Articles by Martyn Wendell Jones

He longs for the grace he knew those years ago when he could run and not grow tired.

Many others have availed themselves of those super-absorbent and inconsistently lotioned sheets over the years.

In those days a decree went out from the Senior Pastor that all the newcomers should be registered.

The brazen minivan driver who flaunts his plastic ichthus does so without the specter of his own dismemberment looming in his mind.

Cheap and disposable, they end up ribbing the outsides of full trash bags the Monday after communion Sunday.

Christ the Word is hidden in these plastic rings, his work parceled into color-coded units and translated into a wordless language.

Our ecclesiology is written into the church pew.

Where were you when the youth pastor announced the lock-in,

and all the sons of God shouted for joy?

Part of identifying with a faith such as ours is an acceptance of the idiom, of all the community’s idiosyncratic terms and symbols.

If one’s eyes go crosswise during a lengthy sermon, it’s not unlikely that the Christian and American flags set next to one another will bleed together into a red, white, and blue smudge.

Each dollar in the plate is a gesture at bringing the logic of capital under another logic entirely, one that upends power and wealth and presumes to make the last first.

“What is this mystical drink, this gift of God to the people of God?”

“Some say “I follow Peter,” and others say “I follow Apollos.” Well, here are a few guys whose hearts are sold out for comedy alone. Soli commedia gloria.”

Every Wednesday in Holy Relics, Martyn Jones explores artifacts unique to Christian subculture. This week: self-pleasure accountability groups.

With hands free, the body is free to emphasize just how much the truth has set one free.

While their decontextualized bits of scripture might not add nuance or depth to a person’s faith, the momentary reminder they offer of God’s promises to his Church is not a bad thing.