The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house,

but it did not fall because it had been founded on rock.

- Matthew 7.25

When Hurricane Michael chugged across Mexico Beach on the Florida Gulf Coast, the storm clear-cut the coastal village and left nearly nothing standing; nearly. "The Sand Palace," Russel King's beach house, stood tall. The rain gushed in runnels from the eves. The flood waters never reached the floors. The winds broke a small window.  

Russel King and his nephew, Lebron Lackey, had built for the big one. 

The forty foot pilings held up. The specially chosen screws held on. The reinforced steel held out. By design, the exterior staircase detached like a tearaway football jersey and took none of the stucco with it. King and Lackey knew the storm was coming, and planned accordingly. Their creation exceeded state wind storm standards, and the category-four bluster fell one hundred miles per hour short of its maximum. 

Such security did not come cheap. Charles A. Gaskin, the architect who designed the three-story edifice, said the owners paid roughly double the going rate per square foot.

The rains fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock.

Jesus took life's storms as a given. He allowed no room for speculation: the world will test the life you build; the big one is out there and everyone sits in the center of the bull's eye. The only question is one of preparation. 

Christians often read this famous parable in terms of personal salvation: Only a life anchored on the Rock of Ages has a beach home's chance in Hell of holding up. 

That's a legitimate application, but not the real interpretation. Jesus proposed this parable as the capstone to a sermon that deals with life choices: Whether to pray; how to handle oppression; what to do with one's money. His blueprint exceeds the legal requirements: murder is a cat-four offense, but forgiveness defies the cat-five forces of hatred. If adultery topples purity, plan to hold off lustful thoughts. Public piety looks good but can't withstand the headwinds of harsh reality; private prayer and fenced-in fasting forty feet below the surface of the soul invite the vortex of hard times to do their worst. 

You have heard that it was said to the people long ago. . . .But I tell you. . . .

Kingdom living costs you double what Moses' building code demands, but it stands strong when life gets real. Dallas Willard once asked if it was better to have good insurance on a car with bad brakes, or good brakes on an uninsured vehicle. Jesus prioritizes sound architecture over a prime policy. To mix the metaphor, the Lord isn't selling fire insurance; he's offering an asbestos soul.

Every day, Christians face the same question in the onslaughts of life's inevitable storms: Does Jesus really know what he's talking about? Build your house by the Kingdom code; pay the price our Almighty Architect demands.