The Earthquake Proof House

A Brief Reflection On The Finest of Living... Rooms

The structure was a panoply of concentric triangles. Two large slabs of concrete buttressed against each other to form an a-frame. It was impossible to discern at which point the roof became a wall, or the wall a roof. There had been, in the earlier stages of the project, a plan to hold fast the two slabs with a beam of weathered oak, but the contractor had assured the owner that rebar would prove far safer.

An initial three-floor layout of the house had been scrapped in favor of two, and then one floor, leaving just the top eight feet of the slabs peeking above ground. This minimal design jutted out of the earth like the tip of an ancient skyscraper subsumed in the ashes of Vesuvius, or, when spotted for the first time from a greater distance, like the remote entrance to a complex system of secret tunnels, peeking above the surface for a fleeting breath, and jutting into the earth once again. And yet, neither of those images truly captures the asphyxiating feeling of entering this altar to fear.

The chalk-dusted concrete square served as the only room in the house, occupied by a triangular bed chiseled out of the floor; a triangular screen casting tropical vistas, inlaid into the roof-wall; a three-sided kitchen console with a sink, a fridge, and an oven installed on the far side from the door; and the door was, you guessed it, triangular. Not only that, the aperture of the door was barely large enough to crawl through.

Sure, you might not be able to hang a frame, host guests, or store books, but such was the price of impregnability. Thousands of years of human innovation and technological progress, culminating with this: a glorified cave.

What more could you ask for from a house, except maybe that it be a home?

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As you might have guessed by now, the house I am describing is fictional, or rather, symbolic. I’d like to think that this style of dwelling would be the ideal quarters of Lewis’s technocratic Dr. Filostrato from That Hideous Strength, an archetype that seems to be haunting the mansions of Silicon Valley and Austin TX in greater hoards with each passing day.

That being said, I did not envision this sad little house while contemplating the growing transhumanist issue; no, it was born in me as I was subjected to the generous hospitality of a family friend this Super Bowl Sunday. As I reclined on the floor, bantering with the beautiful couple’s two young sons, quoting lines from Star Wars and asking them what music they enjoyed, I looked around the living room and rediscovered a familiar sensation.

It was the same sensation that daily attends me in my mother’s living room, my sister’s sun room, or my friend Bradley’s dorm room. And yet, it wasn’t until that very instant that I could finally articulate the way it made me feel.

The overstuffed shelves were a panorama of colorful book spines; the hanging plants in the corner vignetted the room with their fecund limbs; framed maps, botanical illustrations, and children’s drawings adorned the walls; the well-worn couches and countless cozy blankets lay ready to embrace the weary traveler. It was an expression of the life of the home, the spiritual residue of four unique handprints loving under one roof, an opportunity to bear witness to the outsider, and an invitation to redemptively sew the clutter and chaos of the family into a rich quilt of shared passions, memories, griefs, and joys.

In the midst of such evident tenderness, I had one thought: “one earthquake would destroy all of this.”

If that were true, if the home were merely a house, the body raiment, subject to the death of the flesh and the torrent of the tempest, then maybe the doomsday bunker would be the ideal house, but, thankfully, that is not the case.

The house susceptible to the earthquake, the respirating organism of uneven frames, bookshelves buckling outward, sallow couches, plants precariously hanging from the ceiling, is a house devoted to the eternal. Sure, the earthquake may pose a threat to the immediate meaning of the house, that being the physical shelter it provides, but the culture and soul nurtured through that living room is eternal, undefiled, incorruptible, and unshakable.

In Luke 6:47-49, Jesus tells us of two men who built houses.

“Everyone who comes to me and hears my words and does them, I will show you what he is like: he is like a man building a house, who dug deep and laid the foundation on the rock. And when a flood arose, the stream broke against that house and could not shake it, because it had been well built. But the one who hears and does not do them is like a man who built a house on the ground without a foundation. When the stream broke against it, immediately it fell, and the ruin of that house was great.”

This may seem counterintuitive in the context of my example, but I posit that the man who builds his house on shifting spiritual sand is oftentimes the one whose house seems the most pristine, well-guarded, and fortified. His walls are bare except for the occasional self exalting accolade, his bed is plainly made, and his food is prepared for him and for him alone. He is efficient, self-sustained, independent, and invulnerable. He is a liar and a self-deceiver. He is dead. His heart is formed of the same concrete that entombs him. His false asceticism and recursive moralistic disciplines give off the appearance of piety, but remain entirely impotent with regard to the infectious love contracted from Christ.

It is only those houses that burn like a little flame, that make alive the dead walls of their house with the resounding beat of a resurrected heart, a soft beacon in the night to boats with cracking boughs on the roaring waves of this dark world, that truly are founded on that spiritual rock whose name is Christ. The everlasting foundation is laid beneath the home that nurtures the eternal soul amidst the impermanence of life.

The A-framed fortress may stand until the end of the earth, but the true home reaches far beyond, further up and further in, so to speak. It is the light of Christ casting shadows on our mortal plane. They are beautiful shadows; they are substantive shadows; they dance in sync with the song of life everlasting, yet they are not themselves that heavenly orchestra.

For now, these living room penumbras help us fix our eyes on that light, but one day, with unveiled faces, we shall behold the full effulgence of Christ. And in that moment, we shall rediscover in ourselves a certain sensation, only to find that what was once evinced in us by peering briefly into the lives of another family has blossomed into the fullness of being one in Christ’s family.

Until then, we can only pray that our humble living rooms steadfastly reflect the abundant life of Christ, for ourselves, our kin, our neighbors, our friends, and for any weary sojourner trapped in that horrible sarcophagus of false assurance. Let it be known that living rooms are for the living; so awake, arise, and behold the majesties of our risen Lord in all the profundities of a simple home and a gracious host.

“The end of all things is near. Therefore be alert and of sober mind so that you may pray. Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms. If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power for ever and ever. Amen.”

-1 Peter 4:7-11