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California Freemason Magazine: Freemasonry in Latin America Now

When Saul Alvarado, now a member of Santa Monica-Palisades No. 307, first began researching Freemasonry, he had a good idea about what it was all about. What he was more surprised to learn was Masonry’s importance to Mexican history. Just as the founding fathers of the United States had been Freemasons, so too had the heroes of the Mexican Revolution and the War of Independence. “It was like, wait a second, Mexico has Masons, too?” he recalls thinking. “That really gave me the nudge to learn more. It made me want to get more involved.”

In this special issue of California Freemason, we’re doing just that. We’re taking a Masonic road trip south of the border to learn about the long history of Freemasonry in Latin America, the surprising state of the craft both there and in certain pockets of California today, as well as taking a peek into what the future holds for the fraternity in multiple countries. From an architectural road trip through Cuba’s Masonic lodges, to dispatches from the center of a Masonic population growth in Brazil and Argentina, to inside California’s two Spanish-speaking lodges, it’s a chock-a-block tour through Masonic Latin America.

In addition, be sure to check out some fun online extras this issue, including video profiles of Logia Panamericana No. 513 and Napa Valley No. 93, plus a multimedia slideshow of a 1909 train trip from Los Angeles to Mexico City carried off by a special Masonic delegation.

By highlighting and celebrating the fraternal connections between members in California and those in Mexico, Argentina, and all points in between, we can deepen the bonds of friendship binding Masons together throughout the world and—just maybe—help to usher in our vision of “a world in harmony.”

Says one member in Guadalajara, Mexico, “When you go to a lodge in another country and see someone you haven’t met before, he’s going to call you a brother. It makes you feel like you’re part of something that’s very ancient and very big. I feel like I have a responsibility to keep it going and to keep it great.”

Spoken like a true hermano.

Working as Death’s Doormen

Read the After Life issue: californiafreemason.org/deathsdoormen

These Masons working with death have an intimate familiarity with the other side: an emergency medical technician, a musician-slash-gravedigger, and hollywood’s go-to medium.

By Antone Pierucci

The Lifesaver

Driving an ambulance is about as stressful as it gets. That’s when Dondi Manzon falls back on what he’s learned from Freemasonry.

Guillermo “Dondi” Manzon
Emergency Medical Technician
Sunnyside № 57

Health care workers face death and dying on a daily basis. It’s an experience that can rub a man raw if he lets it, especially in the pandemic era. For Guillermo “Dondi” Manzon, an emergency medical technician and former officer for Sunnyside № 577, the philosophical teachings of Masonry are some of his most important tools for staying grounded.

Manzon, 58, didn’t originally set out to pursue his current line of work. When he immigrated from the Philippines in 2002, he had a degree in engineering and experience as a pharmaceutical rep. At first he found a job in marketing for a private ambulance company. But he was intrigued by ambulance work itself, and within a few years he gave up his job to start his next chapter. “Just like that I was an EMT,” he says. Well, not quite: There was training involved. “Lots of training,” he says with a laugh.

A Close Encounter

During his first shift, Manzon immediately had a brush with death. “We got a call for this man who was on dialysis; he was unresponsive,” Manzon says. On their way to the hospital, Manzon had an epiphany of sorts. “I remember staring at this man, who was only in his fifties, and thinking to myself, Wow, I need to lead a good life while I can.” It took him several more years to find Masonry, but when he did, it all clicked. “Here was a group of men who made it their mission to do good in the world,” he says. “I knew I wanted to be a part of this force for good right away.”

Although he had grown up around Masonry, with his uncle and other relatives in the Philippines belonging to lodges, Manzon had never really thought much about the fraternity until he began his second career.

Over the years, Manzon has clung to Masonic philosophy when times get tough. In a dozen years as an EMT, he’s never had a patient die on him, but he’s still seen more suffering than most people. “Freemasonry has helped me deal better with my ill patients,” he says. “It’s given me the tools to be a better man and look after people the best way I know how.” For Manzon, the most impactful tenet of Masonry is the one that charges a man to be an upright citizen. “That directly translates to my work,” he says. “I strive to be a better EMT every day because of it.”

In the end, Manzon knows there’s only so much he can do for the individuals that pass through his care. But with Masonry in mind, he has a framework to better handle the stress his work can entail. “Religion has taught me salvation after death,” Manzon says. “Freemasonry has taught me how to live.”

The Caretaker

A musician and erstwhile gravedigger reflects on what we leave behind.

Dylan Luster
Artist & Gravedigger
Yucca Valley № 802

The first song Dylan Luster ever recorded was written after spending an uncommon amount of time among the dead. He was 25 years old, newly sober, and coming off stints as a gravedigger and crematorium worker. At the crematorium, his task was to crawl into the facility’s incinerators to sweep out the residual ash. The furnace was massive—and imposing—reaching temperatures of 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit. “The door was like 400 pounds of steel,” Luster recalls. “If the chain that was hoisting it up broke, there was no way to lift that thing. Sometimes I think about it—like, jeez, I was in some other mindset.”

The grisly work forced Luster to confront big questions about life and death. And it awakened his artistic spirit. In one of his first recorded songs, “Soul Remains,” he writes, “I been workin’ on my life, through the pain and the trouble and strife / They can break my body, but the soul remains.”

Songs of Transience

Years later, the indie-folk singer still finds inspiration in transience. Luster’s time at the crematorium was bookended by a groundskeeping gig at a cemetery near his childhood home in Norwalk. The work, quiet and contemplative, suited his temperament. While watering flower beds, mowing grass, and yes, digging graves, he let his mind wander. “Once I started to really sober up, I wanted to go back to the peaceful gardening at the cemetery,” he says.

That wasn’t Luster’s only inspiration. Around the same time he decided to get clean, Luster’s mother shared three blue books with him, inscribed with the words “NOVEMBER 6, 1933 INITIATED.” They contained the work The Symbolism of the Three Degrees by Oliver Day Street.

The books had belonged to Luster’s grandfather, who belonged to a Masonic lodge in Fort Worth, Texas. Though they’d never met, for Luster the books served as a channel through which his grandfather could offer him guidance from beyond the grave. Finding Masonry at that tumultuous time gave Luster something to work toward. In 2013, he applied to Golden Trowel Norwalk №. 273; the following year, he was raised to Master Mason. In 2019, he affiliated with Yucca Valley № 802.

Where Your Spirit Goes

Masonry helped Luster navigate sobriety and process his thoughts. “It can occupy your mind with different philosophical questions and different threads to pull,” he says. It also sharpened his thoughts on death. “When I think about the afterlife, I don’t think of some other dimension. I think whatever you do in this world, it impacts other people. That is kind of where your spirit goes.” That outlook in turn helped Luster focus on his music career. In 2016, he released a self-titled EP. Last year, he put out two more singles, “Judy’s Highway” and “Eastward Winds.” Both explore those themes of impermanence—a common refrain in Luster’s work.

These days, Luster has a collection of 10 new songs in the works, grouped loosely on the experience of waiting for something to pass. Each song features instruments played and carefully recorded, one track at a time, by the musician. One of the tunes, “Other Side” could be about achieving a goal—like the completion of an album, or completing the degrees—or reaching the other side of this existence. He’s leaving it up to the listener to decide.

The Medium

In Hollywood, Chris Sanders is the go-to guy for the esoteric and paranormal.

Chris Sanders
Paranormal Consultant
Culver City-Foshay № 46

Though his official title on the television series My Ghost Story on A&E’s Biography Channel was casting producer, it’d be more accurate to call Chris Sanders a paranormal consultant. His work on the show entailed things like scouting haunted houses, sourcing esoteric experts, and vetting real-life ghost stories.

The gig was just one of many to showcase Sanders’ unusual expertise. And in the years since, he’s carved out a special niche for himself at the intersection of esotericism, metaphysics, and Hollywood. “I knew where to look,” Sanders says of his foray into what one might call supernatural television programming. “I knew how to speak the language of these folks.”

Sanders has had a lifelong interest in “the arcane and metaphysical.” In 2000, newly single, he moved to Los Angeles in search of something new. A chance encounter led him to a Hare Krishna temple, right around the corner from Culver City Foshay № 467. He decided to take a leap of faith. “It was a magical moment,” he says of approaching the lodge. “My prayers were answered. That sent me out on a whole new path.”

Sanders connected immediately to the philosophical aspects of Freemasonry, and within a year had been raised as a Master Mason and was serving as a lodge officer. In 2008, he became lodge master.

An Expert Opinion

His personal interests have also opened some unlikely doors in Hollywood. While Sanders has had small acting roles in blockbusters like Pirates of the Caribbean: At the World’s End, Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, and HBO’s True Blood, he’s also built himself into an on-screen authority on Freemasonry. In 2009, he was featured as an expert speaker in the History Channel show The Nostradamus Effect, as he was in the 2017 documentary 33 & Beyond: The Royal Art of Freemasonry. In addition, he’s served as a producer on the WeTV series Ghosts in the Hood, performed an exorcism on the 2013 A&E series American Haunting, and appeared as an actor and producer in several cult and horror films.

His entrée came from a suitably unlikely source: A couple of well-known witches who ran an occult shop that Sanders frequented. Having been approached by a TV producer, the shop owners recommended that Sanders be involved in a proposed reality series— which eventually became My Ghost Story: Caught on Camera. “They knew I had a background in the paranormal and was good on camera,” he says.

In February of 2020, Sanders landed his dream gig: a “fly-on-the-wall show” for a major cable network, shot from the barstools of the Little A’Le’Inn, a watering hole near Area 51 in Nevada. “You walk into this strange bar, you’re at the counter grabbing a beer, and the guy next to you is like, ‘I was abducted by Bigfoot,’” he explains of the show’s premise. “And you’re like, ‘Well, I was abducted by aliens.’”

Those are actual stories that would have been featured on the show—if not for COVID-19. Still in early production when the pandemic hit, the project was shelved.

It’s unlikely that project will be raised from the dead, but in the meantime, Sanders isn’t waiting around. Now, he says, his next project will be a memoir. “I thought, What do I have to offer this world?” he says. “The people I’ve met, the things I’ve seen and done. I have these stories in me. And they should be told.”

Underwater, Reminders of a Forgotten Masonic Cemetery

Read the After Life issue: californiafreemason.org/aquaticpark

In San Francisco, an underwater reminder of a century-old battle over the fate of the city’s dead.

By Ian A. Stewart and Tony Gilbert

Aquatic Park is one of the most picturesque vistas in all of San Francisco, a city of postcard views. A tiny, sandy cove ringed by Ghirardelli Square, Beach Street, and the historic Hyde Street Pier, the park is one of the most reliably sunny spots in town. Most weekend days, you’ll see a stream of swimmers, kayakers, and rowers pulling their way across its protected waters. Beyond them, sailboats navigate the choppy bay against the backdrop of the majestic Golden Gate Bridge.

But the charming, jewel box scene belies a more lurid chapter of the city’s history. It’s invisible to all but the most carefully trained eye. Yet clues of the city’s distant past are there in the seemingly mismatched stones that form the sweeping breakwater.

It wasn’t long ago that names could still be read on these stones. But with each wave that laps the seawall, the memory of how the municipal pier was born—as well as many other of the city’s large urban projects of the early 20th century—is further erased. These are the tombstones of Aquatic Park, dug up by workers clearing the city’s cemeteries a century ago and unceremoniously deposited around San Francisco.

They aren’t the only ones. Grave markers can be spotted by the jetty at the Golden Gate Yacht Club, at Ocean Beach, and at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge. Even a walking path in Buena Vista Park is lined with old tombstones, some still visible today. During major building renovations, Gold Rush–era caskets were found beneath the Asian Art Museum, the Legion of Honor, and countless private homes. The city is practically brimming with these morbid reminders from yesteryear.

Like so many other aspects of California history, Freemasonry plays a key role in the story.

A Final Resting Place

At the turn of the last century, San Francisco was a city practically full of cemeteries—by one count, as many as 30 within the city’s seven-by-seven-mile square. There were graveyards for deceased Chinese, French, German, Italian, Greek, Native American, Japanese, Scottish, and Scandinavian people. There were cemeteries for Jewish, Catholic, and Chinese Christian parishioners, among many others. There were plots for orphans, seamen, firefighters, and members of the typographical union. But perhaps the most elaborate of them all was the 38-acre Masonic Cemetery on Lone Mountain.

The land for the Masonic Cemetery was purchased in 1854 on what is now the University of San Francisco’s grounds. It opened a decade later, eventually serving nearly 20,000 souls. Together with the nearby Odd Fellows Cemetery, Calvary Cemetery, and Laurel Hill Cemetery, they made up the “big four” graveyards of Lone Mountain.

Built at the height of the so-called “beautification of death” movement, which ushered in a much more theatrical approach to mortuary work, like ornate casket furnishings and elaborate monuments to the deceased, the Masonic was by some estimations the finest of them all. The San Francisco Morning Call newspaper in 1887 described it as “elaborately beautified in floral design, and contain[ing] many handsome monuments.”

The entrance to the park was marked by a large castellated tomb; other decorations included a white marble obelisk topped by a statue of Grief, and monuments to preeminent San Francisco Masons including the sugar magnate Adolph B. Spreckles and Munroe Ashbury, an early champion of Golden Gate Park and the namesake of Ashbury Street (of the famous Haight-Ashbury district). Other notable figures buried there included Etienne Guittard, the famous French-born chocolatier; Jacob Neff, the Gold Rush mining kingpin elected lieutenant governor in 1899; and the city’s most beloved eccentric, Emperor Norton I, a charter member of Occidental Lodge № 22.

An 1880s tourist guidebook went so far as to recommend the cemetery for sightseeing: “The broad, serpentine walks, the fountain playing in the center, the profusion of flowers, and the large number of handsome monuments make it well worth a visit.”

A Battle Over the Dead

However, space for the dead began to interfere with space for the living in the growing city. So in 1901, mayor James Phelan banned any new burials or cremations within city limits, kicking off what would become a multi-decade campaign to eradicate the city’s profusion of graveyards.

Families of the deceased, incensed by the apparent sacrilege, did not give in without a fight. However, several factors worked against them. First was the urgent need for new housing in the cramped city. Second was a change in tastes, as the Victorian-era “garden-park cemeteries” like the Masonic began falling out of fashion. But perhaps most important was the 1906 earthquake, which badly damaged the city’s many cemeteries, including the Masonic. In the aftermath, the crumbling graveyards were seen as public eyesores and a threat to public health.

Heated litigation over the forced removal stretched on for years, ultimately reaching the U.S. Supreme Court. But major rulings in 1914 and then 1924 sealed the fate of most of San Francisco’s cemeteries. Seeing the writing on the wall, the San Francisco Masonic Cemetery Association, which managed the site, began negotiating a sale to St. Ignatius College, now the University of San Francisco.

Move to Colma

The final death knell came in 1930, when the city officially rezoned the area of Lone Mountain, which formally allowed the boards of the big four cemeteries to sell off their land and reinter their dead elsewhere. As the moves began, one cemetery at a time, caskets were dug up and transported south to the sleepy town of Lawndale, now known as Colma, the so-called “city of souls.” Today, Colma is home to 18 cemeteries. Nearly 1.5 million people are buried there, 1,000 times its living population.

With the cemetery’s closure imminent, the San Francisco Masonic Cemetery Association raised funds to purchase land for a new resting place in Colma called Woodlawn Memorial Park. (In 1996, Woodlawn was sold to a private corporation, but remains the largest de facto Masonic cemetery in the Bay Area.) Most of the bodies originally buried at the San Francisco site were dug up and transported to Woodlawn, though a few wound up at nearby cemeteries including Olivet Memorial Park, Cypress Lawn, and Greenlawn Memorial Park just a few blocks away.

Many, however, were never removed at all—an exceedingly common occurrence citywide during the great reinterrment period. One study found that at Golden Gate Cemetery (now the site of the Legion of Honor and the Lincoln Park Golf Course), only about 1,000 bodies’ remains were ever actually removed, leaving an estimated 18,000 still in the ground. (A museum excavation in 1993 uncovered 800 of them.)

At the four Lone Mountain cemeteries, the herculean task of digging up the deceased was, understandably, challenging. One report described it as “chaotic and hasty.” While many caskets could be moved intact, others were in various states of decomposition, and only some of the remains were moved. Others were left “wholly untouched,” according to a 2011 archaeological survey conducted on behalf of the University of San Francisco.

In the end, relatively few of the deceased were ever provided with new individual grave markers. Of the 20,000 people buried at the Masonic Cemetery, about 5,000 remains were claimed by family members and reinterred in Colma, according to a fraternity report at the time. The rest—up to 15,000—were, like the rest of the city’s unclaimed, placed in mass graves, their tombstones left behind. Even Masonic dignitaries met that fate: Among those moved to an unmarked grave in the common plot was Jonathan Stevenson, the first grand master of California. It wasn’t until 1954 that he was reinterred in the California № 1 lodge plot at Cypress Lawn and a memorial plaque was erected in his memory.

Above:
A postcard lithograph from the late 1800s, depicting the Masonic Cemetery bounded by Masonic and Parker avenues and Turk and Fulton streets. Courtesy of UC Berkeley, Bancroft Library

Reclaiming the Remains

“The place of public history is vulnerable to the advance of urban progress,” wrote historian Tamara Venit-Shelton of the mass reburial efforts in the Journal of California History. There could hardly be a more apt visual metaphor than in the thousands of deserted tombstones left behind in the mass exhumation and reinterment of San Francisco’s dead. Families of the deceased were instructed to claim the headstones themselves, but few ever did. Eventually, workers from the city’s Department of Public Works collected the thousands of marble and granite stones for use as building materials. According to Shelton, those stones were used in construction projects all over the city, including the breakwaters at Aquatic Park and the municipal yacht harbor, and for paving roads in the North Beach neighborhood.

There are no records of which headstones were sent where. And with the passing of time, their markings have become harder and harder to decipher. But for many old-time members of the city’s rowing clubs, which use Aquatic Park as their headquarters, it was only a generation ago that swimmers passing close to the seawall could make out the names of the departed carved into the odd bit of rock. Perhaps in some protected nook or cranny, a Masonic square and compass survives.

It can be hard to reconcile the seemingly pitiless exhumation of the city’s deceased with the supposed finality of a casket laid to rest. But an appropriate metaphor can be drawn from Masonry, which teaches members that their work aims to build a temple in spirit. Even the grandest temple of stone can be destroyed, but no material is as long-lasting as memory.

So while the stones memorializing the Masons buried at Lone Mountain have long since vanished or been eroded by time and tide, their story lives on in other ways. The loveliness of Aquatic Park, protected from the harsh San Francisco Bay by the breakwater, certainly suggests as much. At Lone Mountain, their memory lives on, hiding in plain sight to every person who passes the old site as they walk or drive along what’s now known as Masonic Avenue.

Tony Gilbert is a writer and member of Golden Gate Speranza № 30, as well as a past board member of the South End Rowing Club. Ian A. Stewart is a writer and editor of California Freemason.

At a Masonic Cemetery, a Forever Home

Read the After Life issue: californiafreemason.org/cemetery

Masonic cemeteries offer a tantalizing glimpse into the history of the fraternity. Now, a pair of frontier graveyards are being brought back to life.

By Ian A. Stewart

It was getting close to midnight when the dozen or so members of Logos № 861 walked out of the historic Columbia Masonic Hall and into the street. They’d gathered there for their annual lodge retreat, which features a degree conferral and what often turns into a lively festive board dinner. Now it was time for the unofficial third part of the event. Someone brought along a bottle, and the group headed toward the edge of the tiny gold-rush-era town in rural Tuolumne County, away from the din of the party.

The group hiked through the dark toward the tiny cemetery on School House Street where 110 early members of the fraternity had been lain to rest. In the quiet of the night, the group crossed the picket fence gate and gathered around a large granite stone where a memorial plaque was embedded. “Soft and safe to thee, my brother, be thy resting place,” it read.

The group wandered the overgrown park, stopping to look more closely at headstones dating back to 1853, the year the cemetery opened. At last the members gathered again and, with glasses held aloft, offered three salutes: to one another, to their fellow members around the world, and, finally, to those who’d entered the “celestial lodge above.”

Digging Deeper

Dylan Pulliam, a past master of the lodge, was among those present. For him, the impromptu service resonated deeply. “It’s spiritual,” Pulliam says. “It reminds us that our time on earth is short.” But it was more than that, too. Being among headstones as old as the state of California, the sense of history on display was practically palpable. “It makes you want to dig deeper,” he says.

Pulliam isn’t the only person to have that thought. Though seldom used these days and easily forgotten, cemeteries like Columbia’s play an important role in the history of California Masonry. In many places, they represent the close link between lodges and their communities.

Beginning in 1852, with the first records of California lodges establishing their own burial sites, Masonic cemeteries have provided a final resting place for some of the most important figures in the state’s history. From Shasta to San Diego, they’ve brought Masons together to celebrate, mourn, and pay homage. Packed to the brim with history, they really do make you want to start digging.

An Underground History

The first recorded Masonic funeral in the state occurred in 1849, when an unknown figure was found drowned in the San Francisco Bay. The man was carrying a silver shekel that indicated he was a Mark Master Mason, and had tattoos of various Masonic working tools and symbols. An account of the event published in The History of Nevada, 1881 recounts that “A large concourse attend[ed] the burial; the impressive service of the craft was read; the sprig of acacia was dropped into the grave by the hands of men from all quarters of the globe.”

During the Gold Rush, these sorts of Masonic send-offs were common. Back then, one of the most important roles of the fraternity was to provide a respectable burial for those who’d died penniless and far from home. Soon California lodges, many of them in the Sierra foothills, began to set aside or purchase plots for members and their families. To this day, Masonic cemeteries abound in the area along Highway 49, including sites in Jamestown, Sonora, and Calaveras County.

Among the most notable of these Gold Rush-era grounds was the Sacramento City Cemetery, where an annex was set aside for members of the city’s five Masonic lodges. By the late 19th century, they’d outgrown their corner and banded together to purchase an eight-acre plot adjoining the old graveyard, still known as the Masonic Lawn Association Cemetery.

By and large, these cemeteries were managed by the lodges that controlled them, and later by special associations made up of lodge members. That decentralization meant that it has long been unclear precisely how many Masonic cemeteries there are in California. And whether through sales of property, purchased plots, or co-management arrangements, questions inevitably arose over how lodges were meant to deal with their dead—questions that did not always have easy answers.

Keeping Up Appearances

By the middle of the 20th century, those issues were front and center. So Grand Master Louis Harold Anderson recommended the formation of a Masonic Cemetery Committee to review the status of all Masonic cemeteries in the state. “This is not only a safeguard to the resting places of the brethren who have gone this way before us, but it is a guarantee by California Masonry of today to future generations of Masons that they, too, may rest in peace until time is no more,” he wrote. In 1957, the committee made its first report: It concluded that there were 23 cemeteries owned by Masonic lodges in California; eight more owned jointly with another organization, often the Independent Order of Odd Fellows; plus 27 former Masonic cemeteries now being operated by an outside entity; and 23 instances in which a Masonic lodge owned plots within an existing cemetery.

Within a few years, the committee had taken charge of five historic graveyards whose parent lodges had either gone under or consolidated: These included cemeteries in Columbia, Jamestown, Fiddletown, and Michigan Bluff—all in gold country—and, for a time, Fallbrook Masonic Cemetery in San Diego County. It also took over management of the Peter Lassen Grave and Memorial near Susanville, in Lassen County. (Lassen is credited with bringing the first Masonic charter to California.) In each case, the upkeep of the cemeteries was supported with modest funds from the Grand Lodge and managed by volunteers.

For more than three decades, that committee ensured that the sites were maintained. But by the early 1990s, the transfer of responsibility had been passed through several other committees and boards. By and large, the matter had disappeared from public view. It wasn’t until 2013, when a new committee began looking into the tax implications of cemetery ownership that the issue came up again. After recommending slight changes to the California Masonic Code, the issue was largely put back to rest.

Portals to the Past

To visit a Masonic cemetery today is to be reminded of the fraternity’s long history in California—and its relationship to the earliest days of the state.

At the Shasta Masonic Cemetery, which was founded in 1864 and is operated by Western Star № 2, headstones include some of the most prominent figures in the town’s history. One of them is Daniel Bystle, a pioneer of early Shasta, a charter member of the lodge, and, ironically enough, the town’s first undertaker.

Another such local luminary is engineer Frank Doyle, the “father of the Golden Gate Bridge.” He is buried in the Masonic section of the Santa Rosa Rural Cemetery. In fall 2021, members of Santa Rosa Luther Burbank № 57 came together to install a memorial plaque there honoring Doyle and the more than 100 Masons buried on its grounds. “All the movers and shakers of early Santa Rosa are interred here,” says Paul Stathatos, a member of the lodge who volunteers at the cemetery. “There’s a lot of history here.”

A Personal Connection

In some cases, the local Masonic cemetery embodies larger historical trends. For many years, Ronald Andaya led a team of volunteers from Anacapa № 710 to clear weeds at the Oxnard Masonic Cemetery. Working there, he learned that the Masonic lodge that managed the cemetery had, in the early 20th century, donated a section of the plot to a nearby Buddhist temple so it could bury its Japanese Americans members there. Their remains were prohibited at the time from being interred in nearby Ventura. (The cemetery was recently sold to a private real estate developer, though the burial site itself will be preserved.)

For others, the connection to these places is personal. Dennis Huberty, a longtime member of Milton Lodge № 78 (since consolidated into Calaveras Keystone № 78), has for years served as the de facto head of the windswept Milton Masonic Cemetery, where headstones date to 1850. “It’s a typical pioneer cemetery,” he explains. “We’ve got the place fenced to keep the cattle from tramping all over it.” Huberty’s great-grandfather, William Samuel Dennis, was a past master of the Milton lodge and first worthy patron of its Eastern Star chapter. He was buried in the cemetery in the 1930s. Says Huberty, “You take care of your dead. It’s the most basic reason we’re in Masonry: To preserve history and honor those who were in the craft before us.

Resurrection

It’s with precisely that legacy in mind that a new effort is being launched to bring two historic Masonic cemeteries back to life.

The two cemeteries are the Columbia Masonic Cemetery, inside Columbia State Park in Tuolumne County, and a smaller site in nearby Jamestown. Both suffered from deterioration in recent years, but in November 2020, Grand Lodge staff took the first steps toward a full renovation of both sites. That meant repairing fencing and signage, clearing brush, and making other small repairs. At the same time, workers began making detailed surveys of the topography and conditions-assessment reports. The reports lay out a treatment plan for each monument, headstone, and mausoleum. “We had to determine, inventory, and account for every one,” says Khalil Sweidy, the Grand Lodge director of financial planning and real estate and a member of Columbia Historic Lodge. The effort involved using ground-penetrating radar and specially trained dogs to scour the grounds for unmarked remains.

The plans detailed in the two reports run to more than 30 pages each. They’re also, unsurprisingly, expensive. Now plans are being hatched to fund the most ambitious elements of the work needed to restore the two cemeteries to their former glory. “These cemeteries deserve some attention,” Sweidy says. “It reflects well on us when we take care of our cemeteries. We’ve done a lot of planning and prep work, but there’s still a lot to do.”

In the meantime, those buried in the old cemeteries aren’t going anywhere. And with their weathered monuments, they offer a poignant reminder of the links between generations of Masons. That point was driven home earlier this year for Sammy Hanes, a past master of Western Star № 2 who helps maintain the Shasta Cemetery. The graveyard had been practically wiped out during the 2018 Carr Fire, and a large acacia tree planted there was burned down. This year, though, the first green shoots began to reappear from its roots. Now, the Masonic symbol of regeneration is, once again, coming back to life.

For James Tucker, another member of Logos № 861, the Columbia cemetery isn’t just a trip back in time. It’s also a way to consider the future. “To be there,” he says, “you think about some lodge in the year 2100. For them to come to my grave and toast me, that’d just be the best thing ever.”

For Freemasons, Death is Not the End

Masonry offers a roadmap to a better life. That’s why it pays homage to death.

Read the After Life Issue: californiafreemason.org/mementomori

By Tony Gilbert

A man is walking through a mostly deserted cemetery when he comes upon a memorial service in progress. The gathering seems different somehow. Curious, he stops to listen. Dozens of men of all ages are lined up in pairs, side by side. They march toward the casket, all dressed in dark suits and wearing simple white aprons. Upon the casket lies another apron.

The speaker’s eulogy is full of arcane terms and esoteric references. At last, he holds up a sprig of acacia, and on behalf of those present, offers the deceased a final valediction. “Thy spirit shall spring into newness of life and expand in immortal beauty, in realms beyond the skies,” he recites. “Until then, dear brother, until then, farewell!”

This is a Masonic funeral service. Apart from the cornerstone-laying ceremony, a Masonic funeral is one of the most visible public displays of Freemasonry there is.

In 2020, members performed a Masonic funeral service for the civil rights leader and congressman John Lewis at the U.S. Capitol Rotunda. Two centuries prior, George Washington received a Masonic send-off at his public memorial.

The Masonic funeral ceremony is one of the most conspicuous examples of Masonic values materialized into action. It’s also very often the prism through which outsiders first encounter the craft—a rare glimpse into the lodge life of the deceased that many know little about. That’s fitting, because the concepts of death, rebirth, and legacy are important elements to the teachings of Freemasonry.

Masonic Death—and Life

Today, these tend to be abstract ideas, jumping-off points for discussion of esoteric concepts. But historically, managing death has been one of the most important functions of the fraternity. Making sure that a departed brother received a proper burial and remembrance was traditionally one of the most important benefits of Freemasonry. Even now, the fraternity plays an important role in times of death. Masons are known to travel from miles around to attend the funeral services of their fellow members, even those belonging to other lodges.

Glenn Gordon Whiteside is one such member. Whiteside grew up in a Masonic family and began as a member of the Order of DeMolay. He estimates that he has attended at least 70 Masonic funerals. Whether or not he knew the deceased personally, Whiteside says, he considers it his duty to stand in as a representative of the fraternity, just as generations of Masons have done before. “It’s your job to let the family know that Masonry was a part of his life, that he was respected, and to show that he was our brother,” Whiteside, of Pacific-Starr King № 136 in San Francisco, says.

John Bermudez is another such member. He is general manager of Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma and a member of California № 1. “What I find most impressive about Masonic funerals is that they show that we value our members’ lives,” he says. Often in his job, he’s witnessed services where hardly any family members attend. “But with Masonry, you have all these brothers who show up to honor him. It shows that this was a person who lived and meant something. I appreciate that, and I’m sure our brothers who are no longer here appreciate it, too.”

For Masons, An Admonishment: Remember Life

Members often refer to Freemasonry as a system of morality, one intended to help guide them toward a more fulfilled life. But the context of those life lessons is often mortality. From the ritual death and rebirth that members undergo to the symbolism of the eternal soul, Masonry attempts to provide its members with “inspired vision to enable us to look with faith beyond the veil,” as is said during the funeral rite.

Perhaps the most common of these symbols is the concept of memento mori—the reminder of one’s inevitable demise—represented by the skull and crossbones. (The symbol, while not specific to Freemasonry, appears in certain Masonic contexts. Chief among them is the Knights Templar, a Christian offshoot of the fraternity.)

Though the skull has come to represent all things spooky in popular culture, for centuries memento mori has been used in art and literature as an uplifting device. That’s most evident in the 17th-century art form of the vanitas. These were still-life paintings depicting the pleasures of life juxtaposed with symbols of death or ephemerality, like bubbles or wilting flowers. By reminding us that our lifetime is short, memento mori invokes another Latin phrase—carpe diem, an admonition to live your fullest life here and now.

The skull isn’t the only visual representation of memento mori. Within Masonry, they are legion. The hourglass—sometimes shown with wings—is a reminder of the unceasing march of time. According to Albert Mackey’s Masonic encyclopedia, the hourglass “reminds us by the quick passage of its sands of the transitory nature of human life.” Similar to that is the sprig of acacia, an evergreen leaf referenced during the Masonic funeral ceremony. The acacia is described as “an emblem of our faith in the immortality of the soul” and symbolizes “perpetual renovation.”

Other Masonic symbols echo that theme: Father Time, or Saturn, is seen in Masonic contexts as a reminder that “time, patience, and perseverance will enable him to accomplish the great object of a Freemason’s labor.” That phrase is echoed in the Masonic funeral service, when the deceased is finally called from his labor. Finally, the ruler, or 24-inch gauge, symbolizes the 24 hours of the day. During the funeral ritual, the master invokes the ruler while stating, “During the brief space allotted to us here, we may wisely and usefully employ our time, and, in the mutual exchange of kind and friendly acts, promote the welfare and happiness of each other.”

Questions of Faith

Any discussion of death and the afterlife inevitably leads to an ontological reckoning. To say that one believes in life after death or in the existence of the soul is an inherently spiritual statement, an expression of faith. Even distinguishing material and spirit, for some, raises uneasy metaphysical questions. It’s not surprising that for most Americans, death can be an uncomfortable topic.

Masonry, in dealing with such questions, treads a fine line. Luis Martinez, a member of Golden Gate Speranza № 30, is an expert in comparative religion. “Freemasonry is not a religion. However, it is religious,” he explains. While Masons point out the universality of Masonry, which has always been open to candidates of all faiths, most jurisdictions (including California) specifically require candidates to express a belief in God—or at least in a higher power.

Despite Masonry’s many lessons on life and death, Martinez points out that it isn’t dogmatic about mortality and the afterlife. He, for one, is comfortable with leaving room for mystery. “If you think you know all the answers, then why bother exploring?”

That’s a sentiment shared by others in the fraternity. “If you were to ask 10 Masons about life after death, you would get 10 different opinions,” says Kyle Burch of Friendship Lodge № 210 in San Jose.

Burch is the spiritual director of the Spiritual Growth Institute and an expert on Rosicrucianism and other esoteric traditions. Masonry may demand faith from its members, he says, but the details of that faith are left to the individual.

A Masonic View of the Afterlife?

That kind of personal interpretation extends to questions of the afterlife. To some, winged cherubs playing harps might be an image of heaven. To others, reincarnation and the continuation of the cosmic life cycle is their reality. To still others, death is final, an eternal sleep. But even that view can be imbued with meaning: It may represent the soul’s reunification with its source, absorbed like a drop of water returning to the ocean.

Freemasonry can offer members a context for approaching questions of death and the afterlife often left unexplored within secular society. But those lessons are not necessarily unique to the craft. Many cultures and faiths involve stories of rebirth or resurrection. This theme was especially captivating to the adherents of the ancient mystery schools that provide a philosophical backdrop to Freemasonry. Among them are the Eleusinians, whose initiates performed a mock death and rebirth ritual in which a man was born again. “The death-before-death ritual is relatively universal across cultures and religious belief systems,” Burch says. “I think this speaks to the universal truth of this concept.”

Mackey, too, acknowledges the common themes between the Eleusinian Mysteries and Freemasonry. Both systems used allegory and a morality play to convey their message. He interprets that message as “the restoration from death to eternal life.” That restoration culminates when “the initiate ceased to be a mystes, or blind man, and was thenceforth called an epopt, a word signifying he who beholds.”

In facing one’s death, even if only as an act, the hope is that one will confront the fear of mortality and live with courage and intention.

Saying Farewell

“Our brother has reached the end of his earthly toils,” state the words of the California Masonic funeral ritual. It continues, “the brittle thread which bound him to earth has been severed and the liberated spirit has winged its flight to the unknown world. The silver cord is loosed … the spirit has returned to God who gave it.”

These words echo Ecclesiastes 12:6. There are layers of meaning in the symbols of the thread and the cord, both of which carry significance in Freemasonry. Heaven, in the Masonic service, is described as the “celestial lodge above.” George Whitmore is perhaps the Mason in this state who’s best-acquainted with that particular lodge. A past assistant grand lecturer, Whitmore, of Victorville № 634, is tasked with certifying Masons to lead Masonic funerals. As such, he’s performed the ritual at plenty of them. In each instance, he says, he’s reminded of the solemnity of the occasion and makes a point of ensuring each service is performed word-perfect. “He’s my brother,” Whitmore says of the deceased. “I want to afford him every dignity and honor.”

Masonic concepts of the soul, immortality, and reincarnation may seem heady for most. But as technology increasingly forces more philosophical reckoning with questions of humanism, there’s still room for a spiritual framework for approaching our mortal end. And for the lessons it holds for our time on earth.

Even Einstein understood that. Michelle Thaller, a physicist with NASA, summarized his theory this way: “Time is a landscape. If you had the right perspective on the universe, you would see all of it laid out in front of you. All past, present, and future as a whole thing.”

What Masons are left with, then, is the notion of what might be called the infinite present. The writer Joseph Campbell may have captured that sentiment best. “Eternity is that dimension of here and now that all thinking in temporal terms cuts off,” he wrote. “The experience of eternity right here and now, in all things, whether thought of as good or as evil, is the function of life.”

California Freemason Magazine: The After Life Issue

“Our brother has reached the end of his earthly toils. The brittle thread which bound him to earth has been severed and the liberated spirit has winged its flight to the unknown world. The silver cord is loosed … the spirit has returned to God who gave it.”

Those are the words of the California Masonic funeral rite, one of the most powerful and moving traditions of Freemasonry. In the words of one cemetery manager and California Mason, it “shows that we value our members’ lives. It shows that this was a person who lived and meant something.”

For the spring 2022 issue of California Freemason magazine, we’re taking a deep dive—like six feet deep—on the Masonic customs and traditions related to mortality, death, and whatever comes next. From unpacking Masonry’s memento morisymbolism to revisiting the clearing of the state’s largest Masonic cemetery almost a century ago, it’s our attempt to “look with faith beyond the veil.”

But it’s not all doom and gloom! We’ll meet several members whose work brings them into close proximity to the other side to learn what lessons death holds for life—from an MCYAF psychologist and near-death expert to a group of Mason-morticiansto a gravedigger-turned-folk singer, an emergency medical technician, and Hollywood’s go-to medium. There’s also our typical grab-bag of stories about California Masonry today: A budding collector of Masonic ephemera; a former lodge hall in a Hollywood Cemetery reborn as a top-flight music venue; a Master Mason and Taekwondo master; and so much more.

In the end, the issue isn’t a lament for our inevitable demise, but rather a celebration of life, and an admonition that (in the words of yet another Mason-mortician), “You have today. Do the things you enjoy, and tell the people close to you that you love them.”

Words to live by.

READ THE NEW ISSUE NOW!

The Mayor of Dub

Read the Music Issue: californiafreemason.org/goodman

When Marshall Goodman was 17, his mom gave him a pep talk. He was heading into his senior year at Woodrow Wilson High School in Long Beach. He had friends and loved to play drums, but there was also a “heavy energy” to him, his mother said, that made him seem wise beyond his years. “Marshall, I want you to know: You’re going to be a very important leader someday,” she told him.

Stirred by her words, Goodman decided to run for student body president. He won with a call-and-response campaign speech inspired by Martin Luther King Jr., Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. And so for that final year of high school, the self-described introvert balanced his nascent political career with his true passion, music. The same year, Goodman joined a local ska-punk band making its name at backyard ragers around Long Beach. They called themselves Sublime. Within a few years, they’d be one of the biggest bands in the country.

More than 30 years later, it’s still hard to reconcile the earnest student-politician with the MC freestyling on Sublime’s early, rowdy demos. But talk to him long enough, and the contradiction of Marshall Goodman—better known in the music industry as Ras MG, and in the city of La Palma as Mayor Goodman—starts to make sense. That final year of high school, it turns out, was a fitting prelude. Even now, he happily refuses to pick a lane.

If Long Beach had an official anthem, it’s a good bet Marshall Goodman would have had a role in making it. As an early member of Sublime and a founding member of the Long Beach Dub Allstars, Goodman’s influence is all over the sound that emerged from the area in the early 1990s. The melding of reggae, ska, punk, hip-hop, and Latin music that characterized the region—evidenced by musicians as varied as War, Snoop Dogg, and Zack de la Rocha calling it home—unmistakably reflects the community’s diversity, and all these years later is still synonymous with the place itself.

Goodman moved to Long Beach at age 5 from Chicago, where his parents met in the 1960s. From a young age, he connected to the melting-pot nature of working-class Southern California. (Goodman’s mother is of Irish descent and his father is Black.) “My friends were Black, white, Cambodian, Vietnamese, Latino,” he says. “That’s Long Beach. It’s an international city. There’s so much culture and music and food that comes out of different types of people being together.”

A diverse blend of music found its way into his home, too. Goodman listened to Eric Clapton, Fleetwood Mac, Afrika Bambaataa, Run-DMC. He got into breakdancing. His mother sang in the church choir. His father, a gigging musician, introduced the kids to jazz and the blues, playing them bass lines on his electric guitar. Marshall’s older sister, Ruth, was an exceptionally talented saxophonist who played in bands throughout high school and went to UCLA on a jazz band scholarship.

It’s Ruth who Goodman names as his real musical mentor, and it was through her that he met the future frontman of Sublime, Bradley Nowell. Ruth was actually in a band with Nowell first, a ska outfit called Sloppy Seconds that rehearsed at the Goodman house. A few years Goodman’s senior, Nowell was barely out of high school and already known for his mischievous charisma. His lyrics tended toward the crass—a stark contrast to the serious-minded Goodman—but over time, the two bonded over deeper topics. “He was very sensitive, an extraordinary writer, a genius when it came to getting his thoughts down on paper,” Goodman says of Nowell. “A deep, deep thinker.”

Goodman was officially Sublime’s drummer for two years, 1990 to 1991, during which he enrolled in and dropped out of Cal State Long Beach. At that time, the band grew from being the town’s most popular backyard party band to headlining tours. Goodman has writing credits peppered throughout Sublime’s 1992 debut album, 40 oz. to Freedom, and later efforts including the George Gershwin-sampling radio hit “Doin’ Time.” But as the band took off, so did the drugs. “They were all heavy partiers,” Goodman says. “When it started interfering with the music and we couldn’t perform for people who had paid money to see us, that’s when I said, ‘I don’t think I want to be a part of this.’”

“The music was great, the brotherhood was great, but the partying—I just couldn’t buy into it.”

Their paths diverged from there. Still much in demand as a drummer, Goodman returned home and played with several outfits, from a reggae band to a steel drum orchestra to a group visiting from Africa that toured up to Stanford. He got married and had children. And for the next five years, he watched as Sublime blew up, in every sense of the term. Nowell died from a heroin overdose in 1996, at the peak of the band’s success, two months before their major-label debut, which would go on to sell more than 5 million copies in the U.S.. According to those close to him, Nowell’s overdose followed a year of sobriety. He left behind a wife and an infant son. “I never say I lost anybody,“ Goodman says. “When Bradley passed, the sadness was more like, ‘Damn it, he lost the battle.’ He was fighting this thing, he was winning, and then boom—he’s gone.”

In the wake of his passing, Goodman and a crew of former Sublime members and collaborators formed the supergroup the Long Beach Dub Allstars. “We had to keep moving forward with that energy,” Goodman says. “I think we did a lot of good by taking that music out there for people to hear.”

Musing on the forces that kept him from getting swept up in substance abuse, Goodman attributes his inner strength to his father. “I didn’t need drugs because I had the ability to be entertained by life,” he says. The elder Goodman died of pancreatic cancer in 1985, when Goodman was just 13. Or as Goodman says: He went on to glory. His son is still learning the lessons he left behind.

In 2009, nearly two decades after leaving Cal State Long Beach, Goodman decided to go back to school. Since 1997, he’d been a pivotal member of the Long Beach Dub Allstars, and he’d also been working as a songwriter, percussionist, and producer for other artists. He had four kids and coached their sports teams. He didn’t have a ton of time on his hands.

But he did have an insatiable intellectual appetite. He’d always been a voracious reader. The music industry had been good to him, but it never quite satisfied his curiosities about history, literature, religion, and mythology. So he went back and got his bachelor’s degree. He joined La Palma’s Community Activity and Beautification Committee as a way to help throw events in the community where he’d lived, at that point, for 15 years. Noting his natural leadership abilities, the other members nearly demanded he run for city council. He won, of course.

And then, in 2019, as City Councilmembers all do at some point in La Palma, he served a term as mayor. For the M.C. famously referred to as “well-qualified to represent the LBC,” it was a fitting title.

It was around that same time that Goodman began thinking about Freemasonry. He first became interested around 2013, but a negative experience with the first lodge he visited turned him off. Still, something pulled him toward it again, despite his apprehensions. “My mom was a born-again Christian, and I asked her, What do you think about Masonry?” he recalls. “Your father was a Mason,” she told him “I was an Eastern Star.” Goodman got goosebumps.

He decided to follow in his father’s footsteps. Goodman petitioned to join Lakewood Lodge No. 728 in 2015. “I saw Masonry as a place to fix the ills of the world. You have people coming together outside race, religion, politics, all these things that are separating us. I want to be a part of that.” He realized his father had raised him according to the tenets of Masonry without ever naming it aloud.

Chad Goyette was master of the lodge when Goodman first expressed interest, and he still remembers their first meeting. “We immediately made a connection—intellectually, emotionally, morally,” Goyette says, noting that membership was down at the time and they needed some fresh ideas. “He’s extremely intelligent, of course, and he’s brought such a unique perspective to the lodge. But the root of it all, for me, is his integrity.”

That rings true for others, as well. “I call Marshall when I’m going crazy,” says Chad Wanke, mayor pro tem of Placentia, a small community northeast of Disneyland. “Or I call when I need someone to give me a different perspective, or to just vent to.” On paper, Wanke and Goodman make an odd couple: Wanke is a Republican, Goodman a Democrat. They find themselves on different sides of the aisle all the time. But in 2016, the pair met at a political event, and Goodman noticed Wanke’s Masonic ring. The musician struck up a conversation.

They’ve been friends ever since, their conversations careening from questions of Masonic esoterica to their respective roles in city government. “He’s particularly helpful when I need someone I can trust who doesn’t agree with me, so I’m not in an echo chamber,” Wanke says. “Being a Mason and sharing the responsibility that comes with means we have this baseline. We can get together and have conversations about things we disagree on in a civil, brotherly way.”

In the summer of 2020, as protests following the murder of George Floyd spread across the country, the pair had long, tough conversations about how to respond to their constituents, and what it meant to keep people safe. “We talked about: Do you kneel with protestors? Do you have your police at protests right off the bat?” Wanke recalls. He largely attributes Placentia’s peaceful marches in 2020 to ideas he got out of their talks. “He’s made me a better mayor.”

On a recent Monday morning, Goodman is juggling a dozen roles, as usual. At 50, he’s now a grandfather twice over. His position as vice chair of the housing, community, and economic development policy committee for the League of California Cities means he can talk land use in his sleep.

Meanwhile, the Long Beach Dub Allstars have just released a record and begun playing live shows again. Goodman runs the band’s business, though these days he sometimes subs out of his drumming duties. His more important role in the group is as a mentor, ensuring the band remains a fertile ground for up-and-coming talent.

He also just completed a graduate degree in public administration and has begun thinking about teaching ethnic studies. “I love talking about the dichotomy in society between black and white,” he says. “It has impacted my family my entire life, and I have a lot to share. I think I can bridge gaps.”

Meanwhile, Sublime’s legacy only continues to grow: The 25th anniversary of their self-titled record brought with it a slew of coverage, while bands made up of former Sublime members and tribute bands continue to perform the group’s music to adoring crowds. (Goodman thinks Nowell would be amused at the nostalgia that attends the band today, but also touched. “He would’ve wanted to meet the people playing his music—to sit with them with no shoes on and talk about life. He was just a pure soul. And he’s loving it. I feel his energy all the time.”)

As for Goodman’s role in all of it, he’s grateful. He feels a responsibility to keep telling Sublime’s story. And he’s learned there’s no use trying to keep that part of his life separate from the others.

That became clear early on, when California State Assemblymember Sharon Quirk-Silva would make a point of highlighting Goodman’s musical bona fides at political events. “Every opportunity she got, she would bring it up,” he says with a laugh. “She would be like, ‘By the way, we have a member of Sublime here. Marshall Goodman, stand up.’ So at some point I told her, you can choose to not mention it, too.”

The lawmaker chastised him. “She said, ‘Marshall, this is who you are. You’re not going to do what you’re meant to do in life by being shy.‘

“And you know,” he says, “she was right.”

String Theory

Read the Music Issue: californiafreemason.org/stringtheory

Behind the music, there’s the instrument. And behind the instrument, there’s the maker. Meet three Masonic craftsmen combining technical and artistic wondery to create, repair, and restore musical instruments—making moments of harmonic brilliance possible.

Juan Soto

Panamericana No. 513
String-Instrument Restorer

There are your simple repairs, of course— cracks in the body, a broken bridge. But what Juan Soto really loves is a full-on violin restoration job. As a luthier, or string-instrument restorer, he says the best part of his job is taking a dusty old instrument—usually a violin, viola, or cello—that has been sitting in an attic for decades, pulling it apart, and then slowly and lovingly putting it back together again. “We don’t make much money on it, but I love to do those jobs,” Soto says. “It’s fulfilling to bring something to life and then see it again in a performance.”

Growing up in Guatemala City, Soto didn’t get his start as a musical protégé. Rather, he began as a carpenter and furniture maker. Years later, after moving to Los Angeles, he found work in a violin repair shop because of his ability to match varnishes—a key part of instrument restoration. In 2012, he pulled up stakes and moved to Las Vegas, where he now runs his own shop. In recent years, he’s become a specialist in mariachi instruments including the guitar, guitarrón, and vihuela.

Moving to the desert hasn’t stopped Soto from maintaining a connection to California Masonry. He is a past master of the former Tujunga Lodge No. 592, where he was given the Hiram Award, as well as a longtime inspector for District No. 533. In 2006, he helped lead a merger with Panamericana Lodge No. 513, which became just the second Spanish-language lodge in Southern California. He remains a candidate coach there and a member of the advisory committee, as well as an affiliate of Las Vegas’s Mount Moriah No. 39.

As a master craftsman, Soto says that he appreciates the symbolism of the Masonic working tools. “Masonry helps you develop perseverance and patience,” he says. “That’s something you definitely need to do the work I do.”

Rafael Barajas

Home No. 721
Guitar Maker

When it came time to get serious about pursuing a career in the music business, Rafael Barajas was pragmatic. “I live in L.A.,” he says. “If you throw a rock anywhere, you’ll hit a guitarist. Maybe a better choice for me is to work on all those guitars.”

So it was that Barajas set out on a successful career as a custom guitar builder. Today he’s both the lead builder for Yamaha Guitar Development and owner of Barajas Custom Guitars, where he’s supplied instruments for axmen associated with several prominent acts, from J. Balvin and Jennifer Lopez to Julio Iglesias and the Smashing Pumpkins.

Building top-flight electric guitars requires a range of skills, making Barajas a rarity as a one-man shop. “Usually, guys specialize in something specific, like paint or electronic work,” he says. “But I do my own paint, I can work the [computer numerical control] machine and pin routers, wire the electronics, everything.” Then there are the soft skills, like working with temperamental artists and handling the marketing.

It’s in that last capacity, he says, that he’s benefitted from his membership in Freemasonry. Barajas’s grandfather, Gilberto Gamboa, was a member in Tijuana, where Barajas was raised. But it was an uncle in San Diego who inspired him to join Home No. 721. “Honestly, it was a way to make some new friends,” he says. “I knew that when you meet a Mason, you know he’s a good guy, you can trust him.”

Occasionally, his two worlds overlap. Barajas recalls a recent conversation he had with the guitarist Michael Herring (stage name Fish), who has toured with the likes of Christina Aguilera and Prince. “He was at the shop, and he asked me who had the Masonic symbol on their car. I was like, That’s me,” Barajas says. “And he said, Wow, I just did my Fellow Craft degree at Burbank No. 406. So I told him when he has his Master Mason degree, I’ll be there. I guess we became a little more than friends that day.”

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Robert Casper

Gateway No. 339
Piano Tuner and Repairman

It might seem like transitioning from the role of corporate executive to that of a piano tuner would represent a total U-turn. But for Robert Casper, a past master of Gateway No. 339, the late-career switch wasn’t as out-of-left-field as it looks. “I was always pretty handy and interested in mechanical things, so that came pretty naturally to me,” he says.

Still, it was a considerable change for Casper, who’d owned an electronics manufacturing firm for years before getting into piano repairs. But approaching retirement, he figured he needed a new pastime—and piano tuning spoke to him. As his wife is a children’s piano instructor, he already had a built-in clientele.

So Casper immersed himself in piano tuning and repair courses and programs to learn the trade. He even joined the local piano-tuning guild—a sort of Masonic lodge for those in the trade. “We meet once a month and share our experiences and tricks and tools,” he says. “It’s a very sharing, helping group.”

With thatsupport, Casper learned enough to tune, repair, and rebuild about every kind of piano there is—even some that aren’t technically pianos. Twice now, Casper has been asked to rebuild a harpsichord, the instrument’s diminutive, Bach-era predecessor, which uses internal picks rather than hammers to make its signature sound. “That was harder because I didn’t have any mentors. I had to do a lot of learning in different ways,” he says. Of the two instrunents, “I ended up buying both, and sold the first one to a movie studio.”

Somewhat more familiar, he’s rebuilt antique grand pianos from the 19th century manufacturers Chickering and Sons and Wm. Knabe & Co., instruments that can fetch more than $30,000 once restored. Not bad for a second career.

Photos by Willy Branlund. Text by Ian A. Stewart

A Masonic Whodunnit

In September, NBC’s streaming service, Peacock, debuted a new television adaptation of Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol, based on the follow-up novel to the smash hit The Da Vinci Code. One of the most anticipated novels of all time, The Lost Symbol sold a million copies the first day it was released in 2009 and stayed on the bestseller list for 29 weeks.

Pictured from left to right, Ashley Zukerman as Robert Langdon, Sumalee Montano as Agent Sato, Rick Gonzalez as Nunez.

The novel also touched off a sudden explosion of interest in Freemasonry, which provides a mysterious backdrop to the plot of the story. In fact, the term “Freemason” ended 2009 among the top 10 search terms on Yahoo, and during one six-week period, was the subject of 127 major-media stories, including from NBC’s Dateline and Today shows.

The new television series stars Ashley Zuckerman as the Harvard symbologist Robert Langdon and Eddie Izzard as the Mason-historian Peter Solomon. Just don’t expect it to kick up as much controversy for Masonry as The Da Vinci Code did for its mysterious fraternal orders: “I have enormous respect for the Masons,” Brown told the Associated Press. “Here is a worldwide organization that essentially says, `We don’t care what you call God, or what you think about God, only that you believe in a god and let’s all stand together as brothers and look in the same direction.’”

Pictured left to right: Ashley Zukerman as Robert Langdon, Eddie Izzard as Peter Solomon

Read the Spotlight on Freemasonry issue of California Freemason magazine here. Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol is streaming now on Peacock, with new episodes released each Thursday.

California Freemason: The Music Issue

It’s the hiss of the needle finding the record’s groove. It’s the feeling in your chest as the organ’s bass rumbles to life. It’s the drone of the bagpipe filling with air. It’s the sound of anticipation, of the hair on your arms rising to life. Music isn’t just entertainment. It’s a sensation, a celebration of metaphysical connections that finds extra resonance within the mystical realm of Freemasonry.

In this special issue of California Freemason Magazine, we delve into the unique power of music—the power to heighten the ritual, to find and make meaning, and to bring people together. From world-touring hip-hop acts to amateur organists to master instrument craftsmen, it’s a surround-sound deep dive into the invisible force that animates so much of our lives.