By Jeremy Rutledge

May 11, 2008

Every month as I collect my things for the walk over, I’m sure that I’m going to be the only one. It’s really a difficult time to gather, I’ll think to myself. I mean, 5:00 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. And it’s not an easy place to get to, the great fountain in the middle of the broad and busy traffic circle. There aren’t many good places to park. Crossing to the center requires luck and patience. To make matters worse, we meet only once a month so it’s easy to forget. Some months are terrifically hot. Sometimes it rains. This is the mental litany I go through every month as I collect my things for the walk over. I’m sure that I’m going to be the only one. Yeah, I’ll think. This is the month that no one else will turn up. Then I take a deep breath, roll up the bright green banner that reads, "A Call to Your Conscience: SaveDarfur.org," sling the bag with the water bottle and the cell phone over my shoulder, and begin the ten-minute walk to the fountain. As I approach the fountain, which is usually just a few minutes before 5:00 p.m., I squint at the structure and the bare grass surrounding it. I wait for an interval in the traffic, dash across to the circle, and find the place on its south side where I always unfurl the banner. Every month I do this alone. Every month I am sure no one is else is coming. And every month I am wrong.

Many of you know that we’ve been holding our monthly vigil for Darfur for over a year now. Some of you have even faithfully attended that vigil and so you know a bit about what it’s like. But what I’d like to proclaim this morning is a word that has been breathed throughout the course of the vigil’s first year. It is a word well-suited for a Sunday that Christian churches around the world celebrate as Pentecost Sunday, a day to mark the ways some sacred spirit comes to unite people, breathe life into them, and help them to reach a greater understanding. But this is also a Sunday when progressive churches have begun to add the theme of pluralism, stressing that the sacred spirit breathes not only through Christian people, but through people of every religion and philosophy. So this is a Sunday to consider if some spirit can’t be found even in the midst of the incredible diversity of our traditions. Which brings me back to the first Friday of every month at the Mecom Fountain. I mentioned that every month I am convinced that no one will meet me at the fountain and I’ll be left to stand on my own as some sort of crazy prophet or, more accurately, romantic fool, with a banner calling out to the good consciences of countless commuters. And I mentioned that every month I was wrong. What I have not yet mentioned is that nearly every month the people who turn up are quite different than I am. In fact, about half of the time I have no idea who they are and so we strike up these wonderful conversations, pitching our voices above the din of the traffic. "Hi, are you here for the Darfur vigil?" "Yeah, hi, who are you?" "Jeremy." "I don’t think we’ve met."

After the requisite exchange of names and observations about the weather or the number of cars we had to dodge, the conversation usually gets more interesting. Over the course of the past year or so I have met many other Christians who have come to the vigil. But I have also met Unitarian Universalists who heard about the vigil, Muslims who learned of the effort, Hindus who received forwarded e-mails and joined us, and Buddhists who came to show their solidarity with the cause. We have had a number of high school and college students join us, white kids and African American kids. We have had robust numbers of retirees, braving the elements to come and stand with us. And we have had a smattering of clergy from different denominations and traditions, all gathering behind the same simple banner.

It never fails to inspire me, the way I am wrong every month---the way I think no one is coming and then find myself making new friends fifteen minutes later, new friends so different from me with values that are so similar. And so this vigil, a vigil that started out as a way of trying to hold on to our humanity in the face of the genocidal crimes being committed in Sudan, has offered a kind of deepening of that humanity. As we find common cause, it feels like there is a sort of spirit among us. It feels like we are speaking the same language, a language that would cry out in protest and ask others to heed the spirit that stirs each of us to work for justice. If this were the only spirit among us, then I suppose we could just end the sermon here and bask in the glow of our humanitarian harmony. But the story of our vigil isn’t as simple as that. And the spirit of conscience that brings so many of us to the circle again and again has been buffeted recently by other winds.

Earlier this year, as we stood with our banner at the traffic circle, a City Parks truck with flashing lights pulled up across the street. Out climbed two men, looking straight at our small cluster of people with the "Save Darfur" sign. They waited for a break in the traffic and crossed to meet us. The men were park rangers, and, after shaking our outstretched hands, they asked if we had a permit. I told them that we didn’t have a permit because, when I phoned the City of Houston to tell them about our vigil, they informed me that we would not need a permit to gather. I’ll spare you the bureaucratic details of the conversation that ensued, but the park rangers assured me that the City was very different than the City Parks and that the Parks Department required a permit. In compliance with the rangers’ request, we took down our banner and basically disbanded our vigil that day. They assured me that if we applied for a permit, future vigils would not be a problem.

In the beginning this all seemed fair enough to me. I’m a first child. I’m eager to please. Besides, my philosophy is nonviolent and I was not interested in creating a stir. So I voiced only minor frustration with the fact that I wished the city had told us to check with the parks in the first place. We told the rangers that we would suspend our gathering until the necessary permits could be acquired. A few days later, I sat at my desk and wrote a letter to the director of permits with the Parks Department. I sent the request off naively, not knowing that the process I had begun would take over three months and put me into contact with literally a half dozen people from the Parks Department to the Mayor’s Office. Again, I will spare you the bureaucratic details. Let’s just say that there was a spirit to many of those conversations that I might not describe as the spirit of Pentecost. If I knew the Greek word for "red tape" I could come up with something clever here, but let’s just call it a kind of spirit of resistance. Most of the people I talked to seemed happy enough to explain to me why we shouldn’t really gather at the circle at all or simply refer me to some other person in a different office. Every conversation seemed to contradict the previous one. So we didn’t need a permit. We did need a permit. It was our right. It wasn’t our right. We should talk to the city. We should talk to the parks. On and on the hot winds blew, meanwhile one month went by and then another without a vigil. And then my own spirit began to change.

At some point I began to interrupt people on the telephone. "Did you read the letter I forwarded?" I’d ask. "Do you know what this is about? Do you know what is happening in Darfur?" Every single person said they did not know about Darfur. One person asked me where it was, you know, what continent. "It’s in Africa," I said. "I have to tell you what is happening." And then, in a ridiculous attempt to hang on to the shreds of my own humanity I’d tell people what was happening. Clerks in city offices. Secretaries in the parks department. Their bosses. Anyone who would listen. "It’s genocide," I’d say. "Ethnic cleansing. It’s happening again." "They’re killing babies there. They’re systematically raping women. They’re poisoning wells and dropping bombs on schools. I’m not making this up. And if you don’t know about it, that’s why we have to be there. We have to go to the fountain. Don’t you see? Can’t you hear? Tell me what to do. Give me the right form. But don’t take our voices away. Don’t stifle this spirit!" Once or twice I got a bit choked up as I spoke, sure that the person on the other end of the line was probably trying to figure out how to get the crazy person off the phone. But it felt crazy to me not to speak, so I did. And more than one city worker said that they were appalled to learn what was happening in Darfur. One woman told me she wished our group well. Another asked how she could learn more and if there was something she could do to help. Finally, someone from the mayor’s office phoned last month to assure me that our group did not need a permit. "This is a First Amendment issue," she said. "Tell the park rangers that you are simply exercising your First Amendment right to free speech." I thanked the woman and hung up the phone, relieved to finally be given such a clear answer. Later we scheduled the next vigil and began to spread the word that our gatherings would resume in May.

One of the places we shared news of the vigil’s return was at a recent meeting of the Houston Peace Forum that met specifically to discuss Darfur. We learned at that meeting that conditions have worsened considerably and the violence in Darfur has now spread to neighboring Chad and threatens to destabilize much of the region. The situation is desperate and public pressure has never been more important. Many measures, such as U.N. peacekeepers have been approved by the Security Council, but they have not been fully funded and staffed, which is where our voices come in. Much of the intervention we seek already has the support of the international community, but the political will to implement it is lacking. Our voices count now more than ever. And real, sustained public pressure can make a difference. We might remember that real, sustained public pressure has always made a difference from the women’s suffrage movement to the civil rights struggle to the anti-apartheid campaign. Now is our time to apply the same pressure on behalf of the people of Darfur. As we discussed these matters at the Peace Forum, there was a familiar spirit in the air. A roomful of people set aside their differences and spoke passionately about their common humanity and their desire to help sisters and brothers. I left that meeting energized, looking forward to the next vigil.

When the Friday for the vigil came, I collected my things and walked to the fountain. This time I was actually surprised that no one was there as there seemed to be so much good energy at the recent forum. As I unfurled the banner, I smiled to myself. Who would have thought that this would finally be the time when no one else shows up? After all those weeks of work. After all those calls to the city and such a lively discussion with the peaceniks. Oh well, I thought, and stood behind the sign as a car pulled up near the Hotel Zaza and a white-haired woman climbed out. I recognized her face from the Peace Forum and we waved at each other as she paused at the curb and waited for a break in the traffic. I had staked the banner into the soft soil at the fountain, but it had been more difficult than usual. It was a windy day and the banner caught the gusts like a sail. I stood behind it waiting for the woman to cross the street so that we could begin the familiar conversation, "Are you here for the vigil?" But the strangest thing happened. As the woman stood maybe thirty yards away, the cars continued to flow uninterrupted. Once or twice she set foot in the street only to be forced back to the curb by the traffic. I didn’t think much of it for the first few minutes, but then the street-crossing saga continued. I checked the time. After about ten minutes had gone by, I smiled and waved at the woman apologetically. I looked toward the medical center and could see no break in the line of cars coming toward us. She grinned and waved back. It was too windy to holler and I couldn’t cross over to meet her any more than she could get to me. Finally, after the woman had been there a full fifteen minutes, she began to walk back toward her car. I admired her spirit, having tried for so long. I stood with the sign and watched the woman move away. Only she didn’t go to her car.

Veering off toward the Science Museum, I saw the woman walk straight into a large crowd of what appeared to be high school students. They were dressed to the nines in tuxedos and fancy dresses, having their pictures taken in the park before prom. The white-haired woman disappeared momentarily into that crowd of kids before emerging again with a couple of sharply-dressed young men with boutonnieres on their lapels. One of them produced car keys and opened the door of a black sedan parked near the group of high schoolers. Then, they simply merged with the traffic, swung gracefully around the circle, and deposited the intrepid woman at the curb a few paces from where I stood. I rushed down to greet her and extended my hand. She smiled and reached up. I noticed that she was carrying a very small folding chair in one hand. She set it next to the sign and explained that she had recently had knee surgery so she’d have to sit. I beamed back at her. "My name is Jeremy," I said. "I’m Ellen," she replied. I came to learn, as we stood and sat there together, that Ellen had founded the Houston Peace and Justice Center when she first moved to Houston years ago. She spoke of the people in this city who work for peace and justice, of her idea that we are all kindred spirits, and of things every one of us can do to raise our voices. I nodded my head in agreement as a few passing cars honked at our sign. And then the park rangers pulled up.

As they crossed the street, I explained to Ellen that we should be fine on First Amendment grounds. After an awkward handshake with the rangers, they again asked if I had a permit. I gave them the rundown of the months of conversations ending in our First Amendment answer. There were two rangers. One looked me in the eyes as I explained and he seemed sympathetic. The other did not smile or remove his dark sunglasses. With folded arms he stood in front of our sign, literally blocking its message. The sympathetic ranger said he fully respected our First Amendment rights, but that, in order to put stakes in the ground, we needed a permit. "You can hold the sign," he told us, "But you cannot use stakes without a permit." I protested and he phoned the Mayor’s Office, saying that perhaps they could give permission to make an exception. Over the phone with a man from that office, I learned that we were not going to get permission that day to use stakes. I talked to him for as long as I could, asking every possible question, stalling. As I did, I watched the banner pulling in the wind. I looked at Ellen sitting on her folding chair with her tender knee. And when I hung up, I told the park rangers that we would comply with their request, but it would effectively shut down our vigil once again. "I can’t hold the sign all by myself," I told them. The rangers looked back at me, one sympathetically, the other stoically. "I’m sorry," said the good cop.

And then something happened. I started to speak to the two men, not as park rangers but as human beings. "Do you know what is happening in Darfur?" And I tried not to, but I started to preach. I told them how frustrating it was to spend months simply trying to get permission to sit peacefully with a sign. I told them that while we argued over permits and policies, the world was burning. I told them that the world needed people to raise their voices, not pick up their stakes and go home. They listened, a bit wide-eyed. Then the sympathetic one apologized and said that they had no choice. I told him that our vigil was meant to be peaceable and I would take the sign down. As they watched, I prized the wood from the soil and laid the banner at our feet. They thanked us, crossed the circle, and drove away. By this time the traffic had died down enough for me to walk Ellen back to her car. We bid each other farewell and I went back to collect my things. It wasn’t yet 6:30 p.m. though, and sometimes people arrive late. So I resolved to sit in the grass with our rolled-up message in case anyone else came. No one else turned up, which was good. Because I needed to sit for a time and listen to the wind.

I was thinking about Pentecost. "In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh…your young people shall see visions, and your old people shall dream dreams." In a few weeks on the first Friday of June, I will go back to the circle with our banner in hand. Everyone is invited to join me. I think we’ll need a few more able bodies to hold our sign against the prevailing wind. Perhaps even more importantly, everyone is invited to raise their voices this very week, to write a letter or make a call in the hope that our renewed public pressure will make a difference. In the name of the sacred spirit that binds us in love for each other and our sisters and brothers in Africa. May it be so.