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.

The Instructive Tongue and the Attentive Ear

Recently, while reading through Facebook, I came across a question that immediately made me pause: "What do you think younger Masons are looking for that older Lodges sometimes miss?" It was not a scientific survey or an academic study. It was simply a question posed among Freemasons. More than 140 Brothers responded, representing different jurisdictions, generations, and experiences. As I read through the discussion, I expected to find a wide variety of opinions. Instead, I found remarkable consistency. Although each Brother expressed himself differently, the same themes surfaced repeatedly. By the time I reached the end of the discussion, I realized I was no longer thinking about younger Masons. I was thinking about Freemasonry itself.

One of the beautiful passages in our ritual teaches that "the attentive ear receives the sound from the instructive tongue." We usually hear those words as part of our initiation into the Craft, but they describe something much larger than the communication of ritual. They describe how Freemasonry itself survives. Every Mason begins as the attentive ear, eager to receive instruction from those who have traveled the road before him. In time, every experienced Mason is called to become the instructive tongue, passing forward the same light that was once entrusted to him. Between those two lies the future of the fraternity.

As I continued reading the discussion, I realized I was not reading complaints about younger generations. I was listening to the attentive ear. These men were not asking Freemasonry to become something different. They were asking experienced Masons to teach them what the Craft has always promised to teach. As I reflected on their responses, they seemed to organize themselves naturally around one of the oldest symbolic frameworks in Masonry: Wisdom, Strength, and Beauty. Those three principal supports of the Lodge are not merely architectural symbols. They describe what every generation is called to receive and then faithfully transmit to the next.

The responses first pointed toward Wisdom. In Masonic symbolism, Wisdom is the faculty that conceives the plan before the first stone is ever laid. Every building begins with understanding before it begins with labor, and so does every Mason. Again and again, the Brothers participating in the discussion expressed a desire to understand the deeper meaning of the Craft. They spoke of symbolism, philosophy, history, moral instruction, and the lessons hidden beneath the ritual. They were not asking simply for more information; they were asking for understanding. There is an important distinction between the two. Information accumulates, but Wisdom transforms. A man may memorize every word of a lecture and still never understand what the lecture is attempting to build within him. Ritual is not the destination. It is the language through which Wisdom is communicated, and the attentive ear is not merely waiting to hear words—it is waiting to discover meaning.

Every generation enters the lodge asking the same timeless question: "What does this mean?" That question deserves more than memorized answers. It deserves thoughtful conversation, patient mentorship, and experienced Masons willing to explain not only what Freemasonry teaches, but how those lessons have shaped their own lives. If we fail to transmit Wisdom, we may preserve the form of Freemasonry while quietly losing its purpose. We may continue to confer degrees with precision while failing to communicate why those degrees have inspired generations of men to continue seeking light.

From Wisdom, the discussion naturally moved toward Strength. If Wisdom conceives the Temple, Strength raises it. No building has ever been constructed by blueprints alone. The Brothers repeatedly spoke of mentorship, fellowship, meaningful participation, shared labor, leadership, and opportunities to contribute. These responses were not requests for titles or prestige. They reflected a sincere desire to become builders rather than spectators.

That distinction deserves careful consideration. Not every Mason is called to become Worshipful Master, but every Mason is called to help build the Temple. Some labor through ritual excellence. Others through education. Some mentor candidates. Some preserve the history of the lodge. Others organize charitable projects, maintain the building, prepare meals, welcome visitors, or simply make certain that every Brother who enters the lodge feels noticed, appreciated, and valued. None of these labors are insignificant. The strength of a lodge has never been measured by the number of dues cards it issues. It has always been measured by the number of Brothers willing to place their hands upon the work. The attentive ear is not simply asking to attend meetings. It is asking to labor.

Finally, the responses revealed the often-overlooked principle of Beauty. Beauty is perhaps the most misunderstood of the Three Principal Supports because we often associate it with appearance rather than harmony. Yet if Wisdom conceived the Temple and Strength raised it, Beauty reveals why the Temple was worth building. Beauty is the visible expression of invisible principles. It is harmony made manifest in the lives of those who have been shaped by the Craft.

Many of the Brothers emphasized community involvement, charitable service, authentic brotherhood, and becoming better men whose lives reflect the teachings of Freemasonry. Their observations reminded me that the public will probably never witness our ceremonies, but it will witness our conduct. It will observe how we treat our families, how we serve our communities, how we care for Brothers in distress, how we mentor those who come after us, and how we conduct ourselves when no applause is expected. These are the places where the Beauty of Freemasonry becomes visible.

The same is true inside the lodge. A candidate who encounters genuine friendship, thoughtful instruction, sincere mentorship, meaningful fellowship, and joyful labor experiences something beautiful long before he fully understands every symbol surrounding him. Beauty is not what we tell people Freemasonry is. Beauty is what they experience when they encounter Freemasons whose lives reflect the obligations they have assumed.

As I reached the end of the discussion, one conclusion became impossible to ignore. Very few of the responses suggested that Freemasonry should become less traditional. Very few asked us to abandon ritual or imitate modern organizations. Instead, they asked for something profoundly traditional. They were asking us to teach them. To work beside them. To help them understand. To demonstrate, through our own conduct, what this life looks like when faithfully lived. They were not asking for a different Freemasonry. They were asking for the same Freemasonry that every generation before them received from faithful mentors.

Perhaps that is the real lesson hidden within both the discussion and our ritual. The attentive ear has not disappeared. It is still listening. The real question is whether the instructive tongue is still speaking.

Every generation receives the Craft as an inheritance. None of us created its symbols. None of us invented its ritual. None of us owns its teachings. We receive them from those who came before us, enrich them through our own labor, and then place them into the hands of those who follow. If we faithfully transmit Wisdom, the next generation will understand the design of the Temple they have inherited. If we faithfully transmit Strength, they will discover that every stone in that Temple requires willing hands to raise it. If we faithfully transmit Beauty, they will learn that the finished Temple is not the lodge room itself, but the character of the men who leave it.

The Facebook discussion began with a question about what younger Masons are looking for. It ended, at least for me, by reminding me of one of the oldest obligations in Freemasonry. Every Mason begins as the attentive ear. Every Mason is eventually called to become the instructive tongue. The future of the Craft has never depended solely upon our ability to preserve ritual, maintain buildings, or balance budgets. It has always depended upon whether one generation of Masons faithfully invested in the next. If we continue to pass forward Wisdom, Strength, and Beauty, the attentive ear will never lack an instructive tongue, and the living tradition of Freemasonry will continue to shape good men for generations yet to come.