Today, I did what I normally do for lunch. I walked to my book store of choice in London for some quiet reading time away from my work desk.

And like normal, while in transit, I was asked for money by a British charity. (They love their charities here, which is actually quite impressive.)

But today I stopped because I saw no clipboard, and thought the man in the nice dark coat that was getting my attention was lost. So being nice for a change, I removed the earbuds and spoke with him.

The misjudgement of a situation can only last so long, and minutes passed of jovial conversation with no question arising of how to get to Rathbone Place. I had given my first name, been asked where I was from, if I lived in London, whether I was working or attending school, and whether I was happy (to which I said yes).

The last question seemed to be problematic for the gentleman, or perhaps my answer to said question. It seemed that I had derailed him and that he was improvising from then on.

“Are you an artist or a musician?” he said, “because they’re the ones that are happy in what they do. Everyone else seems to live lives they don’t like.”

I told him that I am an artist, and he smiled, seemingly feeling back on track, or maybe just glad I was humouring him.

Finally, colloquial discussion with the stranger ended and he got to his point.

He handed me a book, very colourful, and told me it was similar to yoga and meditation and those things. He showed me the back if his shaved head, a small lock of hair situated there in the middle, and informed me that he was a monk.

Not what I expected, but he seemed a pleasant fellow, so he still had my ear.

“So this is your religious text?” I asked.
“No, it’s not a religion; it’s a spiritual experience.”

Why is it that no religion wants to be known as a religion?

“…and for a donation this book can be yours.”

The penny drops, almost literally.

I fished out my change and gave it to him, just as another man approached. He seemed to think myself and the monk were friends, so he interrupted and asked us both for money.

Myself, the only one at this impromptu meeting without a financial agenda, found the dynamic absolutely hilarious. I had to keep myself from chuckling as the kind monk stood there, seeming torn.

Surely there was some edict in his faith about helping others, or perhaps not. In either case, he didn’t know what to say to the man asking him for money as he asked for money.

I had already given my change away, so I just grinned at the two men as they stood, unspeaking, in a confused situation.

“…I’m a monk!” he stammered. “I’m asking for money, I can’t give it.” He was smiling, but there was a touch of frustration in his voice as he enlightened the beggar.

“Oh right,” the beggar replied, “I can’t spare much, but here’s this…” And be put his change into the monk’s hand.

The monk looked down, then up, then back at the money and said, “Oh right…”

The beggar went away, then the nice monk wished me a nice day and handed me the book, turning to speak to someone else before I was gone.

I kept the book (as I’m always interested in a different point of view), but I have to say that I’m not simply amused by the situation.  I’m also a little disappointed.

Maybe it’s my own past and history that gives me this slant, but I see no point in pontificating on the finer points of any faith if you aren’t helping people on a basic level.  I find it sad that the more giving of the two men was the beggar.  But then, maybe that’s why so many religions praise the financially unattached.  The poor and those that shun the cluttering things of this life.

I think I witnessed first-hand one of the most common failings of organised religion.  The monk, kind as he was, had his agenda, and because of his preoccupation with it, he missed an opportunity to show kindness to someone who seemed to need it.