They’re Just Drunk

They're Just Drunk

But others sneered and said, "They are filled with new wine."

— From Acts 2:13

I frequent a local coffee shop, and often get into banter with some of the regulars. Their mutual ribbing takes no prisoners, and it's all in fun. But sometimes you just want to have a nice conversation where ideas are exchanged, without inviting judgments or ridicule. 

One of the regulars would muzzle anybody that starts a topic he is not interested in, which is almost everything. He also does not like it when someone knows more about a topic than he does. I might weigh in with an opinion, a detail they hadn’t considered — a nuance, a historical note, maybe a statistic. Something I thought might help. After one or two remarks like this, he'll blurt out “Nobody cares, Gordon!” And punctuate it with a laugh.

I laughed along with them. I shrugged it off. But it stuck. What do we do with someone who knows things we don’t? Or who sees things differently than the crowd? We sneer. We reduce. We label. We say: “They’re just drunk.”

That’s what they said about the apostles on Pentecost morning. These Galilean fishermen, suddenly fluent in the languages of the world. These nobodies, suddenly radiant. Alive with a power no one could explain. Some heard and marveled. Others — needing to dismiss what they couldn’t understand — reached for the oldest label in the book: They’re just drunk.

It still happens. Not just in churches. Not just in coffee shops. But everywhere.

In politics, we don’t debate anymore — we mock. We don’t listen — we diagnose. If someone on “the other side” makes a valid point, we shift the conversation or question their sanity. We pretend we’re better at the game by refusing to play it.

I wonder: why do we do this?

Maybe it’s fear. The fear that we’re not as smart as we need to be. Or not as right. Or not as safe.

Maybe it’s power. The illusion that if we tear someone down, we don’t have to rise ourselves.

Maybe it’s weariness. We’re all so tired, and it’s easier to laugh at the messenger than to hear the message.

But here’s the problem. When we label someone, we stop learning from them. When we sneer, we don’t see. When we mock, we miss the moment of God trying to speak through someone else’s voice, someone else’s experience.

The first Christians weren’t drunk. They were ignited. On fire with love, clarity, and courage. And if we had been there, in that crowd — I wonder which part of us would have spoken first. Awe? Or accusation?

I don’t want to be the one who laughs first and asks questions later.

I don’t want to miss what’s true because it came from a source I didn’t expect.

I don’t want to write off the people who carry light, just because their glow unsettles me.

So please, let’s stop.

Let’s stop calling people “crazy” when what we really mean is “unfamiliar.”

Let’s stop calling them “too smart for their own good” when we really mean “smarter than I’m comfortable with.”

Let’s stop calling them “drunk” when they just might be anointed.

The Spirit hasn’t stopped speaking. Maybe the wind still blows where it will — and maybe, just maybe, someone near you is catching it first.