Brother Paul Bearer was just about half-way through delivering the most eloquent recital of the Winding Staircase lecture that I had ever witnessed in my time as a Mason. I was mesmerized, his inflection carried on like the ancient cadence of monks chanting while they worked in perfect rhythm. I was hanging on every word that seemed to flow like a stream of honey. It was poetry, it was art, it was beauty.
His chest billowed in sync with his dancing eyebrows as he moved his arms like the conductor of an orchestra. I was so proud of him, it was clearly evident how much work he had put into this masterstroke of a performance.
As he swelled once more to release another wave of auditory rapture he suddenly and desperately deflated, not unlike a ripped balloon or a breathless trumpeter. At once the heavens were shut, the astral rays rescinded from the room and all warmth was sucked out in a vacuum as if the wives of all the Masons present had abruptly and collectively swerved into the parking lot with rolling pins in hand.
The half-second of silence was deafening, and then I heard it- Brother Jimmy Rustler, seated to the right of the Senior Steward, unwrapping a small circular mint. It crackled and crinkled like the roar of a thousand cicadas over the stuttering of Brother Paul. The incessant crepitation of the mint wrapper was so grating in that moment that I fought to restrain myself from leaping from my chair with knife-edge hand pointed and exclaiming: “Someone stop that man!”.
The damage was done. Brother Paul stammered on as Brother Jimmy slouched, the mint now knocking loudly against his teeth as he shifted it from side to side in his mouth. His glazed eyes were distant with a general malaise like that of a savant popping soap bubbles in a tub one by one, possibly passing wind as he lifted his leg slightly and held it for a moment before crossing it. I scanned the lodge to see if my indignation could be found in the eyes of anyone else. One brother checked his watch unbothered, another scratched at a crust of mustard on his tie, the Master sat with broad smile still listening intently. Outrage! Scandal! Sacrilege!
How could this be? Did no one else notice? Still the clicking of that mint against his teeth persisted, he twisted the ball of cellophane plastic between his fingers nonchalantly and I wondered if he was intentionally mocking my torment. I wished for the Master to stand, pound his gavel, and shout: “Enough villain! I charge you with the murder of solemnity!”. Lost in my imaginings I had completely missed that brother Paul had finished the lecture. The rest of the degree proceeded without further incident as I boiled like crockpot chili in my seat. When all work had concluded, Brother Jimmy Rustler stood up and shook the pins and needles from his legs making his way over to Paul. He placed his hand on his shoulder and congratulated him on a job well-done. My face contorted like a child trying to mask their displeasure after opening a box of socks on Christmas morning, and yet Paul received the praise humbly and even thanked him! Had I imagined the entire incident? As I stood there, flabbergasted beyond words Jimmy approached. My mouth was still agape as he gently settled his hand on my shoulder as he had done with Paul, “Good degree tonight eh brother?” he wheezed, “Somethin' wrong with your mouth? You need a mint?”.
Hopefully by now you've realized this little story is entirely fictional. There is no Brother Paul Bearer, nor is there a Brother Jimmy Rustler leaving phantom vapor trails in the halls of our lodges, but in a way they each exist in all of us. We are men who value reverence, discipline, and the pursuit of perfection. Yet we can also become complacent, abstracted, and obtuse like any other man. I spend most of my hour-long commute to work indulging in Masonic podcasts, in my leisure time I often pour over essays and articles written by other Freemasons. There is a pattern I am beginning to recognize in many of the works of my brothers- Freemasons love to complain about Freemasonry. This is not a modern phenomenon, I detected it in the works of a few of our most celebrated authors too. Seasoned Masons tell tales of being harshly reprimanded for missing a single word in a lengthy portion of lecture, newcomers too find something to frown at in the blasé attitudes of some craft veterans.
Perhaps it is the nature of self-improvement to scrutinize, that error might be brought to light and corrected, and that is indeed proper. That may provide partial explanation, but I remain troubled by this trend, this habit of finding fault as a priority. We have all been irked by some inconsiderate act or clumsy conduct at one time or another. Reverence for our beloved craft is essential, but not more so than brotherly love. Let us remind one another to give grace as often as possible so that we do not fall prey to that blunder of missing the entire point of why we keep to these traditions. Even the mint wrapper rustlers of this World have a lesson to teach us- Not to take ourselves so seriously to the point of being hypercritical of others. Let your brothers' faux pas be a lesson in tact to you. There is beauty even in the great ruins of ancient architecture, each crack in the pillars that once stood tall and strong tell a story and reveal a truth- that we all crumble in time, and wisdom is appreciating what was, what is, and what will be. If I encounter a brother like Jimmy in my travels I will choose to see the best in him, not the defect- He is no rube after all, he is a Zen master, the guru rustler of mint wrappers, and I have something to learn from him. I will say it to myself again and again until brotherly love prevails.
Brother Justin D. Miller,
Senior Deacon of Morocco Lodge #372
