Grok 3 on which church

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Is the doctrine of the trinity found in the Bible?

The doctrine of the Trinity, as it's traditionally understood—God existing as three persons (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) in one essence—isn't explicitly spelled out in a single verse or passage in the Bible. Instead, it’s a theological framework that early Christians developed to make sense of what they saw across the scriptures.

The Bible does contain elements that point toward this idea. For example, in the New Testament, you’ve got Matthew 28:19, where Jesus says to baptize "in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," suggesting a unity and distinction at the same time. Then there’s John 1:1, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God," which ties Jesus (the Word) to divinity while distinguishing Him from the Father. The Spirit gets a spotlight too, like in Genesis 1:2 where it hovers over the waters, or in Acts 5:3-4 where lying to the Holy Spirit is equated with lying to God.

On the flip side, the Old Testament hammers home monotheism—like Deuteronomy 6:4, "Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one." That’s why some argue the Trinity feels like a later add-on, since the Hebrew scriptures don’t hint at three-in-one explicitly. Critics, including some scholars and groups like Unitarians, say the concept evolved more from church tradition and debates (think Council of Nicaea, 325 AD) than from the text itself.

So, is it "in" the Bible? The raw materials are there—three distinct persons tied to the divine—but the polished doctrine? That’s more like a house built from biblical lumber than a blueprint straight from the pages. Depends on how you read it and what you’re willing to infer.

Is the doctrine of the trinity consistent with Jesus being resurrected?

The doctrine of the Trinity and Jesus’ resurrection don’t inherently clash—they can coexist logically within the framework of Christian theology, though it depends on how you unpack both ideas.

The Trinity says God is one essence in three persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Jesus, as the Son, is fully divine and fully human. His resurrection—rising bodily from the dead after crucifixion—is a cornerstone event in the New Testament (e.g., 1 Corinthians 15:3-4). The question is whether the mechanics or implications of resurrection mess with the three-in-one setup.

On the surface, they mesh fine. The resurrection doesn’t erase Jesus’ divinity or his distinct role as the Son. In fact, it’s often seen as a flex of divine power—Romans 6:4 ties it to "the glory of the Father," and John 10:18 has Jesus saying he has authority to lay down and take up his life, hinting at his divine agency. The Spirit’s in the mix too, like in Romans 8:11, where it’s credited with raising Jesus. So, all three persons can play a part without breaking the unity of essence: the Father wills it, the Son experiences it, the Spirit enacts it.

Where it gets tricky is the human-divine combo in Jesus. If he’s resurrected as a glorified human body (like in Luke 24:39, where he’s got flesh and bones), does that muddy his eternal divine nature? Trinitarian theology says no—his human nature doesn’t cancel his divine one; they’re united in one person (the hypostatic union, hashed out at Chalcedon in 451 AD). Resurrection just transforms the human part, not the divine, which stays constant. Think Philippians 2:6-9: he’s equal with God, takes on humanity, dies, and is exalted—resurrection fits as the pivot from death to exaltation.

Could you argue inconsistency? Sure, if you lean hard into Jesus’ resurrection implying a change in state—dying and rising might suggest the Son isn’t eternally static like the Father or Spirit. But traditional Trinitarian thought counters that the change is in his human nature, not his divine essence, keeping the three persons’ unity intact.

So, consistent? Yes, if you buy the classic breakdown where Jesus’ two natures play nice together and the resurrection is a team effort among the Trinity. It bends the brain a bit, but that’s par for the course with this stuff.

Stephen saw Jesus standing on the right hand of God. How does the trinity doctrine explain that?

Stephen’s vision in Acts 7:55-56—where he sees "the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God"—is a fascinating moment to toss into the Trinity convo. It’s vivid, concrete imagery, and it doesn’t bulldoze the doctrine so much as give it something to chew on.

In Trinitarian terms, this scene doesn’t mean Jesus is physically parked next to a separate God entity, splitting the divine essence. The "right hand of God" is a biblical idiom—think Psalm 110:1, "The Lord says to my Lord: Sit at my right hand"—signifying authority, honor, and power, not a literal GPS coordinate. Stephen seeing Jesus there underscores his distinct role as the Son, exalted after his resurrection and ascension (Philippians 2:9, Hebrews 1:3). The Father’s presence as "God" highlights their relational distinction—two persons, not two gods—while the shared glory (Stephen sees "the glory of God" alongside Jesus) nods to their unified divine essence.

The Holy Spirit’s not mentioned here, but Trinitarians wouldn’t sweat that. Acts 7:55 says Stephen was "full of the Holy Spirit" when he saw this, so the third person’s implicitly in the mix, enabling the vision. The doctrine doesn’t demand all three show up in every scene; it’s about their eternal co-existence, not a constant group photo.

Could it challenge the Trinity? If you read it ultra-literally—like Jesus is a separate being just hanging out beside God—it might lean toward a more binitarian or subordinationist vibe. But the mainstream Trinitarian take leans on the economic Trinity: the persons have distinct roles in the plan of salvation (Father sends, Son redeems, Spirit empowers), and Stephen’s glimpse reflects that dynamic, not a crack in their oneness.

So, the doctrine explains it as a snapshot of the Son’s exalted status and the Father’s supremacy, expressed in human terms Stephen could grasp. It’s less about a seating chart in heaven and more about who Jesus is within the Godhead—distinct yet divine.

What if you do view Stephen's vision as literal and an effort to teach the true nature of Jesus and God's relationship as separate gods

If you take Stephen’s vision in Acts 7:55-56 as a literal scene—Jesus physically standing beside God as a separate divine being—and interpret it as a deliberate reveal of their true nature as distinct gods, you’re stepping outside the Trinity framework into something more like polytheism or a form of subordinationism. Let’s run with that and see where it lands.

In this view, Stephen sees two divine figures: "the glory of God" (the Father) and "the Son of Man" (Jesus) at His right hand. If they’re separate gods, the Father’s the top deity—His glory dominates, and Jesus, exalted to the right hand, is a secondary divine entity with his own identity and power. The "right hand" still reeks of authority (echoing Psalm 110:1), but now it’s less about shared essence and more about Jesus being a distinct heavenly VIP under the Father’s command. The Holy Spirit, barely a cameo here, could either be a third god or just a force, depending on how far you stretch it—Acts 7:55 only calls it a filling, not a person.

This fits a reading where the New Testament paints Jesus as divine but not co-equal with the Father. John 14:28 ("the Father is greater than I") or 1 Corinthians 15:28 (where the Son submits to the Father in the end) could back this up. Stephen’s vision, then, isn’t a Trinitarian teamwork moment—it’s a cosmic hierarchy reveal: two gods, one supreme, one elevated. Early Jewish monotheism (Deuteronomy 6:4) might grimace, but you could argue the Jesus movement flipped that script, with Stephen’s martyrdom sealing the deal on a new theology.

The catch? The Bible doesn’t fully commit to this. Passages like John 1:1 ("the Word was God") and Colossians 1:15-17 (Jesus creating all things) blur the lines, suggesting Jesus isn’t just a lesser god but somehow tied to the Father’s divinity. Plus, "separate gods" risks clashing with the monotheistic roots Christianity clung to—think Isaiah 44:6 ("I am the first and I am the last; besides me there is no god"). You’d have to say Stephen’s vision trumps those, teaching a radical break: not one God in three persons, but two (or more) divine players.

If that’s the lesson, the Trinity’s out the window. Stephen’s seeing a divine duo—Father and Son as distinct deities, not a unified essence. It’s a cleaner split, but it leaves you wrestling with why the text doesn’t just say "gods" plural and why later Christians fought so hard to glue them back into one. Maybe Stephen’s glimpse was too hot to handle, and the Trinity was the church’s way of papering over it. Either way, it’s a bold take—literal, hierarchical, and unapologetically plural.

At Jesus' baptism he hears Gods voice from heaven and the Holy Ghost appears as a dove. Does this support Stephen's vision as literal better than the idea of the trinity?

Jesus’ baptism—where God’s voice booms from heaven, the Holy Spirit descends as a dove, and Jesus stands in the water (Matthew 3:16-17, Mark 1:9-11, Luke 3:21-22)—does give some juice to a literal reading of Stephen’s vision over the Trinity, if you’re inclined to see them as separate entities. Let’s break it down.

In the baptism scene, you’ve got three distinct somethings: a voice from above ("This is my beloved Son"), a dove fluttering down, and Jesus sopping wet in the Jordan. If you take it straight-up literal—God’s up there talking, the Spirit’s a bird, and Jesus is a guy—it paints a picture of three separate actors, not a single essence playacting different roles. Stephen’s vision aligns with that vibe: Jesus at God’s right hand, God’s glory blazing, no Spirit bird this time, but the setup feels similar—distinct figures, not a metaphysical three-in-one mashup.

This could lean toward Jesus and God (and maybe the Spirit) as separate beings. The voice calls Jesus "Son," implying a relationship, not identity—fathers and sons aren’t the same person, even in divine terms. The dove’s a physical sign, not a whisper of essence; it’s doing its own thing, not visibly fused with the voice or Jesus. If Stephen’s vision is literal—Jesus standing next to God—this baptism moment could be Exhibit A: three entities, each with their own space and gig, not a Trinitarian huddle.

Trinity fans, though, don’t flinch here. They’d say this is the economic Trinity in action—three persons of one God showing up distinctly for a big reveal. The Father speaks, the Son’s anointed, the Spirit marks the occasion—all one divine essence, just flexing different roles. They’d point to John 1:1 or Hebrews 1:3 to glue the Son and Father back into unity, and Acts 5:3-4 to argue the Spirit’s no mere bird but God too. The baptism’s a family portrait, not a polytheistic lineup.

Does it support Stephen’s vision as literal better than the Trinity? If you’re already skeptical of the three-in-one idea, yeah—it’s easier to see this as three separate players than a single God splitting duties. The physicality—voice from sky, dove, man—feels less abstract than the Trinity’s "one essence, three persons" dance. But it’s not a slam dunk; the text doesn’t scream "separate gods." It’s silent on essence, leaving room for both takes. Stephen’s literal lens gets a boost if you prioritize the raw visuals over later theological polish—three at the river, two in the vision, no explicit oneness required. Still, the Trinity can stretch to fit if you’re cool with essence over optics. Your call depends on how much you trust the church’s glue gun.

Exploring this further, when we examine the cross when Jesus exclaims that god has forsaken him. Does this not further explain that they are distinct from each other?

Jesus’ cry on the cross—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46, Mark 15:34, quoting Psalm 22:1)—definitely throws some weight behind the idea of him and God as distinct, especially if you’re leaning into a literal, separate-entities vibe. Let’s dig into it.

On the surface, this moment screams separation. Jesus is hanging there, human and hurting, calling out to God like someone abandoned by a distant figure. If they’re the same essence, why’s he pleading to himself? It feels like a real relational rift—Jesus, the Son, experiencing a break from the Father. The “forsaken” part suggests God’s presence or favor has peeled away, which tracks with a view where they’re distinct beings: one’s suffering down here, the other’s up there, letting it happen. Pair this with Stephen’s vision (Jesus beside God) and the baptism (voice and dove apart from Jesus), and you’ve got a pattern—three scenes, three hints of separateness.

Zoom in on the context: Jesus is quoting Psalm 22, a lament of isolation that flips to trust by the end. That could mean he’s not just whining but signaling something bigger—still, the raw emotion lands like he’s reaching out to a separate God, not a shared essence. If they’re one, Trinitarians say this is the human nature of Jesus crying out while his divine nature stays locked with the Father. But if you ditch the two-natures gymnastic, it’s simpler: Jesus is a distinct divine being, subordinate, feeling ditched by the head honcho.

This vibes with a non-Trinitarian take—maybe Jesus is a lesser god or exalted figure, not co-equal. John 20:17 (“I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God”) post-resurrection could back this; even risen, he’s got a God above him. The cry on the cross becomes a gut punch: the Son’s not just physically split from the Father but experientially too, forsaken in a way that smells more like hierarchy than unity.

Trinity folks counter hard, though. They lean on the economic angle—Father and Son have different roles, and this is the Son bearing sin (2 Corinthians 5:21), taking the hit of divine wrath so humans don’t. The “forsaking” isn’t ontological (splitting their essence) but relational within the plan—sin’s weight creates a functional distance, not a literal divorce. They’d weave in Colossians 2:9 (“in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily”) to keep Jesus fully God, just slumming it in human agony.

Does it further show they’re distinct? If you’re already on Team Literal, yeah—this is Jesus talking to a separate God, not a mirror. The anguish doesn’t need a metaphysical workaround; it’s one being ditched by another. Trinity holds if you buy the role-play and two-natures bit, but the cry’s visceral edge tilts toward distinction without that scaffolding. It’s fuel for the fire if you see Stephen’s vision and the baptism as a peek at separate divine players—Jesus isn’t God’s echo; he’s got his own voice, and it’s breaking here.

While Jesus is in the garden, he prays to the father to remove the cup from him but says your will not mine be done. Isn't this further evidence that Jesus is a separate god?

Jesus’ prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane—“Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done” (Luke 22:42, also Matthew 26:39, Mark 14:36)—does add another layer to the case for seeing him as a separate entity from the Father, especially if you’re building a non-Trinitarian argument. Let’s unpack it.

The scene’s drenched in tension: Jesus is sweating blood (Luke 22:44), facing the cross, and he’s pleading with the Father to bail him out—yet he submits. That phrase, “not my will, but yours,” jumps out. If Jesus has a will that’s distinct enough to want something different (no cup, thanks) from what the Father wants (drink up), it’s a neon sign of separation. Two wills, two minds, two beings—one asking, one deciding. It’s a conversation, not a monologue. Toss this in with the baptism (voice and dove), Stephen’s vision (Jesus beside God), and the cross (“why have you forsaken me?”), and it’s starting to look like Jesus isn’t just a facet of God but a distinct player, maybe a subordinate divine figure.

Here’s the kicker: Jesus calls the Father “Abba” (Mark 14:36), a personal, relational term, and begs for a change of plans. If they’re one essence, why the negotiation? A single God shouldn’t need to haggle with Himself. It vibes more with a setup where Jesus is a separate god or exalted being, answerable to the Father’s authority. Hebrews 5:7-8 nods to this dynamic—Jesus “offered up prayers… to him who was able to save him from death” and “learned obedience.” Sounds like a junior deity wrestling with a senior one’s agenda.

Trinitarians, predictably, don’t blink. They’d say this is the two-natures game again: Jesus’ human will dreads the pain, while his divine will aligns with the Father’s. The prayer’s a peek at the Son’s role in the economic Trinity—submitting to the Father’s plan (John 6:38, “I have come… not to do my own will but the will of him who sent me”). The “one essence” bit stays intact; the wills clash only because humanity’s in the mix, not because they’re separate gods. They’d lean on John 10:30 (“I and the Father are one”) to glue it back together.

But if you strip that theology down and take the text raw, it’s harder to dodge the vibe of distinction. Jesus isn’t just role-playing; he’s got his own desires, and they don’t match the Father’s until he bends. A separate god—say, a divine Son under a supreme Father—fits the scene without needing to juggle natures or essences. It’s not airtight proof of polytheism (the Bible never calls Jesus “a god” outright here), but it piles on the evidence for separateness. If the Father’s will trumps, and Jesus yields, it’s less a unity of being and more a chain of command. You could see it as a loyal lieutenant, not a co-equal, pleading his case—further ammo if you’re already sold on Stephen’s literal lineup.

Is there any evidence in the New Testament that Jesus is trying to role play?

The idea of Jesus "role-playing" in the New Testament—like he’s putting on an act to seem distinct from the Father while secretly being the same essence—doesn’t get explicit backup from the text. It’s more of a theological spin Trinitarians use to explain scenes like Gethsemane, the cross, or the baptism, where Jesus and the Father appear separate. Let’s sift through the evidence to see if Jesus ever hints he’s playacting versus genuinely being a distinct entity.

First, what would "role-playing" look like? It’d mean Jesus deliberately talks or acts as if he’s separate from the Father—praying, submitting, crying out—to teach something or fulfill a script, while knowing he’s fully God in disguise. Trinitarians might say this fits the Incarnation: God-as-man living out a human experience without breaking the divine unity. But does the New Testament show Jesus winking at the camera, signaling it’s a performance?

Not really. Take Gethsemane (Luke 22:42, “not my will, but yours”). Jesus’ anguish—sweating blood, begging the Father—feels raw, not staged. If he’s role-playing, he’s committed. There’s no aside like, “Just kidding, I’m You!” Same with the cross (Matthew 27:46, “Why have you forsaken me?”)—it’s visceral, not a scripted line with a nudge to the audience. The baptism (Matthew 3:16-17) has the voice and dove doing their thing; Jesus doesn’t break the fourth wall to clarify it’s all one God in costume.

Any hints he’s in on a cosmic charade? John’s Gospel comes closest to a Trinitarian lifeline. John 10:30 (“I and the Father are one”) could suggest Jesus knows he’s not truly separate, but “one” (Greek: hen) can mean unity of purpose, not essence—context matters, and John 17:21 uses it for disciples too. John 12:49 (“I have not spoken on my own authority, but the Father who sent me has given me a commandment”) shows dependence, not a wink at sameness. Even John 16:28 (“I came from the Father and… I am going to the Father”) frames a journey, not a reveal of role-play.

Flip it: where’s Jesus most distinct? Mark 13:32 (“But concerning that day or that hour, no one knows… not even the Son, but only the Father”) is a biggie—ignorance isn’t something you fake if you’re the same God. Matthew 20:23 (“to sit at my right… is not mine to grant, but… for those for whom it has been prepared by my Father”) shows limits, not a rehearsed handoff. These read like real boundaries, not a performance to trick the crowd.

No New Testament verse has Jesus saying, “This is all an act—I’m really the Father.” His prayers (e.g., John 17) treat the Father as a real other, not a mirror. Role-playing’s a theory you’d infer after buying the Trinity, not something Jesus cues up. The text leans harder toward him being genuinely distinct—subordinate, relational, limited—than pulling a divine improv. If he’s role-playing, he never breaks character, and the script doesn’t let us peek backstage. Evidence for it? Slim to none, unless you squint through a later doctrinal lens.

So if you take Jesus at his word based solely on the New Testament, he never claims to be god the father?

If you stick strictly to Jesus’ words in the New Testament, no, he never flat-out claims to be God the Father. He talks about the Father, to the Father, and as sent by the Father, but he doesn’t say, “I am the Father” or anything that direct. Let’s run through what he does say, keeping it text-only, no theological spin.

Jesus consistently frames the Father as a separate figure. In John 14:28, he says, “the Father is greater than I”—a clear distinction, not a claim to be the same. John 20:17, post-resurrection, has him saying, “I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” He’s got a God, and it’s not himself. Matthew 26:39 in Gethsemane—“not as I will, but as you will”—shows him deferring to the Father’s will, not calling it his own. Even in prayer, like John 17:1-5, he’s addressing the Father as another: “Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory I had with you before the world existed.” Togetherness, yes; identity, no.

Does he claim divinity at all? He gets close. John 10:30, “I and the Father are one,” sounds tight, but he doesn’t say “I am the Father”—and the Greek hen (one) can mean unity, not sameness, especially since he prays for disciples to be “one” like that too (John 17:21). John 8:58, “before Abraham was, I am,” echoes God’s “I AM” from Exodus 3:14, and the crowd tries to stone him for blasphemy, but he doesn’t link it to being the Father specifically. Mark 14:62, “you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power,” puts him beside God, not as God outright.

The Father’s his reference point, not his mirror. John 5:19, “the Son can do nothing of his own accord, but only what he sees the Father doing,” paints him as dependent, not identical. Matthew 11:27, “no one knows the Father except the Son,” suggests intimacy, not fusion. Even when he’s bold—John 14:9, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father”—it’s about reflecting the Father, not being Him; he follows with “I am in the Father and the Father is in me” (14:10), which is unity, not a claim to be the Father Himself.

No New Testament quote has Jesus saying, “I’m God the Father.” He claims a unique sonship (Matthew 11:27), pre-existence (John 8:58), and divine vibes (John 10:36, “I said, I am the Son of God”), but the Father stays a distinct “You” or “He”—never “Me.” Taken at his word, Jesus positions himself as the Son, sent by and submissive to the Father, not as the Father in disguise. Any leap to “he’s the Father” comes from later theology, not his own lips.

Which Christian denomination teaches about Jesus that most closely resembles this idea of Jesus?

You’re asking which Christian denomination’s view of Jesus aligns most with the picture we’ve built from the New Testament: Jesus as distinct from the Father, never claiming to be the Father Himself, emphasizing a relationship of sonship and submission, and lacking any hint of role-playing as part of a unified essence. Let’s match that to some denominations, keeping it grounded in what Jesus says about himself in the text.

Most mainstream Christian groups—Catholics, Orthodox, and Protestants like Lutherans, Baptists, or Presbyterians—hold to the Trinity, where Jesus is God the Son, co-equal and co-eternal with the Father and Spirit, sharing one divine essence. This comes from the Nicene Creed (325 AD), which nails down “one substance, three persons.” But your focus on Jesus’ own words—where he never says “I am the Father” and stresses distinction (e.g., John 14:28, “the Father is greater than I,” or John 20:17, “my God and your God”)—doesn’t fully vibe with that. The Trinity explains these as roles or relational dynamics within one being, often leaning on the two-natures idea (fully God, fully man) to bridge the gap. That feels like a stretch if we stick to Jesus’ raw statements, though—it’s more theology than his explicit claims.

Some groups ditch the Trinity altogether, which might fit better. Jehovah’s Witnesses see Jesus as the Son, a created being, subordinate to God (the Father, Jehovah). They lean on verses like Colossians 1:15 (“the firstborn of all creation”) and John 14:28 to argue he’s distinct and lesser—not God Himself. This tracks with Jesus never claiming to be the Father and his submissive vibe (e.g., Matthew 26:39, “not my will, but yours”). But their view that he’s not divine at all clashes with stuff like John 1:1 (“the Word was God”) or John 10:30 (“I and the Father are one”), where he hints at divinity without merging into the Father.

Oneness Pentecostals flip it—they say Jesus is the Father, Son, and Spirit, just in different modes, based on Colossians 2:9 (“in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily”). That’s modalism, though, and it flops hard against Jesus’ words distinguishing himself from the Father (e.g., praying in John 17 or crying out on the cross). He’s not switching hats; he’s talking to someone else.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) offers a twist: Jesus (Jehovah in their view) is a separate being from God the Father (Elohim), both divine but distinct persons with physical bodies. They’re united in purpose, not essence, and Jesus submits to the Father’s will (like in Ether 3:14 from the Book of Mormon, “I am the Father and the Son,” but meaning he acts for the Father). This fits the New Testament’s distinctness and submission—Jesus prays to the Father, defers to Him, never claims to be Him—without the Trinitarian glue. Critics say it’s polytheism, but it sidesteps the “one essence” tangle and sticks closer to the relational dynamic in the text.

If we’re laser-focused on Jesus’ words alone, the LDS view probably edges out. It keeps him separate from the Father, honors his sonship and submission (e.g., Luke 22:42), and doesn’t force a role-play narrative to reconcile it with divinity. Jehovah’s Witnesses nail the distinctness but downplay his divine hints too much. Trinitarian groups align with broader New Testament theology (like John’s prologue or Paul’s letters) but lean on later creeds to tie up what Jesus leaves loose. The LDS take feels rawer to his own voice—distinct, subordinate, divine, no essence merger required. Still, it’s not perfect; their extra scriptures and cosmology add layers Jesus doesn’t touch. Your call on how tight you want the match.

summary thread: https://x.com/MissRed_Roses/status/1893894243091173793?t=CcxM3xxTqt8eSDhgOMkiCw&s=19 

Want to know which Christian denomination Grok3 concludes most closely matches the words of Jesus in the New Testament? I just had a very fascinating conversation with Grok3 about the trinity and if it matches biblical text. I hope you go through the full conversation. Here's the highlights. 🧵

Here I asked if Stephen's vision was inconsistent with the trinity.

Here I ask if the scene of Jesus on the cross fits better with a literal interpretation of Stephen's vision or the Trinitarian view of Stephen's vision.

I then asked if the scene in the garden of gethsemane better fit the trinitarian view of the relationship between Jesus and God the Father or the literal interpretation of the vision of Stephen.

Drum roll please 🥁 🥁🥁🥁🥁🥁

Please read the full conversation and check my analysis. https://t.co/ksAIXa4flo

Asking grok to compare genesis 18 based on the literal interpretation of Stephen's vision is fascinating. Could God the Father and Jesus along with 2 angles be those who visited Abraham? So interesting.