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SHORT TALK BULLETIN - Vol.I  November, 1923 No.11 
THE RITE OF DESTITUTION 
 
by: Unknown 
 
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!" 
						 
 
Copyright 1924 by The Masonic Service Association of the United States.  
The contents of this Bulletin must not be reproduced, in whole or in part, 
without permission. 
Published monthly by The Masonic Service Association of the United States 
under the auspices of its member jurisdictions. 
Entered as second-class matter September 6,1923, at the Post Office at 
Washington, D.C., under the Act of August 24, 1912.  Acceptance for mailing 
at special rate of postage provided for in section 1103, Act of October 3, 
1917. authorized February 17, 1923.