'We thank you, Tony, for being a loving husband and father. We thank you for being a great doctor and for your holistic approach to healthcare. We thank you, Tony, for your integrity, your compassion, your warmth. We remember your gifts. We thank you for sharing your life with us, your colleagues, friends and family.'

The celebrant, standing sideways behind his lectern, directed his oration to the flower-decked coffin. And no one seemed to think it in the least bit odd. Tony was my friend, a dedicated professional and a convinced atheist. I wondered what he would make of the church imagery imported into his humanist funeral, especially the speech directed to him when he was beyond hearing or knowing. Part of me felt angry at the hypocrisy of it all: 'You think I'm mad, speaking to an invisible God – at least I believe he can hear me!'

This was my first secular funeral and I was expecting it to be different. The spectator aspect was new – no creed to recite, no hymns to sing, no amen to say – but it was surprisingly recognisable. We stood to pay our respects; we bowed our heads. We sat for the poetry readings; a choir stood at the front for a favourite song. And, when the crematorium drapery hid the casket from view, even the horrid rattle of the plastic curtain tracks was familiar. But it was a secular funeral and it was different: God was studiously and deliberately ignored. It was like being in a parallel universe.

God was not acknowledged but he was present, of course, sustaining and upholding the large and appreciative congregation. He was there in the hearts of his people by his Spirit, bringing his word to their minds: 'The fool says in his heart “There is no God.”' (1) '“You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you”... This is how it will be with anyone who stores up things for himself but is not rich towards God'. (2) God was certainly there, looking for the lost and challenging the careless colleagues (some in their NHS uniforms to signify their association with the deceased). How could anyone be unmoved with such stark reminders of mortality?

'That was great wasn't it? Really uplifting!' said a man on the way out. I managed a weak smile.

Many Christians identify with Saint Augustine's confession that 'You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you.' (3) But I am not sure that all unsaved people have a deep gnawing emptiness that longs, even subconsciously, for a relationship with God. A friend told how, while travelling in a clapped out car in Africa, the fuel tank gauge was stuck on 'FULL'. Mile after mile, the oblivious driver boasted about fuel economy whilst the land became more and more lonely and my friend became more and more anxious. Tony was like that driver. In a busy life crammed with challenging work, exciting sports, fantastic holidays and as many hobbies as an intelligent man can reasonably fit into his spare time, his 'life fulfilment gauge' was stuck on full. 'The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers'. (4)

'What did you think of the funeral?' The death of a colleague affords openings for useful conversation. I found myself having brief but unexpected chats about life, suffering and the meaning of it all with receptionists, nurses, managers and doctors – some were over refreshments following the service but many later at the photocopier or passing on the stairs. Gentleness and wisdom is needed. 'It was fitting because Tony was an atheist but my prayer was for him to know God and to be in heaven. We do miss him don't we?'

Tony's achievements dwarfed my own – he was a great man and a committed clinician. I prayed with all my might when he was dying that God would be merciful to him.

Are we rich towards God? Is our focus on our life, our work and our attainments? May we know the reality of the gospel injunction to 'seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness'. (5)

Ruth Eardley is a GP in Leicester.