Parts 1 and 2
SOMETHING PART 1
Nothing cannot create something if it is nothing. Can it?
Well, that is where the mystery begins. Except where there is nothing there can be no mystery, because nothing is, well, nothing.
But just when nothing had settled into being… umm, nothing—quiet, empty, unchanging—something stirred. Not because nothing decided to become something. Nothing cannot decide anything. It has no mind, no will, no spark. It is nothing.
But Something does.
And so, into the vast quiet where nothing stretched endlessly, Something arrived. Not slowly, not with effort, not with strain. Simply there. As if it had always been waiting just beyond the edge of nothingness, humming softly to itself.
At first, the Something that came into being was small—so small that if nothing had eyes, it might have missed it. A shimmer. A whisper. A possibility. But possibilities have a way of growing, especially when they are wanted.
And this Something was very much wanted.
It expanded, not like an explosion, but like a thought becoming clear. It warmed the cold that nothing never noticed. It brightened the dark that nothing never minded. It filled the emptiness that nothing never felt. In fact, nothing was no longer—it had disappeared into something. Where something is there can be no nothing.
Nothing, for a second, had a neighbor. But only for that split second when Something came into being. And then…no more nothing.
And the Something—curious, alive, overflowing—began to shape the space around it. It stretched out into the quiet and said, “Let there be…” and suddenly the quiet wasn’t so quiet anymore.
Light danced.
Color bloomed.
Time began to tick, as if startled awake.
And the great story—this story—your story—my story—our story finally had a beginning. “Let us make man in our image…” and it was so.
So perhaps the question was never, “Can nothing create something?”
Perhaps the better question is, “Who stepped into the nothing and made it impossible for nothing to stay nothing?”
Because once Something arrives—real, intentional, creative—nothing is never the same again. In truth, nothing no longer exists.
SOMETHING PART 2
Nothing cannot create something if it is nothing. Can it?
Of course not. Nothing has no hands to shape, no breath to speak, no imagination to stir. Nothing is perfectly content being… well, nothing. It does not grow lonely. It does not grow restless. It does not even know it exists, because knowing requires a knower, and nothing has none. In fact, as I’ve been saying, nothing is nothing and therefore cannot know because there is no knowing.
But Someone knew.
Into that endless quiet—quiet so complete it didn’t even know it was quiet—came a presence. Not loud. Not forceful. Just there. He had always been there, but nothing didn’t know it. Nothing couldn’t. He was A warmth where no warmth had ever been. A thought where no thought had ever stirred. A will where no will had ever existed.
And suddenly the question changed.
It was no longer, “Can nothing become something?” It became, “What happens when Someone steps into nothing?”
The answer arrived like a whisper.
A whisper that carried power. A whisper that carried intention. A whisper that carried love.
“Let there be…”
And the nothing shuddered and vanished.
Light burst forth—not timidly, but joyfully, as if it had been waiting forever to be invited. Darkness pulled back, surprised to find itself defined; to find itself weakened by the light. Space stretched wide like a canvas unrolled. Time blinked awake, startled to discover it had a beginning. Like a new watch just being wound for the first time, time started ticking.
The One who whispered smiled.
He shaped galaxies with a gesture, a word, like an artist flicking paint across a blank surface. He carved mountains with the ease of a sculptor smoothing clay. He poured oceans as though tipping a pitcher, laughing as they rushed to fill the deep places. Oh how we smile when we have created something. We find joy, surely He did too.
He scattered stars like seeds, knowing each one would grow into a story. He traced the paths of comets with a finger, letting them dance their long, icy arcs. He cupped His hands and breathed out nebulae—vast clouds of color and fire that swirled like the first strokes of a cosmic painting.
And when the universe finally settled into its rhythms—stars humming, planets spinning, winds dancing—He turned His attention to a small, blue world tucked quietly into a corner of a galaxy.
He touched the dust, and it stirred. He breathed, and it lived. He spoke, and it understood.
Life. Human life.
Life that could think. Life that could feel. Life that could wonder. Life that could ask the very question asked a the beginning:
“How did something come from nothing?”
And perhaps, no surely, the answer is simpler than we make it.
Nothing didn’t become something. Someone stepped into the nothing. Someone spoke. Someone loved. Someone created.
And once He did, nothing was never nothing again.
Creation was not an accident. It was an expression— a masterpiece painted on the canvas of what once was not.
And the Artist? He is still creating. Still speaking. Still breathing life into empty places.
Because the story that began with nothing was always meant to end with everything.
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And the story of something made existence the great life and we became the image bearers of the Great Creator of all that we see, the creator of something.
And the Artist?
He is still creating.
Still speaking.
Still breathing life into empty places.
For the story that began with nothing
was always meant to arrive at everything—
not as an ending,
but as a beginning told again and again.
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.
And in that moment, existence learned how to speak.
We became its echo—
image-bearers of the Great Creator,
called to make something
from what we are given.
He continues to create and we are His hands and feet.