What is it that makes a house feel like a home? The times you have spent there? The people who share it? The careless scattering of underwear on furniture? The television series Grand Designs suggests that in part it is the architecture that speaks to your soul.
For much of the past ten years television has been obsessed with life-style 'make-over' programs. In the rush to reinvent every aspect of our lives, the home became a prime target. Programs like Changing Rooms, The Block and Better Homes and Gardens lead the charge to the local hardware outlet. Grand Designs has a similar theme, but differs altogether according to its scale. Episodes follows the trials and tribulations of couples determined to build the perfect home. Interviewed along the way by designer Kevin McCloud, these hopefuls seek to coerce architecture and technology into innovative and experimental, even startling new structures. The series so far has seen the transformation of a dilapidated French industrial workhouse and the constructions of an eco-friendly home made almost entirely of recycled tires. Escalating costs add a bit of tension to the program but the main focus is on the attempt to build something that represents the individual owners' characters, aspirations, dreams.
Grand Designs is a fascinating program, though I can understand why some Christians would question the value of the vicarious experience it provides. The majority of the homes built are the indulgent projects of the extremely wealthy and the budgets they expend can be as startling as their creations. I live in a very comfortable home but find that an hour's exposure to these sorts of fabricated dreams can still produce an unhealthy case of envy. However Kevin McCloud would suggest that the dissatisfaction that flows from these sorts of 'grand designs' is essential in part if housing is going to progress:
"Experimental projects are essential. The rest of the [housing industry] feeds off the crackling brilliance of edgy invention. Sustainable development would not be possible on a large scale if there were no straw bale houses, no cob construction and no Super Adobe Earthships."
Innovation aside, though, Grand Designs illustrates how in the West the home is becoming not only the definitive means of displaying wealth but a way of cutting ourselves off from the rest of the community. The truly stunning architectural fantasies are frequently as removed from the rest of society as possible. Their designs emphasise privacy and if they face out it is usually on to wide unpopulated vistas. A world away in suburban Australia the intention seems to be the same. Ever larger entertainment areas, surrounded by inward facing rooms and higher walls, separate us further and further from the outside world. Truly a man's home is fast becoming his castle; I expect drawbridges and moats to be offered shortly. Watching Grand Designs, though, I cannot help but think of what these grand structures will look like once they've been exposed to the elements and toddlers for a couple of decades. Things get marked, scarred and worn however well built they are. The grandest building program in the world can't guarantee eternal happiness - just ask King Solomon:
"I undertook great projects: I built houses for myself and planted vineyards. I made gardens and parks and planted all kinds of fruit trees in them. I made reservoirs to water groves of flourishing trees. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun." (Ecc. 2:4-11)
But before we become too smug in the knowledge of the rising damp and roving tree roots that will assail all things, take a moment to consider the important lessons that can be learned from a program like this one. Grand Designs underlines that people are profoundly affected by the architecture they inhabit. For the last couple of generations Christianity has been undergoing a widespread rejection of the architecture traditionally associated with its faith. Cathedrals have been widely criticised for their upkeep and ministers have longed for structures more suited to the teaching they hope to carry out. The result has been a drive towards buildings that more resemble schools and corporate offices than anything else. But the emotional impact of Grand Designs creations illustrates that churches are far more than rain shelters.
When Sir Christopher Wren presented the completed St Paul's Cathedral to Queen Mary, the British monarch complimented the architect by saying, "Christopher! It's awful!" And it remains so today. Awe-ful. Awe-inspiring. In the past church structures have effectively communicated to our souls our smallness in the presence of the creator, and inspired us with hints of his majesty. Even today non-believers will seek out the solitude older chapels provide for the spiritual introspection they encourage. Sacred architecture cannot provide the whole Christian message, no matter how extensive its collection of stained glass windows, but it can prepare the heart by providing a supportive context. It is part of the method of our communication of the Gospel. In the end it is not just about whether or not we have an effective seating arrangement. As Kevin McCloud puts it:
"All good architecture adds to places by enriching our environment, not by ticking boxes and conforming to a series of policy requirements."
Does the world have trouble distinguishing our message from the slick campaign of other corporations? Are our congregations as little inspired by the preached Word as they are by a lecture on algebra? Could this be in part due to the physical environments we have created? At the most basic level, could the average Australian distinguish our modern suburban church from the home of any other social club? Grand Designs demonstrates that all architecture conveys a message of some kind - whether we like it or not - and it is worth considering what sort of messages our current buildings convey for us.
