Here we go, the delightfully outdated narrative of divine creation, a tale that unfolds with the dramatic flair of a Vegas magic show, yet with a distinct lack of sequins and smoke machines. Let's slip on our spectacles of skepticism and delve into the abyss of this archaic fable, shall we? The plot commences, or so it would have us believe, with a state of absolute nothingness, a concept so intellectually confounding that even those who revel in astrophysics find themselves scratching their heads in befuddlement. It's like trying to imagine a world before the concept of "before" even existed, a task so mind-boggling it could give a philosopher a headache that no amount of wine could cure.

Enter the Omnipotent One, a being so overwhelmingly powerful that it can coerce the universe into existence with the same ease as a toddler playing with Play-Doh. This heavenly puppeteer decides to whip up the heavens and the earth, presumably because it's a slow week in the eternal office and they're bored out of their divine mind. The earth starts off as a mere speck, a planetary embryo adrift in the vast, inky sea of the cosmos. And lo and behold, "Let there be light," is declared, despite the glaring scientific oversight that the sun is still chilling in the celestial green room waiting for its cue. But who are we, mere bags of star-dust, to question the whimsical fancies of an omnipotent being?

Let's tiptoe through the scientific minefield, shall we? During this epoch, the universe was a superheated, dense stew, and light was more of a luxury than a necessity. The actual cosmic illumination extravaganza began billions of years later with the emergence of stars and galaxies, not a divine snap of the fingers. Yet, we're not here to dissect quantum physics. Who are we, mere mortals with a penchant for questioning everything, to scrutinize the whimsies of an all-powerful deity who probably has more important things to do, like winning at Sudoku or organizing an interdimensional book club?

Moving along to the second act of this celestial play, and God decides to try their hand at architecture. They draw an invisible partition between the waters, calling it a "firmament." It's like playing a game of hopscotch, but it's supposed to represent the division between the atmosphere and hydrosphere. The idea of Earth as a giant floating marble is utterly charming, but we know it's more complicated than that. The true distinction between water and land is a geological tango and waltz that's been in motion for eons, not a quick fix for the universe's janitorial shift.

The plot thickens on the third day with the creation of flora. The divine DJ hits the evolutionary play button, and photosynthesis goes into overdrive. But let's not overlook the science behind the miracle: plants are the culmination of approximately 3.5 billion years of evolutionary trial and error, not the handiwork of a celestial landscaping department. The grass and trees are simply obeying the laws of the natural world, not the fickle whims of a spectral gardener with a green thumb.

On the fourth day, the celestial bodies make their grand entrance, as if the cosmic stage isn't already crowded enough. The sun and moon are conjured, along with a sprinkle of stars, to serve as flashy lamps and timekeepers. But let's not get ahead of the cosmic fanfare! These aren't just pretty lights to admire; they're the result of nuclear fusion and gravitational collapse, events so dramatic they'd put a Hollywood blockbuster to shame. The sun is a thermonuclear reactor that's been burning for approximately 4.5 billion years, and the moon is a souvenir from a cataclysmic fender bender between Earth and a rogue planet. To think they're merely decorative is as non-existent as the humility of someone who thinks they're the center of the universe.

Day five rolls around, and it's showtime for the animal kingdom. The waters begin to teem with life, and the skies are suddenly crowded with winged acrobats. It's like watching a divine episode of "Planet Earth," but with God as the director instead of the ever-soothing David Attenborough. Yet, the creation of life is a tad more complex than a divine clap of the divine hands. Life on Earth is a woven weave of eccentric (take a ganders at the 'duck-billed' platypus) examples of evolutionary processes, with countless species popping up, strutting their stuff, and then going the way of the dodo over billions of years. The diversity of life is less about heavenly micromanagement and more about unbridled natural selection playing the ultimate game of "survive the gauntlet."

And then, the pièce de résistance, the sixth day. The grand finale where humans make their debut. But let's not get too full of ourselves here; we're talking about a process that started with single-celled organisms, evolved through the eons, and by ascending from a monkey in a tree, ended up with us, talking apes with a penchant for selfie-taking, and a yearning for Netflix-bingeing 'The Big Bang Theory', yes, we became the apex of creation. The idea that we're the "crown jewels" of creation is a smidge egotistical, don't you think? Evolution is the ultimate blind judge, favoring those who can best adapt to the latest environmental kerfuffle, not just those who can throw the most divine of parties.

And thus, we arrive at the grand tiptop end of six days of creation, a rollercoaster ride through the vaccuum of nothingness, from the illumination of the first photon and the formation of quantum foam to the birth of human vanity. It's a story that's been passed down from generation to generation, a charming yet futile attempt to impose order on the vast, enigmatic universe. But let's not kid ourselves. The true magic of existence is scribbled in the annals of physics, chemistry, and biology, not in the metaphors of archaic texts that were penned by people who hadn't even discovered bacteria, let alone black holes. The universe, as it turns out, is less about divine fiat and more about the indifferent laws of nature that govern the cosmos, even if it means occasionally giving us a noogie, a wedgie and a wet willy, to boot.

© Travis Allen King aka DTH