From The North

Kayfabe on Capitol Hill: A Lesson From Ritual Practice

Tonight a few of my lodge brothers and I gathered for ritual practice. Attendance was light, so we did what Masons do when the room is small. We set the work aside for a while and talked. Those are often the best nights. The conversation is frank, honest, and offered on the level, and we try to work through the problems in front of us rather than just complain about them.

With election season in full swing, the talk turned to politics. That’s when our Worshipful Master said something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

He said modern politics is just 1990s WWF.

If you grew up in that era, you know exactly what he meant. Every Monday night, larger-than-life characters stormed the ring. There were heroes and villains, “faces” and “heels.” They cut fiery promos, swore eternal hatred for each other, and staged feuds that ran for months. The crowd screamed, picked sides, and bought the T-shirts.

Wrestling had a name for keeping up that illusion: kayfabe. The rule was simple. Never let the audience see that it’s a performance. In public, you hate your rival. Behind the curtain, you’re coworkers. You plan the next match together, work out who wins and how, and then maybe grab dinner and a few drinks on the way to the next town.

His point was that a lot of what we see on the political stage works the same way. The persona on the debate stage or in the attack ad isn’t always the real person. It’s a character built for a specific audience, with a script designed to fire up the base, raise money, and keep the job. Then the cameras turn off, and people from both sides of the aisle sit down together, talk about how the next show will go, and share a meal.

I’ve chewed on that all evening, and here’s where I’ve landed.

The dinner isn’t the scandal. Honestly, the fact that people who disagree can still break bread together is the most hopeful part of the picture. We do that in lodge every week. Men of different politics, faiths, and backgrounds meet on the level and part on the square. That’s not hypocrisy. That’s civilization.

The scandal is the show. The problem is when the hatred is staged for us. When outrage is manufactured because outrage gets votes and clicks. When we, the audience, are encouraged to despise our neighbors over a feud the performers themselves don’t really feel.

And here’s the hard part: we buy the tickets. Wrestling promoters gave the crowd what the crowd cheered for. Politics isn’t much different. If we reward the loudest promo, the cheapest shot, and the best villain, that’s what we’ll keep getting.

To be fair, not every person in public office is playing a character. There are men and women on both sides who mean what they say and serve with real conviction. Some of them pay a price for refusing to play along. They deserve our attention more than the performers do.

Freemasonry teaches us to judge a man by his conduct, not his costume. The square reminds us to test our actions. The level reminds us that we all stand on the same ground. The plumb reminds us to walk upright in every station, in public and in private. A man of integrity is the same person in the ring and behind the curtain.

So as you head to the polls, my challenge is this: look past the promo. Watch what candidates do, not just what they shout. Ask whether the person is the same in private as on the stage. And maybe most of all, don’t let anyone’s script turn you against the neighbor, coworker, or brother who votes differently than you.

The performers will have dinner together after the show. We should be able to do the same.

Raised: A Journal Through the Valley

A Brother’s reflection, written in recovery

There is a sentence that arrives in the world once every fifteen seconds. Somewhere a clock ticks it out, and a stranger I will never meet hears the same five words I heard at the end of February: I’m sorry — you have cancer. I have spent a working life around emergencies, kneeling on cold pavement with a hand on someone’s chest, and I thought I understood how a life turns on a single moment. I did not. There is a particular silence that opens up when the words are spoken to you, when the patient on the cot is the man you shave every morning. The room does not change. The light through the window is the same. Everything is the same except that you are now standing on the far side of a door that has quietly closed behind you.

In some jurisdictions there is a small room a candidate is made to sit in before he is received — the Chamber of Reflection. A skull. An hourglass with the sand already running. Bread and water. The single instruction set before him: Know thyself. He is asked to consider his own mortality, to descend into the dark before he is permitted to rise. I have never sat in such a room, but I have read of it and thought about it often, and I always believed I understood what it was for. I thought I had done that work some other way, in my own quiet hours. February taught me the difference between a lesson studied and a lesson lived. No amount of contemplation, in any room, prepares a man for the hourglass when it is his own sand running out.

In April the surgeons took the left upper lobe of my lung. I came home to a house run by a nurse who happens to also be my wife, and I have healed — slowly, with mild pain and a drain I learned not to look at, but I have healed. The reports are good. By every reasonable measure I am going to live.

And that is the part I cannot write about cleanly, because it is the part that has no clean shape.

I am going to live, and they did not.

Two of my own fire staff went into the ground because of this same enemy. We carry one another’s gear, we sit in the same trucks, we breathe the same air at the same scenes, and the slow arithmetic of that service settled its bill with them and not, so far, with me. And just lately a good friend — a peace officer, a man who stood watch over this valley the way I tried to — was taken by the very cancer that came hunting me, the lung, and he is gone and I am here typing this with both feet on the floor.

I do not know how to forgive myself for that. I want to say it plainly, the way I’d write it in a run report, because softening it would be a lie. There is no version of this where I get to feel grateful for my life without also feeling the cold injustice of it. Why is the one who deserved no more than they did the one who walks out of the building? I have turned that question over for weeks and it does not wear smooth. It stays sharp.

But I have learned something in the turning, and the Craft is what taught it to me, so let me set it down here.

When we lower a Brother into the earth we cast a sprig of acacia upon the casket. The acacia is an evergreen. It is the oldest thing we say without saying it: that something does not die when the body does, that there is a part of a man the grave does not get to keep. We are taught that the soul is that house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. I have stood at gravesides and recited those words over men I loved. I believed them on their behalf. I am only now being made to believe them on my own.

And there is the Level. Of all our working tools it is the one I keep returning to in the dark. We are taught that we meet upon the Level and part upon the Square — that whatever a man’s station, the grave receives us all as equals, that the prince and the laborer lie down in the same dust. I used to hear that as a lesson about humility. I hear it differently now. The Level does not only mean we are equal in death. It means I am not standing on higher ground than the men who went before me. We are on the Level still — they have only gone ahead to a labor I have not yet been called to. My living is not a verdict that I was worth more. The Level forbids that reading. It was not a contest, and I did not win it, and they did not lose.

So what is left for the one who lives?

The guilt, I have decided, is not a sin to be confessed away. It is the shape love takes when it has nowhere left to go — when the man you would have carried out of the fire is past carrying, and all that strength has no door to walk through. You feel it as guilt because it cannot reach them. But it can still reach the work.

In Lodge there are empty chairs now. I am the Secretary; I am the one who keeps the rolls, who writes down who was present and who was not, who records the passing of a Brother in the minutes in plain ink. It falls to me, of all men, to be the keeper of the names. I have decided that this is not a clerical accident. The dead asked nothing of me except to be remembered and to have their labor continued. They did not ask me to stop living in their honor. No firefighter ever wanted his brother to lay down his tools at the grave. The whole of our oath is the opposite — that the work goes on, that the rough ashlar keeps getting cut, that someone keeps the temple rising after the builder falls.

So I will take up the working tools again, with one lung and a debt I can never repay and have decided instead to pay forward. I will sit in the South, East, and the West for men who can no longer sit anywhere. I will write their names in clean ink. And when at last my own sand runs out — later now than I feared, but it will run — I hope a younger Brother casts a sprig of acacia for me and means it, the way I have meant it, every time.

I heard the words a stranger hears every fifteen seconds. I am still here to write the next sentence. That is not a thing to be forgiven. It is a thing to be answered.

So mote it be.

The Library and the Lodge: Lessons from “The Name of the Rose” for the Modern Freemason

Introduction

Umberto Eco’s masterwork, The Name of the Rose, published in 1980, stands as one of the most intellectually rich novels of the twentieth century. Set in a Benedictine monastery in Northern Italy during November 1327, this historical murder mystery follows the Franciscan friar William of Baskerville and his novice Adso of Melk as they investigate a series of mysterious deaths connected to the monastery’s legendary library. While ostensibly a medieval detective story, Eco’s novel explores profound themes that resonate deeply with Masonic philosophy: the pursuit of knowledge, the danger of dogmatic certainty, the importance of reason and free inquiry, and the proper relationship between tradition and progress.

As Freemasons, we recognize our Craft as a progressive science, one that encourages the pursuit of truth through the application of reason and the cultivation of virtue. The parallels between William’s investigation in the labyrinthine library and our own Masonic journey toward Light are striking and instructive. This essay examines how the lessons embedded in Eco’s narrative can inform and enrich our understanding of Freemasonry’s purpose and principles.

The Quest for Light: Knowledge as Liberation

At the heart of The Name of the Rose lies a magnificent library, carefully guarded and deliberately obscured. The library’s design is itself a labyrinth, meant to confuse and disorient those who would seek its treasures without authorization. Only the head librarian possesses complete knowledge of its structure and contents. As the investigation unfolds, William discovers that the murders are connected to a forbidden book—Aristotle’s lost second volume of Poetics, which treats the subject of comedy and laughter.

The villain of the piece, the elderly blind monk Jorge of Burgos, has poisoned the pages of this book, killing those who would read it. His motivation stems from a rigid orthodoxy: he believes laughter undermines fear of God, that certain knowledge is dangerous, and that some truths must be kept from the many for their own protection. Jorge represents the impulse toward intellectual tyranny, the belief that some minds are fit to judge what others may know.

For Freemasons, this theme resonates profoundly. From our first degree, we are taught that Freemasonry offers Light—not in the sense of mystical revelation, but as the illumination of knowledge, reason, and truth. The Entered Apprentice emerges from darkness into light, beginning a journey of moral and intellectual improvement. Like William navigating the library’s maze, we advance through our degrees, each revelation building upon the last, each symbol pointing toward deeper understanding.

The monastery’s hidden library serves as a powerful metaphor for the human condition before enlightenment. Jorge’s poisoning of knowledge represents the anti-Masonic impulse: the fear of free inquiry, the impulse to restrict access to truth, the belief that knowledge is too dangerous for ordinary minds. Against this, William—and by extension, Freemasonry—argues for the democratization of learning, the application of reason, and trust in humanity’s capacity to handle truth responsibly.

The Peril of Dogmatic Certainty

Perhaps the most chilling aspect of Jorge’s character is his absolute certainty. He knows, without doubt, that laughter is sinful, that Aristotle’s book must be destroyed, that his murders serve a higher purpose. He operates from an inflexible system of thought that admits no questioning, no nuance, no possibility of being wrong. His certainty makes him monstrous.

William of Baskerville, by contrast, embodies intellectual humility. Though brilliant and learned, he acknowledges the limits of his knowledge. He forms hypotheses but remains willing to revise them as new evidence emerges. He seeks truth not to possess it as a weapon, but to understand the world more fully. Even at the story’s conclusion, when he has solved the mystery, he reflects on how many of his interim theories were incorrect, how often he was led astray by his own assumptions.

This tension between dogmatic certainty and humble inquiry speaks directly to Masonic principles. Freemasonry is not a religion, makes no claim to exclusive truth, and welcomes men of all faiths. We require only a belief in a Supreme Being, leaving each Brother free to understand the nature of the Divine according to his own conscience and tradition. This tolerance stems from epistemic humility—the recognition that ultimate truth may be approached from many paths, that no man possesses a monopoly on wisdom.

The Masonic ritual repeatedly emphasizes this theme. We are told to square our actions by the Square of Virtue, to circumscribe our desires and keep our passions within due bounds. This applies not merely to physical appetites but to intellectual pride. The Mason who believes he has nothing left to learn, who approaches the Craft with rigid preconceptions, who cannot entertain perspectives different from his own—such a Mason has ceased his true Masonic journey, just as Jorge ceased to be a true seeker of wisdom.

Our ritual also teaches that we should be “free from the dominion of unruly passions” and to practice “Tolerance and Brotherly Love.” The dogmatic mindset—whether religious, political, or philosophical—violates these principles. Jorge’s murders stem from his inability to tolerate views different from his own, his unwillingness to grant others the freedom to read, think, and laugh. For Freemasons, who sit in lodge alongside Brothers of diverse backgrounds and beliefs, this serves as a cautionary tale.

The Sacred Duty of Preservation and Transmission

Ironically, Jorge is the monastery’s librarian, charged with preserving knowledge for future generations. Yet his fear and dogmatism lead him to destroy the very treasures he should protect. At the novel’s climax, he eats the poisoned pages of Aristotle’s work and sets fire to the library, choosing destruction over the possibility that forbidden knowledge might spread. The monastery burns, and centuries of accumulated wisdom are lost to flames.

This catastrophe reflects a perennial tension: the relationship between tradition and change, between preservation and progress. Jorge sees himself as defending tradition, but he has confused tradition with stagnation. He preserves the forms while killing the spirit. His library contains treasures but forbids access to them. His supposed guardianship becomes tyranny.

Freemasonry understands this balance differently. We are indeed an ancient institution, proud of our traditions and protective of our modes of recognition. We preserve our ritual with care, passing it from memory through living chains of Brothers. We honor the Landmarks, those fundamental principles that define what Freemasonry is and is not. Yet we also recognize that the Craft must speak to each new generation, that its principles must be applied to contemporary challenges, that living tradition requires both continuity and adaptation.

The Mason is both guardian and herald—we preserve the ancient wisdom while remaining engaged with the present world. Our lodges are neither museums nor revolutionary cells, but rather communities where timeless principles illuminate modern lives. We do not burn our libraries or poison our teachings with fear. Instead, we open our doors to worthy candidates, confident that Masonic light can guide men through changing times.

The tragedy of Eco’s library resonates with any Mason who has seen a lodge fail through insularity, who has watched membership decline because Brothers chose preservation over vitality, who has witnessed the Craft become irrelevant through refusal to engage meaningfully with the concerns of potential members. Jorge’s error is not his love of tradition but his fear of life. He chooses death over risk, sterility over the messiness of human engagement.

The Method of Investigation: Reason, Evidence, and Virtue

William of Baskerville approaches the murders as a detective, employing careful observation, logical deduction, and systematic investigation. Eco modeled William partly on Sherlock Holmes (the name “Baskerville” is a clear reference) and partly on the medieval philosopher William of Ockham, known for his principle that simpler explanations are preferable to complex ones. Throughout the novel, William demonstrates the power of rational inquiry guided by moral purpose.

His method stands in sharp contrast to the monastery’s inquisitor, Bernardo Gui, who arrives to investigate heresy. Gui operates from predetermined conclusions, seeing heresy everywhere, extracting confessions through torture, and sending innocent people to their deaths. He represents the corruption of investigation—the use of interrogation not to discover truth but to confirm prejudice and consolidate power.

For Freemasons, this distinction is crucial. Our Craft teaches us to seek truth through the proper application of our intellectual faculties—reason, judgment, and discrimination. The Working Tools of the Entered Apprentice include the Twenty-Four Inch Gauge and the Common Gavel, instruments for dividing our time wisely and removing the rough edges of our character through discipline and self-examination. These represent the systematic approach to self-improvement that parallels William’s systematic approach to investigation.

The investigation of truth requires virtue as well as intelligence. William succeeds not merely because he is clever but because he is good. He shows compassion to the weak, justice in his judgments, and courage in confronting power. He seeks truth not for personal glory but because lives depend upon it and because knowledge has intrinsic value. His novice Adso learns from him that the pursuit of wisdom cannot be separated from the practice of virtue.

This union of intellectual and moral development defines the Masonic enterprise. We are not merely a philosophical society studying ethics in the abstract, nor are we simply a charitable organization acting without deeper principle. Rather, we integrate thought and action, knowledge and virtue, contemplation and engagement. The good Mason, like William, brings his whole self to the work—mind and heart, reason and compassion.

The Danger of Secret Knowledge as Power

Throughout the novel, knowledge is power, and the restriction of knowledge is a tool of control. The library’s labyrinthine design, the secret catalog known only to the librarian, the forbidden sections—all exist to maintain hierarchies of access. Jorge and his predecessors have positioned themselves as gatekeepers, determining who may know what, which books are safe for general reading and which must be restricted.

This system corrupts those who control it. What begins as prudent stewardship becomes tyranny. The librarians see themselves as protecting others but grow to despise those they protect. Jorge comes to hate laughter itself because common people laugh; he sees joy as lowly, wisdom as the province of an elite few. His secret knowledge isolates him, making him bitter, cruel, and ultimately murderous.

Freemasonry operates under a paradox here. We do have secrets—our modes of recognition, certain portions of our ritual, the private nature of our lodge meetings. Yet our essential teachings are available to anyone: our values are proclaimed publicly, our charitable works are visible, our principles are written in countless books. As we often say, Freemasonry is a secret society with a website.

The key difference lies in purpose. Our secrecy exists not to concentrate power but to create sacred space, to establish bonds of trust, to preserve the solemnity of our ritual, and to ensure that candidates experience our degrees with the full impact of their symbolism undiminished. We restrict access not to knowledge itself but to the experience of initiation, which cannot be communicated secondhand but must be lived.

Moreover, Masonic secrecy is temporary and partial. What is hidden from the profane world is revealed to the initiate. What seems mysterious before the degree becomes clear after. And crucially, no Mason is forbidden to advance—every Entered Apprentice can become a Fellow Craft and then a Master Mason, every Master Mason can seek the additional degrees if he wishes. Our system is one of progressive revelation, not permanent exclusion.

Jorge’s library offers no such promise. Some books remain forever forbidden, some monks will never gain access, knowledge stays concentrated in the hands of the few. This is anti-Masonic in spirit. We might say that Jorge has created a profane system of secrets, while Freemasonry maintains a sacred system of mysteries—mysteries that invite rather than exclude, that illuminate rather than conceal.

The Corruption of Laughter and Joy

One of the novel’s most profound themes concerns Jorge’s hatred of laughter. He views comedy as subversive, as undermining respect for authority and doctrine. The book he destroys—Aristotle’s treatment of comedy—argues that laughter is natural to humanity, that comedy serves social and intellectual purposes, that joy is not inherently sinful. Jorge cannot tolerate this idea because his entire worldview depends on fear, gravity, and the suppression of human spontaneity.

William counters that laughter can be a tool of liberation, helping people see through pretension and question authority. He suggests that perhaps God laughs at creation’s diversity, delights in human cleverness, and wants us to experience joy. The prohibition of laughter, he implies, is really about maintaining control—people who laugh are harder to dominate.

This resonates with Masonic fellowship. While our ritual is solemn and our purposes serious, Masonic culture has always included fraternal joy. We gather for festive boards, tell stories, share laughter, and enjoy one another’s company. This is not incidental to our Craft but essential to it. Brotherhood flourishes in joy as well as in solemnity. The lodge that has lost its capacity for laughter has lost something vital.

More deeply, laughter represents an intellectual flexibility, a willingness to see things from unexpected angles, a refusal to take ourselves too seriously. The Mason who can laugh at himself, who can enjoy the absurdities of human nature while striving to improve, who can find delight in the journey even when progress is slow—such a Mason embodies Masonic wisdom more fully than the Brother who approaches everything with grim determination.

Jorge’s murders stem from his inability to tolerate joy. His monastery, for all its supposed piety, becomes a place of fear, suspicion, and death. The lesson for Freemasonry is clear: a lodge that privileges severity over brotherhood, that emphasizes restriction over welcome, that sees solemnity as synonymous with grimness—such a lodge may preserve forms while losing spirit. Our ancient charges speak of meeting “on the level” with “mirth and good humor”—not as a concession to human weakness but as recognition of human wholeness.

Conclusion: The Living Tradition

The Name of the Rose ends in destruction: the library burns, the manuscript is lost, the monastery is devastated. Yet knowledge survives through transmission—William and Adso carry away what wisdom they can, memories preserved in minds if not on pages. Adso, now old, narrates the story decades later, ensuring that its lessons endure. From the ashes of one library, countless readers have drawn insight.

This ending teaches resilience and responsibility. Knowledge lives not in buildings or books alone but in people who carry it forward. Tradition persists not through rigid preservation but through living transmission. Each generation receives the torch and must bear it faithfully while adapting to new challenges.

For Freemasons, this is deeply familiar. We preserve our ritual through memorization, Brother teaching Brother across generations. Our lodges exist not primarily as buildings but as communities of men committed to shared values. When a lodge goes dark, if even one Brother maintains the teachings, the possibility of rekindling remains. We are, each of us, both recipients and transmitters of Masonic light.

The lessons of Eco’s masterpiece for the modern Freemason are manifold:

• Pursue truth with humility, recognizing that our understanding is always incomplete and our certainties may be mistaken.

• Guard against dogmatism, whether in religion, politics, or philosophy, for absolute certainty leads to tyranny of thought.

• Balance tradition with vitality, preserving what is essential while remaining engaged with contemporary life.

• Apply reason guided by virtue, uniting intellectual inquiry with moral development.

• Use secrecy properly, creating sacred space rather than concentrating power, inviting rather than excluding.

• Embrace fellowship and joy, recognizing that brotherhood flourishes in laughter as well as in solemnity.

• Accept responsibility for transmission, understanding that we are both beneficiaries and custodians of our ancient Craft.

William of Baskerville demonstrates what the ideal Freemason might be: learned yet humble, rational yet compassionate, traditionalist yet adaptable, solemn in purpose yet capable of joy, committed to truth but aware of its elusiveness. The labyrinth he navigates mirrors our own Masonic journey—complex, challenging, sometimes frightening, but ultimately illuminating.

Jorge of Burgos shows us the ever-present danger: the corruption of guardianship into tyranny, the transformation of tradition into stagnation, the replacement of love with fear. His fate reminds us that the impulse to restrict and control, however well-intentioned it may seem, ultimately destroys what it seeks to preserve.

As we continue our Masonic work, building our temples not of stone but of living men, we would do well to remember Eco’s library—vast in its treasures, tragic in its fate, eternal in its lessons. Let us be neither Jorge nor his victims, but rather companions of William: seekers of light, lovers of wisdom, builders of fellowship, and humble servants of truth.

The Name of the Rose teaches that knowledge without wisdom is dangerous, that tradition without life is death, and that the proper response to mystery is neither fearful avoidance nor presumptuous certainty, but patient investigation guided by virtue. These lessons, properly understood and applied, can help ensure that Freemasonry remains, as it has been for centuries, a progressive science—progressive not in the sense of abandoning the past, but in the sense of living faithfully in the present while building wisely for the future.

May we tend our own libraries with care, preserve our traditions with love, pursue our investigations with reason, and share our laughter with joy. In doing so, we honor both our ancient Craft and the timeless wisdom that Umberto Eco, perhaps unknowingly, encoded in his medieval mystery for all who have eyes to see.