C.S. Lewis once compared Christianity to a great house. The central hallway represents the shared core of the faith—belief in Christ as expressed in the creeds focusing on the big essentials. Off the hallway are many rooms: the denominations. Anglican, Baptist, Methodist, Orthodox, Catholic, Pentecostal—each room furnished a little differently, each with its own style, music, and family traditions.
Lewis’ point was simple: the hallway is where we first meet Christ and one another, but we aren’t meant to live there forever. Eventually we choose a room. But sometimes, the way we behave in that house reveals something else entirely.
We might discover that deep down, like it or not, we’re closet fundamentalists.
If you’re wondering if that’s you, here’s your sign:
You Might be a Fundamentalist If You Think You Should Live in the Hallway
Lewis explained the hallway as a place for conversation and exploration. It’s where people meet, talk, and decide where they belong. But if you insist that no one should ever go into a room—that everyone should just permanently stand in the hallway comparing doctrinal notes—you might have missed the point.
That would represent a kind of ecumnecial fundamentalism. One that prohibits membership in a room. But the hallway isn’t meant to be a studio apartment. It’s not a permanent residence.
It’s more like the lobby at the entrance of a mall. You can hang out there for a minute, maybe wait for a friend, maybe decide whether you’re heading to the food court or the arcade. But if someone brings a sleeping bag and declares, “This is my new home,” security eventually will start asking questions.
Christian faith was meant to be lived somewhere—in a community, a tradition, a room where people pray, worship, and learn together.
Standing in the hallway forever isn’t spiritual maturity. It’s theological loitering.
You Might be a Fundamentalist If You Think Your Room Is the Only One That Matters
Every room in Lewis’s house has furniture that makes sense to the people living there. Some have liturgy and candles. Some have guitars and folding chairs. Some have long prayers and incense. Some have potlucks that could feed a small nation.
But if you walk around the house saying, “This is the only room with real Christians,” you might be missing the point of the house entirely.
Different rooms, same house.
You don’t have to pretend every room is identical. But assuming your room is the only one with oxygen probably says more about your perspective than the architecture of the house.
You Might be a Fundamentalist If You Look Down On Every Other Room
This is the spiritual equivalent of the kid in the cafeteria who refuses to sit at any table because no one is cool enough.
Sometimes people wander the hallway criticizing every room they pass.
“That room sings too formally.”
“That room sings too loudly.”
“That room has too many traditions.”
“That room doesn’t have enough traditions.”
“That room looks like it was decorated by someone who owned a Christian bookstore in 1987.”
Eventually you realize: the problem may not be the rooms.
It’s the critic.
If you find yourself spiritually rolling your eyes at every community in the house, you may not be guarding the faith. You may just be cultivating a very well-developed sense of superiority.
And historically speaking, that attitude has caused more church splits than bad worship music and disgruntled deacons combined.
You Might be a Fundamentalist If You Want to Redecorate the Hallway to Look More Like Your Room
Lewis’ hallway illustrates the shared essentials of Christianity—the core beliefs Christians across traditions affirm together.
But sometimes people want to drag the furniture from their room out into the hallway and declare, “This is now required for everyone.” They act like Tim the Toolman Taylor ready to lead the charge for home improvement.
Soon the hallway is filled with someone’s denominational sofa, someone else’s theological wallpaper, and a stack of pamphlets explaining why the other furniture is wrong.
It’s like when every kid in the 90s tried to make the entire world revolve around their favorite band. One friend had Nirvana posters everywhere. Another had Run DMC. Another insisted that Debbie Gibson was the only legitimate music left on earth.
Eventually someone has to say, “Guys… this is the hallway. Maybe keep your posters in your room.”
The strength of the hallway is that it holds the shared center of the faith. Once we start stuffing it with every preference and secondary issue, it stops being a meeting place and turns into a theological storage closet.
You Might be a Fundamentalist If You Don’t Really Care About People Outside the House
Lewis’ house exists because there are people outside who need to come in.
The tragedy is when the people inside become so focused on hallway arguments and room comparisons that they forget the entire reason the house exists.
Imagine the house is full of people arguing about carpet colors while outside the front door the world is confused, hurting, and wondering whether anyone inside cares.
At that point we’ve stopped being hosts.
We’re more like contestants on Survivor, just trying to outwit and outlast each other.
The Christian story has always been outward-facing. Love your neighbor. Care for the poor. Welcome the stranger.
If we’re more passionate about defending our room than inviting people into the house, something has gone sideways.
Perhaps your culture war posture has blinded you to the fundamentalist room you’ve locked yourself into. Maybe it’s time to break free and open your eyes to the needs of the world.
The Point of the House
Lewis’ metaphor reminds us that Christianity is bigger than any one room but deeper than the hallway.
We explore the hallway together.
We live faithfully in our rooms.
And we keep the front door open.
Because the goal was never to win arguments in the corridor.
The goal was always to welcome people into the house.
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Check out my new podcast Why I’m Not, a journey of verbal processing and theological reflection upon my experience in and through Christian fundamentalism.