The Secret Connection

“The wonders of the Lord seem scattered without order and design in the field of immensity. They shine like countless flowers scattered by spring across our meadows. Let’s not seek a more orderly plan to describe them. All beings’ principles are connected to you. It’s their secret connection with you that gives them value, regardless of the place or rank they hold.” – Man of Desire, Louis-Claude de Saint-Martin

I read this quote from Louis Claude de Saint-Martin’s wrote, “Man of Desire“, sparking images of patients I had seen during my many night shifts as a neurology resident. Each with their own story of how they ended up in the hospital and, now, on my clinical radar. Each patient came from different socioeconomic backgrounds – those experiencing homelessness to those at the apex of the social hierarchy. Somehow, all of them were mixed together into one setting, time, and location. Upon reflection, it is rather remarkable what my profession offers and sometimes forces me to confront. Opening one door to the other leads to a completely different story.

Yet, as Saint-Martin so aptly wrote, they all are a part of the story of my own journey of self discovery. The phrase that resonated the most was his idea of a “secret connection”. When bouncing around the hospital, such secret connections often ceased to exist. Patient’s lose a great deal of privacy with lab tests, being woken up, and often disrobed for surgical procedures at the bedside or in the operating theater. Especially in emergencies, such secrets dissolve quickly. However, the intimacy and connection that forms between myself and a patient is deeply moving. In those moments, it is as if some invisible force draws my heart and theirs into a sacred space or union. Perhaps it is our shared humanity in the midst of suffering, death, and the natural laws of entropy we fight against. I’d like to think the secret connection is that of love.

Within the first three degrees of Freemasonry, I found so many lessons and ideas that harken back to my night shifts when all I had to help me was those around me, the patient, myself, and God. Until reading Saint-Martin, I hadn’t realized that the laws of entropy and decay explored in the third degree were describing that unique experience of death that could draw us all into a sacred embrace of God’s love. In those intense moments, patient’s sometimes cry – in fear and joy. Other times, they hug you deeply, hold your hand, or even kiss you on the cheek with deep affection at being with them at the boundary of life and death. Or even walking with them on that path towards that country from whom no traveller returns.

Image: Bro. Jonathan Kopel at Potomac Lodge No 5, Washington, DC with the George Washington Gavel on display

More often, though, patients die. Whether I had realized it at the time, each death can also be a widening barrier between my heart and God’s. I always felt close to my patients. What I hadn’t realized is how death can lead to a growing chasm between myself and God. Despite our own beliefs and expositions from the Third Degree lecture, I believe that we all often avoid discussing how death can still feel like a void that envelops even the divine. A being that somehow overshadows the essence of divine love. A contradiction of how such an envelopment could exist alongside the depth of the human soul and experience. This was especially the case when holding onto loved ones as they cried and wailed in my arms. Sometimes, over the phone. Each experience slowly expanded that chasm between my relationship and God. It was only until I began to process these experiences through writing, therapy, and discussions with brothers and others alike did I slowly begin to see the real beauty of all these moments. Even when death was inevitable or likely, the love and character I showed in those moments was the presence of God shining forth.

The real lesson in residency during those dark nights was this: our light and virtues only shine forth when there is nothing left for us to do to fix a situation except be who we are at our most visceral and vulnerable. When our tools are taken away and our attempts to control the external, what remains is a reflection of what lies in our heart.

These ideas expressed here reminded me of lessons taught in the first and second degrees in a way that made me appreciate and realize the heartwarming messages I hadn’t seen before. Only when confronting death and my relationship with God did I finally understand the beauty and love that lay within me. What was ultimately worth fighting for and striving to perfect. It is why Saint-Martin’s other quote serves as a warning and beautiful reminder of seeing God in both the light and dark. For God’s light is found in all seasons of life. For in the darkness, what is left is the light within. As Saint-Martin wrote:

“It is by penetrating into beings that God makes them feel their life; they are in death as soon as they are no longer in communion with him . All of you, inhabitants of the earth, rejoice, you can contribute to universal communion. You can, like so many vestals, maintain the sacred fire and make it shine in all parts of the universe”

I’ve heard many analogies used to describe the essence of the Craft most of which allude to ideas of balancing the warrior and the scholar – the physical and mental elements of the human person. Yet, I think it’s both simpler and richer. The real essence of the Craft is that of being the healer. A healer to our own being, our fellow human beings, and God. It’s as simple and as complex as this. Through healing ourselves and our fellow neighbors through the lives we live, I think we somehow heal a part of the divine or, at least, contribute to its unfolding story with us. As with my profession, what we heal is our humanity. A reintegration of the divine spark within us to our fellow human beings, creation, and God. A unification of sorts.

Sometimes, it all starts with restoring our own humanity or awareness of it amid the day to day practice of medicine. The art of medicine is having the awareness to bring humanity to each interaction. A healer is one who has the confidence to let go of the medicine and bathe in the life of another person. A lack of fear in being present and allowing whatever to happen to happen without attaching ourselves to a desire to control what cannot be controlled. In the end, none of us can control death. Contrary to what we are taught or expect, many aspects of medicine resolve themselves without our contribution. I often think that being a healer is a lifelong journey of puffing our belly full of knowledge and nudging a patient in the right direction. The river takes them the rest of the way. Much of healing is embracing paradoxes that, for some reason, seem to work themselves out. The principle is to nudge the person and allow the universe and God to work through that mystery.

The secret connection is that invisible fiber that connects us all. Perhaps life, death, illness, recovery, and the inevitable laws of entropy are simply the ingredients of what life upholds to teach us this very important lesson. A lesson that is encapsulated in the very idea of love expressed throughout the degrees. For it is love that draws us into the Craft, love that embraces us during our trek through life, and love that helps us through to the other side where the real mystery and journey of life begins and ends. I only hope my actions and story reflect a heart that is worthy to be carried on in the lives of those yet to be born, who now live, and who have passed on already.