Effie Donnelley Thompson

She was, physically, a very small woman. Her name was Effie Thompson. She had been married in her teens, in 1896, was widowed before her 21st birthday, and lived the rest of her life with her sister, my grandmother-and my grandfather.

She had a very good mind, although both she and my grand-mother left school in the 3rd grade. More accurately, I suppose, school left them. Education in the Okla-homa Territory in the last half of the 1800's was a chancy thing, and most schools did not extend past the third grade. Of course, by the time they left the third grade, she had learned to read and write (in a beautiful hand) to add, subtract, multiply, and divide, to name the existing states and their capital cities, to quote from memory the first passages to the United States Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, as well as long passages of Milton's Paradise Lost, Shakespeare's King Lear, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and to do basic accounting as well.

I adored her. Like all the other members of my extended family, she spent long hours reading to me when I was an infant, and even after I had learned to read for myself. There was only one little hitch, and it didn't really bother me. The third grade education had taught her many things, but it had left her vocabulary a little weak, and she sometimes came upon words she didn't know and couldn't pronounce. That slowed her down not a bit. When she came to a word she didn't know, she'd simply say "Moses," instead, and go right on. I can remember, when she was reading Kipling to me, that Moses showed up in India a lot, but it really didn't matter. She read with love, and with feeling, and with a delight in the words, even those she didn't know.

She had, as well, a profound respect for words, and for the right word. I recall once, when on a hot day I remarked that I saw some sweat on her face, she sternly rebuked me, saying "Remember, Jim, animals sweat, men perspire, ladies feel the heat."

With all of that, there was a sense of the flow of the words, of the way they linked. I think, perhaps, it came from memorizing the great poets in her youth, as well as from the old revival hymns with which she used to sing me to sleep. In truth, to this good day, in the drifting stage between sleep and wakefulness, I sometimes hear her voice singing "Will There Be Any Stars in My Crown?" or "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder."

One of the very few regrets of my life is that she did not live long enough (she died when I was 19) for me to see her do the ritual work of the Eastern Star. Both she and my grandmother were very active in the Star, and Grandmother had that same "feeling" for words as Effie. I'll bet it was an awesome experience to hear.

That, probably, is what set me on the closest thing to a crusade I have-to see ritual well done. Among some people, I have a reputation for not liking the ritual of either the Blue Lodge or the Scottish Rite, and nothing could be farther from the truth. I love the ritual, I strongly believe that it is what makes us Masons, and that to take the ritual out of Freemasonry would be worse than neutering it. It would be to tear the heart out of Masonry as viciously as ever the heart was ripped from the chest of a living victim on an Aztec altar. It is powerful, life-changing, spirit-moving-but only if it is done well.

And done well is not the same thing as done accurately.

I overheard a couple of Brethren talking after a Degree the other day. They had also talked all through the Degree, but that's a different gripe. One said, "It was a very good Degree; I only counted five mistakes."

It wasn't a good Degree, although it may have been an accurate one. The words were delivered in a series of flat monotones. No meanings were given to the lines at all. It was like listening to music played on an old player piano, same tempo, same volume level, same inflection, no matter what the sentence. Mechanically perfect. Perfectly mechanical. Rushed through far too quickly, as if the Brother had to get it out at top speed before he forgot it. No wonder the eyes of all in the room glazed over almost at once, the Candidate's included. "It was a very good Degree" but no one listened to it. (The operation was a success, but the patient died.)

It's important, of course, to get the words right, whether you are doing the Fellowcraft Degree or Romeo and Juliet. But learning the script is the beginning of the process, not the end.

And so a plea to the Brethren who do the ritual work of Masonry. You are the most important people we have, doing the most important work we have to do. Please remember, it's fine to worry about accuracy when practicing, but not when you are doing the Degree. Then, the only thing that matters is the Candidate. The Degree has to work for him, involve him, move him-not the Custodian of the Work, or the Director of the Work, or anyone else. Give it energy and strength and purpose. Look for the meaning of each sentence and make sure it flies into the mind like an arrow to the target. You will be giving him the greatest gift a man can give to another.

And if, every now and again, you forget a word and have to say "Moses," no one who matters will mind.

Jim Tresner is Director of the Masonic Leadership Institute and Editor of The Oklahoma Mason. A frequent contributor to the Scottish Rite Journal and its book review editor, Ill. Bro. Tresner is also a volunteer writer for The Oklahoma Scottish Rite Mason and a video script consultant for the National Masonic Renewal Committee. He is the Director of the Thirty-third Degree Conferral Team and Director of Work at the Guthrie Scottish Rite Temple in Guthrie, Oklahoma, as well as a Life Member of the Scottish Rite Research Society, author of Albert Pike, The Man Beyond the Monument, and Vested in Glory. A member of the steering committee of the Masonic Information Center, Ill. Tresner was awarded the Grand Cross, the Scottish Rite's highest honor, during the Supreme Council's October 1997 Biennial Session.