Masonic Rites

Last Wednesday afternoon, Mom, my cousin, Ona, and I made our way to Edmond Chapel Church of God in Lyons to say goodbye to Wayne Hall from Reidsville. Wayne had been one of my stepfather Johnny Collins’ dearest friends for decades, despite the twenty years that separated them in age.

During the visitation, we shared memories with Wayne’s family, telling them how much he had meant to us over the years. I couldn’t help but think back to the day when my stepfather, Johnny, died in his Ohoopee garden. My phone rang, and seeing Wayne’s name on the caller ID shook me—I knew something bad had happened. Wayne’s voice was gentle but strong as he told me that Johnny was “gone.” He was at the hospital with my mother, then drove her home, being with her until some of us could get to her. That act of kindness epitomized the man Wayne was.

The last time I saw Wayne was just two months ago at the Shoney’s in Vidalia. As Mom and I walked along the sidewalk in front of the building, someone tapped on the restaurant window and waved from inside. It was Wayne, who insisted we join him and his brother, James, for lunch. We spent an hour catching up on this and that, and when the meal ended, Wayne snatched up our bill before we could protest.

Wayne’s burial service began at four o’clock. His only son, Justin, addressed us before turning the graveside ceremony over to the funeral directors, who folded an American flag and handed the bundle to him. At that point, some local Masons took their positions next to Wayne’s casket. Wayne had been a devoted member of the Masons for years, and his Masonic brethren were there to deliver the traditional rites.

Some people find a Masonic funeral service distasteful. I do not. When my father died in 1992, Mom asked the local lodge to conduct his burial ceremony.

“When your father was active in the Masons, he was the happiest I’d ever seen him—and at peace,” she had said back then, justifying why she wanted the Masons to run the show.

My father’s service was my first exposure to their rituals, and I was immediately struck by the dignity and symbolism of it all. The ceremony honors departed members through prayers, readings, and meaningful gestures— the placement of evergreen continued from page

sprigs representing the immortality of the soul, and a white apron symbolizing purity. And as the ceremony progressed, I not only thought of my father’s life and soul, but I also reflected on my own mortality, meaning, and direction.

Members of the Masons come from all religious denominations, united by their shared belief in a “Grand Architect of the Universe,” and the ceremony, though brief, pays homage to this belief. The funeral master wears a hat and gloves and speaks with quiet authority: “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.”

For many non-Masons attending these services, it represents their first glimpse into the fraternity’s teachings.

“The cradle and the coffin stand side by side … and it is a solemn truth that as soon as we begin to live, that moment we begin to die.”

And the sprig represents not just immortality, but the infinite bond between members that transcends death itself. They have each other’s backs, supporting one another through the good and the bad.

Standing under the canopy at Wayne’s graveside last Wednesday, watching the master recite the ancient rites, I was again reminded of the brotherhood and its traditions. The ceremony provided comfort not just through its words of hope and continuity, but through the visible demonstration that Wayne had been part of something larger than himself—a fraternity that would honor his memory and support his family even after his death.

In a world that often feels disconnected, there’s something deeply reassuring about witnessing such enduring bonds of brotherhood and the symbolism that speaks to universal truths about life, death, and the principles we choose to live by.