Masonic Petty Tyrants

What Difficult Leaders Teach Us About the Working Tools

Some of the most important lessons of my life have been taught by men who never intended to teach me—and whose example I had no desire to imitate.

We ordinarily think of a mentor as someone wiser or more experienced who deliberately guides us. A mentor encourages, corrects, and demonstrates the qualities we hope to develop. Yet there is another kind of teacher: the difficult man whose shortcomings require us to practice the very virtues we claim to possess.

He may be insecure in authority, careless in his responsibilities, unwilling to communicate, or unable to distinguish leadership from position. He may provoke anger, resentment, frustration, or the desire to retaliate. We would never select him as a mentor, and he may be astonished to learn that he taught us anything. Nevertheless, by forcing us to confront our own reactions, he may reveal more about our unfinished character than a dozen men we admire.

Over forty years ago, I encountered Carlos Castaneda’s idea of the “petty tyrant.” I did not yet possess the Masonic language through which I understand it today, but the idea remained with me: difficult people, particularly those exercising authority, can become instruments of personal discipline.

That does not make their behavior right. It does not excuse incompetence, mistreatment, or the misuse of office. It means only that another man’s failures need not be wasted upon us.

Castaneda and the Petty Tyrant

Carlos Castaneda was a Peruvian-born writer who studied anthropology at UCLA and eventually earned a doctorate there. Beginning with The Teachings of Don Juan, he presented himself as an apprentice to Don Juan Matus, whom Castaneda described as a Yaqui man of knowledge. His books combined anthropology, mysticism, altered states of consciousness, and a demanding philosophy of personal discipline.

Castaneda developed the concept of the petty tyrant most fully in Chapter Two of The Fire from Within, published in 1984. In his narrative, a petty tyrant is someone whose power, personality, or proximity can make another person’s life miserable. Castaneda’s hierarchy ranged from people possessing genuine power over life and death to those who simply torment, frustrate, or annoy others.

The “warrior” is not trained merely to defeat such a person. The deeper challenge is to prevent the petty tyrant from gaining command over the warrior’s inner life. Castaneda identifies four qualities brought into practice under this pressure: control, discipline, forbearance, and timing. The difficult person becomes the external force against which these internal qualities are tested.

Castaneda’s warts must remain visible. Serious scholars have challenged the existence of Don Juan, Castaneda’s representation of Yaqui culture, and the reliability of his books as ethnography. Jay Fikes states the criticism bluntly, describing Don Juan as fictional and identifying substantial discrepancies between Castaneda’s accounts and documented Yaqui religious traditions. Other scholarship has treated Castaneda’s writing as a hybrid of ethnography, autobiography, literature, and spiritual narrative rather than as reliable anthropological fieldwork.

We should not conceal that controversy simply because one of Castaneda’s ideas is useful. He presented his work within an anthropological framework, and readers were entitled to expect intellectual honesty from that claim.

But the collapse of the ethnographic claim does not necessarily destroy every philosophical insight contained in the narrative.

Perhaps Castaneda communicated his philosophy through something closer to myth, parable, or spiritual fiction. Perhaps Don Juan was a composite character, a literary invention, or a voice through which Castaneda expressed ideas gathered from several sources. We may never determine precisely where observation ended and imagination began. What we can say is that human beings have always used fictional and mythic narratives to communicate moral truths.

A parable does not have to be journalism to reveal something true about human nature. Myth need not be history to illuminate experience. The important qualification is that we call the narrative what it is—or at least acknowledge honestly what it may be.

We therefore need not accept Don Juan as a historical person, Castaneda as a trustworthy ethnographer, or his larger mystical system as fact. We can examine the petty tyrant as an idea: Can a difficult person become an unwilling participant in the development of our character?

For a Mason, the question naturally leads to the working tools.

The Petty Tyrant and the Rough Ashlar

The petty tyrant is not the rough ashlar.

I am.

That distinction matters because it keeps the labor where Masonry places it: upon ourselves. The difficult Brother is not a stone given to me to reshape according to my preferences. His conduct may require correction. His decisions may require opposition. He may need to be held accountable through whatever legitimate processes the institution provides. But his character does not belong to my quarry.

My character does.

The petty tyrant becomes the pressure that exposes the irregular surfaces of my own rough ashlar. His conduct reveals impatience that remained concealed when everyone agreed with me. He uncovers pride that seemed like confidence when my advice was respected. He exposes my desire for acknowledgment, my need to be proven right, and my temptation to answer discourtesy with discourtesy.

It is easy to believe that we are patient among agreeable men. It is easy to believe that we possess self-control when nothing important has been denied us. It is easy to speak of harmony when no one challenges our judgment, disregards our contribution, or frustrates our work.

Conflict tells us whether those virtues are structural or merely decorative.

The blows of experience do not automatically improve the ashlar. A difficult encounter can make a man wiser, but it can also make him bitter. It can refine his judgment or deform his character. The result depends partly upon whether he consciously applies the working tools.

The Compasses: Circumscribing Conduct, Not Denying Emotion

The Compasses may provide the most immediate lesson. They establish boundaries. Morally understood, they remind us that our passions and desires must be kept within appropriate limits.

But circumscribing a passion is not the same as pretending we do not feel it.

I once misunderstood self-control as control over feeling. If I were sufficiently disciplined, I thought, another person’s conduct would not anger me. Frustration itself seemed like evidence of moral failure. Yet nothing could be further from the truth.

We do not always choose the first feeling that arises within us. Anger may be an honest response to neglect, injustice, irresponsibility, or disrespect. Hurt may reveal that something we value has been damaged. Frustration may tell us that an obligation is not being fulfilled. Those feelings contain information.

The choice begins with what we do next.

There is a moral difference between feeling anger and expressing it destructively. There is a difference between recognizing resentment and allowing resentment to compose the email, govern the conversation, or shape the next decision. The Compasses do not command us to become emotionally numb. They ask us to establish a boundary between what we feel and what we permit that feeling to do.

This is where Marcus Aurelius enters the conversation. In the Meditations, he repeatedly distinguishes between the impression that arrives in the mind and the judgment or action that follows it. In Book Four, he counsels himself not to be carried away, but to preserve understanding when an impression arises and to act justly when moved toward action.

That is not emotional anesthesia. It is disciplined separation:

This is what I feel. This is what I think happened. This is what justice requires me to do.

Those are three different statements.

The petty tyrant frequently wins because we collapse them into one. “I am angry” becomes “I have been deliberately insulted,” which becomes “I am therefore justified in striking back.” The Compasses create space between those steps. Within that space, feeling can be acknowledged without being placed in command.

A Mason may say, “I am angry, and I will not answer until I can answer on the Square.”

That is not weakness. It is moral authority exercised first over oneself.

The Square: Testing Our Own Response

When we believe another man has behaved improperly, the temptation is to apply the Square exclusively to him. We measure his words, decisions, motives, and failures. Sometimes that examination is necessary. Accountability is not unmasonic merely because it produces discomfort.

But the Square must also be turned toward our response.

Am I presenting the facts accurately? Am I separating what I know from what I assume? Am I correcting a problem or punishing a person? Am I seeking a responsible outcome, or do I want the satisfaction of humiliating someone who frustrated me? Would I consider my own language fair if it were directed toward me?

The Square does not require passivity. Square conduct may require a firm objection, a written record, a formal complaint, an opposing vote, or an honest refusal to participate in something improper. Morality without courage is ornamental. Yet firmness can remain measured, truthful, and proportional.

The petty tyrant’s conduct does not relieve us of the obligation to square our own.

Indeed, that may be his greatest unintended lesson. He tests whether our principles survive contact with someone who does not appear to share them. If another man’s discourtesy makes me discourteous, then he has established the standard governing my conduct. If his dishonesty persuades me to distort the truth, then his deficiency has become mine. If his misuse of authority causes me to hunger for the power to retaliate, I am already rehearsing for the role I condemn.

The goal is not to surrender judgment to the petty tyrant. It is to deny him command over our character.

The Level: Separating the Man From the Office

The Level offers another essential discipline.

To meet a man on the Level is not to pretend that every man possesses equal authority, responsibility, experience, or competence. Offices exist, duties differ, and legitimate authority must be recognized. The Worshipful Master and the newest Entered Apprentice do not possess identical responsibilities within the lodge.

But the office does not increase the fundamental worth of the man occupying it.

When we remove the title for a moment and view the individual simply as a man, something changes. We may see insecurity beneath defensiveness, inexperience beneath indecision, or fear beneath a display of authority. We may recognize that the office temporarily magnifies ordinary human weaknesses. The chair did not create the man’s imperfections; it merely gave them greater reach.

This does not excuse harmful behavior. Understanding is not absolution. But viewing the man on the Level can remove part of the tyranny from the encounter because it strips the office of its psychological grandeur.

He is no longer an all-powerful figure occupying our thoughts. He is a fallible man temporarily entrusted with a position.

The Level also reminds us not to answer arrogance with contempt. A man may be performing poorly without becoming less human. His office does not make him morally superior, but his failures do not make him morally beneath us. We can challenge his conduct while remembering his dignity.

That is a difficult balance, particularly when we feel that he has not respected ours.

The Plumb: Remaining Upright Under Pressure

The Plumb asks whether our conduct remains upright when pressure comes from the side.

Almost anyone can stand straight when nothing pushes against him. The true test arrives when convenience, anger, loyalty, ambition, or institutional politics invite us to lean away from what we know to be right.

The petty tyrant creates precisely that pressure.

We may be tempted to remain silent because speaking will be uncomfortable. At another moment, we may be tempted to speak recklessly because silence feels unbearable. Upright conduct may require either speech or restraint, depending upon the circumstances. The Plumb does not prescribe a single response. It establishes the vertical line against which the response must be judged.

Am I acting from principle? Are my intentions upright? Would I make the same decision if different personalities occupied the offices involved?

The Plumb tests whether our moral position changes according to whom we like, whom we dislike, or who currently holds power.

The Twenty-Four-Inch Gauge: Time, Proportion, and Timing

Castaneda includes timing among the disciplines developed through confronting a petty tyrant. The Twenty-Four-Inch Gauge gives that idea a particularly useful Masonic expression.

Not every provocation requires an immediate response. Time permits emotion to settle, facts to emerge, and words to be chosen deliberately. A response delayed by prudence may carry more moral force than one delivered at the height of anger.

But delay can also become avoidance. There are moments when failing to act allows preventable harm to continue. Timing does not mean waiting indefinitely. It means selecting the moment at which action is most likely to serve the principle involved rather than merely relieve our emotional pressure.

The Gauge also teaches proportion. How much of our limited time will we permit this person to occupy? How many hours will we spend rehearsing an argument that has already ended? How much attention will we take from family, service, health, study, and productive labor so that we can continue an imaginary conversation with someone who is not even present?

A petty tyrant’s formal authority may be limited to a meeting, a workplace, or a particular term of office. We enlarge that authority when we allow him to follow us home and preside over our thoughts.

Sometimes the most important boundary is temporal: this problem deserves my attention, but it does not deserve my entire day.

The Common Gavel: Removing Our Own Excess

The Common Gavel brings us back to the rough ashlar. Under pressure, it reveals the superfluities that still require removal: vanity, vengeance, self-importance, and the desire to control what does not belong to us.

Castaneda’s petty tyrant is especially useful in exposing self-importance. Why does this man possess such power over my peace of mind? Am I disturbed entirely because a principle has been violated, or partly because my advice was ignored? Do I want the problem corrected, or do I also need public acknowledgment that I was right?

These are uncomfortable questions, but discomfort is often the sound of the Gavel striking something that needs attention.

Self-examination does not mean that every grievance is vanity. A genuine wrong does not become imaginary merely because we search our own motives. The Mason can hold two truths simultaneously: another man may have acted improperly, and my response may still contain pride, exaggeration, or a desire for revenge.

The Gavel is applied to that excess—not to conscience, courage, or justified concern.

Forbearance Is Not Submission

The philosophy of the petty tyrant becomes dangerous if it is used to romanticize mistreatment.

There is nothing noble about remaining indefinitely in an abusive or genuinely dangerous situation merely to prove one’s spiritual discipline. Patience does not require silence when others are being harmed. Harmony does not mean concealing misconduct. Brotherly love does not abolish accountability. Forgiveness does not necessarily restore trust, and understanding another man’s weakness does not require granting him unlimited access to injure an institution.

The working tools help us choose how to act; they do not command us never to act.

A Mason may document, object, report, vote, confront, establish boundaries, or withdraw. He may do so firmly. The moral question is not whether he experiences anger or creates conflict. The question is whether his conduct remains truthful, proportionate, and directed toward a legitimate end.

Controlling our reaction does not mean allowing the petty tyrant to prevail. It means that even when we oppose him, he does not determine what kind of man we become.

The Unwilling Mentor

Good leaders teach by example. Poor leaders teach through contrast and consequence.

They show us what happens when communication fails, when authority is separated from responsibility, and when an officeholder assumes that possessing a title is equivalent to providing leadership. They teach us how quickly uncertainty spreads when questions are ignored. They reveal the institutional cost of disorganization, favoritism, indecision, or pride.

Most importantly, they teach us what those failures feel like to the people who must live beneath them.

That knowledge becomes valuable when authority eventually passes to us.

Some men have taught me how to lead by demonstrating patience, competence, courage, and service. Others have taught me by making unmistakably clear what happens when those qualities are absent. I am indebted to both, although the second debt took much longer to recognize.

Calling a petty tyrant a mentor does not honor his conduct. It describes what we have chosen to extract from the experience. He may remain unchanged. He may never understand the lesson he helped provide. Our growth cannot depend upon his insight, apology, or reform.

That recognition restores agency. We may not control the office he holds or the decisions he makes. We can control whether the experience teaches us to communicate more clearly, preserve better records, confront without humiliating, exercise authority without becoming authoritarian, and remember what it felt like when legitimate concerns were dismissed.

The Tyrant Within

The final application of the working tools is also the most uncomfortable.

Every Mason who identifies a petty tyrant in another man should look for the beginning of that same man within himself.

The critic of unresponsive leadership may someday stop answering messages because he considers himself too busy. The man who condemns arrogance may begin dismissing others because experience has convinced him that he is usually right. The Brother who resents being unheard may eventually occupy the East and discover that he prefers obedience to counsel.

Power does not necessarily corrupt a man by introducing something completely foreign into his character. Often it enlarges tendencies already present but previously restrained by circumstance.

The final lesson of the petty tyrant, therefore, is not simply how to endure him. It is how to recognize his earliest features in ourselves.

Can I receive correction without treating it as disloyalty? Can I distinguish respect for an office from personal deference? Can I communicate before confusion becomes conflict? Can I remember that authority is held temporarily and exercised in trust?

The man who has suffered under poor leadership should not merely promise that he will lead differently. He should preserve the memory of how poor leadership affected the men around him and apply that memory whenever others must depend upon him.

The Stone Entrusted to Us

The difficult man may eventually leave office, lose influence, change, or disappear from our lives. The character formed—or deformed—during the encounter remains.

We cannot always select the people with whom we must labor. We cannot control their judgment, competence, motives, or self-awareness. We cannot force another man to apply the working tools to himself.

We can apply them to the only stone truly entrusted to our hands.

The Compasses establish a boundary between emotion and action. The Square tests the morality of our response. The Level separates the human being from the temporary grandeur of his position. The Plumb holds us upright beneath pressure. The Twenty-Four-Inch Gauge teaches timing, proportion, and the wise allocation of attention. The Common Gavel removes the vanity, vengeance, and self-importance exposed by conflict.

The petty tyrant may never understand the lesson he has given us. He may leave the encounter exactly as he entered it. But if his conduct teaches us patience without passivity, firmness without cruelty, accountability without vengeance, and authority without vanity, then the labor has not been wasted.

He was never the stone entrusted to our hands.

We were.

And the question was always whether the blows of experience would merely wound the rough ashlar—or help us shape it.

Sources

1. Castaneda, Carlos. The Fire from Within. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1984. Chapter Two, “Petty Tyrants.” Google Books bibliographic record and contents.

2. Fikes, Jay C. “Carlos Castaneda (1925–1998): Reading Between His Lines, a Summary Judgment.” The International Journal of Ecopsychology 2, no. 1 (2021), Article 3. Cal Poly Humboldt Digital Commons.

3. Santos, Marcel de Lima. “Translating the Sacred: Literature and Ethnography in Carlos Castaneda.” Scholarly analysis of Castaneda’s mixture of ethnographic and literary discourse. Article record.

4. Marcus Aurelius. Meditations, 4.22. Greek text, George Long translation, and commentary on the Stoic distinction between impression, judgment, and action. Digital critical edition.

5. Grand Lodge of California. “Working Tools from Emulation Ritual.” Educational material presenting the moral applications of the Gauge, Gavel, Chisel, Square, Level, Plumb Rule, and Compasses. Official PDF.

Bears Maul the Buzzers

Some baseball games are memorable because they're masterpieces.

Others are memorable because they're complete train wrecks.

Friday night at ONT Field was definitely the latter.

It was my third visit to the new ballpark in Ontario and, by coincidence, my second straight Friday watching the Fresno Grizzlies. Exactly one week earlier, I'd watched them in Fresno against the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes. This week, they came south and absolutely dismantled the hometown Ontario Tower Buzzers, 17-2.

The game was effectively over before many fans had finished their first hot dog.

Ontario's starter couldn't locate the strike zone. Walks piled up. Runs piled up even faster. Before long the Grizzlies had turned the first inning into batting practice, and the Buzzers spent the rest of the evening trying to survive.

Fortunately, there was plenty happening besides baseball.

Disney Princess Night

The evening was Disney Princess Night.

A couple dozen little girls wandered the concourse dressed as Cinderella, Belle, Elsa, Ariel, and a handful of other Disney princesses. Between innings the stadium speakers were filled with familiar Disney songs, giving the ballpark a lighthearted atmosphere that contrasted sharply with what was happening on the field.

The organist, however, stole the show.

As the Grizzlies casually marched across Ontario's pitching staff, the familiar notes of The Bare Necessities from The Jungle Book floated through the stadium.

Immediately my mind pictured Baloo, the easygoing bear wandering through the jungle with Mowgli, singing about life's simple pleasures while effortlessly brushing aside every obstacle in his path.

That was Fresno.

They weren't grinding out runs.

They weren't struggling.

They simply wandered through the Buzzers' pitching staff as casually as Baloo wandered through the jungle.

Whether the organist intended the joke or not, the music became the soundtrack to the game. Every base hit seemed to fit the rhythm. Every run seemed to arrive with the same relaxed confidence as the bear strolling through the jungle.

I found myself laughing.

Later, Chim Chim Cher-ee began playing. Just as the song reached the lyric about "a kiss for luck," Fresno launched a three-run home run.

Again, perfect timing.

One selection, though, left me completely puzzled. During a matchup between two players with Hispanic surnames, the organ suddenly launched into The Ballad of Davy Crockett.

My immediate thought was, "Wasn't Davy Crockett killed at the Alamo?"

Sometimes baseball produces comedy completely by accident.

"We Want Fireworks!"

By the ninth inning, everyone knew the outcome.

Normally, late in a close game, the crowd begins chanting, "Let's go Buzzers!"

Not this night.

Instead, one section started chanting,

"We want fireworks!"

They weren't asking for a comeback.

They simply wanted the game to end.

The chant became loud enough that the Buzzers' mascot eventually wandered over carrying a whiteboard, apparently trying to distract the crowd before the chant spread any farther.

It was wonderfully minor league.

No television broadcast could ever capture that moment.

Flight Club

For this game I decided to splurge on the Flight Club Lounge.

At roughly $130 after fees, it isn't inexpensive. It's about what I'd spend for a lower-end Dodger ticket.

The difference?

Instead of fighting Los Angeles traffic for ninety minutes, Ontario is only thirty minutes from home.

Parking is easy.

Getting into the stadium is easy.

Everything is easy.

The seat itself may have been the best baseball seat I've ever had.

Positioned almost directly behind home plate and elevated just enough, I could see every inch of the field. Every defensive alignment. Every cutoff man. Every shift. Both dugouts were in plain view, and nothing obstructed the sightlines.

It felt like watching baseball from the command post.

Being that close also meant hearing the game.

At one point the Ontario manager came out arguing because his batter wasn't looking at the pitcher before stepping into the box. From my seat, every word was perfectly audible.

That's something television simply cannot duplicate.

The lounge itself is modern, spacious, and air-conditioned.

Compared with Fresno's Kodiak Club, I'd give the edge to Ontario.

The buffet was better.

The desserts were noticeably better.

The lounge was less crowded.

Soft drinks and bottled water were included, although alcohol still required purchasing separately.

One unexpected surprise was running into the assistant city manager from San Dimas, who happened to be there with his wife.

It's always funny discovering how small Southern California really is.

Was It Worth It?

Yes.

Would I do it again?

Probably not.

Not because it wasn't enjoyable.

It was.

The game started in nearly 100-degree weather, but those seats remained shaded throughout the evening, and by the final out the temperature had dropped into the low 80s.

Still, I found myself thinking I'd rather buy a good $45 seat and spend another $40 or $50 on food.

The Flight Club is excellent.

I'm simply not convinced it's eighty dollars better.

Faith Night

The evening also happened to be the Tower Buzzers' first annual Faith Night.

Beyond center field sits the airport-themed Baggage Claim entertainment area, where live bands perform before and during games.

Last time I visited, it featured an outstanding 1980s cover band.

This time, two different church worship groups played Christian rock throughout the evening.

On the video board, several Los Angeles Dodgers players shared how faith had influenced both their careers and their lives.

The commemorative jersey reflected the evening's theme as well, incorporating a cross draped with a red cloth into the familiar ONT logo.

No commentary necessary.

It simply reflected the organization's chosen theme for the night.

Saving the Best for Last

If the baseball was forgettable, the fireworks certainly weren't.

The moment the final out mercifully arrived, the lights dimmed and the sky beyond left field exploded into one of the finest fireworks displays I've seen in years.

The show was synchronized to Disney music, including Friend Like Me from Aladdin.

It was colorful.

It was loud.

It was beautifully choreographed.

And after nearly three hours of watching the Grizzlies dismantle the Buzzers, it was exactly the ending everyone had been chanting for.

Why I Keep Going

Ontario committed three errors.

Honestly, generous scorekeeping probably prevented a couple more.

They couldn't pitch.

They couldn't hit.

They couldn't stop Fresno's offense.

Yet none of that is why I'll remember the evening.

I'll remember the Disney songs that accidentally narrated a blowout.

I'll remember an entire section chanting for fireworks instead of runs.

I'll remember hearing managers argue with umpires from behind home plate.

I'll remember the little girls dressed as princesses, the Christian rock drifting in from beyond center field, and a ballpark comfortable enough to make you forget the thermometer still read one hundred degrees.

Minor league baseball isn't polished.

It's authentic.

It's close enough to hear the game, smell the grass, and become part of the evening instead of simply watching it.

Even after a 17-2 beating, I drove home smiling.

Sometimes the score isn't the story.

Sometimes the experience is.

 

Oppo Tacos and Traveling Masons

One of the things I enjoy most about traveling to Masonic meetings is figuring out how to turn the trip into a small adventure.

Mariposa Lodge No. 24 sits in the little Gold Rush town of Mariposa, California, the northern gateway to Yosemite National Park. The Stated Meeting (our business meeting) was scheduled for Saturday morning, and over the years I've settled into one of two routines. Either I leave San Dimas at an unreasonable hour—about 3:30 a.m.—to make the 10:00 a.m. meeting, or I drive north the day before, spend the night in Merced, and make the easy forty-five-minute drive up the mountain the next morning.

This trip presented another opportunity.

So far this baseball season I had attended ten games in three different ballparks. I wondered if I could add a fourth stadium without making the trip overly complicated.

Visalia was geographically convenient, but attending a Friday night game there would have meant another long drive afterward. Stockton was simply too far north. Fresno, however, sat almost perfectly along my route. Decision made.

The Fresno Grizzlies, the Colorado Rockies' Single-A affiliate, happened to be hosting the Rancho Cucamonga Quakes—the very team I'd watched earlier this season near my home in Southern California. It felt fitting that my newest ballpark would feature one of the teams I'd already gotten to know.

Buying the ticket, however, reminded me that technology sometimes creates more work than convenience.

I already had the MLB app.

That wasn't enough.

I needed the Ballpark app.

Then I discovered the easiest way to access the tickets was through yet another application, the MiLB app.

Three baseball apps later, I finally had my ticket.

While browsing seating options, I came across something called the Kodiak Lounge. For $80 it included premium seats, an air-conditioned lounge, an all-you-can-eat buffet, desserts, and a private bar. Considering that good seats alone usually cost around $25, it sounded like an interesting experiment.

Friday afternoon I left San Dimas around noon. Southern California traffic being what it is, I didn't arrive in Fresno until about 5:20 p.m., just as the gates opened.

The first surprise was that it was Lowrider Weekend. Beautifully restored lowriders sat proudly displayed along the concourse, adding another uniquely California flavor to the evening.

Then came the pregame entertainment.

Apparently every cheer squad and dance academy from Fresno and Madera Counties had been invited. Hundreds of young performers cycled onto the field one after another. It wasn't exactly what I expected before first pitch, but that's part of the charm of minor league baseball. Every park develops its own personality.

The other thing developing that evening was the temperature.

First pitch arrived at 7:05 p.m.

It was still 102 degrees.

That suddenly made the Kodiak Lounge seem like one of the smartest purchases I'd made all summer.

The stadium itself seats roughly 10,000 fans, although only about 1,000 showed up that night. Even so, the Kodiak Lounge was busy, probably holding close to a hundred people escaping the Central Valley heat.

The buffet, however, didn't quite live up to the brochure.

There were only a handful of choices: chicken, pork, a few side dishes, and later in the evening a dessert bar featuring sheet cake and cookies. The cookies disappeared before I ever reached them. The food wasn't bad, but it reminded me of a buffet at a decent three-star hotel—perfectly acceptable without being memorable.

The unlimited hot dogs, popcorn, and peanuts lasted throughout the game. I skipped the hot dogs, enjoyed some popcorn and peanuts, and decided the best feature wasn't the buffet at all.

It was the air conditioning.

And the cold beer.

Originally I had a comfortable window seat inside the lounge overlooking the field, but baseball deserves to be watched outdoors whenever possible. I left the cool comfort behind and sat in my assigned seat.

That turned out to be a fortunate decision.

Late in the game, a foul ball rocketed into our section. The gentleman sitting directly in front of me reached up and nearly made the catch. The ball bounced off his hands, landed in the empty seat beside me, and I picked it up.

His young daughter, probably eight years old, stared at the baseball with wide eyes.

Technically, I recovered the foul ball.

Practically speaking, it already belonged to her.

I handed it over.

Watching a child's excitement over something so simple is one of those little moments that reminds you why live baseball still matters.

The baseball itself was entertaining.

Single-A baseball has its share of wild throws, aggressive base running, and occasional mistakes that never make it to the major leagues. But it also showcases extraordinary young talent. A couple of the pitchers were consistently reaching 97 miles per hour. That's serious velocity regardless of classification.

One home run cleared the fence, triggering fireworks beyond the outfield wall.

The stadium itself added another layer to the evening.

Chukchansi Park was originally built as the centerpiece of Fresno's downtown revitalization. From my seat I could look beyond the outfield and see the city's skyline rising into the warm evening air. Fifteen- and twenty-story buildings framed the horizon while a police helicopter circled somewhere overhead, reminding everyone that downtown Fresno remains a work in progress.

Oddly enough, that urban grit gave the ballpark character.

One feature made me laugh.

Beyond right field sat a taco stand called Oppo Taco.

Any baseball fan immediately recognizes the joke. An "oppo taco" is baseball slang for an opposite-field home run. Whoever came up with that name deserves credit for one of the better food stand puns in professional sports.

By the time I reached Mariposa the next morning, several brothers from the lodge had seen my photos online.

"You should have told us you were going," one of them said. "We'd have driven down."

That settled it.

Next time the state meeting comes around, I'll call ahead. We'll probably meet at the ballpark, watch a game together, and enjoy an evening of baseball before heading up the mountain for lodge the next morning.

As for the Kodiak Lounge?

I probably wouldn't do it again.

The air conditioning was wonderful, but the buffet wasn't worth the premium price. Next time I'll buy one of the regular seats for about $26, purchase a hot dog, some popcorn, and a cold beer, and spend the evening where baseball belongs—in the stands.

Not every ballpark has to be spectacular.

Fresno isn't as intimate as Rancho Cucamonga, nor as polished as some of the newer parks. But between the downtown skyline, the summer heat, the lowriders, the police helicopter, the fireworks, the baseball puns, and a little girl going home with a foul ball, it has something perhaps more valuable.

It has personality.

And sometimes that's enough to make a place worth visiting again.

I think this one captures the feel of your trip well. It reads less like a game recap and more like a travel essay, with the baseball serving as the backdrop for the experience—a style that would fit nicely in a future collection of your travel and baseball writings.

Building Men, Not Butterflies

 This proverb is usually attributed to an anonymous modern source:

"If you spend your time chasing butterflies, they will fly away. But if you spend your time building a beautiful garden, the butterflies will come to you. And if they don't, you still have a beautiful garden."

For reasons both personal and Masonic, that proverb has always spoken to me. I was raised a Master Mason in Mariposa Lodge No. 24 in California. Mariposa, appropriately enough, is the Spanish word for "butterfly." Perhaps that is why this simple proverb has lingered in my thoughts for years. It captures, in a few sentences, a truth that Freemasonry has been teaching for centuries.

The butterflies are not the point.

The garden is.

Perhaps the greatest misunderstanding in Freemasonry is believing that our purpose is fellowship.

Certainly, fellowship is one of the great blessings of the Craft. We enjoy dinners together. We gather for barbecues. We hold social nights, pancake breakfasts, family events, and festive boards. We laugh together, mourn together, and form friendships that sometimes last a lifetime. These moments strengthen the bonds between Brothers and enrich the life of the lodge.

But they are not why Freemasonry exists.

They are the butterflies.

The garden is the man.

No barbecue has ever transformed a man's character. A steak dinner has never taught integrity. Ice cream socials, game nights, and potlucks may strengthen relationships that already exist, but they do not, by themselves, build better men. Fellowship is valuable, but it is the fruit of Masonry—not its foundation.

The working tools remind us of that truth.

The Common Gavel removes the roughness of our character. The Chisel develops our abilities through education and discipline. The Square teaches morality. The Plumb demands uprightness before God and man. The Level reminds us of our equality. Even the Trowel, so often associated with Brotherly Love and Affection, assumes that the stones have already been prepared before they are joined together.

An operative mason would never attempt to repair a cracked stone simply by spreading more mortar over it. Mortar binds sound stones together; it does not restore structural integrity to damaged ones. At best, it conceals the defect for a while. Eventually, time exposes what was always there.

The same is true in Masonry.

Sometimes we mistake activity for accomplishment. We become convinced that if we schedule enough dinners, enough family nights, enough social events, enough fundraisers, enough entertainment, fellowship will somehow flourish.

But butterflies cannot be chased.

They arrive because the garden is healthy.

Likewise, genuine fellowship cannot be manufactured through calendars filled with events. It grows naturally when men are sincerely engaged in improving themselves together. Men who are striving to become wiser naturally enjoy the company of other men pursuing wisdom. Men committed to honesty are drawn toward honest men. Men who labor side by side with the working tools inevitably develop friendships rooted in shared purpose rather than shared recreation.

Scripture teaches the same principle.

Christ said,

"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." (Matthew 6:33, KJV)

Notice the order. We seek righteousness first. Everything else follows.

The Psalmist offers a similar image:

"And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season." (Psalm 1:3, KJV)

The tree never chases fruit. It simply grows where it has been planted. Fruit becomes the evidence of health, not the objective of life.

So it is with Masonry.

When we focus first on building better men, fellowship often appears almost effortlessly. The laughter around the dinner table becomes richer because it is shared among men of character. Conversations become deeper because they are rooted in mutual respect. Harmony becomes genuine because it rests upon integrity rather than convenience.

Ironically, when a lodge begins chasing fellowship as its primary mission, it often loses both fellowship and purpose. Meetings become social clubs. Difficult conversations are avoided. Standards quietly decline because no one wishes to disturb the peace. The Trowel becomes a tool for covering cracks instead of binding together sound stones.

That is not the work of Freemasonry.

The Craft was never established to produce successful social clubs.

It was established to produce better men.

If we succeed in that work, the butterflies often come.

If attendance grows, wonderful.

If lifelong friendships develop, even better.

If the lodge becomes known for its warmth and harmony, we should be grateful.

But if none of those things happen—if the butterflies never arrive—we still possess something of immeasurable value.

We have built men of integrity.

We have strengthened fathers, husbands, sons, leaders, neighbors, and citizens.

We have contributed to society in the way Freemasonry has always intended—not merely by entertaining good men, but by helping ordinary men become better ones.

That is a beautiful garden.

And perhaps that has been the lesson hidden in both the proverb and the working tools all along. Stop chasing butterflies. Pick up the tools. Build the man. The fellowship may come, and if it does, cherish it. But whether it comes or not, the work has still been worthwhile.

After all, butterflies eventually fly away.

Character remains.

What Does Your Lodge Produce?

I recently read a Facebook post by Masonic author John S. Nagy listing twenty reasons he believes contribute to the long-term decline of lodge membership. The responses that followed were every bit as interesting as the original post. Some brothers blamed bureaucracy. Others pointed to politics, poor education, oversized buildings, weak candidate selection, or a lack of community involvement. Several argued that the problem was not the institution but the members themselves. One thoughtful response observed that men join organizations for meaning rather than management. As I read through dozens of comments, it became clear that everyone was describing symptoms. What struck me was that almost no one was asking a simpler and more fundamental question: What does a lodge actually produce?

Every organization exists to produce something. Universities produce educated graduates. Hospitals produce healthier patients. Businesses produce goods and services. Police academies produce police officers. Even organizations that do not manufacture physical products are measured by the people they develop or the value they create.

What, then, does a Masonic lodge produce?

At first glance, the answer seems obvious. Lodges produce Entered Apprentices, Fellow Crafts, and Master Masons. They conduct meetings, confer degrees, collect dues, maintain buildings, and elect officers. Yet those are activities, not outcomes. They describe what a lodge does, but not necessarily what it creates.

The distinction matters.

Organizations rarely become something overnight. Instead, they slowly become exceptionally good at producing whatever they consistently reward. If attendance is rewarded, they produce attendees. If ritual memorization receives the greatest praise, they produce ritualists. If longevity in office becomes the measure of success, they produce officeholders. If maintaining the building consumes most of the energy, they produce caretakers of real estate.

None of these things are inherently wrong. Ritual excellence is essential. Good officers are indispensable. Financial stewardship protects the future of the lodge. Buildings provide a home for the Craft. The problem arises when these worthy activities quietly become the purpose rather than the means to a greater purpose.

Reading the comments beneath Nagy's post, I noticed that nearly every criticism pointed back to this idea without saying it directly. Complaints about bureaucracy were really complaints that administration had become more important than transformation. Frustration over entitlement in officer advancement reflected the feeling that progression had become disconnected from personal growth. Concerns about quantity over quality questioned whether the goal had shifted from building men to counting members.

Several brothers argued that members themselves bear responsibility. They are right. A lodge is not an outside entity acting upon us. It is us. Every brother contributes to its culture through what he tolerates, what he encourages, and what he brings through the west gate each meeting. Yet even this observation leads back to the same question. If members shape the lodge, then what are we intentionally trying to produce?

One response particularly resonated with me. A brother observed that after World War II, Freemasonry became so busy making Masons that it gradually lost focus on teaching men how to be Masons. Whether one agrees entirely with that assessment is almost beside the point. It raises an important distinction between initiation and transformation. Degrees introduce a man to the Craft. They do not complete the work of the Craft.

Our ritual has never suggested otherwise.

The Entered Apprentice is taught that he stands at the beginning of his journey. The Fellow Craft is directed toward intellectual and moral improvement. The Master Mason is confronted with mortality itself and challenged to live a life worthy of remembrance. None of these lessons suggest that memorizing ritual or occupying an officer's chair is the destination. Each degree points beyond itself toward the lifelong labor of building the internal temple.

This principle appears throughout Masonic literature. Albert G. Mackey wrote that the symbolic teachings of Freemasonry are intended to cultivate moral and intellectual improvement rather than merely transmit ceremonies. Albert Pike reminded readers that symbols are not ends in themselves but vehicles through which deeper truths are discovered. The ritual exists to awaken reflection, not replace it.

The Bible expresses a similar principle. "For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he" (Proverbs 23:7, King James Version). External actions matter, but they ultimately reflect internal formation. Masonry has always claimed to be concerned with that internal formation.

If that is true, perhaps membership decline is not the disease. It is the symptom.

Healthy organizations naturally attract people because they produce something of obvious value. Men do not seek out organizations because they have efficient bylaws or balanced budgets. They seek places where they find purpose, challenge, fellowship, wisdom, and opportunities to become better versions of themselves.

A lodge that consistently develops thoughtful husbands, dependable fathers, ethical leaders, loyal friends, and engaged citizens offers something increasingly rare in modern society. Such men become the fraternity's greatest ambassadors. They require no advertising campaign because their lives become living testimonials to the value of the institution that helped shape them.

Conversely, if a lodge primarily produces meeting attendees, committee members, or officeholders, it should not be surprised when younger generations fail to see why they should devote decades of their lives to joining.

Peter Drucker famously observed that "culture eats strategy for breakfast." An organization can write strategic plans, revise bylaws, increase dues, lower dues, merge lodges, sell buildings, modernize websites, or redesign officer training. None of those efforts address the fundamental question unless they first determine what kind of men they hope to produce.

This shifts the conversation in an important way. Instead of asking, "How do we increase membership?" perhaps the better question is, "If a man spends five years in our lodge, what kind of man will he become?"

The answer to that question influences everything else. It shapes education, mentorship, officer development, fellowship, charitable work, candidate selection, and leadership succession. It determines whether ritual remains a living teacher or becomes an end in itself.

Perhaps that is the hidden thread connecting so many of the comments beneath John Nagy's post. Each brother described a different symptom because each has experienced Masonry from a different perspective. Yet beneath those varied experiences lies a common concern. We all hope that the fraternity remains faithful to its original purpose—not simply to preserve an organization, but to transform the men within it.

When future generations evaluate our lodges, they are unlikely to remember how efficiently we managed committees, how many motions we passed, or how perfectly we balanced the annual budget. They will remember the men we produced.

That may be the most important measure of a lodge's success.

References

Drucker, P. F. (2006). The effective executive. Harper Business. (Original work published 1967).

Holy Bible. (1769/2017). King James Version. Cambridge University Press.

Mackey, A. G. (1927). An encyclopedia of Freemasonry (Vols. 1–2). The Masonic History Company. (Original work published 1873).

Pike, A. (1871). Morals and dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry. Charleston, SC: Supreme Council, 33°, Southern Jurisdiction.

The Wolf in the Lambskin Apron: Recognition and Revelation in Freemasonry

"Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves... Ye shall know them by their fruits." (Matthew 7:15–16, King James Version)

Christ's warning has always fascinated me because it is not really about sheep or wolves. It is about appearances. The wolf is dangerous not because he exists, but because he is mistaken for something he is not. The sheep's clothing conceals rather than reveals, and Christ's conclusion is both simple and profound: "Ye shall know them by their fruits."

That observation raises an uncomfortable question for Freemasonry. We possess our own symbolic garment—the lambskin apron. We rightly regard it as the badge of a Mason, more ancient than the Golden Fleece or Roman Eagle, and more honorable than the Star and Garter when worthily worn. Yet the apron itself cannot reveal the man beneath it. It may identify him institutionally, but it cannot measure his character.

When a visitor arrives at a lodge, we do not ask him to demonstrate patience, integrity, humility, or charity. We ask for his dues card. We satisfy ourselves that he comes from a recognized Grand Lodge, that he can prove himself according to the customs of the Craft, and we welcome him as a Brother. Institutionally, that is exactly as it should be. Recognition exists to preserve order, maintain fraternal relations, and provide a practical means by which lodges throughout the world may trust one another.

Recognition, however, answers only one question. It tells us that a man has been made a Mason according to the laws of a recognized jurisdiction. It cannot tell us whether he has become one.

That distinction seems small until one begins looking at the symbolism of Freemasonry itself. The Craft is filled with objects that point beyond themselves. The working tools are not important because they are tools; they are important because of what they teach. The rough ashlar is not merely a stone; it is a symbol of human character before discipline has shaped it. The Plumb does not certify membership. It asks whether a man's life is upright. The Level does not concern itself with rank or office. It teaches us to see one another without the distortions of pride, prejudice, or worldly distinction. The Square measures not jurisdictional standing but the integrity of our relationships.

Every important symbol in Freemasonry points beyond the visible object toward an invisible reality.

Perhaps recognition does as well.

William Preston, whose Illustrations of Masonry shaped generations of English-speaking Freemasons, did not begin his instruction with constitutions, charters, or recognition. He began with the moral law. He reminded the newly initiated Mason that his duty was "to regulate your life and actions by its divine precepts." The institution existed to cultivate virtue. Administration served morality, not the other way around.

Albert G. Mackey, remembered today as perhaps the greatest authority on Masonic jurisprudence, made much the same observation. Although he devoted an entire career to explaining constitutions, landmarks, and Grand Lodge authority, he nevertheless insisted that the candidate's first qualifications were internal. A man must come "of his own free will and accord." His heart must be prepared before any external ceremony possesses meaning. Even the foremost defender of Masonic law understood that no constitution can manufacture character.

Albert Pike carried the lesson further still. Throughout Morals and Dogma, he returns repeatedly to the idea that symbols exist to awaken the inner man. Ritual, degrees, and ceremonies possess value only insofar as they contribute to the moral and spiritual improvement of the individual. The institution preserves the forms of Masonry. The symbols reveal its purpose.

That progression is difficult to ignore. Anderson begins with the moral law. Preston begins with the moral law. Mackey begins with internal qualifications. Pike begins with transformation. None of them deny the importance of constitutions or recognition, but none mistake them for the end toward which Freemasonry labors.

This brings us back to Christ's warning. "Ye shall know them by their fruits."

Notice what He does not say. He does not say we shall know them by their clothing, by their titles, by their certificates, or by the organizations to which they belong. He directs our attention to something far more difficult to counterfeit: the evidence of a life lived over time.

The lambskin apron is therefore one of the most beautiful and one of the most dangerous symbols in Freemasonry. Beautiful because it reminds every Mason of the life he has promised to pursue. Dangerous because it tempts us to believe the symbol has already accomplished the work it merely represents.

Perhaps recognition itself functions in precisely the same way. It is necessary. It is valuable. It preserves harmony among Grand Lodges and permits the orderly government of the Craft. But like every symbol in Freemasonry, it points beyond itself. Recognition may reveal where a man was initiated. It cannot reveal what years of labor have made of him.

A Grand Lodge can recognize a Mason according to its laws. Only his life reveals whether the Craft has become part of his character.

In the end, perhaps the real question is not whether a man belongs to a recognized jurisdiction. The deeper question—the one Christ asked long before there were Grand Lodges—is far more searching:

What fruits does his life bear?

The Dishes Still Needed Washing

There are seasons in every Mason's life.

There is a season when service is obvious. You teach. You coach officers. You present Masonic education. You organize events, chair committees, mentor younger brothers, and spend evenings helping build the lodge. The work is visible because people see you standing in front of the room.

Then there are other seasons.

Not because your willingness to serve has diminished, but because your conscience begins asking difficult questions. You begin to wonder whether your presence is helping or merely sustaining conflict. Meetings become emotionally expensive. Advice becomes debate. Service becomes misunderstood. What once brought satisfaction now brings tension.

The hardest question is no longer, "How can I help?"

It becomes, "How can I continue serving without becoming part of something I no longer believe is healthy?"

Most people assume there are only two choices.

Stay and fight.

Or leave.

Perhaps there is a third.

This past month, for the first time in nearly a decade, I did not attend my lodge's stated meeting. I did not present Masonic education. I did not sit upstairs with the brethren when the lodge was opened.

Instead, I stayed downstairs.

I finished washing the dishes. I wiped down the counters. I emptied the trash. I made sure the dining room had been put back in order. By the time that work was finished, the lodge had already been opened upstairs.

So I picked up my things and quietly went home.

No announcement.

No explanation.

No protest.

Just service.

It struck me afterward that no one had assigned me those tasks.

The dishes simply needed washing.

The trash needed to be emptied.

The kitchen needed to be cleaned.

There was no title attached to any of those jobs. No election. No appointment. No applause. No debate over policy. No personalities to navigate. Just useful work that benefited other people.

It was strangely liberating.

Perhaps that is what service looks like after all the unnecessary things have been stripped away.

Ironically, the difficult part came after I left.

Messages arrived. Updates about the meeting. Conversations about what had taken place upstairs. Well-intended, perhaps. Friendly, perhaps. Yet I realized something Marcus Aurelius understood nearly two thousand years ago.

It is far easier to govern our conduct than our emotions.

I could choose to wash the dishes.

I could choose to empty the trash.

I could choose to leave quietly.

What I could not choose was whether disappointment, sadness, or frustration would briefly visit my mind.

Stoicism never teaches us not to feel.

It teaches us not to surrender our conduct to our feelings.

That distinction may be one of life's greatest disciplines.

Every man experiences disappointment.

Every leader eventually feels misunderstood.

Every volunteer reaches a moment when his efforts are questioned, ignored, or forgotten.

Those feelings arrive without invitation.

Conduct, however, remains a choice.

I could become bitter.

Or I could wash another plate.

I could replay every disagreement.

Or I could empty another trash can.

I could spend my remaining years proving someone else wrong.

Or I could quietly continue doing whatever useful work was placed before me.

The dishes still needed washing.

Perhaps service has seasons.

There is a season to lead.

A season to teach.

A season to organize.

A season to mentor.

And perhaps there comes a season when the highest form of leadership is to relinquish the drama, the private grievances, the endless arguments over personalities, and rediscover the quiet satisfaction of useful labor.

We often imagine that the West Gate guards only those who seek admission into the lodge.

I have begun to wonder whether there is another West Gate.

One that guards what we allow into our own hearts.

Bitterness.

Resentment.

Pride.

The need to win every argument.

The need to be understood.

Those things seek admission every day.

Perhaps wisdom is learning to deny them entry.

I do not know what my service will look like in the years ahead.

Perhaps I will teach again.

Perhaps I will write.

Perhaps I will simply continue finding quiet ways to be useful.

I only know this.

Every lodge, every family, every community, and every life eventually reaches a moment when someone must decide whether to chase the argument or simply wash the dishes.

The dishes still need washing.

And there is a surprising peace in discovering that service was never about the chair we occupied.

It was always about the hands we were willing to lend.