a pastor can preach truth and still be corrupt to the core. The consequences of practical atheism aren’t always loud or immediate. Often, they begin in silence. It looks like a dry heart. A hollow soul. A life that nods to God but bows to self.

THE GOSPEL FOR PRACTICAL ATHEISTS

But hear this: the Gospel is not for the tidy. It is for the trembling. Jesus Christ did not die for people who always got it right. He died for the forgetful, the fearful, the inconsistent—for every soul who has lived as if God were absent and His promises uncertain. He died for practical atheists.

And He did so as the only One who never lived that way. When His closest friends slept, He prayed. When the cup of wrath was set before Him, He did not flinch. When every earthly light was extinguished and the silence of heaven loomed large, He did not panic or pace—He obeyed. He trusted. He stood. Not one moment passed where He doubted the Father’s nearness, or questioned the Father’s will. Not one breath was wasted in complaint. Not one act was motivated by fear. He lived every second as if God was real, present, sovereign, and good—because He is.

And when He stretched out His arms and bled on the hill called Skull, it was not a concession. It was conquest. There, in the place of our hypocrisy, He offered unflinching faith. In the place of our silence, He proclaimed righteousness. In the place of our functional atheism, He fulfilled covenantal obedience.

The wrath that was kindled against your hidden doubts and private denials fell with holy fury upon the Son who never wavered. The judgment due for your practical atheism was poured out—not on you, but on Him.

So behold Him. Behold the Man of Sorrows who stood firm in your place. Behold the High Priest who never forgot His God. Behold the Lamb without blemish, who bore the full weight of your divided heart. Behold the risen King who now calls you to live as though He reigns—because He does.

Do not look inward. There is nothing there but inconsistency. Look to Christ. Trust in Christ. Cling to Christ. He alone can heal the fracture between your confession and your conduct. He alone can silence the whisper that says, “There is no God.” He alone can raise you from the grave of double-mindedness and breathe into you a heart that truly lives.

So tremble. Repent. Let every idol fall. Let every Christian cry again with fresh wonder: “Surely God is in this place—and I had forgotten.”

But remember this: the surest way to remain a practical atheist is to accept yourself. To justify compromise. To turn unbelief into identity. To excuse what God commands you to crucify. That is how souls atrophy—not through violent rebellion, but through quiet surrender to what God never called holy.

Practical atheism is not a harmless quirk. It is the default posture of the unrenewed heart. And if you do not kill it, it will kill you.

So do not accept you. Accept Him. Turn from yourself. Fix your gaze on the One who lived with unbroken faith and died to give it to you. Repent when your life is out of step with His glory. Read His Word like a starving man. Pray as if the heavens are listening—because they are. Plead for the Spirit to burn away every shadow of unbelief. And if by the Spirit you put to death the practical atheism that lingers in you—you will live.

You will live with power. You will live with peace. You will live with God. Not because you earned it, but because Christ accomplished it.

So rise up, O trembling saint. There is mercy for hypocrites. Grace for the forgetful. Strength for the weak. But there is no salvation in self-acceptance. Only in Christ. Only in surrender. Only in worship. Choose this day whom you will fear. And live like He is there—because He is.