“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

The Christ image is often used because it so perfectly represents the combination of the grandiose self, as per the all-knowing son of God, and the martyred victim who is crucified precisely because of his lofty position.

[...] The strange thing was that Grandmother Butts looked considerably younger than her son, my father. [...]

[...] I believe that the wife’s mother will die first, but I do not want this sent to the son-in-law. [...]

[...] When Christ said “Believe in me, and you will be saved,” he meant “Believe in your relationship to God, in that you are his son, as I am, and you will surely be saved.” [...]

(Before the session we read over a letter Jane had received on March 16, 1971, from Mrs. R. Her son had disappeared on June 28, 1970. [...]

(“Is the Towson Doris is married to Sam Towson’s son?”)

Son-of-the-Northern Willows. [...]

[...] She let Ruburt know that she wanted a boy —a son—rather than a daughter to begin with. [...]

It would also break your mother’s heart; for she does not understand this son at all. [...]

Ready answers for he or his son would only betray them. [...]

In the first scene of this dream you see a probable self, who could reasonably be expected to be the kind of son your father might have, gifted with his hands mechanically, assertive enough to own his own business, however—after all, a part of the American dream, embarked upon employment that he enjoyed, and yet one that provided a service, hence physically seen between the ice (and roller-skating) rink, representing pleasure or fun, and the grocery store, representing service or nourishment. [...]

[...] You felt it could be smothering, for you sensed the reasons behind her smothering love for her sons. [...]

[...] And I’ll get down to brass tacks on Denmark one of these days, you old son of a gun, Joseph.

Were you born once in winter,
in Europe’s ice and snow,
when villages were dark at night
and wolves roamed the towering hills?
Or dark-skinned, did your swaddling cry
pierce Egypt’s early dawn?
How many birthdays come and gone,
how many homelands, each your own?
How many loves have whispered through
the patterns of your mind?
How many sons and daughters have grown
from your womb or loins?
What voices merge with mine
to wish you happy birthday,
and what loves within your past
lay out a feast of wine and cakes?

[...] They have a two-year-old son. [...]

(Pause.) Augustus’s mother noted only that her son seemed highly changeable. [...]

[...] All four of us involved in the moving were quite amused, then — for the friends who helped Jane and me carry the furniture yesterday are the father-and-son contracting team that built the room in the first place.

Your mother felt, then, that each played a fitting part in the marriage, in that your father had in her eyes great prospects, and she had given him two sons. [...]

[...] My parents had three sons. [...]

[...] If you were allowing full expression of your inner ideas outward along certain lines having to do with your oldest son, you would not have a cold. [...]

([Sue:] “What does somebody in my [infant] son’s situation do with fears?”)