I’ve held the Tyler’s sword for eleven years now. Eleven years of standing outside a door that everyone else walks through. When the Worshipful Master asked me to write something for the newer Tylers coming up through the lodges, I thought: right, forget the ritual book. Let’s talk about the bits nobody warns you about.
The Key Situation
You will lose the key to the lodge room door. Not if. When. It’ll happen on the one night the Provincial Grand Master is visiting, naturally. My advice? Know where the caretaker lives. Know his mobile number. Know his wife’s name and bring biscuits. These relationships are more important than anything in your ritual book.
Also, keep a spare in your car. I know, I know — security. But a Tyler without a key is just a bloke holding a sword in a corridor, and that’s a conversation with the police you don’t want to have.
The Third Degree Nap Trap
Here’s the thing they won’t tell you at your appointment: during a Third Degree, you can’t see a blessed thing. The door’s shut. You’re outside. The ceremony is muffled. It goes on for quite a while. And you’ve been standing since half six.
Bring a book. Or your phone. I won’t judge. I once got through an entire John le Carré novel across three Third Degrees. The trick is keeping one ear tuned for the knock. Miss the knock and you’ll never hear the end of it. Literally — they’ll be knocking for ten minutes while you’re finding out what George Smiley did next.
The Sword
Nobody trains you to hold a sword. There’s no Tyler’s sword class. No YouTube tutorial (I checked). You just get handed this thing — sometimes it’s ceremonial and light, sometimes it weighs as much as a small child — and you’re expected to look authoritative.
My top tip: hold it point-down, slightly to your right, and for heaven’s sake don’t gesture with it. I once made the mistake of waving it while explaining something to a late arrival. The Senior Warden nearly had a heart attack.
Late Arrivals and Their Excuses
You will hear every excuse known to mankind. Traffic. Parking. “I thought it started at half seven.” The satnav sent them to the wrong Masonic hall (there are two in Stockport, apparently). One brother told me his dog ate his apron. I didn’t even question it.
The thing is, as Tyler, you control the door. You decide when to knock and announce them. This is your power. Use it wisely. Make them wait just long enough to feel a tiny bit sheepish. Not cruel — just educational.
The Real Power
Most brethren think the Worshipful Master runs the lodge. He does, technically. But the Tyler decides who gets through that door. No Tyler, no meeting. Think about that. You’re the bouncer, the gatekeeper, the first and last face every Mason sees that evening.
Own it. Stand tall. Make eye contact. Ask for the password like you mean it — even from the bloke you’ve known for thirty years. Standards matter.
The Tyler’s First Drink
There is an unwritten rule, honoured in every lodge I’ve ever attended: the Tyler gets the first drink after the lodge is closed. You’ve stood outside all evening. You’ve missed the ceremony, the charges, the lot. The least they can do is put a glass in your hand before anyone else.
If your lodge doesn’t observe this tradition, have a quiet word with the Director of Ceremonies. It’ll be sorted by the next meeting.
So there you have it. The Tyler’s real toolkit: a spare key, a good book, a steady sword arm, and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing the whole evening depends on you. It’s the best job in the lodge. And I wouldn’t swap it for the Master’s chair.
Not yet, anyway.