As you know by now, the Michigan vote recount was canceled by the courts, who apparently thought only a losing candidate has a stake in the integrity of a election. It’s way more than just “a pity,” but our energy is waning. We’re feeling a little worn. Which is, I fear, what the far right is counting on.

Last week, more than 500 clergy and faith leaders from across the country converged at Standing Rock Sioux Reservation, in support of the Sioux people and in solidarity with water protectors, protesting the Dakota Access Pipeline. I and two members of Woodside Church of Flint were among them.

You’re about to not like what I have to say.

I'm voting 3rd party. Go ahead, criticize. Berate, vilify me. Tell me I’m about to bring the downfall of democracy as we know it. I’ve heard it already. From church people. School teachers. Trusted friends. My dentist. People I care about. All with good thoughts and reasons. Worthy of response. So I’ll try.

I quit singing the national anthem more than 25 years ago. It is hard to sing, for sure; but moreover, I have had no taste for the militarism and dominance on which it is founded and which it spews. Plus, “the land of the free and the home of the brave” has never really rung true for me, as a lesbian lacking both civil rights and courageous political leaders who would be allies in the pursuit. America just doesn’t seem all that brave to me.

This week, lesbian, gay, transgender and other queer folks are still reeling from a massacre of 50 of us in an Orlando nightclub, and many of our families and allies are still grieving the loss of life – as well, perhaps, as the loss of their own innocent belief that LGB people’s battles are done. (Even the most insulated would have a hard time hiding from the battle over bathrooms waged openly against our transgender brothers and sisters.)

And we mourn and pray and shake our heads, and wonder whether anything will ever be different, whether we will ever regain any sense of responsibility to one another or any sense of national well-being or human equilibrium. Signs are not good.

I had a day yesterday of not liking people very much.

There’s a series on Hulu I’ve fallen for lately, only 8 episodes, so not too much of a distraction. It is called 11.22.63, which, of course, is the day Kennedy was shot and killed in Dealey Plaza in Dallas.

The short story is that Jake, a high school and adult ed teacher from Maine in 2015, learns through a friend about a time portal, the “rabbit hole,” through which he can travel back to October 1960. The friend, dying from cancer as a result of Agent Orange, persuades Jake to go back and prevent the assassination, to prevent the ramp-up in Vietnam, which he blamed on Johnson, and so ultimately to prevent the friend’s cancer. So Jake tries it. And without ruining the whole thing for you, I can tell you this lesson he learned pretty quickly: when you try to change the past, the past pushes back.

There was a moment in the Democratic Presidential Debate Sunday night which I’ve been pondering since. A question that dogs me. It was this: Don Lemon of CNN asked both candidates to name their racial blind spots. You can grade their responses for yourself, but I think they both stumbled.

And I’ve been asking myself since then what my own racial blind spot is, or more likely, what they are. plural.

Vesuvius was an actual natural disaster. Water and holocaust, not so much. But I wonder the degree to which false hope or false certainty keep us in denial, make us complicit.

Christianity all too often lives out just enough generosity to let itself off a moral hook of some kind, and then goes back to business as usual, without ever considering how to make generosity less necessary.

THIS WEEK, 30,000 or so youth (and adult leaders) from the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America descended on Detroit for the ELCA triennial national youth gathering. They’re worshipping at Ford Field, turning downtown into something like Disneyland according to at least one writer, and “proclaiming justice” throughout the city by acts of service. The early reports and facebook posts are showing a lot of trash-collecting. My teenaged nephew is among the gathered, and I am certain that these well-meaning young Christians want deeply to make a difference. They want to change the world. I applaud them.

But I would like to say that almost no one in Detroit is dying from trash in their yards or trash in the street.

Here is the headline: Tony Campolo “Comes Out.”

I suppose the best thing to do with this would be ignore it. Campolo chose to be a non-player in this social revolution a long time ago.

But I resent the headline. Because coming out means something way more substantial than being grudgingly ok with gay people in your church, in your world. Tony Campolo hasn’t Come Out. But maybe Tony Campolo has Caught Up. With majority of the rest of the world. He has finally concluded that gay people are not an abomination to God and a detriment to society after all.

This is what I offer to you, and what I will do my best to hear today as well:

You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last. You join a ministry as old as the ages and new everyday. There is some freedom in that. Believe that God operates through imagination more than intimidation or exhortation. Draw attention to the brokenness of our world and invite folks to see their creative part in mending it. Not just in the congregation, but in the community. We are church for community. It’s the only reason.

James Robertson is a lucky man. He caught the attention of a Detroit reporter, who told his story of long commute, low wages, high cost of vehicle ownership and poor public transportation. His story then caught the attention of a 19-year-old college student with a penchant for social media (and a couple of others who haven’t been quite as featured in follow-up stories). The story went viral in a feel-good fund-raising kind of way, and as of today James Robertson’s cause has raised more than $250,000 from kind people across the country.

But you can tell I’m about to not like this story.

Another day down. I have probably said a similar thing in a flippant sort of way. Or maybe in a burdened way when the day was busy or challenging or I kept getting interrupted or there was a line at the post office or the coffee spilled or the printer was out of ink or the stapler inexplicably quit functioning or someone gave me a look for no good reason or I forgot to put out the recycling or they were out of whatever I couldn’t live without at target.

This wasn’t like that.

There is a song that I love, a song about love. You probably know it. It is called “Hallelujah,” though it doesn’t claim to be a religious song and as far as I know wasn’t on any religious top-40 charts.

Home ownership is good for people, good for communities. Flint has a lot of vacant houses and is threatened, in fact, by blight and arson. We NEED people owning and living in houses. But if banks are unwilling to be good to the very people who bailed them out when they, the banks, damn near killed us all, then maybe we can do something else.

Way back, when the Jesus movement was new, before the “new testament” was even scripture, some people expressed their hopes and longings, as well as their experiences and perceptions, in stories they told aloud, and in letters to groups of people forming around the Jesus movement. They told the stories in ways that were truthful and faithful.

Sadly, over the course of not too many generations, followers of Jesus got lazy and contentious, and the movement got co-opted (see also “Constantine,” “imperialism,” “political oppression”), just as religion always does by people who have a stake in systems remaining intact. These days, we find ourselves too often parsing – or reciting – ancient language rather than telling our own stories of faith about the world and its Creative Source.