I do not remember the exact content of the lecture that day, nor do I even remember which theology course I was taking at the time. All I remember is the image, magnified on the screen, one of countless PowerPoint slides that flashed before my eyes as an undergraduate. This slide was utterly different though, strikingly curious and in need of a second look after I took my gaze from it, and indeed a third or fourth look as well. I remember too my professor’s commentary. “We have a lovely nativity scene here. Jesus’ pious parents are giving their full attention to their newborn son in the pile of hay, and above we have the glorious proclamation of the heavenly host. And like any good Catholic family, Mary and Joseph have a prominently placed crucifix in the home.” The crucifix! Once mentioned, I could not take my glance away from that detail in the upper left corner of the painting, obviously placed there on purpose by the artist. Years later, my eyes still naturally dart from the crucifix to the crib and back again.

The artwork is Lorenzo Lotto’s The Nativity, an unassuming 1523 oil painting that now hangs in the National Gallery of Art. The foreground is a rather ordinary depiction of the birth of Jesus despite the absence of such figures as shepherds, stable animals, and wise men. The background takes the viewer by surprise in presenting the jarring crucified Christ on the cross, drained of life and strength in his final hours, juxtaposed against the Christ child so full of life and vigor in his very first hours on earth. The casual viewer may take in these two contrasting details and not give them too much extra thought at all—the crucifix is certainly anachronistic, out of place and time for Jesus’ nativity, but perhaps an instance of artistic license taken by the painter and his own imagination of the scene. Purists may argue the artist is unreasonably mixing together Christmas and Easter narratives, which surely must only confuse the viewer. Those hungry for the real truth of the painting, however, look at how the events of Christmas morning are fused with those of Good Friday and discover the ever-rich message of our redemption.

When we celebrate the Christmas season and recall the birth of Jesus, the visit of the magi, the slaughter of the Holy Innocents and the flight into Egypt, and the presentation in the Temple, we in fact celebrate the entirety of Jesus’ life and ministry for our salvation, which includes his death and resurrection. The Christ child wrapped in swaddling clothes, adored in his parents’ presence in Bethlehem, is not divorced from the Christ crowned with thorns, scorned by the crowds and mocked by the soldiers on the way to Calvary. The infant born on the wood of the manger is the Messiah sacrificed on the wood of the cross. That humble manager which contains the Savior of the world is in appearance little more than a feeding trough, but how great a trough it is to contain the One who selflessly gives his Body and Blood to us as food and drink for our nourishment. At Christmas, we celebrate the Incarnation, God’s becoming flesh, God’s entrance into the world as a human person, but Christmas anticipates Easter joy found in the Resurrection, that Jesus redeems humankind and overcomes the death of our fleshly existence.

All throughout Advent we join the Church in exclaiming Maranatha! Come, Lord Jesus. Come quickly and do not delay. One reason for such an anticipatory season is to aid the faithful in preparing their hearts to welcome Christ anew at Christmas. The embolism following the Lord’s Prayer at Mass reminds us often even outside of Advent that we “await the blessed hope and the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ.” The coming of Christ is not something that happens once a year at midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, however, and the events of Easter Sunday remind us that Christ is forever with us in every season; the very last words of the Gospel provide us with this wonderful reassurance, “And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age” (Mt 28:20). Every Eucharistic feast is an encounter with Jesus, every celebration of penance, every petition of prayer, every act of service in the community—indeed every moment is an encounter with the risen Lord, Jesus once born in a stable who gave his life for us on the cross. Jesus is Emmanuel, God with us, now in this moment and always. We cry out Maranatha! but at the same time do not cast aside the triumphant shout of Alleluia!

How often do we challenge ourselves to unite the happenings of Christmas to the happenings of Easter? Do we let the penitential nature of Lent inform our observance of Advent, and do we let the excitement we experience in Advent for the eventual celebration of Christmas spill over to a refined and purified excitement at the Resurrection? From the very beginning of Jesus’ existence, we see this unification of Jesus’ birth, ministry, death, and resurrection through the devout figure of Simeon, who proclaims unto Mary in the Temple, “Behold, this child is destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be contradicted” (Lk 2:34). Simeon continues to remind us today that the infant Jesus so serenely depicted in the Christmas crèche is the same Son of God whose body takes its last breath on the crucifix displayed over the tabernacle, at the end of our rosaries, in our bedrooms and classrooms, and just past the shoulders of Mary and Joseph in Lotto’s artistic vision of the Nativity.

I return to this painting every so often in my personal reflection, both at Christmastime and other seasons of the year, and each time I come back to the image I see some detail in a brand new way I previously had failed to consider. Perhaps it is the singular focus of Mary and Joseph upon Jesus just hours old. In what ways do I keep my focus on Jesus throughout my day? Perhaps it is the supremely reverent posture of Mary and Joseph before the Savior. How do I approach Jesus, especially in the reception of the Eucharist and my celebration of the sacraments? Perhaps it is the outstretched arms of the Christ child that mirror his arms lovingly extended on the cross behind him. Do I let Jesus embrace me with his love and mercy, and do I embrace others in that same spirit of compassion? Perhaps it is the vulnerability of the scene itself, Jesus’ birth open and visible to the entire world outside. Where am I allowing Christ’s presence to shine through for others without hesitation, obstruction, or fear?

The Incarnation can only be described as a gift of God, an intimate act of humility in which God takes on our human form. St. Athanasius professes that “the Son of God became man so that we might become God,” emphasizing the hope we have as Christians that one day we too will know God as he is, sharing in the perfect love of the Trinity. So too is the cross itself a gift though! Jesus comes to us as a man but ultimately leads us to the cross, showing us the path we also must take as sons and daughters of God. God does not abandon us in this task of taking up our crosses, which the Resurrection so clearly exemplifies for us as the redeeming completion of the Incarnation. “From his fullness we have all received, grace in place of grace” (Jn 1:16). May we all find grace in this Christmas season through our rejoicing in the birth of the Savior, and may we use this grace daily to stand with courage and faith in front of the cross, always remembering how joy triumphs over despair, light over darkness, love over evil, and life over death. May our gaze too continue to be held in faithful tension between the crib and the crucifix this Christmas.