When you see the face of God, or when you have an overwhelming

Host: The forest was breathing.

A thick mist curled between the trees, coiling around the roots like smoke from a divine altar. Every leaf shimmered with dew, trembling as if holding the last secret of the world. A river murmured nearby — low, eternal, like a prayer half-remembered.

In the heart of that sacred stillness, a fire burned — small, steady, amber light licking upward into the dark. Beside it sat Jack, his face carved in shadow and flame, and Jeeny, eyes wide as if the forest itself were whispering something meant only for her.

For a moment, there was no sound — only the fire’s quiet hiss and the heartbeat of the Earth beneath them.

Then Jeeny spoke, her voice soft, trembling like a hand brushing the edge of a vision.

Jeeny: “Alex Grey said, ‘When you see the face of God, or when you have an overwhelming, ecstatic, blissful, visionary experience; there is no doubt about it. It isn’t like, “Did it happen?” It’s unforgettable. And you are a changed person in some way.’”

Host: The flames flickered higher as if in response, casting golden light across her features — her eyes wide, her expression alive with something between wonder and ache.

Jack stared into the fire, unmoved, his hands clasped around a chipped metal cup.

Jack: “People always say that — that there’s some divine face waiting to reveal itself. But what if it’s just neurons firing in chaos? A hallucination dressed up as holiness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe holiness is hallucination, Jack. Maybe God is the mind finally recognizing its own infinity.”

Host: The wind sighed through the trees, carrying the faint scent of wet bark and memory.

Jack: “You sound like a mystic with a paintbrush. Grey saw God in visions because he trained his eyes to. That doesn’t make them real.”

Jeeny: “Real? What does that even mean anymore? The feeling was real. The transformation was real. Isn’t that enough?”

Jack: “No. Feelings lie. Visions lie. History’s full of people who saw God and burned others alive because of it.”

Jeeny: “You always run to the darkest proof.”

Jack: “Because it’s the one that lasts.”

Host: The fire cracked sharply, sending sparks spiraling upward, disappearing into the velvet dark. Jeeny’s gaze followed them, her breath shallow with something like yearning.

Jeeny: “But sometimes the dark births the light, doesn’t it? Look at Moses — a man broken, lost in a desert, until a burning bush taught him to listen. Or Teresa of Ávila — she called her ecstasy pain because it burned through her body like truth. Every real encounter with the divine hurts, Jack. That’s how you know it’s not a dream.”

Jack: “Or a seizure.”

Jeeny: “Cynicism’s a poor shield for mystery.”

Host: The flames trembled, their light dancing across Jack’s face — a face etched with reason and something deeper he wouldn’t name.

Jack: “You want to believe in transformation because you need it. People crave meaning when the world refuses to make sense. So they see faces in clouds, gods in visions, salvation in sparks.”

Jeeny: “And you crave the absence of it because it’s safer.”

Jack: “Safer? Yes. Realer too.”

Jeeny: “But real isn’t always safe, Jack. The face of God — whatever it is — terrifies before it heals.”

Host: The night deepened, swallowing the edges of their circle of light. The stars above were hidden behind a tapestry of cloud, but the river still glowed faintly, catching the shimmer of unseen moons.

Jeeny leaned closer to the fire, her eyes burning now, not with belief, but with conviction.

Jeeny: “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? That moment when everything — time, sound, thought — falls away. When the world stops being separate. When you’re not a person, not a name, not even a body — just… awareness.”

Jack: “Once. Years ago. On a mountain in Nepal.”

Host: His voice changed — lower now, raw. He hadn’t meant to confess, but the forest was listening.

Jack: “There was a storm. I thought I’d die there. Then it stopped. And for a second, everything was… still. I felt — I don’t know — as if I wasn’t me anymore. Like the mountain was breathing through me. But then it passed. I came down. I realized it was exhaustion and oxygen deprivation.”

Jeeny: “Or grace.”

Jack: “Grace doesn’t care who it visits.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The silence after that was thick enough to touch. The fire’s glow softened, and the forest exhaled, heavy with unseen life.

Jeeny: “You can’t dissect transcendence, Jack. You can’t measure it or bottle it. You can only receive it. That’s what Grey meant — it changes you because it doesn’t ask permission.”

Jack: “And what if it changes you into someone who’s wrong?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe wrong is what you needed to become before you can be right again.”

Host: Her words fell like embers, slow and bright, each one finding its way into the cracks of his certainty.

Jack stared into the fire — the reflection of flame dancing inside his eyes, betraying something almost like longing.

Jack: “You think seeing God fixes anything?”

Jeeny: “Not fixes — reorients. You stop looking outward for proof and start looking inward for presence.”

Jack: “Presence.” (He said the word like it tasted unfamiliar.) “You think God’s presence hides inside us?”

Jeeny: “Where else could eternity fit?”

Host: The river sang louder for a moment, its voice layered with wind, with time, with something older than both. Jeeny closed her eyes, her face tilted toward the invisible stars.

Jeeny: “The first time I saw something like that — a moment of overwhelming peace — it was after my brother died. I was broken. Sitting by his grave, I looked up, and for a heartbeat, the whole world shimmered. It wasn’t vision; it was recognition. The veil dropped. I knew he wasn’t gone — not really.”

Jack: “And you never doubted it?”

Jeeny: “Not once. Because once you see the infinite, you can’t pretend to be blind again.”

Host: The firelight flickered across her face, catching the trace of tears that didn’t fall. Jack looked at her for a long time — his cynicism wrestling with something much older, much softer.

Jack: “You think the face of God looks back.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t look back. It is everything looking.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying with it a single leaf that landed on the fire and vanished into light. The sound of the river grew louder, fuller — as if the forest itself was breathing with them now.

Jack: “And what if I never see it?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re already looking through it.”

Host: The mist thickened again, glowing faintly as though lit from within. The fire dwindled to embers, its light soft and pulsing, like a heartbeat.

Jack finally smiled — small, tired, but sincere.

Jack: “You make madness sound like revelation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe revelation is the most beautiful madness of all.”

Host: The forest fell silent, except for the river — the eternal whisper of what was and what will be.

They sat together — skeptic and believer — both gazing into the same fire, seeing different worlds yet sharing the same warmth.

And as the night deepened, something subtle shifted — not in the world, but within them.

Perhaps that was the point. The face of God, unseen yet everywhere, was not a vision to be found, but a mirror to be remembered.

The fire sighed one last time, the mist swallowed the glow, and the world — vast, ancient, and breathing — looked back.