United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 29 text:

But Reb Isaac called, to them to halt; I feel in my soul, he said, that of all the prayers that have been offered today, the prayer of the shepherd boy alone has reached God. Man, look at your neighbour. Is he that sees in the Prime Existence the creator of all, And therefore loves his neighbour as himself, And stands in awe of the Infinite, And names it Manitou, Not accepted of God? And is he that sees in the Prime Existence the creator of all. And therefore loves his neighbour as himself, And stands in awe of the Infinite, And names it Allah, Not accepted of God? And is he that sees in some Prime Existence the creator of all, And therefore loves his neighbour as himself, And stands in awe of the Infinite, And for that reason thinks himself agnostic, Not accepted of God? Not accepted, Because correct religion bars the way? Religion was made of man, and God of God. Religion is system, and system is made of man. Religion is dogma, and dogma is made of man. Religion is Zealot, and Scholastic, and Enthusiast, And Inquisitor, And God is none of these. Religion must be a service to its God, and when that is so, Its humble man-made origin might be forgotten; But where religion fights religion, as it has and as it does, God is not there. Then religion becomes the property of man alone, And becomes hollow, The ravings of a tongueless beggar, stopped short in his own mind. For all the quarrels of the universes Cannot shake The Infinite from its Infinity, The Prime Existence from its prime existence. Man, look at your God. There is but one Infinite, and, though clad in different robes Of time and space and concept, it has been worshipped by humanity From the beginning of the race. In a myriad ways it has been worshipped, and if of these Any is a sole correct way, it is known Only to the Infinite itself. .Yet how many millions, valuing that knowledge more than its object, Have ruined and been ruined these many thousand years? Must the pagans teach us tolerance? And must we then laugh, and say, All gods are created equal? Or can we choose between the vanity of sectarianism And the truth of the Prime Existence, Throw off the accumulated molds of centuries of Godless bickerings, Proclaiming one to another: Hear, O Man, The Lord is our God; Yea, the Lord Is ONE.

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A SERMON By David Blostein In the beginning was God¬ in the beginning, before atom, before universe, Before man, before religion, was the Infinite. And the Infinite begat all. There can be but one Infinite, unlimited by time, by space, By mere concept of any kind. To concept Man has turned in order to comprehend the Infinite. And through concept Man frustrates himself in this task. In how many different forms and dogmas Has the Infinite been conceived? Into how many molds and vises has Man’s awe of the Infinite Been poured, shaped, and squeezed? How many Gods has Man created for himself? How could the microscopic organism that is man dare to imagine That the Infinite, the Prime Existence, is a being In the shape of a calf, or wolf, or man; or call it He, or She? Yet Man, throughout his history, has done this, and has further Endowed the Infinite with qualities of hate, or jealousy, or Monarchical pride; has, in effect, satisfied himself that Through humanizing the Prime Existence He has come to know and become a part of it. And he has deceived himself. How many elaborate systems have been evolved, Each designed to reach God in the only correct way, each System subdividing itself into new systems, and each New system breaking itself into even Newer systems, each Excluding all others from any claim to possession of true belief? Religion quarrels with religion and sect quarrels with sect. And concept quarrels with concept, and all Are man-contrived. All the quarrels of the universes Cannot shake The Infinite from its Infinity, The Prime Existence from its prime existence. Is God approached only by those who have written that God Is present in certain articles of food, or those who have Written that God is not present in them; or by those who Bare their heads, or those who cover them? The Chassidim tell of the time, long ago, when Rabbi Isaac Leib Barditzivor was conducting the services on the Day of Atonement. In the congregation sat a shepherd boy; he could neither read nor write. He could only sit with brimming soul while he listened to those around him as they intoned their prayers from their books. As the joy of the Lord came upon him, he wept that his lack of words could keep him from his God. And, placing two fingers in his mouth he pierced the air of the synagogue with the sweet clear whistle with which he would call his sheep. The congregation rumbled and turned on the one who dared to disturb the sacred ceremony.

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FORGET IT By Louise Goudy Searing red lights shone through the rain- spattered windshield and the car hissed through the rain-drenched streets. Lights came from all angles, red, green, ' brilliant orange; restless lights that blinked and moved with compelling urgency. They looked distorted as they shone through the glass, yet they were real, vibrantly alive. The girl watched the headlights of the car behind reflected in the mirror, and the blinking lights of the car ahead. The rain beat down. She traced the progress of the drops as they slithered down the windshield. The wipers beat out their rhythm and she tried to find a tune that would fit it. There was none, and as the rhythm grew into a howling cres¬ cendo, she reached over desperately and turned off the wiper, then she sat erect in her seat. The boy beside her, annoyed, looked around. “What did you do that for?” “No reason I guess.” “What’s the matter with you anyway? You’ve been acting crazy all night.” “Forget it.” She reached over and turned the wipers on again. A slight irritation continued to grow in the back of her mind pushing out all other thoughts. Some¬ thing seemed to be constantly eluding her, like the tune for which she was searching but could never find. She looked over at the neon sign. It was red. She counted to five and then it blinked off and came on again, white. She counted to seven, then it changed to red. Shutting her eyes she counted to herself, red, white, red, white. She opened them. Her timing had been right. The car passed the sign and she counted some more “It’s white now.” “What’s that?” “Nothing.” “You said something about white. What’s white?” Listen, I didn’t say anything. Forget it.” “All I did was ask a question.” “Forget it, I said.” The girl turned her face away from him. She looked around her. The whole view was one of feverish lights flashing into the darkness. The harsh brilliance of colours tore at the blackness of the night, the whole darkness pulsated with life and the air was filled with excitement, electrical in its force. The girl could feel the turbulent lights pulling her, crowding around her, impetuously tearing at her to come, and she longed to run into the rain and to hurl herself into their flashing midst. Yet, she could not move. She could sit there staring only at the lights which seemed to move just ahead of her, taunting her to follow. She put out her hand to the windshield trying to stop a drop of rain from falling down its course. 28 She was powerless to stop it. It flowed on the outside of the glass unheedingly, until the cruel surge of the wiper lifted it and hurled it over. She watched the rest of the drops follow the same course, hoping uselessly that one would reach the bottom without being caught up and thrown away. The drops were all movement to her, they danced before her eyes. She could feel the vibrant lights burning into her; she could hear the dull swish of the tires as they cut along the road. She wished she were outside instead of in the car. Out there, she could feel gay and free; she wouldn’t feel the brooding sense of sickness, of discontent, that seemed to be burning up her whole being. She longed to run along the street, to feel the rain, to become a part of the swirling mass of colours. She looked at the boy. “He’s sulking,” she thought. He’s hurt and angry and I can’t possibly explain how I feel. I could never explain to him how every¬ thing I see makes me feel so light and excited and how I want to shout, but cannot. As the boy turned to face her she stared straight ahead at the rain-speckled windshield. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, a frown slowly creasing his face. She bent over and pushed in the lighter. When it popped out he took it wordlessly, and he watched the smoke curl up and vanish out of the window. It seemed to be drawn out evenly as if strung on an invisible thread. The girl still sat erect, immovable. He could tell something was bothering her. She had never seemed so remote, so untouchable. She just stared ahead of her as if there were nothing to see. He could hear the rain on the roof, and the sharp sounds, almost like the tearing of fabric, which the car made as it went along the street. He felt warmer just to hear it, and he slumped a little more behind the wheel. He saw a giant sign with the big word “LOANS”. It flashed on and off, once a second. It was huge, it was all movement. He saw it flash off and on and saw how it was in time to the windshield wipers. They both kept the same beat, off, and on, off, and on. The directional signals of the car ahead blinked three times for every click of the windshield wipers. All the sounds connected—all the movements seemed to be a whole. He watched the smoke from his cigarette slowly curling upwards and drifting around the car, then quickly, he reached over and crushed the butt in the ashtray. He looked at the girl resentfully, won¬ dering all the time how she could sit there so impassively, so impervious to all movement and sound. The girl turned her back to him and looked out the window with a blank stare. Her hands were clenched tightly together, and her whole body was rigid. As the rain pattered down, she could feel