It felt important at the time. He was tall and thin and had a grey
beard. His black hoody and shell suit bottoms were quite dirty though he didn’t
smell as if he’d been wearing them for a long time. He had a small, knitted cap
on his head which every now and again he adjusted just in case the wind was about
to blow it off. His face was quite reddened as if he had often been standing in
the weather doing the same thing.
And he stood there that day – plastic water bottle in hand – and recited
the whole of the Sermon on the Mount from Matthew 5, 6 and 7; recited it with
meaning and passion as he faced the great west door of St Paul’s Cathedral. A
few stopped to listen but mostly to photograph and then move on. As he recited,
the members of the Order of St Michael and St George walked past to enter the
Cathedral for evensong. Clergy also walked past; a bishop among them; all
hearing the words of Jesus as presented by King James via a posh, English
accent.
Twenty minutes it took him; twenty minutes of nothing but this simple
sermon about the poor, about Mammon, about the law, about hypocrisy, about
building on a rock, about being blessed. And it was by far the most profound
twenty minutes of my day at the Occupy protest.
It felt important at the time
and now that St Paul’s has been shut it feels important still.
