the unlikely orange

  "the broken path: station 8 - Jesus is placed in the tomb" gregory a. milinovich spray paint, broken glass, pottery, tiles, mirror on old farm window march, 2021 this year during lent, i was inspired to design a set of eight pieces of art for a "stations of the cross" installation, which is currently on display outside on the front lawn at St. Paul's UMC and Wesley Foundation at 230 E. College Ave. in State College, PA.  it will be there on display until april 3rd, 2021.  if you aren't able to see it in person, you can see the whole collection here.  i've also decided to write a bit about each one, so that you can find out a little "behind the scenes" information for each one, and hear a little about my inspiration.  here are the posts for station 1, station 2, station 3, station 4, station 5, station 6, and station 7. this brings us to the final station, in which we remember that the lifeless body was taken down from the cross, and then brou...

  "the broken path: station 7 - Jesus dies on the cross" gregory a. milinovich broken glass, ceramics, tiles on old farm window march, 2021 this year during lent, i was inspired to design a set of eight pieces of art for a "stations of the cross" installation, which is currently on display outside on the front lawn at St. Paul's UMC and Wesley Foundation at 230 E. College Ave. in State College, PA.  it will be there on display until april 3rd, 2021.  if you aren't able to see it in person, you can see the whole collection here.  i've also decided to write a bit about each one, so that you can find out a little "behind the scenes" information for each one, and hear a little about my inspiration.  here are the posts for station 1 , station 2 , station 3 , station 4 , station 5 , and station 6 .  this seventh station of the cross is meant to urge us to consider the very last breaths of Jesus' life.  no more do we linger on the agony and tortur...

  "the broken path: station 6 - Jesus is nailed to the cross" rev. gregory a. milinovich broken glass, tiles, stones, sea glass on old farm window march, 2021 this year during lent, i was inspired to design a set of eight pieces of art for a "stations of the cross" installation, which is currently on display outside on the front lawn at St. Paul's UMC and Wesley Foundation at 230 E. College Ave. in State College, PA.  it will be there on display until april 3rd, 2021.  if you aren't able to see it in person, you can see the whole collection here.  i've also decided to write a bit about each one, so that you can find out a little "behind the scenes" information for each one, and hear a little about my inspiration.  here are the posts for station 1 , station 2 , station 3 , station 4 , and station 5 .  in this post, we turn our attention to station 6, in which Jesus is nailed to the cross.  the whole idea of a body being nailed to a piece of wood...

  "The Broken Path: Station 5 - Jesus is Stripped" gregory a. milinovich broken glass, tiles on old farm window march, 2021 this year during lent, i was inspired to design a set of eight pieces of art for a "stations of the cross" installation, which is currently on display outside on the front lawn at St. Paul's UMC and Wesley Foundation at 230 E. College Ave. in State College, PA.  it will be there on display until april 3rd, 2021.  if you aren't able to see it in person, you can see the whole collection here .  i've also decided to write a bit about each one, so that you can find out a little "behind the scenes" information for each one, and hear a little about my inspiration.  here are the posts for station 1 , station 2 , station 3 , and station 4 .  in this post we are turning to station 5, in which we remember that Jesus was stripped of his clothes, and of his dignity.  in this piece, i wanted to create a sense of nakedness without being...

  "The Broken Path: Station 4 - Jesus Meets the Women of Jerusalem" gregory a. milinovich broken glass, tile, sea glass on old farm window march, 2021 this year during lent, i was inspired to design a set of eight pieces of art for a "stations of the cross" installation, which is currently on display outside on the front lawn at St. Paul's UMC and Wesley Foundation at 230 E. College Ave. in State College, PA.  it will be there on display until april 3rd, 2021.  if you aren't able to see it in person, you can see the whole collection here .   i've also decided to write a bit about each one, so that you can find out a little "behind the scenes" information for each one, and hear a little about my inspiration.  here are the posts for station 1 , station 2 , and station 3 .  today we turn our attention to station 4: Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem.  we meet these women in luke 23:27-31, where we are told they are following him, along with a huge...

  "The Broken Path: Station 3 - Simon of Cyrene Helps Jesus Carry the Cross" by gregory a. milinovich broken glass and sea glass on an old farm window march, 2021 in case you are just tuning in, i sharing a series of posts about eight different stations of the cross which i created on old windows with bits of broken glass.  you can see the first station here , and the second one here .  (you can also view the whole series, with the prayers, questions for meditation, and a video version here ).   this station is about Simon of Cyrene, whom we read about in Mark 15:21-23, with only the barest details.  he was charged with helping Jesus to carry the cross, but in the end, it was a helpless kind of helping, really.  the man Simon was helping - Jesus - was still about to die, no matter what.  there was nothing Simon could do to really change anything.   this is the same idea lifted up in the prayer for this station by Padraig O'Tuama from "Da...

  "The Broken Path: Station 2 - Jesus Takes Up the Cross" gregory a. milinovich broken glass and tile on old farm window march, 2021 in these art installation i have really worked on creating a sense of brokenness.  my hope was to invite the viewer to consider both the brokenness of Jesus and the brokenness of self.  i want to conjure up images of the broken flesh of Jesus, and the broken spirits of those who bear the weight of too many burdens put on them.  in this station, in particular, i wanted to really convey that sense of broken flesh and spirits and sinews stretched thin.  as i mentioned in my post on the first station , each station is partially inspired by prayers by Padraig O'Tuama in "Daily Prayer with the Corrymeela Community" (copyright 2017, canterbury press, norwich, london).  here is the prayer i used as inspiration for this station:  Burdened God, who bore the weight of wood on torn shoulders, We pray for the torn and the burdened, th...

  during this season of lent, at the church i serve, we've been talking about brokenness.  we've been looking at the ways that our journey is often a broken journey, full of missteps, sidetracks, and dead ends.  and yet, we have been seeing, as clearly as ever, that those broken places are exactly the same places where grace grows.  the cracks are where the light shines through.   so, as a way to continue to reflect on this brokenness, the worship team thought we might do an art installation outside, on the church property, of the stations of the cross, but in a way that expressed not only the brokenness of Jesus' body and journey to the tomb, but also the brokenness of our world and our hearts.  using something i made several years ago, i thought we might be able to use old windows and broken glass to help tell the story.   so, in the end, i made eight separate stations of the cross, each one on an old window that came from an old farmhouse...

"lent 7, 2015: hope" mixed media collage (tissue paper, wallpaper glue, acrylic paint, gel medium, and a found stone on stretched canvas) march, 2015 gregory a. milinovich here is hope? here in the midst of stones? here, with carved rock and granite graves? here, in the valley; in the shadow of death? this is where our journey leads? to the chill of earth-cold stone, and it's deathy darkness? here? this is hope? yet what if the stones have been moved? what if the rocks have been rolled? what if death's icy grip has been broken? what if this cemetery is really a birthing room? what if love could crush fear and brokenness? what if life could emerge, even out of death? what if "good" and "very good" were worth saving? what if the Maker would do this, for what was made? what if the icy sting of the grave turns out to be birth pangs? what if....resurrection? here? among the stones?  among all this death? here is hop...

that gravelly voice    will not sing the safe songs    or even the expected ones. he sings of trains,    of a relentless movement towards justice,    of the clickety-clack of history towards something worth hoping for. he sings of love, of course,    but not as an emotion to be exploited,    but as a force to be reckoned with. he sings of new jersey, of course,   but also of youngstown and johnstown,    of steel mills and nebraska and the michigan line. he sings of the outlaws, the outsiders,    the unwelcome, the unaccepted,    and the untouchables. he sings of having a good time, and can dance with the best of them in his own way,    but only when everyone is invited to the party,    including those with dirty fingernails and rolled-up sleeves. he holds a guitar in one hand,    having learned to make it sing, and a pen in the other,...

  the following is a poem i wrote about winter and death and spring and life.  the photos above are from our dining room window, where we taped some paper snowflakes we made as a family.    i am a snowflake a temporary crystalline arrangement a single patterned thing falling into place like a piece of some impossibly hard jigsaw puzzle.   i am a cold stone covered in a blanket of cold white an icy unmoved object not untouched but unseen, for now buried in winters numb blank grave   i am a shaft of sunlight a momentary aiming arrow warming one spot, dancing in anticipation daring to point in bright hope   i am not my own carved by many winters and stamped with divinity, a little lower than the snowflakes, perhaps, but just as hopeful as the sun i am made for being born again, falling into place like some impossibly hopeful seed.   

i've been thinking about composting. about how what we've used - and left unused - helps to make new things to use and enjoy.  i fill the ground with coffee grounds and missed bits of broccoli, and next year it will all help me experience the wonder of fresh cucumbers and carrots. it's a miracle. as i sit here at this carrefour of years, where old and new meet to diverge, i think about how all the yesterdays i can see over my shoulder are helping to grow all those tomorrows on the horizon. i fill the past with a few significant moments, but mostly mistakes and mundane moments, and somehow, it all helps me experience the wonder of new joys.  it's a miracle.  and while i wait here at the dawn of this new year, for cucumbers and consequential moments, i think of one more magnificent wonder: between all the buried fertilizing pasts and the unborn, latent futures, lies this particular moment, full of life and spirit and beating hearts ...

as is our tradition, we found a terrific tannenbaum, took that thing home, hung all kinds of memories and lights on it, and made it a central part of our home while we prepare the way for our savior this year.  like the tree, christ's love - and the love he has given to us to share with others - is evergreen.  unlike the tree, there is no death that can stop his love.  ever.    the whole family loves the process of decorating the tree.  i had written a poem about the process some time ago,  and posted it here on the blog, but i thought it might be worth reposting, since it's been 6 years.  here it is.    hung   i've hung it on some tree or other twenty-something times. i remember. its rite and ritual. that's right, its more than glass or brass or hallmark sentimentality. its more than the sum of its weight, more than the way it hangs on the tree. its more than it appears to be, this ornament. "each year...

    caught  (october, 2012) brothers in orange sweater vests,  smiling for the photograph in the front yard, site of so much hide and seek and tag.  caught, for now, in this bright moment through the lens, with arms around one another  like a huddle in the neigborhood football game. watching, snapping, through the glass, tagging all three with a hand of love; with one click of the frame, i capture my crazy blessedness in a colorful digital rectangle, caught.  for even longer than the lifespan of pixels, i am beyond blessed. 

oh what wicked webs we weave when at first we do deceive and oh the tangled sticky mess when we refuse to confess oh the grace of God we need which sets us free indeed, so let us shake free and take wing and find a freedom song to sing for the entangling web of sin is broken now and once again by mercy, truth, and love and redemption from above

why?  why has it come to this, O Lord?  in your great green growing world, how is that we have come to counting our bones? we lament the loss of limbs, cracking our gnashed teeth and recalling our former flesh: full of great glories and many members.  have you forsaken us, o God?  or have we too long rested on our reputation, content with counting bare bones? forgive us, God of abundant life, for our powder dry mouths when your living water is latent in us and among us. and are we yet alive? and can these bones live again and dance? yes!   deliver us, Lord of broken bone and torn flesh; deliver us, God of the downcast Spirit and the bone-weary ones.  deliver us from our past selves, and the sometimes crushing weight of our inheritance. deliver us from our present fear, and our crippling contentment with cutting our losses and counting our bones.  deliver us to our future, to your kingdom, to a wild an...

oh, First of all, you, who is so often our Last Resort, who is typically near the bottom of the list, you are our way - our only way - to health and wholeness...to ourselves. forgive us for giving you only a glance; for our passionate prejudice and fierce self-reliance. where we have treated independence like a golden god, refine us, and melt it down until we see the spaces in us, spaces only you can fill.  when we face those who would challenge us; when we are questioned or cajoled, when life seems to cast its cold and callous shadow over us, whose name will we call, o gentle healer? will we speak the name our parents gave us as a temporary signpost, or will we dare to utter the name above all names? we pray for courage, for the guts to speak the name that turns death to life and despair to hope, which turns broken pieces into beauty, and dead dry bones into divine dance. we are the rejectors.  and yet you hav...

i've written about this in prior years, but each year after easter i feel a particular pull to make sure that we don't too hastily "move on," and forget about the "he is risen!" joy we've just experienced.  easter isn't a day; it is a way of life.  and so, i thought today, in an effort to keep the newness and the miracle of the resurrection fresh in our minds, i would share this poem by john updike.  i had never read this before until a colleague shared it with me last week, and i was deeply moved by it.  i hope you find it compelling as well, and that you allow resurrection and the hope it gives us to continue to shape you in the journey ahead.  Make no mistake: if He rose at all it was as His body; if the cells' dissolution did not reverse, the molecules reknit , the amino acids rekindle, the Church will fall. It was not as the flowers, each soft Spring recurrent; it was not as His Spirit in the mouths ...

"an endless bleeding - crucifixion" by thomas watson on this day- an earthquake day, a boundary breaking, curtain-splitting day, a turn things upside down and raise the dead day, a dark, dark, 'where is the sun?' day, a creation calling out in pains of labor and delivery day- on this day, life gives itself up. lets go, surrenders. all that has ever been seems to shake and shiver in the cold dark grasp of death and despair. the hopes of a million years, or more, the hopes of every creature ever preyed upon, the hopes of the huddled masses, the hopes of the powerful ones, only hoped in secret, private moments, the hopes of the broken everyone, the hopes of this mess i call me, are crushed like cracking stones, along faultlines of fear on this day, this deathday. 

saturday song time.  you know, people often say, when asked about what kinds of music they like, "oh, i like everything."  sometimes, if they're honest, they'll admit, "well, everything except country."  or sometimes its opera.  or rap. especially rap.  it seems that people either love or hate rap.  put me in the "love" category.  i mean, the genre as a whole.  there is a great deal of rap that i simply can't stand, because of what it glorifies or pretends to be.  but from a musical perspective, i love the concept of folk poetry being recited and encanted over rhythms and bits of sampled culture.  it pleases my ear, and, at its best, engages both my will to dance and my need to think deeply.  so, today, here's a song that i've been hitting "repeat" on my ipod alot for recently.  it's called "background" by lecrae and is about the need to get our ego and self-importance out of the way, if we are really going...