November 13th 1966
You have read the scriptures. You have read page after page of words written by the great thinkers of all time. You have studied the works of the so-called learned men, and you have read those words that came from the mouth of the great Teacher Himself. And even before He walked the Earth, the so-called prophets and rabbis and masters of old, prophesied and gave the same advice over and over again.
Always you found that words were repeated and teaching given to lift up the weary and to fill those with faith with courage and with strength. It was ever so. All the teachers again and again had to emphasise the fact that God is love, and that the Father, although unseen, was surely at work. Not one sparrow falls to the Earth, but the Father knows of it.
Consider the birds of the air. They toil not neither do they spin and yet He cares for them. Consider the lilies of the field, Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as such as these.
Why was this sort of advice always given? Because through the countless ages men have been afraid. Men have cried out with a loud voice, "Father, Father where art thou? I am in the dark, I am alone, I am afraid. The future looms before me like a dark shadow.”
And always it is the same answer, "Fear not. Let not your heart be troubled. Be still, and know that I am God."
But man will never learn, and who are we to blame him. For we were men, and until we came into this bright and wonderful world, we could not understand the true meaning, the true depths of all these sayings. For the flesh is always weak. And although spiritually, because we can see the aura, you have passed many, many tests, the truth is, the flesh is weak. The body is tired. Sensitivity has been developed, and the absolute ignorance and fear of other people, is making itself felt upon the psyche more violently than if you, yourself had not made the search and developed your sensitivity. You are more tender, and the surface, the surface of the waters of your mind are ruffled the wind of faith and change and other peoples destinies, has been allowed to ruffle the surface of the waters of your mind, to such an extent that the anchor chain which anchors your true self to the very centre has been stretched to breaking point. But because the anchor is of God, and because the links have been forged through deep suffering and personal experience, it has been forged as the anchor of love itself and it will not break. It may seem to you that it will, that it has. But when the wind has died down, and the tumult of emotion, of excitement, and fear has, for want of a better word, found its proper place, then you will realise that you have never really moved from the centre.
But there has been a great upheaval in the ether which has attacked the peace, and because, you, Mary, have the wherewithal to help and succour, to give succour, thoughts from people's minds have been centred upon you, and this has caused a feeling within your own heart, almost of fear. But we have always told you to let the dead bury the dead. When they are helpful, when these people are sensible, when they are fair, you can help. And this much you can do, anything to create this helpful part of their human nature, but their fears, their lack of faith, you cannot do anything about because you cannot meet them on a spiritual level. You cannot give them the real. We are not condemning. They are children of God. The weakness is in yourself for allowing these superficialities, because this is all they are, to wound your very self. You all do it. The greatest saints do exactly the same and they call it spiritual dryness, emptiness. But, as you overcome each experience, you have gained. And the time will come when you will be able to sigh, shrug your shoulders and say, "I have done all I could but it is not for me to eat out my heart”. Your youth is past. All these have their future before them. Do what you can. Help where you will, but keep your Spirit intact.
You must remember, Mary, at all times, that you have sought very deeply for truth. You have become very sensitive, and you have the power to affect the minds of those on the same vibration. Your misery, your unhappiness, can be theirs by a single thought. Do you understand? This must not be. These others do not feel this. They only know what they want. And want it they do, and help shall be given because you are asking for it, and you are not only asking for it but you are willing to be instrumental in your prayers. Is this not more than enough?
Your body needs all the help you can give it. Your peace of mind is our concern. But if you will take on all the troubles, if you will let them enter into your very soul, then what is the good of telling you as Jesus did, "Consider the birds of the air and the lilies of the field. Be still, have faith, love me, cast your burden upon me”. Try, Mary and know thyself. And when you know yourself, more and more you will understand others.
This transcript names something the great teachers themselves never fully escaped: "the flesh is weak." All the old reassurances — the sparrow that does not fall unnoticed, the birds that neither toil nor spin, the lilies more finely arrayed than Solomon (Matthew 6:26–29) — have had to be repeated endlessly through history because fear keeps returning, in everyone, regardless of how much has already been learned. The gift of sensitivity Mary has developed through her search is shown here to have a real cost: it leaves her more open, not less, to the fear and ignorance of others, precisely because the search worked.
The central image is an anchor, forged through real suffering into love itself, holding to a true centre even while the surface is violently "ruffled." What's promised isn't that the storm won't come, or won't feel, at its worst, as though the anchor chain will snap — only that it won't actually break, and that once the wind dies down, the person will realise they never truly moved from centre at all. This condition is named directly and without euphemism as spiritual dryness — "the greatest saints do exactly the same" — a recognised stage in contemplative life rather than a sign of failure or falling away.
The transcript's practical instruction returns directly to "let the dead bury their dead," given earlier in this collection: help where help is wanted and useful, but do not fix your gaze on another's fear or lack of faith as though staring into a stagnant pool — the longer the gaze holds, the more of that stillness and murk is drawn into oneself. "The weakness is in yourself for allowing these superficialities to wound your very self." This is the same boundary drawn in "Seemingly Selfish Friends" and in the "brother's keeper" passage: love and responsibility are real, but absorbing another's darkness as one's own, dwelling on it, staring into it, helps no one and drains the very peace that would otherwise be of use.