Blog

18 Jan 2026 - 10:00 CST

After observing the public strain of these recent days, I find myself returning - again - to the older question beneath every headline: whether we still believe that law is a discipline we submit ourselves to, or merely a weapon we seize when it suits our side.

A nation can survive sharp disagreement. It cannot survive the quiet substitution of principle with permission - when men begin to treat “my cause” as a moral solvent that dissolves restraint, patience, and truth. When that substitution takes root, unrest is no longer the exception. It becomes the climate.

We are watching, in real time, how quickly fear and outrage can compress the space where judgment is supposed to live. Protests swell. Authorities respond. Courts intervene. The word law is invoked by everyone, as though invocation alone were proof of integrity. Yet the founders who designed our system did not confuse law with volume. They did not confuse authority with virtue. They built checks and balances precisely because they assumed that, under pressure, human beings would reach for power and call it necessity.

Madison warned that faction is the recurring illness of free societies - not because people hold opinions, but because they begin to treat opponents as illegitimate, and then justify any instrument that harms them. The constitutional remedy was never “silence the other side.” It was to force ambition to collide with ambition, so that power would be slowed, inspected, and restrained. A republic is not preserved by passion. It is preserved by architecture - and by citizens who refuse to become the kind of people that architecture was built to contain.

Freemasonry, at its best, speaks in a similar register - not as a political party, and not as a substitute government, but as a moral school for men who wish to be governed first from within. Its great tenets - Brotherly Love, Relief, and Truth - are not decorative words. They are a standard that judges us when the room gets hot. Brotherly Love does not mean agreement; it means refusing to treat fellow citizens as quarry. Relief does not mean naïveté; it means remembering that the vulnerable are not collateral. Truth does not mean “my narrative”; it means the courage to live by what is real, to correct what is false, and to stop rewarding lies simply because they flatter our anger.

And here is the point that should sober every Mason and every American: our traditions do not grant us a license to inflame. They impose upon us the duty to steady. The old Charges speak plainly: a man is to be peaceable, respectful of civil authority, and not entangled in plots and conspiracies - because a society cannot be held together by suspicion endlessly rehearsed. If we train ourselves to see only enemies, we will eventually create the very conditions we claim to fear.

So I write this without pointing at parties, and without pretending innocence is evenly distributed. This is not an indictment of “them.” It is a summons to us - to men who claim higher standards.

If we believe in the rule of law, then we must demand more than enforcement. We must demand proportionality. We must demand accountability. We must demand that power remain answerable to conscience - and that citizens remain answerable to truth. If we believe in liberty, then we must stop treating intimidation as persuasion. If we believe in civic peace, then we must stop feeding the machinery that turns neighbors into threats.

The way forward is not theatrical righteousness. It is disciplined repair.

Begin small, and begin where republics always begin: with speech that is accurate, with judgment that is restrained, with correspondence that is serious, and with conduct that is clean enough to be examined in daylight. Refuse rumors that require hatred to be plausible. Refuse slogans that erase human beings. Refuse the thrill of escalation. Do not reward those who profit from chaos - whether they wear a suit, a uniform, or a mask.

And for those of us who call ourselves Masons: let us remember that a man’s obligations do not live inside the lodge alone. They follow him into traffic, into comment sections, into polling places, into protest lines, into meetings where decisions are made, and into the private moment when he is tempted to excuse what he would condemn in another.

If our principles only function when we are comfortable, they are not principles. They are costumes.

This country does not require us to be perfect. It requires us to be governable - by law, by conscience, and by a shared commitment to reality. The founders did not leave us a fragile toy. They left us a demanding instrument. It will keep working only if we stop using it as a club and start treating it as a covenant.

The repair begins when honorable men choose to cool the room, tell the truth, and hold themselves to the higher standard they claim to admire.

13 Jan 2026 - 13:55 CST

After observing the tenor of public life in recent weeks, I have found myself reflecting not on any single event, but on the broader condition of our civic conversation. Disagreement is not new to this country; it is, in fact, one of its founding conditions. What is new is the degree to which our disagreements now occur in isolation - fragmented, reactive, and often unmoored from shared standards of deliberation or mutual responsibility.

At earlier moments of national strain, Americans confronted division not by retreating into silence or shouting past one another, but by committing themselves to sustained correspondence. Long before independence was declared, communities across the colonies formed what became known as the COMMITTEES OF CORRESPONDENCE - networks of citizens who wrote, read, debated, and transmitted concerns with care and discipline. These committees did not wield force. They wielded words, memory, and accountability.

Their purpose was not unanimity. It was coherence. They sought to ensure that grievances were understood accurately, that principles were articulated clearly, and that local concerns were connected to a broader moral and civic framework. In doing so, they preserved something essential: a shared language of responsibility that made later collective action intelligible and restrained.

Today, our institutions remain intact, our laws operative, and our elections ongoing. Yet the connective tissue of civic understanding has weakened. Information travels faster than reflection. Reaction often replaces correspondence. In such an environment, misunderstanding multiplies, trust erodes, and fear fills the vacuum left by dialogue.

A renewed commitment to civic correspondence would not challenge lawful authority, nor would it bypass existing institutions. Rather, it would complement them by restoring a culture of deliberate communication - citizens writing to citizens, communities explaining themselves to one another, and concerns being documented with seriousness rather than spectacle. This is not radical. It is profoundly conservative in the deepest sense of the word: conserving the habits that allow a republic to govern itself without tearing itself apart.

The original committees understood that legitimacy depends not only on power, but on explanation; not only on enforcement, but on consent informed by reason. They recognized that when citizens cease to speak with one another, they will eventually be spoken over by forces far less accountable.

Reviving this practice today need not replicate its eighteenth-century form. It can take place through letters, structured forums, inter-community councils, and disciplined channels of exchange that privilege clarity over volume and substance over outrage. What matters is not the medium, but the ethic: patience, accuracy, moral seriousness, and an assumption of good faith until proven otherwise.

This is not a call to relitigate the past endlessly, nor to inflame the present. It is an appeal to memory. Our forebears understood that when societies drift toward fracture, the first repair must occur in communication - careful, principled, and shared. Before there were declarations or congresses, there were letters.

In a moment when many feel unheard, misunderstood, or reduced to caricature, correspondence offers a disciplined alternative to both silence and shouting. It reminds us that citizenship is not merely a status, but a practice - one that requires effort even when agreement is unlikely.

A republic cannot be sustained by force alone, nor by sentiment untethered from responsibility. It endures when its citizens take seriously the work of explaining themselves to one another, and when disagreement is met not with erasure, but with reply.

Perhaps it is time we remembered that before we were a nation of declarations, we were a nation of correspondents.

8 Jan 2025 - 19:43 CST

After spending the afternoon reading over various events occurring over last few weeks, I felt compelled to put some thoughts down for my own personal reflection and record.

When I observe the events occurring within our nation, I find myself returning not to slogans or arguments, but to first principles. Every society depends on authority, order, and law. Yet every society is also judged by how it exercises power when fear enters the equation; when those with authority confront those who are frightened, desperate, or running away. History suggests that these moments, more than any others, reveal who we truly are.

I have served as a soldier, lived as a citizen under the rule of law, and committed myself to moral obligations shaped by long traditions, including those taught in Freemasonry. None of these roles grants moral exemption. In fact, each imposes a higher standard. They share a common lesson: authority without restraint is not strength; it is failure.

Military service teaches quickly that discipline is not synonymous with force. The most demanding form of discipline is restraint - the ability to govern oneself under stress, uncertainty, and fear. Anyone can act when adrenaline surges. Far fewer can pause, assess, and choose the course that preserves both life and honor. That restraint is not weakness; it is the defining mark of professionalism and moral maturity.

Citizenship carries a similar burden. Laws are necessary. Institutions are necessary. Without them, society fractures. But law has never existed in a moral vacuum. Across time and cultures, humanity has learned, often painfully, that legality alone does not sanctify action. When enforcement becomes detached from conscience, order may be maintained temporarily, but justice is quietly dismantled. The record of history is clear: “I was following the law” has never been enough to absolve cruelty.

Moral traditions - religious, philosophical, and civic - converge on a strikingly consistent principle: the powerful are accountable for how they treat the vulnerable. The frightened person, the outsider, the one trying to escape harm; these figures appear repeatedly as moral tests. They are not convenient tests, and they are rarely comfortable ones. But they exist precisely because ethics matter most when circumstances tempt us to abandon them.

Modern humanitarian institutions did not emerge by accident. They were born from collective recognition that unchecked authority leads to atrocity. Aid organizations, relief agencies, and codes of conduct exist to remind societies that order and humanity are not opposites. Their purpose is not to undermine law, but to ensure that law does not consume the very values it claims to defend.

The danger facing any society is not disagreement over policy; it is moral drift. When fear becomes justification, when power begins to excuse harm to the powerless, the boundary between protection and cruelty erodes. Once that erosion begins, it rarely stops where its defenders expect. Violence rationalized today as “necessary” has a way of reappearing tomorrow as “regrettable,” and later as “indefensible.”

This is not a call for disorder, nor a denial of the complexity of governance. It is a reminder that authority is always conditional; conditional on restraint, proportionality, and respect for human dignity. Strength that cannot distinguish between control and cruelty is not strength at all. Order purchased at the cost of conscience is unsustainable.

For those who believe themselves to be good citizens, honorable professionals, or moral people, this moment invites reflection rather than accusation. What do our commitments demand of us when fear is present and power is unequal? Do our values apply only when it is easy to uphold them, or especially when it is not?

If our principles fail precisely when people are afraid, fleeing, or powerless, then they are not principles, they are preferences. And societies built on preferences rather than obligations eventually lose both their moral authority and their stability.

The measure of a nation, like the measure of a person, is not found in how forcefully it can act, but in how faithfully it restrains itself. That is where law earns legitimacy, service retains honor, and moral commitments prove they are more than words.