If Kierkegaard were a drunk man at Starbucks...

A warm, late May morning. The sun was glistening off the tops of the glass tables at Starbucks and enriched the soft morning glow as we trekked to church in Boston. 5 of us, only 16 years old, walked down the street amazed at the urban oasis around us, unfamiliar with city life.

Something about these moments are poetic in their very nature. Nothing about that morning — no matter how vile or off-putting — could remove the joy that was slathered across our faces. 

So as we walked by Starbucks and noticed a drunk man sitting on the patio, we were fascinated, not disturbed. He sat near the railing, as far from the Starbucks and as close to the sidewalk as possible while he sipped his black coffee at 8 am. In between sips and sighs of enjoyment, he would belt out lines from Frank Sinatra at the top of lungs and smile. 

Had he been walking next to us, we might have been bothered, but since he seemed to be in a controlled spot on the opposite corner of the intersection from where we were headed, we enjoyed him and whispered about how different life in the city was.

This man merrily singing Frank Sinatra in his drunkenness has been an image that has stayed with me over the years. I always liked him, had some sort of appreciation for him, some sort of moderate pity. With these generally positive feelings toward the Starbucks drunkard, it is almost understandable how I have come to associate Soren Kierkegaard with him.

In his book, Training in Christianity, Kierkegaard berates the Danish church for its hypocrisy and failure to put Christ at the center of their worship. When the church would not change, Kierkegaard boycotted the church and called other true followers to disfellowship. He was consistently vocal about his lack of church attendance during this boycott and would sit in cafes where he would be noticed for not attending church.

If Kierkegaard lived in Boston in the new Millennium, he might just be the drunk man at Starbucks. I see him sitting with a cup of coffee, singing a song while reading the New York Times and offering a knowing smirk to everyone that passed by. I see him nodding at his friends who were headed to service and acknowledging that he was choosing a different path.

To be fair, this was likely not the story of Kierkegaard. It misses the sorrow and the despair he had for the sense of the church. It misses his aggressiveness in seeking out the truth and totally demolishes his fierce desire to suffer for Christ.

But it is a funny image, isn't it?