What does God the Father look like? Although I've never seen Him

Host: The chapel was ancient, its stone walls breathing with the weight of centuries. Candlelight wavered across icons and stained glass, each flame casting shadows that danced like spirits on the floor. The scent of incense lingered — sweet, somber, holy.

Outside, the rain had begun — a gentle patter, a kind of baptism for the night. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat in the second pew, their faces half-illuminated by the glow of a thousand flickering prayers.

A Bible lay open between them, and the echo of a quote seemed to float in the air itself:
“What does God the Father look like? Although I’ve never seen Him, I believe — as with the Holy Spirit — He looks like Jesus looked on earth.”

Jack: (staring at the candles) You know, that’s what always gets me. People saying they know what God looks like. As if the infinite could ever fit into a face.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Maybe it’s not about the face, Jack. Maybe it’s about the heart behind it — the reflection of something divine in what’s human.

Host: The flame nearest Jack flickered, as if challenging him. His grey eyes caught the light, their coldness turning to steel.

Jack: So, you think God looks like Jesus? That the creator of galaxies, of black holes, of atoms and light, wears a human smile?

Jeeny: (softly) I think that’s how we could finally see Him. Jesus wasn’t just about divinity, Jack — He was about translation. The infinite translated into flesh, so we could understand what love really looks like.

Jack: (leaning back, his voice dry) That’s the poetry of faith — to believe in a translation so perfect it hides the distance between us and the truth. But I can’t. Not anymore.

Host: The rain grew stronger, hammering against the stained-glass window, each drop glowing red, blue, and gold as it fell through the light.

Jeeny: (turning toward him) You used to believe once. What changed?

Jack: Reality. The world. The way we use God to justify everything — from war to greed. If God looks like Jesus, then we’ve mocked His face a million times over.

Jeeny: (firmly) Or maybe we’ve just forgotten how to see it.

Host: Her voice was quiet but unshakable, the kind of softness that holds steel beneath it. The candles seemed to steady as she spoke, their flames listening.

Jeeny: When I think of God the Father, I don’t imagine a face at all — not really. I imagine mercy, patience, the kind of love that doesn’t demand but waits. Maybe that’s what Benny Hinn meant — that Jesus showed us not the features of God, but His nature.

Jack: (bitterly) You make it sound easy. But if God is love, then He’s done a terrible job showing it. Children die, cities fall, innocents suffer. If that’s what the Father’s face looks like, I’d rather not see it.

Jeeny: (shaking her head) You’re not wrong, Jack. The world is cruel. But maybe the face of God isn’t in what happens, but in how we respond. When someone forgives, when someone heals, when someone stays, even after they’ve been hurt — maybe that’s when the Father shows His reflection.

Host: A pause. The storm outside swelled, and the candles flickered wildly, their light stretching across the stone floor like hands reaching out.

Jack: (quietly, almost whispering) That’s a beautiful thought… but it feels too human. Too small. If God looks like Jesus, then God also wept, didn’t He?

Jeeny: (softly, eyes glistening) Yes. And maybe that’s the point. We keep thinking divinity means power, but maybe it’s the willingness to suffer. Maybe God became human not to rule, but to bleed.

Jack: (his voice trembles slightly) Then what kind of God creates a world that requires His own suffering to fix it?

Jeeny: (after a long silence) The kind that refuses to abandon it.

Host: The air was thick now — not from heat, but from the weight of that truth. Jack’s hands were clenched, his jaw tight, but his eyes — they were different now. The anger had begun to crack, revealing something fragile underneath.

Jack: (quietly) You really think He looks like us? That He still sees us the same way — after everything?

Jeeny: (nods) Yes. Because even when we’ve forgotten His face, He hasn’t forgotten ours.

Host: The rain began to ease, turning from a storm to a whisper. The candle flames steadied, straight, calm, golden. The room was filled with the sound of breathing, soft and sacred.

Jack: (exhales slowly) Maybe… maybe that’s why people paint Him like Jesus. Because we need a face we can forgive.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) Or one that can forgive us.

Host: The organ pipes above them groaned softly, as if the church itself had taken a breath. The moonlight broke through the glass, spilling across the altar, mixing with the flicker of flames — the divine and the human, woven into one golden blur.

Jack: (looking at the altar) So if God looks like Jesus, what do you think He’s doing now — watching? Waiting?

Jeeny: (gazing upward) Maybe He’s just listening. Maybe that’s all He ever does — listen until we finally speak from something real.

Jack: (quietly, almost a whisper) Then maybe that’s what I’ve been afraid of — that if I spoke honestly, He’d actually hear me.

Jeeny: (softly) He already has.

Host: The camera would rise, slowly, through the ascending candle smoke, catching the light of the moon as it spilled through the stained glass. The image of Christ shimmered there — not as a man, but as light breaking into fragments of every color, a thousand reflections on the stone.

The faces of Jack and Jeeny were both touched by that light — two souls, one question, and a shared silence that had become its own prayer.

And as the storm faded, the flames burned steadier, and the echo of the quote seemed to settle into the room’s heart —
that maybe God the Father does not look like Jesus because of form,
but because, in every human face, there still flickers the possibility of divine love.