After Coming to Faith, Who Do You Really Trust?

The Most Hidden "Atheism" Among Christians

You probably rarely think of yourself as an atheist. You came to faith, were baptized, attend church, pray, read Scripture, and bow your head to thank God before meals.

But when temptation arrives, things have a way of becoming very honest.

A colleague asks you to make the numbers look a little better in a report — "everyone does it." A client hints that if you help process a questionable invoice, he'll send more business your way. Your child brings home someone wonderful who doesn't share your faith, and while you say you'll pray about it, your mind is already calculating whether holding the line will push your child away. Your doctor recommends a surgery you know you need, and even though you've prayed, you lie awake all night crushed by the risks, the cost, the recovery, and the loneliness. An investment goes wrong, and a friend offers a "grey but effective" way to cover the loss — you know it's not right, but you also know that money was meant for school fees, the mortgage, retirement, and a life with some dignity.

All these moments share one thing in common: what is really being tested is not simply whether you will lie, compromise, or take a shortcut. What is being exposed is whether God is actually present in your heart.

Does He see this? Does He care about this? Can He be trusted? Can He truly provide for you, hold you up, give you worth, give you belonging? Or in those few tense seconds, have you quietly shown Him the door — leaving only your boss, your client, your child, your doctor, your bank account, and other people's opinions sitting in the room?

This is what I want to name: the most hidden "atheism" among Christians.

It is not saying with your mouth, "God does not exist." You rarely hear that in church. It is more like a pair of glasses — glasses that make God blurry, distant, and seemingly uninvolved in ordinary life. People wearing these glasses worship faithfully on Sunday and say "praise the Lord" when things go well, but when a real decision must be made, they respond much like someone who has never known God at all: protect yourself first, control the situation first, hold on to what you can see — and once things settle down, invite God back to explain Himself.

So the problem is often not that we don't know what sin is. Many times we know very clearly. Inflated numbers are wrong. Fraudulent invoices are wrong. Manipulating our children is wrong. Silencing our conscience for the sake of a relationship is wrong. Touching what we shouldn't for the sake of money is wrong. Our problem runs deeper: we know it's wrong, yet we feel that if we don't do it, we will lose something we cannot afford to lose.

That something might be a job, an income, a child's future, our health, a relationship, our reputation, our retirement savings — or simply the fear of being looked down on. Temptation often wears the costume of a behavioral choice, but inside it is a test of faith: whatever you are most afraid of losing is exactly where you are most likely to replace God.

In the companion article, Why Do We Still Sin Even Though Christ Has Borne Our Sins?, I explored how sin is not merely a single bad act but involves straying, distortion, and betrayal. This article zooms in on one particular focus: after coming to faith, much of the pull toward sin is essentially asking us — who do you actually trust?

When Satan tempted Eve in the Garden, his first strike was not aimed at her behavior but at her trust: "Has God really said…?" The moment God's word became uncertain and God's intentions became suspect, her hand reached for the fruit. When Jesus was tempted in the wilderness, it was the same battleground: If you are the Son of God, why not turn these stones into bread yourself? Why not jump and prove that the Father will catch you? Why not bow just once and receive all the kingdoms of the world? The voice of temptation is always practical, always skilled at seizing on hunger, fear, and ambition. But each time, Jesus returned to the Father's word — the meaning was unmistakable: I do not live by shortcuts; I live by the Father.

We fall not usually because the truth is too hard to understand, but because the picture of God inside us is too small. He seems like a God who only shows up on Sundays and is mostly off-duty Monday through Saturday. He seems like a God who cares only about "spiritual things" and is not really involved in your rent, your medical results, your children, your bills, or your loneliness. He even seems like an unreliable God — which is why you feel you must cover for Him, figure things out yourself, hold your life together with dishonesty if necessary.

Scripture gives us two vivid and contrasting portraits.

The first is the poor widow in Luke 21. She drops two small coins into the offering box. This was not spare change — not "I have a little left over this month, let me support the work of God." Jesus said it was all she had to live on. In other words, what she dropped in was not just copper coins; she placed her question of what she would eat tomorrow and how she would survive — all of it — into God's hands.

Jesus commended her not because poverty is more spiritual, or because the riskier the offering the more devout the giver. What Jesus saw was her trust. Her hands were empty, but her vision of God was full. She was not unaware of how hard life was; she simply believed she was not an orphan. She could see her poverty clearly, but she could also see beyond it — to the One who watches over the widow and the fatherless.

The second portrait is the rich fool in Luke 12. He was capable and forward-thinking. His land produced abundantly, his barns were full, so he planned to tear down the old ones and build larger ones. Then he said to his own soul: "Soul, you have many goods laid up for many years. Take your ease, eat, drink, and be merry."

By any business measure, he was successful. By any retirement-planning standard, he was prudent. Yet God called him a fool. Why? Because God was nowhere in his world. He consulted himself, he spoke to his own soul, he entrusted his future to his barns — and never once asked the One who gives life. That very night, God required his soul, and everything he had called "security" was suddenly exposed for what it was.

The widow and the rich man are both answering the same question: Where is my security? The widow entrusted tomorrow to God; the rich man locked tomorrow in his barns. The widow appeared to have nothing, yet she lived in genuine trust. The rich man appeared to have everything, yet he lived in a very respectable form of atheism.

This is our mirror too.

When I exaggerate to keep my job, I am really saying: God may not provide — but this job will. When I falsify records to keep a client, I am really saying: God may not open a way — but this deal will. When I manipulate and pressure my child about their future, speaking half-truths, I am really saying: God may not love my child as well as I do — I need to arrange things for Him. When I silence my conscience to be accepted by a certain group, I am really saying: God's acceptance is not enough — I need theirs.

Sanctification, then, is not simply trying harder and saying, "I won't sin next time." Of course we need to be watchful, to practice discipline, to make concrete choices. But if we only grit our teeth, we tend to plug one hole today and spring a leak somewhere else tomorrow — because what truly needs to be addressed is the object of trust within us.

In Jeremiah, God says He will "pluck up and break down, destroy and overthrow, and then build and plant." This is very much like what God does in our hearts. He is not merely patching a few bad habits. He is dismantling the false image of a God who is uninvolved, unreliable, and seemingly absent — and replacing it with a true and living revelation of Himself.

The real God is a provider. This does not mean we stop working, planning, or saving — and it certainly does not dress up laziness as surrender. It means your job is not your god, your client is not your god, your opportunity is not your god. Jobs change, clients leave, doors close — but the One who gives work, gives clients, gives opportunity, and can set a table in the wilderness, is God.

The real God is the giver of worth. Your value does not come from your performance, your income, your child's achievements, or the praise of others. If you are in Christ, your identity is that of a beloved, redeemed, and accepted child of God. People may misunderstand you, overlook you, or even despise you — but they do not have the authority to decide who you are.

The real God is also the home where you belong. People leave, relationships break, friends disappoint, and even those closest to us can let us down. But the Lord says, "I will in no way leave you, neither will I in any way forsake you." This is not a comforting religious slogan. It is God staking His own faithfulness on the promise He has made to His children. You do not need to sell your conscience in order to hold on to a position, a relationship, or a circle of belonging.

So the next time temptation comes, don't only ask: Can I do this? Will anyone find out? Is there a safer way? Ask something deeper: If I don't do this, what am I most afraid of losing? Has that thing already taken the place of God in my heart?

Then bring that answer to prayer. It can be simple:

Lord, I confess that I often look at the world through atheist glasses. I say I trust You, yet inside I doubt that You are really involved, really reliable, really going to come through in time. Forgive me, and let me know You again as You truly are. When temptation comes, let me see You first — and then see the situation. Let me believe that You are the God who provides for me, the God who gives me worth, the God who will never let me go. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

A prayer like this is not a one-time fix. Rebuilding faith is often the work of a lifetime. God dismantles a little of your fear with one act of provision, a little of your shame with one act of forgiveness, a little of your loneliness with one moment of His presence. Slowly, He removes the glasses that made Him invisible — until you see more and more clearly: He was there all along.

Dear brothers and sisters, when the temptation to sin arrives, the real question is not only, How do I avoid sinning? The deeper question is: Who am I actually trusting?

May God have mercy on us and remove those hidden atheist glasses. May we — when facing bonuses, clients, children, health, relationships, reputation, and tomorrow — come to know afresh the God who is real, reliable, and will never let us go. And may the next time we face temptation, we find the strength to walk an honest, clean, and trusting path — not merely by trying harder to do the right thing, but because we have seen the right One.

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💬 After reading this article, if you have any thoughts or questions, you are welcome to ask Pastor Bond:

• "What does my first reaction to temptation reveal about who I really trust?"
• "I say I believe in God, yet I live as though He isn't there — what's going on?"
• "How do I move from 'trying harder not to sin' to genuinely trusting God?"