I circle the courthouse three times before I can find a parking space.
Even on a Tuesday night, downtown Greensboro, N.C., is alive. This isn’t surprising in a multi-college town. There are pubs, clubs and watering holes lining the streets. Calling those with a thirsty disposition to come and sit awhile. As a barfly in my twenties, I knew many of them well.
I park in front of one, a place called Stumble Stilskins, and pop the back of the SUV. I grab the fold-out table that will soon become an altar. I rest it against my right leg again and reach for my cassock and burlap stole. My hands touch a collection of pins that fill in the gaps between the Micah 6:8 text running down its length. Their words proclaim my ministry.
God bless the whistleblowers.
Black Lives Matter.
Eat the Rich.
Justin Cox
I was told vestments would be expected tonight. As a low church Baptist from the South, mine have a tendency to stay in the closet on Sunday mornings. However, they come out, slightly wrinkled, when it’s time to go into the streets.
They’ve come out tonight for a vigil.
I walk across Market Street, pausing to let a few cars fly by. I see a small crowd already gathering in front of the building where the Guilford County Board of Elections and poll workers are meeting. I check my phone and see the polls close in about half an hour.
In the courtyard, I see clergy. They already are decked out in garb. Some are practicing singing. A few are hooking up a portable speaker and microphone. Others appear to be playing catch-up.
The woman named Kathy sees me. We met at a protest last year. She and other women that day carried a makeshift coffin in response to cuts being made to the federal programs that helped the least of these. I’m thankful we stayed in touch.
After a quick hi and fist bump, we get to work setting up the altar and pulpit. Kathy brings an array of cloth and covers the table in layers of soft colors. We place a basket in the center, with solar-powered light pouring out. Sharpies and sticky notes surround it. I get busy with the candles. I slide them through the drip protectors usually reserved for Christmas Eve services. Once ready, we pass them out to the nearly 50 people who have gathered.
“I’m impressed and also regretful that we keep having to fight the same fights over and over again.”
The vigil was planned with help from Siembra NC, a prominent grassroots organization led by and for immigrant and working-class Latinx communities across the state. Their mission is crucial and needed: to defend the Latino and undocumented community from the likes of ICE, abusive employers, predatory landlords, discrimination and criminalization. I’m starting to count on two hands how many Siembra events I’ve attended. I’m always impressed by their intentionality and organizing strategies. Tonight is no exception.
Five minutes before the vigil starts, the religious leaders circle. We walk through the order of the service. We ask a few questions. I look at the faces, and it appears to me that everyone has done this before. They seem trained for a time such as this. I’m impressed and also regretful that we keep having to fight the same fights over and over again.
Rev. Kathy takes her place behind the pulpit and table. Then I see the tripod cameras come on. Some were brought by Siembra. At least one is from a local news station. Soon the vigil begins.
People are welcomed and told why their presence matters. They are reminded the people in the building behind us have been there since before the sun came up. People across the state and in other parts of the country have done the same. We recognize the work they’ve put in and understand the importance of their responsibility. That’s why we are here — to pray for them and hold them accountable to their call to ensure every vote is counted.
Rev. Kathy tells us to light the candles. The flicker of collective lights breaks the darkness. I watch as a young couple hand a small battery-powered candle to their child in a stroller. A small hand, which is likely filled with toys most days, now clings to a symbol of hope. It’s warm out this evening, but I get goosebumps on my arms that no one else sees.
Rev. Kathy passes the microphone to a clergy couple, Rod and Tammy. They lead the people through our first song, “Wade in the Water.” Voices come together, and we move through the verses, sometimes singing, sometimes humming.
Afterward, Rev. Steve comes forward and prays for the election workers. Thus starts a theme we’ll hear the rest of the night. A call-and-response: “Count every vote!”
We listen; we say amen and “well.” We sing again as the wicks on our candles creep slowly down.
Speakers come forward. The first, Rev. Ellis. More call and response. More words reminding us we must not only have our voices heard, but everyone has the right to be heard. Andre comes next; he’s part of the Triad Central Labor Council. As cars pass by, some revving their engines at the sight of us, he shares how open and free elections help people advocate for social and economic justice.
“One reason we’ve come tonight is to share and be heard about why casting a vote matters.”
I come next. I tell the people we’ve all come here because of our different experiences and we are hoping for something better than what we’ve got. One reason we’ve come tonight is to share and be heard about why casting a vote matters. I share a story and a Baptist name: James Dunn. I tell them because of the work Dunn did for the Baptist Joint Committee for Religious Liberty, I learned I had a responsibility not only to myself but to others to vote. I then invite folks to share a word as to what voting means to them.
“Accountability,” a woman shouts.
“First step,” a man says.
“Help,” I hear over my shoulder. It comes from the mouth of a child who is no more than 10 years old. I look at them, and they smile under a mop of curly hair.
Before I can say it, others shout, “Future!”
We all know they are right.
I then ask people to step forward and write something on the slips of paper on the altar table. To write their intentions of what they plan to take forward with them after tonight. People circle the table, and the smell of markers is palpable. I wait my turn before scrawling, “This is not the end.”
We pray, and then Kelly from Siembra comes forward. She tells us the record-breaking early-voting numbers in our state. She says Latino voters led the charge, with numbers tripling in their communities. She reminds us that voter suppression is real and has happened in these midterms as well, citing issues in other counties. Near the end, she shares upcoming dates she wants us to pay attention to. As she does this, a volunteer walks around with the QR code on a clipboard with the same information. Before she steps away, everyone knows the next steps.
Revs Rod and Tammy lead us in song again. Rev. Kathy prays for us all, and then it’s over. A news crew starts interviewing people. A few clergy are pulled in front of cameras. The couple with the baby are too.
I break down the table. Making something holy secular again is one of my talents.
Loading the car back up, it feels like something was accomplished. That the words we said and sang weren’t empty. I wish Sunday morning felt the same.
I drive the 30 minutes home and wonder why they can’t be.
Justin Cox received his theological education from Campbell University and Wake Forest University School of Divinity and McAfee School of Theology, where he received his doctor of ministry. He is an ordained minister holding standing in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and American Baptist Churches USA. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. His thoughts and reflections are his own.