And on the Eighth Day, God Created Pickleball

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

The earth was formless and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. Then God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. He looked at it and said, “Not bad. A little harsh on the eyes, but it’ll do.”

On the second day He separated the waters. On the third He made dry land and plants. On the fourth, sun, moon, and stars. On the fifth, fish and birds. On the sixth, animals and, for reasons known only to Him, human beings.

God rested on the seventh day, mostly because the humans had already started arguing about who got the better rib.

For a while it was fine. People named animals, tended gardens, and occasionally got naked in public without shame. Then came the knowledge of good and evil, which somehow translated into “my tribe’s interpretation of the rules is better than yours,” and things went downhill fast.

God watched from His cosmic recliner as the centuries rolled by. Floods. Towers. Exoduses. Empires rising and falling like poorly timed soufflés. Crusades. Inquisitions. World wars. Cold wars. Culture wars. People inventing new ways to be terrified of each other based on rumors, half-truths, and the latest political or religious narrative that happened to trend that week.

God forsaw the craziness that would come to pass in the early 21st century, and decided He had seen enough. Humanity was so busy separating into factions, doomscrolling on social media, arguing about religion, politics, sports and stockpiling canned goods and toilet paper against imaginary invasions that they’d forgotten how to just… play.

With time being an illusion to the supreme Deity, God chose one ordinary Tuesday back in 1965. He leaned over the edge of heaven, pointed at a few bored suburbanites in Washington state, and whispered:

“Behold. I give you Pickleball.”

A paddle. A plastic ball with holes. A net that was somehow both too high and too low at the same time. Rules that made sense only after three beers and a heated argument about the kitchen line.

It spread like holy fire, only the fun kind. Courts sprouted in church parking lots, retirement communities, and public parks. Suddenly, the same people who had spent decades shouting about politics and end-times prophecy were instead shouting “Out!” and “Kitchen violation!” with equal passion and zero bloodshed.

God watched with quiet satisfaction as former enemies became doubles partners. As anxiety melted under the simple joy of smacking a wiffle ball at someone’s feet. As the secret He had always known finally sank in: play is the antidote to fear. Laughter is louder than rumors of war. And nothing deflates a self-important narrative faster than a perfectly placed dink that leaves your opponent flat-footed and grinning.

The earth did not become perfect. People still argued. They still fretted. But every afternoon, on courts across the land, a little more of the weight lifted.

And God saw that it was good.

Very, very good.

Amen