The Hidden and the Heard: Symbolism in Mozart, Ritual Structure in Sousa

For a Freemason, music is often treated as an accompaniment to ritual rather than as a ritual element in its own right. It fills moments of silence, marks transitions, and lends dignity to ceremonies. Yet throughout Masonic history, music has done far more than provide atmosphere. It has helped communicate ideas, shape emotions, reinforce symbols, and create shared experiences. If ritual is one of the methods by which Freemasonry teaches, then music has often been one of ritual's most effective instruments.

Few examples illustrate this more clearly than Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and John Philip Sousa. Although separated by more than a century and representing radically different musical traditions, both men were active Freemasons who composed works associated with the fraternity. Mozart's music has long been studied for its symbolic and philosophical content, particularly in relation to Masonic themes embedded within his compositions. Sousa's Masonic music has received far less scholarly attention, often limited to biographical observations about his membership and participation in Masonic organizations. Yet a comparison of the two composers reveals something profound about the nature of Masonic music itself. Mozart and Sousa demonstrate that Masonic music can communicate the ideals of the Craft in two distinct ways—through symbolism embedded in the score and through ritual architecture embedded in performance.

Music occupied an important place in eighteenth-century European Freemasonry. Lodges frequently employed songs, cantatas, processional music, and funeral music as part of their activities. As Margaret Jacob (1991) observes, Freemasonry emerged within the intellectual climate of the Enlightenment, emphasizing reason, moral improvement, and symbolic instruction. Music naturally became a vehicle for expressing those ideals. In many lodges, music reinforced the emotional and philosophical dimensions of ritual, helping participants move beyond mere recitation toward deeper reflection.

Mozart entered this world in 1784 when he joined the Viennese lodge Zur Wohltätigkeit. His Masonic involvement coincided with some of the most productive years of his life, and he composed several works specifically for Masonic purposes, including Maurerische Trauermusik (Masonic Funeral Music), the Kleine Freimaurer-Kantate (Little Masonic Cantata), and numerous lodge songs. Most famously, scholars have long argued that his opera The Magic Flute contains extensive Masonic symbolism (Chailley, 1971; Solomon, 1995).

Whether every interpretation advanced by scholars is correct remains debated, but few dispute that Masonic ideas permeate the work. The opera's central narrative follows a journey from ignorance to wisdom, darkness to light, and confusion to understanding. These themes closely parallel the initiatic structure of Freemasonry. The protagonist Tamino undergoes a series of trials before attaining enlightenment, echoing the moral and symbolic progression familiar to Masonic candidates.

What distinguishes Mozart's approach is that the symbolism is often argued to reside within the music itself. Scholars have pointed to the repeated use of the number three, a number deeply significant in Masonic symbolism. The opera begins with three powerful chords. The narrative features three ladies, three boys, and repeated triadic structures throughout the drama (Dent, 1960). While the number three is not unique to Freemasonry, its persistent appearance in a work composed by an active Mason invites interpretation.

Other scholars have focused on Mozart's use of musical architecture. Symmetry, balance, ordered progression, and carefully structured harmonic relationships reflect Enlightenment ideals that were also central to contemporary Freemasonry (Irving, 1999). The music itself becomes part of the symbolic message. One does not simply watch the story unfold; one hears order emerging from disorder and resolution emerging from uncertainty.

In this sense, Mozart's Masonic music functions as a symbolic language. The attentive listener is invited to contemplate meaning hidden within the composition. The music teaches through reflection. Like a Masonic lecture, it points beyond itself toward philosophical truths.

John Philip Sousa presents a striking contrast. Born in 1854, Sousa became one of America's most celebrated composers and bandleaders. He was also an active Freemason, receiving the degrees of Masonry, joining the Scottish Rite, and becoming a member of the Shrine. Unlike Mozart, Sousa's Masonic compositions emerged within the culture of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century American fraternalism, where public ceremonies, parades, conclaves, and large gatherings played an increasingly visible role in Masonic life.

Three of Sousa's works are particularly relevant: The Thunderer, The Crusader, and Nobles of the Mystic Shrine. Each was associated with a specific Masonic body and intended for use within a ceremonial context. Unlike The Magic Flute, these works have not attracted extensive scholarly analysis regarding symbolic content. Yet they reveal another way in which music can communicate Masonic ideas.

The Thunderer was composed for Columbia Commandery No. 2, Knights Templar, and premiered in connection with the Grand Encampment conclave of 1889. The music is unmistakably martial. Bugle-like calls, strong rhythmic drive, ceremonial climaxes, and disciplined processional structure dominate the composition. It evokes movement, order, and command.

The title itself is revealing. A thunderer is not a contemplative figure. It is a figure of action, authority, and proclamation. The music reflects the culture of Templar Masonry, with its emphasis on chivalry, discipline, duty, and public ceremony. Unlike Mozart's symbolic architecture, the meaning here does not appear hidden within numerical structures or harmonic puzzles. The meaning emerges through experience. Participants marching beneath banners, observing formations, and hearing the commanding rhythms are immersed in a musical environment that reinforces the identity and values of the organization.

The Crusader extends this pattern. Written for a Templar audience, the title invokes one of the central narratives of Templar Masonry. The music unfolds almost as a journey. Processional passages give way to quieter moments of reflection before returning to renewed strength and triumph. The structure mirrors themes of pilgrimage, perseverance, trial, and return.

There is no evidence that Sousa embedded secret ritual elements within the score. Yet it would be difficult to ignore the relationship between a Knight Templar Mason composing a work called The Crusader for a Templar audience and the symbolic significance of crusading imagery within that context. The music does not merely accompany the ritual culture of the organization. It expresses it.

Nobles of the Mystic Shrine offers yet another example. The Shrine developed a ceremonial identity characterized by elaborate pageantry, theatrical symbolism, and imagery drawn from romanticized conceptions of the Middle East. Sousa's composition embraces this identity through exotic instrumentation, unusual rhythmic effects, and a festive atmosphere. The work creates a sonic environment consistent with the culture and self-understanding of the Shrine.

Here again, the meaning is not hidden. It is heard.

This distinction suggests a useful framework for understanding the two composers. Mozart's Masonic music operates primarily through symbolic communication. Sousa's Masonic music operates primarily through ritual architecture.

The comparison becomes even more compelling when viewed through the lens of Freemasonry itself. Freemasonry has always taught through two complementary methods. One method is symbolic instruction. Lectures, allegories, emblems, and philosophical teachings invite intellectual reflection. The other method is ritual participation. Candidates move, speak, observe, and experience. Meaning emerges not only from what is explained but from what is enacted.

Mozart's music resembles the first method. It functions much like a lecture. The symbolism is embedded within the work, inviting contemplation and interpretation. Sousa's music resembles the second method. It functions much like ritual. Its meaning emerges through participation, movement, and collective experience.

In this sense, Mozart and Sousa may represent two dimensions of Masonic education. One communicates through symbols hidden within artistic form. The other communicates through the creation of ceremonial environments that shape the experience of participants.

This distinction also reflects broader differences between European Enlightenment Freemasonry and American fraternal culture. Mozart worked within a world deeply concerned with philosophy, symbolism, and intellectual inquiry. Sousa worked within a world increasingly characterized by public ceremony, civic engagement, and fraternal spectacle. Each composer responded to the needs of his time while remaining connected to the larger ideals of the Craft.

Yet despite these differences, both sought to communicate the same essential values. Brotherhood, moral improvement, order, discipline, enlightenment, and shared identity appear in both bodies of work. The difference lies in how those values are conveyed.

Mozart built symbols into the stones of the Temple.

Sousa built the roads leading to it.

Mozart's listener is invited to contemplate. Sousa's participant is invited to engage. Mozart communicates through hidden symbolism. Sousa communicates through ceremonial experience. One teaches through reflection. The other teaches through participation.

Neither approach is superior. Freemasonry has always relied upon both. Symbols without experience risk becoming abstractions. Experience without symbols risks becoming empty spectacle. The enduring strength of Masonic ritual lies in its ability to unite the two.

The comparison between Mozart and Sousa ultimately reveals something important about Masonic music itself. Music need not merely decorate ritual. It can become an integral part of how ritual teaches. Sometimes it conveys meaning through structures hidden within the composition. Sometimes it conveys meaning by shaping the emotional and ceremonial environment in which participants act. In either case, music becomes another working tool of the Craft.

Mozart gives us the hidden.

Sousa gives us the heard.

Together, they demonstrate that Masonic music can both symbolize the journey and help create the experience of traveling it.

References

Chailley, J. (1971). The Magic Flute unveiled: Esoteric symbolism in Mozart's Masonic opera. Inner Traditions International.

Dent, E. J. (1960). Mozart's operas: A critical study (6th ed.). Oxford University Press. (Original work published 1913)

Harland-Jacobs, J. L. (2007). Builders of empire: Freemasons and British imperialism, 1717–1927. University of North Carolina Press.

Irving, J. (1999). Mozart: The Haydn quartets. Cambridge University Press.

Jacob, M. C. (1991). Living the Enlightenment: Freemasonry and politics in eighteenth-century Europe. Oxford University Press.

Solomon, M. (1995). Mozart: A life. HarperCollins.

Stevenson, D. (1988). The origins of Freemasonry: Scotland's century, 1590–1710. Cambridge University Press.

Villanueva, J. (n.d.). Sousa the Master Mason. The Works of John Philip Sousa. Retrieved from the Sousa archives and historical collections.

United States Marine Band. (n.d.). The complete marches of John Philip Sousa: Historical notes and score commentaries for The Thunderer and The Crusader. United States Marine Band Archives.

The Chinatown Walk

Most Dodger fans know how to get into Dodger Stadium. Getting out is another story.

I took the train to a midweek day game against the Tampa Bay Rays. The trip in was easy enough. Fifty-four minutes on the train, a twenty-minute wait for the Dodger Express bus at Union Station, and another twenty minutes riding up the hill to the stadium. I met a fellow Dodgers fan on the train, and we spent the ride talking baseball. By the time we arrived, the trip felt less like commuting and more like part of the game-day experience.

The Dodgers won, though not without drama. In classic Dodger fashion, they tried to give the game away in the ninth inning, loading the bases before finally escaping the jam. The crowd exhaled, the final out was recorded, and thousands of people began the familiar migration toward the exits.

That's when I decided to try something different.

Anyone who regularly attends Dodger games knows that the Dodger Express bus can be a blessing before the game and a curse afterward. Getting to the stadium is smooth. Leaving can feel like standing in line at an airport after every flight has been canceled. Thousands of fans converge on the same buses at the same time, and no matter how many buses Metro sends, there's only so much pavement and patience available.

Instead of joining the crowd, I turned toward the parking lots.

My destination was Chinatown Station.

The walk is about 1.2 miles from the stadium. Leaving from the lower seating area, I headed out through the terraced parking lots, passing through Lot O and eventually toward Stadium Way. The route is mostly downhill. The afternoon sun was mild, and the temperature was comfortable. There was no rush. No traffic. No line.

What surprised me most was what didn't happen.

No bus passed me.

By the time I had left the stadium and was walking down Stadium Way, the Dodger Express buses were still loading passengers. Thousands of people were waiting while I was already moving toward downtown Los Angeles on foot.

Eventually I noticed signs pointing toward Metro's A Line. I hadn't expected them, but there they were, guiding pedestrians away from the stadium. The route crosses a pedestrian bridge over the Harbor Freeway. It feels slightly odd standing above six lanes of Los Angeles traffic while wearing a Dodgers cap and carrying a scorecard, but the path is safe and clearly marked.

Then comes the spiral.

If you look at the route on a map, it appears to loop in circles for no reason. The explanation is simple: a long circular ramp winds down from the bridge into Chinatown. Walking it feels like descending from one world into another.

A few minutes later I was on Yale Street.

The sounds changed. The traffic noise faded. The smell of food drifted from nearby restaurants. Chinatown isn't what it was decades ago, but it still has its character. The architecture, the signs, the storefronts, and the restaurants create a neighborhood unlike any other in Los Angeles. For a brief moment, the trip home became something more than transportation.

It became a walk.

Twenty minutes after leaving the stadium, I was standing on the platform at Chinatown Station.

Had I taken the bus, I estimate I would have spent at least an hour getting to Union Station. Instead, I had already gained forty minutes and reached a station that was actually closer to my route home.

The train ride back was uneventful. So uneventful, in fact, that I fell asleep for about thirty minutes.

The true measure of success came later.

I arrived back in San Dimas around 4:20 p.m. I had time to grab coffee and then walk to a dinner engagement downtown. Two friends who attended the game had driven separately. They eventually arrived at the same dinner nearly an hour and forty minutes after I did.

Think about that.

I walked out of Dodger Stadium, through Chinatown, took a train home, stopped for coffee, and still arrived long before the people who drove.

For seventy-five cents.

The experience convinced me that the Chinatown Walk may be one of the best-kept secrets for Dodger fans who are physically able to make the trip. It eliminates uncertainty. It avoids the postgame crowds. It turns a frustrating exit into a pleasant walk through one of Los Angeles's historic neighborhoods.

My next experiment will be the reverse route—walking uphill from Chinatown Station to Dodger Stadium before a game and then testing the same walk after a night game.

I'll report back.

But for now, I can say this: sometimes the fastest way home isn't the bus, the car, or the freeway.

Sometimes it's a walk through Chinatown.

The Questions That Outlive Us

Most people spend their lives searching for answers.

The older I get, the more I suspect the answers are the least important part.

Answers have a short shelf life.

Questions endure.

An answer solves a problem for a moment. A good question forces every generation to confront the problem again.

The men we remember are rarely those who provided final answers. They are the men who asked questions so powerful that others continued wrestling with them long after they were gone.

A teacher's lesson may be forgotten.

A teacher's question may shape a life.

A leader's decision may be overturned.

A leader's question may guide an institution for decades.

A Mason's title will be forgotten.

The questions he leaves behind may become his true legacy.

How should a man live?

What does honor require?

What is worth building?

When is service complete?

How do we leave something better than we found it?

These questions have survived generations because they cannot be permanently answered. Each generation must answer them again for itself.

Perhaps that is why wisdom often sounds less like certainty and more like curiosity.

The wisest men I have known did not leave behind a collection of answers.

They left behind better questions.

When Symbols Speak the Same Language: Freemasonry, Tarot, and the Journey Within

From time to time, readers encounter a symbol from one tradition and immediately recognize it in another. The names may differ, the imagery may change, and the historical pathways may be distinct, yet the underlying lesson feels familiar. Such was my reaction when I encountered several reflections by tarot reader and life coach Gina Rabbin. In a series of Facebook posts, Rabbin drew parallels between themes explored in The Temple Within and the symbolism of tarot cards. At first glance, some Masons may find such comparisons surprising. Freemasonry does not teach tarot, nor has tarot ever been part of the formal ritual system of the Craft. Yet the more one examines the history of modern tarot and the men who shaped it, the more understandable these parallels become.

Rabbin's observations begin with the opening stages of the Masonic journey. Reflecting on the Entered Apprentice degree, she compared the candidate's first steps in Freemasonry to the symbolism of The Magician card. She wrote that "The Magician stands at the threshold of transformation. Before him rest the tools of creation, symbolizing the power to shape one's life through intention, discipline, and conscious action." She then observed that the Entered Apprentice similarly takes "the first step into the Masonic journey," where the tools, virtues, and teachings of the Craft are first placed before him.

The comparison is more profound than it may initially appear. Neither the Entered Apprentice nor The Magician represents a finished product. Neither stands at the culmination of wisdom. Both stand at the beginning. The Apprentice is introduced to working tools but has not yet mastered their use. Likewise, The Magician stands before symbolic instruments that represent potential rather than completion. The lesson in both cases is that transformation requires participation. The tools may be present, but the work remains to be done.

Rabbin extended this comparison further when discussing the preparation that precedes initiation. She associated the first stage of the Masonic path with the Page of Wands, describing the card as embodying "the eager soul who feels a sudden call to adventure, ready to explore uncharted spiritual territory with passion and optimism." She connected this image to the prospective Mason who feels drawn toward the principles of brotherhood, self-improvement, and light before ever entering a lodge room.

Again, the symbolism resonates. Before every initiation there is an awakening. Before every journey there is a call. Whether expressed through the language of ritual or through the imagery of a tarot card, the lesson is familiar: the seeker must first become aware that there is a path worth following.

Perhaps the most compelling of Rabbin's observations arose from a reflection on mortality, memory, and continuity. Responding to a passage from The Temple Within that reads,

"The Middle Chamber is filled with ghosts.

The men who taught me.

Guided me.

Walked that old carpet before me.

Someday I'll join them.

Another Mason will walk the same path.

The work continues."

Rabbin observed that the same principle appears throughout tarot. She noted that no card stands alone. Each card inherits meaning from those that precede it and contributes to those that follow. In her words, "The cards remain. The path remains. The work continues. Only the travelers change."

This observation touches upon one of the most important characteristics shared by both traditions. Freemasonry teaches through progression. The candidate advances through degrees, each building upon lessons previously learned. Tarot, particularly in its modern esoteric interpretation, presents a similar progression through the sequence of the Major Arcana. The Fool begins the journey. Subsequent cards represent encounters with knowledge, discipline, challenge, sacrifice, enlightenment, and completion. In both systems, the individual traveler changes, but the path itself endures.

The historical roots of these similarities become clearer when we examine two men whose influence on modern tarot cannot be overstated: Oswald Wirth and Arthur Edward Waite.

Oswald Wirth (1860–1943) was a Swiss occultist, author, and Freemason whose writings profoundly influenced twentieth-century esoteric thought. In 1889, he created a tarot deck that departed significantly from earlier playing-card traditions. Wirth viewed tarot as an initiatic system capable of guiding personal development and self-knowledge. He was deeply involved in both Freemasonry and Rosicrucianism and frequently interpreted symbols through a lens that combined Masonic, alchemical, and Hermetic traditions (Wirth, 1985).

For Wirth, symbols were not decorative illustrations. They were instruments of instruction. They pointed toward truths that could not be fully conveyed through direct explanation. This perspective is strikingly similar to the educational philosophy of Freemasonry, which relies upon symbols, allegory, and ritual rather than dogmatic instruction. The purpose is not merely to provide information but to stimulate reflection and transformation.

Arthur Edward Waite (1857–1942) approached tarot from a similar perspective. A Freemason, Rosicrucian, and member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, Waite sought to create a tarot deck that conveyed spiritual and philosophical teachings through imagery. Working with artist Pamela Colman Smith, he produced what became known as the Rider-Waite Tarot in 1909 (Waite, 1910).

Today, the Rider-Waite deck is arguably the most influential tarot deck in the world. Yet Waite repeatedly emphasized that the cards should not be viewed merely as tools for fortune-telling. Rather, they represented symbolic lessons concerning the inner life of the individual. Their purpose was contemplative. Meaning emerged through study, meditation, and repeated engagement with the imagery.

It is not difficult to see how a Freemason might arrive at such conclusions. Freemasonry similarly employs symbols whose meanings deepen over time. A Mason may encounter the Square and Compasses, the Pillars, the Working Tools, or the Blazing Star countless times throughout his life. Their significance is not exhausted in a single explanation. Rather, they continue to reveal new dimensions as one's experience grows.

The connection, therefore, is not that tarot and Freemasonry are identical systems. They are not. Nor is it that one borrowed directly from the other. Instead, both traditions draw upon older currents within Western thought. Biblical symbolism, sacred geometry, Renaissance humanism, Hermetic philosophy, allegorical teaching, and the pursuit of self-transformation all contributed to their development (Faivre, 1994; Hanegraaff, 2013).

This shared inheritance helps explain why observers such as Gina Rabbin continue to recognize meaningful parallels between the two traditions. The similarities do not arise because tarot is secretly Masonic or because Freemasonry conceals a tarot system within its ritual. Rather, both traditions seek to answer enduring human questions.

How does a person begin the journey of self-improvement?

How is character formed?

How is wisdom acquired?

How do we learn from those who came before us?

What responsibility do we bear toward those who will follow?

These questions existed long before either tarot or Freemasonry took their modern forms. Both traditions simply developed their own symbolic language for exploring them.

In the end, Rabbin's observations reveal something larger than either system. Symbols endure because they address realities that transcend any particular organization, card deck, or ritual. Human beings continue to seek meaning, transformation, wisdom, and purpose. Whether encountered in a lodge room, in a sacred text, or in a symbolic image, the lessons remain remarkably consistent.

The traveler changes.

The symbols remain.

The work continues.

References

Decker, R., Depaulis, T., & Dummett, M. (1996). A wicked pack of cards: The origins of the occult tarot. St. Martin's Press.

Dummett, M. (1980). The game of tarot: From Ferrara to Salt Lake City. Duckworth.

Faivre, A. (1994). Access to western esotericism. State University of New York Press.

Hanegraaff, W. J. (2013). Western esotericism: A guide for the perplexed. Bloomsbury Academic.

Jacob, M. C. (2006). The origins of freemasonry: Facts and fictions. University of Pennsylvania Press.

Stevenson, D. (1988). The origins of freemasonry: Scotland's century, 1590–1710. Cambridge University Press.

Waite, A. E. (1910). The pictorial key to the tarot. William Rider & Son.

Wirth, O. (1985). The tarot of the magicians (Original work published 1927). Samuel Weiser.

This draft is about 2,000 words and stays on the historical connection between Waite, Wirth, Freemasonry, and the symbolic observations Gina Rabbin is making without overstating the relationship between tarot and the Craft.

The Hardest Lesson of a Past Master: Knowing When Your Service Is Complete

The first lessons of a Master are easy to identify.

He learns ritual. He learns administration. He learns budgets, calendars, committees, and personalities. He learns how to lead meetings, resolve disputes, and keep a lodge moving forward. These are the visible lessons, the lessons everyone sees.

The hardest lessons come later.

They arrive after the gavel has been passed, after the title has faded, and after a new generation begins making decisions of its own.

A Past Master eventually discovers that leadership and influence are not the same thing.

When he was Master, decisions carried the force of his office. As a Past Master, his influence rests solely upon the value of his experience and the willingness of others to listen. That transition can be difficult. Many men spend years learning how to lead and very little time learning how to let others lead.

At first, the Past Master sees problems and naturally seeks solutions. He sees an officer struggling and offers guidance. He sees a committee drifting and provides direction. He sees mistakes approaching and warns those responsible. He does these things not out of pride, but out of genuine concern for the lodge he loves.

Yet a moment eventually arrives when he realizes that his advice is no longer being sought, his experience is no longer being valued, or his counsel is being acknowledged but ignored.

That is when the real test begins.

The temptation is to fight harder. To explain more. To attend more meetings. To make stronger arguments. To convince others that they are making mistakes.

Sometimes that works.

Often it does not.

The painful truth is that every lodge belongs to its current officers, not its former ones. Every generation inherits both the right to succeed and the right to fail. No Past Master, regardless of his accomplishments, can permanently protect a lodge from poor decisions. At some point, the future must belong to those willing to carry the responsibility.

The hardest lesson of a Past Master is learning that service has seasons.

There is a season to lead.

There is a season to teach.

There is a season to advise.

And there may come a season to step aside.

Stepping aside is not surrender. It is not bitterness. It is not abandonment.

It is recognizing that continued service is only valuable when it is welcomed, respected, and capable of producing good. When every effort becomes a struggle, every suggestion becomes a debate, and every act of service becomes a source of frustration, the question is no longer whether the Past Master can continue serving. The question is whether his service is still helping.

Many Past Masters fear becoming irrelevant. They worry that stepping back means their years of labor meant nothing. But the measure of a man's contribution is not whether he remains at the center of every decision. The measure is whether what he built can survive without him.

The greatest compliment a lodge can pay a Past Master is not to continually depend upon him. It is to no longer need him.

That realization is not easy. In fact, it may be the hardest lesson in Masonry.

A Past Master spends years learning how to carry the lodge. Wisdom is learning when it is time to set the burden down.

For some men, that moment never comes.

For others, it arrives quietly.

A meeting they no longer feel compelled to attend.

A decision they no longer feel obligated to influence.

A responsibility they no longer feel called to carry.

And in that moment, they discover that their identity was never found in an office, a title, or a seat in the lodge room.

It was found in the principles that inspired their service in the first place.

The lodge may continue without them.

It should.

And when the time is right, a wise Past Master leaves not in anger, but with the satisfaction of knowing he gave what he had to give, taught what he had to teach, and served for as long as his service was needed.

Knowing how to lead is important.

Knowing when your service is complete may be the greater lesson.

 

I Thought They Said Buzzards

For weeks, I thought Ontario's new baseball team was called the Tower Buzzards. Every time I heard someone mention the team, I pictured some kind of desert bird circling over the Inland Empire. The logo didn't help much at first glance. It wasn't until I started looking closer that the retired investigator in me kicked in.

The logo featured an airport control tower, and the team played at ONT Field. That was the first clue. ONT is the three-letter designation for Ontario International Airport. Once I noticed that, the case was practically solved. ONT Field. Ontario International Airport. Tower Buzzers. Suddenly, all the clues fit together.

At first, I assumed the name referred to "buzzing the tower," that daring aviation maneuver where a pilot flies low and close to an airport control tower.

Not quite.

As it turns out, the "buzz" comes from a bee, which is the team's mascot. Once I figured that out, everything fell into place. In fact, the deeper I got into the ballpark experience, the more obvious it became that the organization had built its entire identity around Ontario International Airport and the aviation industry that surrounds it.

The Ontario Tower Buzzers are the new Single-A affiliate of the Los Angeles Dodgers, and recently my wife and I headed out to a Friday night game to see what all the excitement was about.

The first challenge was simply getting there. Unlike most of my trips eastward, a Friday evening game means driving with traffic, not against it. The trip from San Dimas to Ontario isn't particularly long, but traffic on the 10 Freeway and the backup around Haven Avenue added some extra time.

Fortunately, once we arrived, everything became much easier.

We got there before the gates opened at 5:30 p.m., arriving around 5:25. Parking was simple because I had prepaid online, and there was hardly anyone in the lot when we arrived.

Buying the tickets, however, proved to be more complicated than expected.

I purchased them through the MLB website, but getting the digital tickets onto my phone turned into an unexpected adventure. The tickets were buried somewhere in what MLB calls "My Inventory," and finding them was anything but intuitive. After a call to customer service, a helpful representative resent the link to my email, and I was finally able to access the tickets. Since ONT Field is entirely cashless, having your tickets available on a smartphone is essential.

Once inside, we had plenty of time to explore.

It was then that I realized just how thoroughly the organization had embraced its airport identity. The aviation theme is woven into nearly every aspect of the ballpark experience. Employees directing fans around the grounds carry the illuminated wands used by airport ramp crews. Some staff members are dressed like airline captains, while others wear uniforms that resemble airport personnel. Concession stands, seating areas, and promotional features all carry aviation-inspired names. Everything seems to be a flight deck, a runway, a ramp, a terminal, or some other airport reference.

If there's an airport-related term they haven't used somewhere in the stadium, I didn't find it. The organization has squeezed every possible ounce of mileage out of the ONT connection—and somehow it works. The result is a ballpark experience unlike any other in Southern California, one that constantly reminds fans of Ontario's connection to aviation and its growing airport.

One interesting option is the outfield grass seating area, where fans can watch the game from a lawn beyond the outfield fence. Those tickets cost only $7, making them one of the best entertainment bargains in Southern California.

We opted for something a little more comfortable.

Our seats were in the Flight Line section, a premium seating area featuring oversized, comfortable chairs with small tables between them. They weren't luxury box seats, but they felt considerably more comfortable than standard stadium seating. We were positioned on the first-base side with an outstanding view of the field, close enough to feel immersed in the action.

One of the best parts of sitting so close was hearing everything. You could hear the umpire's calls, the pop of the catcher's mitt, and the conversations on the field.

The loudest moment of the night came when a Tower Buzzers pitcher hit a batter square in the helmet with a 97-mile-an-hour fastball. The crack echoed through the stadium, the helmet flew off, and for a moment everyone stopped breathing. It was a terrifying sound, and a reminder that even at the Single-A level, these athletes possess remarkable talent.

Of course, being Single-A baseball, there were also plenty of mistakes, misplays, and learning moments. That's part of the charm. Unlike Major League Baseball, where players have often mastered every aspect of the game, these young prospects are still developing. You see flashes of greatness mixed with occasional errors, which makes the experience feel authentic and unpredictable.

The food was one area where the ballpark didn't quite reach the same heights as the rest of the experience. The hot dogs weren't quite up to Dodger Stadium standards, and while there was one stand serving draft beer, most of the beer came in cans. Prices were comparable to what you'd find at larger venues, but the overall food quality wasn't quite at the same level.

The ticket prices, however, were far more reasonable.

Our Flight Line seats were about $40 each and were among the most expensive seats available that evening. Excellent seats throughout the stadium can be purchased for around $12, making the ballpark accessible for families and casual fans alike.

Like most minor league ballparks, the entertainment extends far beyond the game itself. Between innings, there were mascot races, contests, promotions, and plenty of crowd interaction. It had all the familiar minor league shenanigans, but that is part of the fun. The crowd was into it, the pace felt relaxed, and the whole place had the feeling of a community still discovering its new team.

By the end of the evening, I came away impressed.

ONT Field provides a comfortable, modern venue. The Tower Buzzers offer affordable baseball, family-friendly entertainment, and the chance to see future Dodgers before they reach the major leagues. Whether you're a serious baseball fan or simply looking for a fun night out, the Ontario Tower Buzzers deliver a memorable experience.

By the time we drove home that night, I was glad I'd finally figured out what a Tower Buzzer was. More importantly, I'd discovered something even better: an affordable ballpark, a fun crowd, and a place where baseball and aviation somehow fit together perfectly.

Not bad for a team I originally thought was named after a bird.

Walking the Checkered Path: The Mosaic Pavement, the Indented Tessel, and the Blazing Star

California Freemasons explains that the ornaments of a Lodge are the Mosaic Pavement, the Indented Tessel, and the Blazing Star. The Mosaic Pavement represents the floor of King Solomon's Temple and symbolizes the mixed nature of human existence, marked by both good and evil. Surrounding it is the Indented Tessel, reflecting the ornamental border that encircled the pavement and symbolizing the blessings and comforts that accompany life. At the center is the Blazing Star, which represents Divine Providence and reminds Masons of the guidance available through trust in a higher power.

Like many portions of Masonic ritual, the explanation appears simple until one pauses to consider the symbolism more deeply. The three ornaments are often discussed separately, as though each communicates an independent lesson. Yet their placement within the Lodge suggests otherwise. They form a complete symbolic system. The Mosaic Pavement occupies the center of the floor. The Indented Tessel surrounds it. The Blazing Star shines at its center.

Taken together, these symbols describe the nature of human existence itself. They tell us what life is, the conditions under which it unfolds, and the means by which it may be navigated. They reveal a philosophy of life that is remarkably consistent with both ancient wisdom traditions and modern understandings of human development.

The first ornament, the Mosaic Pavement, is usually explained as representing human life, checkered with good and evil. While true, that interpretation may not go far enough. The pavement is not a picture hanging on a wall. It is a floor.

A floor is not merely observed. It is traversed.

Every Mason who stands in a Lodge symbolically stands upon the Mosaic Pavement. If that pavement represents life, then the Mason is not simply studying the symbol. He is participating in it.

This observation immediately changes the lesson. One cannot cross a checkered floor by stepping only on white squares. Neither can one avoid the black squares. Progress requires contact with both.

The symbolism suggests a truth that experience confirms. No human life consists entirely of joy, success, knowledge, health, and certainty. Neither does any life consist entirely of sorrow, failure, ignorance, suffering, and darkness. Human existence unfolds through a continual interaction of opposites.

The black and white squares may therefore represent far more than good and evil. They may symbolize light and darkness, knowledge and ignorance, success and failure, certainty and uncertainty, order and chaos, life and death. The pavement becomes a representation of the dualities that characterize human experience.

Psychologist Carl Jung argued that psychological growth requires confronting and integrating the opposing aspects of human nature rather than denying them. According to Jung (1968), individuation—the process of becoming a complete person—depends upon recognizing both the conscious and unconscious dimensions of the self. In a similar way, the Mosaic Pavement reminds us that wisdom is not achieved by pretending darkness does not exist. It is achieved by learning how to walk through it.

This interpretation is strengthened by one of Freemasonry's most recurring themes: the journey from darkness to light. The candidate enters the Lodge deprived of light. Knowledge, understanding, and enlightenment are not assumed. They are sought.

Yet darkness itself serves an important purpose.

Modern creativity research suggests that innovation frequently emerges from periods of uncertainty and ambiguity. Psychologist Rollo May (1975) observed that creativity often arises from encounters with disorder and tension rather than from comfort and certainty. The unknown becomes the source of discovery.

Nature provides countless examples. The seed germinates beneath the earth before emerging into the sunlight. The butterfly develops within the darkness of the chrysalis. Even the rough ashlar, one of Freemasonry's most powerful symbols, begins as an imperfect stone before being transformed through labor and discipline.

The black squares of the pavement may therefore represent more than hardship. They may also represent possibility.

Without questions, there can be no search for answers.

Without uncertainty, there can be no discovery.

Without darkness, there can be no appreciation of light.

The lesson is not that darkness should be feared or avoided. Rather, it must be navigated.

This brings us naturally to the second ornament.

If the Mosaic Pavement represents the journey of life, then why does it possess a border?

The Indented Tessel is usually explained as representing the manifold blessings and comforts that surround us. While this interpretation is certainly valid, the symbolism appears capable of conveying an additional lesson.

The border establishes limits.

The pavement may be traversed freely, but it is not infinite. It exists within boundaries.

This observation mirrors a fundamental reality of existence. Human beings enjoy freedom, yet that freedom always operates within constraints. Physical reality is governed by laws. Gravity cannot be negotiated. Time cannot be reversed. Cause and effect cannot be escaped.

Modern science has revealed an astonishingly ordered universe. Whether examining Newtonian mechanics, thermodynamics, relativity, or quantum physics, researchers consistently encounter patterns, structures, and laws governing reality (Greene, 2004).

Human life appears to possess similar principles.

Actions produce consequences.

Trust must be earned.

Character influences destiny.

Integrity strengthens relationships.

Dishonesty erodes them.

Freemasonry repeatedly emphasizes this principle through its working tools. The Square teaches morality. The Compasses teach restraint. The Plumb teaches upright conduct. The Level teaches equality. Each symbol implies that freedom is most meaningful when exercised within proper bounds.

The Indented Tessel may therefore symbolize the structure within which life unfolds. We are free to walk the pavement, but we do not create the laws that govern the pavement.

Yet there is another dimension to the border.

The tessellated pattern consists of many connected pieces. No single piece forms the border by itself. Each gains significance through its relationship to the others.

Viewed in this way, the Indented Tessel becomes a symbol of the human networks that surround every individual. Family, community, tradition, culture, friendship, and fraternity all contribute to the framework within which a life is lived.

No Mason walks alone.

The lessons inherited from previous generations, the support received from family and friends, and the guidance provided by mentors all form part of the symbolic border surrounding the pavement of life.

Perhaps the "blessings and comforts" referenced in the ritual are not merely material possessions. Perhaps they are the people who walk beside us.

At the center of both pavement and border shines the Blazing Star.

Its placement is significant.

The Blazing Star does not appear outside the pavement. It does not hover above the border. It occupies the center of the symbolic system.

Traditionally, it represents Divine Providence—the watchful care and guidance of the Great Architect of the Universe. Yet throughout Masonic history, many writers have associated the symbol with Sirius, the Dog Star.

Sirius is the brightest star visible in the night sky. For ancient Egyptians, its heliacal rising marked the annual flooding of the Nile, an event that brought fertility, renewal, and life to the surrounding lands. Because of this association, Sirius became connected with rebirth, illumination, guidance, and divine order (Allen, 1963).

Ancient mariners also relied upon the stars for navigation. The stars did not eliminate storms, calm rough seas, or remove dangers from the voyage. What they provided was orientation.

The star gave direction.

This may be the most profound lesson of the Blazing Star.

Divine Providence does not necessarily remove difficulty from life. The pavement remains checkered. The black squares remain. The uncertainties remain.

What Providence provides is guidance through them.

The symbolism therefore comes together in a remarkable way.

The Mosaic Pavement teaches that life consists of both light and darkness, certainty and uncertainty, success and failure.

The Indented Tessel teaches that life unfolds within an ordered universe governed by laws, relationships, traditions, and responsibilities.

The Blazing Star teaches that despite life's uncertainties, there exists a source of illumination by which the journey may be navigated.

The Mason stands upon a world of opposites, surrounded by order, and guided by light.

Perhaps this is why the Blazing Star occupies the center of the Lodge. It reminds us that the purpose of Freemasonry is not to escape the checkered nature of existence. It is to learn how to walk through it wisely.

The ornaments of the Lodge are not merely decorations.

They are a map of the human condition.

References

Allen, R. H. (1963). Star names: Their lore and meaning. Dover Publications. (Original work published 1899)

Greene, B. (2004). The fabric of the cosmos: Space, time, and the texture of reality. Vintage Books.

Jung, C. G. (1968). Aion: Researches into the phenomenology of the self (2nd ed., R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1951)

May, R. (1975). The courage to create. W. W. Norton.

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