Unexpected Flavor

I’m writing my blog posts from Ireland and Wales just now. We’re living in Ireland for several months, and we’ve taken a few days this season to travel over to Wales. It’s been a delightful experience. Since we've been here, I’ve had a helping of Christmas pudding at two different places — and they tasted the same. (And BTW, I had read about Christmas pudding, but this was my first chance to try it authentically.) It was delicious. I learned about all the flavors mixed into this delight: dried fruits, warm spices, citrus zest, nuts… and then a brandy sauce, like a thick cream, poured over the top. Wonderful.

Now, here’s a different thought about Advent that draws in a variety of flavors and then suggests a thick topping that brings it all to life.

During Advent we listen to the words of John the Baptist in church services because he announces the coming of the Messiah. We tend to remember John as the wild man with the sharp tongue — the prophet who shouts, “Repent!” and calls people vipers. But if you trace the story back to its beginning, the very first word spoken over his life is joy.          Not judgment. Not fire. Not wrath. JOY!

And not just any joy — Gabriel’s joy, heaven’s joy, the joy of a promise finally ripening after centuries of waiting.

Zechariah, his father, is an older man who has lived with disappointment long enough for it to calcify. His prayer for a child has become a relic — something he once asked for but no longer expects. Then Gabriel arrives with a message that is almost mischievous in its tenderness: Your wife will bear a son… You will have joy and gladness… many will rejoice at his birth. It’s as if heaven says, “Let’s start this whole Messiah story with laughter.”

But Zechariah needs time to receive this news. He’s deep in grief, so God says — through Gabriel — I’m going to help you. Zechariah is silenced for nine months. It’s not punishment so much as a divine reset. A forced sabbatical. A gestation of joy. He has to watch the promise grow without being able to narrate it. And by the time he finally speaks, he sings.

And what about John himself? Imagine this… People didn’t trek into the wilderness because they wanted to be scolded. They came because something in John radiated the joy of a God who keeps promises. A joy that said: The long silence is ending. The exile of the heart is over. God has not forgotten us. The Messiah is near. Life is about to break open.

John’s sternness toward the hypocrites doesn’t contradict this. It protects the joy. It clears away the debris so people can walk freely into life. And look who comes to him… Soldiers. Priests. Tax collectors. Ordinary people. The spiritually hungry. The morally exhausted. They don’t ask for fire. They ask, “What should we do?” And John gives them simple, life-giving practices — generosity, fairness, integrity. It’s pastoral. It’s practical. It’s joyful.

And like the cream on Christmas pudding… Christmas pudding is dense, dark, rich — like the prophetic tradition. But what makes it sing is the warm brandy cream poured over the top. John is that cream. He doesn’t replace the old flavors; he reveals them. He doesn’t discard the old prophecies; he sweetens them with immediacy.

He doesn’t erase the history; he brings out the joy within it. His message is not merely, “Repent!” — literally, turn away from the despair and hurt you’ve felt. It’s “Turn toward God’s love and Rejoice! The Kingdom is at hand!”

The joy is not an accessory. Like the cream on Christmas pudding, it’s the finishing note that makes the whole thing come alive.