THE RITE OF DESTITUTION
Nothing in Freemasonry is more beautiful in form or more eloquent in meaning
than the First Degree. Its simplicity and dignity, its blend of solemnity and
surprise, as well as its beauty of moral truth, mark it as a little masterpiece.
Nowhere may one hope to find nobler appeal to the native nobilities of as man.
What we get out of Freema-sonry, as of anything else depends upon our capacity,
and our response to its appeal; but it is hard to see how ant man can receive
the First Degree and pass out of the lodge room quite the same man as when he
entered it.
What memories come back to us when we think of the time when we took our
first step in Freemasonry. We had been lead, perhaps, by the sly remarks of
friends to expect some kind of horseplay, or the riding of a goat; but how
different it was in reality. Instead of mere play-acting we discovered, by
contrast, a ritual of religious faith and moral law, an allegory of life and a
parable of those truths which lie at the foundations of manhood. Surely no man
can ever forget that hour when, vaguely or clearly, the profound meaning of
Freemasonry began slowly to unfold before his mind.
The whole meaning of initiation, of course, is an analogy of the birth,
awakening and growth of the soul; its discovery of the purpose of life and the
nature of the world in which it is to be lived. The lodge is the world as it was
thought to be in the olden times, with its square surface and canopy of sky, its
dark North and its radiant East; its center an Altar of obligation and prayer.
The initiation, by the same token, is our advent from the darkness of prenatal
gloom into the light of moral truth and spiritual faith, out of lonely isolation
into a network of fellowships and relationships, out of a merely physical into a
human and moral order. The cable tow, by which we may be detained or removed
should we be unworthy or unwilling to advance, is like the cord which joins a
child to its mother at birth. Nor is it removed until, by the act of assuming
the obligations and fellowships of the moral life, a new, unseen tie is spun and
woven in the heart, uniting us, henceforth, by an invisible bond, to the service
of our race in its moral effort to build a world of fraternal good will.
Such is the system of moral philosophy set forth in symbols in which the
initiate is introduced, and in this light each emblem, each incident, should be
interpreted. Thus Freemasonry gives a man at a time when it is most needed, if
he be young, a nobel, wise, time-tried principle by which to read the meaning of
the world and his duty in it. No man may hope to see it all at once, or once for
all, sand it is open to question whether any man lives long enough to think it
through - for, like all simple things, it is deep and wonderful. In the
actuality of the symbolism a man in the first degree of Freemasonry, as in the
last, accepts the human situation, enters a new environment, with a new body of
motive and experience. In short, he assumes his real vocation in the world and
vows to live by the highest standard of values.
Like every other incident of initiation it is in the light of the larger
meanings of Freemasonry that we must interpret the Rite of Destitution. At a
certain point in his progress every man is asked for a token of a certain kind,
to be laid up in the archives of the lodge as a memorial of his initiation. If
he is "duly and truly prepared" he finds himself unable to grant the request.
Then, in one swift and searching moment, he realizes - perhaps for the first
time in his life - what it means for a man to be actually destitute. For one
impressive instant, in which many emotions mingle, he is made to feel the
bewilderment, if not the humiliation, which besets one who is deprived of the
physical necessities of life upon which, far more than we have been wont to
admit, both the moral and social order depend. Then, by a surprise as sudden as
before, and in a manner never to be forgotten, the lesson of the Golden Rule is
taught - the duty of a man to his fellow in dire need. It is not left to the
imagination, since the initiate is actually put into the place of the man who
asks his aid, making his duty more real and vivid.
At first sight it may seem to some that the lesson is marred by the
limitations and qualifications which follow; but that is only seeming.
Freemasons are under all the obligations of humanity, the most primary of which
is to succor their fellow man in desperate plight. As Mohammed long ago said,
the end of the world has come when man will not help man. But we are under
special obligations to our brethren of the Craft, as much by the prompting of
our hearts as by the vows we have taken. Such a principle, so far from being
narrow and selfish, has the indorsement of the Apostle Paul in his exhortations
to the earl Christian community. In the Epistle to the Ephesians we read: "As we
have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially unto them
who are of the household of faith." It is only another way of saying that
"Charity begins at home," and for Masons the home is the lodge.
So, then, the destitute to which this Rite refers, and whose distress the
initiate is under vows to relieve, as his ability may permit, are a definite and
specific class. They are not to be confused with those who are poverty-stricken
by ,D,d, of criminal tendencies or inherent laziness. That is another problem,
in the solution of which Masons will have their share and do their part - a very
dark problem, too, which asks for both patience and wisdom. No, the needy which
this Rite requires that we aid are "All Poor and Distressed, Worthy Masons,
their Widows and Orphans;" that is, those who are destitute through no fault of
their own, but as the result of untoward circumstances. They are those who,
through accident, disease or disaster, have become unable, however willing and
eager, to meet their obligations. Such are deserving of charity in its true
Masonic sense, not only in the form of financial relief, but also in the form of
companionship, sympathy and love. If we are bidden to be on our guard against
impostors, who would use Masonry for their own ends, where there is real need ,
our duty is limited only by our ability to help, without injury to those nearest
to us.
A church, it be worthy of the name, opens its doors to all kinds and
conditions of folks, rich and poor alike, the learned and unlearned. But a lodge
of Masons is different, alike in purpose and function. It is made up of picked
men, selected from among many, and united for unique ends. No man ought to be
allowed to enter the Order unless he is equal to its demands, financially as
mentally and morall-y,able to pay its fees and dues, and to do his part in its
work of relief. Yet no set of men, however intelligent and strong, are exempt
from the vicissitudes and tragedies of life. Take, for example, Anthony Sayer,
the first Grand Master of the Grand Lodge of England. Towards the end of his
life he met with such reverses that he became tiler of Old Kings Arms Lodge No.
28, and it is recorded that he was assisted "out of the box of this Society."
Such a misfor-tune, or something worse, may overtake any one of us, without
warning or resource.
Disasters of the most appalling kind befall men every day, leaving them
broken and helpless. How often have we seen a noble and able man suddenly
smitten down in mid life, stripped not only of his savings but of his power to
earn, as the result of some blow no mortal wit could avert. There he lies,
shunted out of active life when most needed and most able and willing to serve.
Life may any day turn Ruffian and strike one of us such a blow, disaster
following fat and following faster, until we are at its mercy. It is to such
experiences that the Rite of Destitution has reference, pledging us to aid as
individuals and as lodges; and we have a right to be proud that our Craft does
not fail in the doing of good. It is rich in benevolence, and it knows how to
hide its labors under the cover of secrecy, using its privacy to shield itself
and those whom it aids.
Yet we are very apt, especially in large lodges, or in the crowded solitude
of great cities, to lose the personal touch, and let our charity fall to the
level of a cold distant almsgiving. When this is so charity becomes a mere
perfunctory obligation, and a lodge has been known to vote ten dollars for its
own entertainment! There is a Russian story in which a poor man asked aid of
another as poor as himself: "Brother, I have no money to give you, but let me
give you my hand," was the reply. "Yes, give me your hand, for that, also, is a
gift more needed than all others," said the first; and the two forlorn men
clasped hands in a common need and pathos. There was more real charity in that
scene than in many a munificent donation made from a sense of duty or pride.
Indeed, we have so long linked charity with the giving of money that the word
has well nigh lost its real meaning. In his sublime hymn in praise of charity,
in the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians, St. Paul does not mention money
at all, except to say "and although I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and
have not charity, it profiteth me nothing." Which implies that a man may give
all the money he possesses and yet fail of that Divine grace of Charity. Money
has its place and value, but it is not everything, much less the sum of our
duty, and there are many things it cannot do. A great editor sent the following
greeting at the New Year: "Here is hoping that in the New Year there will be
nothing the matter with you that money cannot cure. For the rest, the law and
the prophets contain no word of better rule for the health of the soul than the
adjuration: Hope thou a little, fear not at all, and love as much as you can."
Surely it was a good and wise wish, if we think of it, because the things
which money cannot cure are the ills of the spirit, the sickness of the heart,
and the dreary, dull pain of waiting for those who return no more. There are
hungers which gold cannot satisfy, and blinding bereavements from which it
offers no shelter. There are times when a hand laid upon the shoulder, "in a
friendly sort of way," is worth more than all the money on earth. Many a young
man fails, or makes a bad mistake, for lack of a brotherly hand which might have
held him up, or guided him into a wiser way. The Rite of Destitution! Yes,
indeed; but a man may have all the money he needs, and yet be destitute of
faith, of hope, of courage; and it is our duty to share our faith and courage
with him. To fulfill the obligations of this Rite we must give not simply our
money, but ourselves, as Lowell taught in "The Vision of Sir Launfal," writing
in the name of a Great Brother who, though he had neither home not money, did
more good to humanity than all of us put together - and who still haunts us like
the dream of a Man we want to be.
"The Holy Supper is kept indeed, In what so we share with another's need; Not
that which we give, but what we share, For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three, Himself, his hungering neighbor,
and Me!"
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