Originally, I was going to title this post, “Something Funny Happened on the Way Home to Watch the Golden Globes.”

And it was funny, to be sure; but in the context of the day in question, only to a point. Let me explain.

Earlier that day, I had gone to church in Hollywood. I had just arrived in town for an extended winter gig, and a Google search for nearby churches brought me to St. James in the City on Wilshire Blvd. for the first time.

As it was the eve of MLK day, I found myself in the happy circumstance of High Mass in the Anglican tradition with an African-American bent on that particular occasion, beginning with the opening voluntary that formed an improvisation on “Deep River.”

The homily, delivered by the Rev. Ron David, was a softly spoken powerhouse. In the opening anecdote, he described what it was like as a black man raised in the civil rights movement to walk down a street recently holding hands with his white granddaughter. At six years old, she knew enough to have Martin Luther King, Jr. to thank for that.

But lest we in the congregation settle too comfortably in our seats, Rev. David then went on to unpack the Old Testament reading with fairly disturbing parallels.

For just as the pericope from First Samuel tells the tender story of the young Samuel’s calling by the Lord when under the care of Eli in the temple, but stops one verse short of the very harsh message that God then gave Samuel to relay to Eli, so, too, we often do the same with our commemorations of Martin Luther King, Jr.: we celebrate his moving vision of racial equality from the mountaintop, but tend to stop short of his subsequent, more fatal condemnations of economic injustice and war—condemnations whose scope extended far beyond the African-American cause, all the way to the pews where we sat and the pulpit where Rev. David stood.

But so as not to lose sight of King’s essential message of hope, the service ended with “We Shall Overcome” for the closing hymn, which was followed by an excerpt of King’s “I have a dream” speech played on the sound system before we filed out in silence.

Ironically, or not, a multitude of less civic-minded but equally dream-based speeches were in the works that day—the day of the 2012 Golden Globes.

Normally, I wouldn’t pay much attention to the event—as much out of all my frustrated covetousness that I wasn’t there for a turn in the limelight, as out of a proper distaste for what is truly repugnant about the whole affair.

As a writer/producer on the first-season Starz drama, Boss, though, which had garnered two nominations—Best Series and Best Actor (Kelsey Grammer)—I was naturally and unabashedly interested this time around.

Not that I would be there in person for the event; that was only for the top brass and talent, i.e. the stars, the creator, and select studio/network executives. But I would certainly be watching it…or so I had hoped.

The problem was, the friend’s guest cottage where I’m staying in L.A. has no TV. He himself was booked for a Survivor marathon with a friend that night in the main house, and efforts made with other friends all came up empty: prior plans, illness, vacation, and even childbirth narrowed my options one by one down to zero.

“What the hell?” I thought in my car, wanting to get home in time for the red carpet to see if I could stream it online. I’m in L.A., I’m part of a show that’s been nominated for the Golden Globes, and I may not even be able to watch it?

Then came the next problem: traffic in Beverly Hills due to the event threw a major obstacle to my getting home to see if I could even stream it online. This was ridiculous and beginning to feel worthy of an existentialist short story: the event itself was the hindrance to my getting home in time to witness if the show that I worked on would win.

In the end, I listened on the phone with my wife back home as Kelsey Grammer won for Best Actor—deservedly so, if I can say that objectively—followed in short order by Homelandwinning Best Series.

Despite my greater sense of license to enjoy the awards show this time around, though, that morning’s church service had left an indelible mark.

Aside from the fact that Hollywood would plan the event on the eve of MLK day, reserving all of Monday’s attention for George Clooney instead of Martin Luther King, Jr., I stood convicted by the imaginary snippets of a would-be thank-you speech were I ever to find myself awarded at such an event.

As a writer, I have a dream—more than one in fact—but these dreams are tainted because I give in to the prevailing values of this culture so long as I keep my eyes on my own prize.

For what was so painfully clear on January 15th, 2012, a year and a half away from the fiftieth anniversary of King’s speech at the March on Washington, is that we will overcome nothing as long as red carpets and golden statuettes absorb more attention than the corrections of systemic injustice. Martin, pray for us.