A Father's Love: Devotion for December 29

If you’re reading this, congratulations—you’ve made it through another Christmas. The decorations are coming down, the leftovers are dwindling, and the whirlwind of the season is beginning to settle. We’ve just celebrated the birth of Christ, so it might seem a little early to shift our gaze to Jesus as a child. And yet, the longer I lingered over this painting, the more it drew me in.

The scene shows Joseph at work in his carpentry shop, with his son, Jesus, beside him. It was painted by Pietro Annigoni, an Italian artist best known for his portraits of Queen Elizabeth II and for his devotion to the techniques and spirit of Renaissance art. Although this painting dates to 1963, it hangs comfortably among much older masterpieces. Annigoni resisted the modernist trends of his time, choosing instead to work in a classical style that feels timeless—and that choice serves this subject beautifully.

The painting is life-size, which means that if you were standing in front of it, you wouldn’t just be looking at it—you’d feel as though you had stepped into the room. You can almost smell the sawdust in the air. Joseph’s gaze is tender and attentive, fixed lovingly on his son. His hand hovers just above Jesus’ head, protective and gentle, as if blessing him without a word. Jesus, meanwhile, is utterly absorbed in the task before him, focused and intent. There is no rush here, no drama—just quiet companionship. It is an intimate moment.

But then your eyes catch something else: a long beam of wood leaning against the workbench. It’s an unmistakable shape. Even here, in this warm and ordinary scene, there is a shadow of what is to come. The cross is present, not loudly, not violently, but subtly—waiting in the background while Jesus is still a child.

John’s Gospel tells us that “the Word became flesh.” That simple sentence carries enormous weight. It means that Jesus did not merely appear human; he became vulnerable. He entered fully into our experience. He knew hunger and exhaustion, loneliness and grief. He knew what it was to be misunderstood and mistreated, to suffer injustice, to be betrayed. And he also knew the best of humanity: the steady love of a father, the embrace of a mother, the ordinary rhythms of family life, even the teasing and closeness of siblings.

In becoming flesh, Jesus learned our lives from the inside. He knows what it means to be human—what it means to be us.

That’s why Christianity is not, at its core, a new set of rules or a better moral system. When the Word became flesh, we didn’t just receive a religion; we received a person. And not merely a representative of God, but God himself. Jesus is not one more prophet pointing the way. He is the destination to whom all the prophets point.

Every other way of life eventually says, “Live like this, and then you will be accepted.” But Christ says something radically different: “You are already accepted—now live like this.” And perhaps that truth is best seen not in a throne room or a pulpit, but in a quiet woodshop, with a father and his son, surrounded by sawdust, love, and the steady grace of God made flesh.

Featured Art: Pietro Annigoni, St Joseph and the Christ Child in the Carpentry Workshop, 1963, Church of San Lorenzo, Firenze © Christian Art Today