If you stand in the center of the Pantheon, staring up at the blue Roman sky through the round eye in the ceiling 142 feet above you, it’s hard not to feel awe. Two thousand years old, the structure is still as sturdy as the day it was completed. A masterwork of physics and architecture, its dome was the largest in the world for thirteen centuries, measuring 142 feet across. When I lived in Rome, I would often go to the Pantheon and lean against its massive Corinthian columns. There is a calmness you feel, standing in its shadows. Despite the constant bustle of tourists, tour guides shouting out their facts, and Roman seagulls squawking for the next morsel of bread, you can rest easy knowing you stand under a structure that has withstood barbarian invasions, earthquakes, and thousands of years of rain, sun, and wind.

Today, on a cold New Hampshire Sunday in late March, I’m standing under the rafters of another structure that gives off such a sense of stability. It feels almost blasphemous to compare a mere two-story building (with a basement) to the Pantheon, but as the master builder, Patrick Lemmon, would soon point out to me in his lilting South Carolina drawl, there are more than a few similarities. He and his business partner, Seth Haris, and their team are building this house.

Orthodox Masonry, Lemmon’s and Haris’s business, is a cut above most building contractors. He and his team design and build masonry and timber frame structures. They pride themselves on the beauty of their work and on controlling every process of the construction: from design and groundbreaking to the finish work. Lemmon is no ordinary stonemason. He studied theology and music for four years. Then, after graduating, he took up an apprenticeship with a master mason, learning his craft. Many of the craftsmen who work alongside Lemmon have followed similar trajectories. One studied philosophy; another has a fine arts background. Several of the team have degrees in architecture and three are master carpenters, but none have a merely technical education. They are artisans and artists.

The name Orthodox Masonry is a nod to the book Orthodoxy, the seminal work of Lemmon’s favorite writer, G. K. Chesterton. As the name suggests, Lemmon and his team use ancient techniques in their building. “But it’s not about traditional practices,” he stresses. “It’s about orthodox practices. We don’t want to be stuck in the past using old methods that don’t really work. There are true, good, and beautiful methods that have been passed down through the ages that still work. It’s those methods that we are trying to put to use.” Many buildings these days are built with what he calls disposable construction: vinyl siding, stud walls, and lots of insulation. When they use masonry, it’s often a veneer – a brick façade with a non-brick structure behind it. (Veneer-eal disease, Haris jokes.) It’s essentially fake, pretending to be something it is not.

“When you’re faking something,” he explains, “it has to be perfect. Disposable construction has a one-dimensional focus on a particular type of perfection. When you draw a set of lines with a ruler, one wobble is very noticeable, but that’s not how true craftsmanship works. That’s not how Michelangelo painted.” The bricks used in most contemporary buildings have to be without flaws. But when he builds his thick brick walls he can use as many reject bricks as the Old Carolina Brick Company will sell him. Most of the bricks that he uses in the center of the wall had been slated for garden edging before he purchased them at a discount. He recalls the line of the Hallel, “The stone that the builders rejected …” (Ps. 118:22). Because of the old methods that he and his team are using, they not only save on costs but also build in a way that is kinder to the environment. “We didn’t set out to build one of the most nontoxic buildings in New England,” he half boasts. “But we’ve managed.”

Lemmon doesn’t see the path from his education in theology and music to his masonry work as a rupture. Rather, what he does now is a continuation of what he learned. His grasp of the language of music has passed over into his understanding of architecture. “Music is a language that is still alive,” he explains, “because the people who theorize about it are also the people making music. If I sit down with my guitar, I can come up with a complex chord sequence and work it into a song. Then I can repeat that chord sequence at different points throughout that song. For my architecture work, it’s the same. I add one detail here,” he points to the arching wooden beam above us; a groove curves along its length. “And then I repeat it here,” he points to the fireplace. The same indentation is mirrored in the masonry. “The problem with most architecture is that the architect is not involved in the actual process of building. The language of architecture is dying, but when you’re involved in the actual construction of the building, you can work with the materials you have and build in a way that makes sense and is beautiful.”

There is a fire crackling in the large stone fireplace in the unenclosed living room. We move closer to it as the New Hampshire wind is biting for a late March morning. The structure of the house is magnificent, the deep earth tones of the bricks contrasting with the large wooden beams. The lintels over the doors and windows arch gracefully.

Building with these older methods can add cost and time, but there are some savings. Many of the synthetic materials used in “disposable construction” are made redundant. The thick walls make air conditioning unnecessary and heating efficient, as the house holds its temperature throughout the day. Still, such a house is clearly very expensive. In a housing market where many, if not most, cannot afford to purchase even the smallest of buildings, are they catering to the upper-middle class? Is a home built with this kind of care and beauty only available to the rich? Lemmon hears my questions, but counters. “It’s certainly something we think about, but you have to start somewhere, and building with the more disposable methods is not a long-term solution, as the houses will only last a few decades at most.”

Lemmon delights in explaining the different styles of laying brick: the English bond, the common bond, the Flemish bond – each has its place. But the most interesting aspect to me is the mortar he uses. Rather than the standard Portland cement, which acts as a vapor barrier, he uses lime mortar, one of the oldest types of mortar. It is able to wick and absorb vapor and moisture, leaving it less affected by seasonal weather changes. It’s like skin, he explains. It is even self-healing, the moisture helping to close up cracks and fissures before the cement crumbles. Something like lime mortar – a mixture of limestone and volcanic ash – was used in the construction of the Pantheon, one of the reasons it has lasted so long without crumbling. The setting process for lime mortar is more complicated (it won’t set below a certain temperature, so they have to run a heater during the winter months), but done right it results in stronger, longer-lasting brickwork.

In an age that cedes most every decision to the checkbook, building with these old methods is a way of pushing back. It’s saying that there are things more important than the profit and loss sheet. “How do you define a good house?” Lemmon asks me. “There are a few factors to consider. But one is certainly this: Will it last for a hundred years and have become more valuable than it was on the day it was finished?” This house likely will.