Cez von heinrich hofmann jesus healing

Every morning when I wake up, I recite a simple set of prayers: “God, please keep me clean and sober today no matter what, and please grant me knowledge of Your will for me and the power to carry that out.” When I pray I see Jesus: his beige skin and his crimped, shoulder-length hair the color of chestnuts; his long, slender nose and his raspberry lips, shrouded in a ginger mustache and beard; and his amber eyes, which are downcast and subtly averted to his left (my right).
My prayers require complete focus and I have to say them quickly, otherwise I begin to have what mental health specialists refer to as “intrusive thoughts.” Suddenly Jesus and I will sprout ivory horns from our heads; a serpent will uncoil from his mouth, and a serpent or an erect penis will pierce my back and explode through my heart; and Christ’s eyes will darken and fill with disdain.

(“It’s all very ‘William Blake,’” says my psychotherapist.) These images used to up