When the Rapture happened, nobody really noticed at first. A few cars rolled into ditches, some Zoom meetings abruptly ended, and about 38% of the world’s Facebook accounts went inactive. Within hours, the news anchors confirmed what theologians had warned about for centuries: God had taken all the righteous home.
And, weirdly, that’s when things started getting really good.
The stock market stabilized. Entire wars fizzled out overnight because the most zealous participants had, apparently, been promoted to Heaven. Traffic became tolerable. Customer service hotlines were suddenly answered by calm, competent humans. And, most miraculously of all, every comment section on the internet became civil, even kind.
Without the self-declared moral authorities, legislation took on a strangely practical tone. Politicians stopped invoking divine will and started reading peer-reviewed studies. The phrase “thoughts and prayers” was replaced by “policy and action.” Churches that once hosted sermons about eternal damnation became community kitchens, yoga studios, and, in one town, a spectacular brewery.
Even weather patterns improved. Scientists couldn’t explain it, but the skies seemed bluer, the air cleaner, and the dolphins started returning to Cleveland.
Of course, there were still a few self-proclaimed prophets left behind, wandering around, confused and slightly offended. “It must be a test,” they insisted. “God’s filtering us a second time!” But when the local coffee shop started serving espresso martinis on Sundays, even they began to relax.
A decade later, historians would mark the Rapture as the Great Reset of Humanity—not because Heaven took the best of us, but because Earth finally got a chance to exhale without them.
Somewhere above, presumably in eternal light, the righteous were singing hymns of endless praise.
Down below, the rest of us were laughing, dancing, and paying fair wages. And if that wasn’t paradise, it was close enough.