Rembrandt – Steve Jacobsen, Ed.D

Who Let the Dogs In? The Genius of Rembrandt’s Spiritual Imagination

Over the years, I’ve done a variety of presentations exploring the way Rembrandt portrays Biblical scenes. Time and again, I’ve been fascinated by the surprising ways he imagines and creates visual details. One example is his apparent fondness for dogs.

We can start with “The Hundred Guilder Print.” This work captures in one scene the various encounters Jesus has with a crowd of people as described in Matthew 19. Here’s the print:

If we read the text carefully and study the scene, we see how he includes all the important characters: people who are hoping to be healed, scholars who like to debate fine points of law, mothers bringing children to receive his blessing, etc. Near the bottom left, we find something not mentioned in the text:

When I’ve seen dogs positioned like this, it is usually because they have determined they are near a spot where food scraps are likely to fall. This is certainly not mentioned in the story – it’s something Rembrandt decided to add.

Here is his portrayal of “The Good Samaritan:”

In the story, a Samaritan sees a stranger who has been beaten and robbed, and no one is stopping to help. But the Samaritan binds his wounds, puts him on his horse, takes him to an inn, and arranges for the man’s lodging and care. All that is in the story. But in the lower right corner, we see an unexpected sight:

Suffice it to say, when we see dogs in this posture, we can guess what they are doing. This is not a detail noted in any translations I am familiar with.

He doesn’t limit canines to outdoor scenes. In “The Presentation in the Temple,” Joseph and Mary bring their 8-day old infant to be dedicated. Two elders, Simeon and Anna, express joy upon seeing the child. Divine light streams down from the upper left highlighting the sacred moment:

And there, in the bottom left corner, we see one of our four-legged friends:

This dog is scratching his left ear with his back foot.

I have not found any articles explaining why Rembrandt inserts oridnary dogs into scenes that portray profound spiritual experiences. But my guess is he understood great spiritual moments in life don’t occur in situations where everything is perfectly staged, as if designed by Martha Stewart. They happen in nitty-gritty, down-to-earth settings where ordinary human beings experience something profound. And what is more down-to-earth than the presence of a dog in the midst of a human gathering doing what dogs do?

I have had memorable spiritual experiences in stunning cathedrals and in sanctuaries filled with glorious music. But I have also had them in hospital rooms next to bedpans and beeping monitors, dusty home building sites in the barrios of Tijuana, and while changing irrigation lines in an alfalfa field. And, like many people, I have had experiences with a dog when I feel a deep bond of knowing and caring for each other in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s all part of life, and there’s no limit to the ways and settings in which the Spirit can appear. Rembrandt shows us what that looks like.

Lead Image: “Sleeping Puppy,” Rembrandt, 1640; Victoria and Albert Museum

Lost in Thought: Visiting Rembrandt’s House

Like many houses in the old section of Amsterdam, Rembrandt’s overlooks a canal. Not far from his doorstep, ships from all over the world were coming and going, bringing with them a great diversity of people at all stages of life.

Entering on the first floor and progressing upward on narrow stairways, you see what his life was like – how the food was prepared, where his maid slept, where he received guests and where he worked. Here is the room he lived in and his bed:

As you move through the house you relive the different stages of his career – from his early days making a name for himself to the period of his great success, both as an artist and art dealer. But his last years were difficult. As we came towards the end, this sign intrigued me:

I became fascinated with this description:

A new style is taking shape.

Rembrandt now paints many single figures lost in thought.

Movement gives way to rest.

There is inner tension though.

And he works more loosely, with broad brushstrokes.

I was intrigued by the phrase, “lost in thought.” No matter what age we may be when we experience such a state, it doesn’t mean we aren’t thinking; we may in fact be thinking a great deal. In our everyday, routine experience we direct our thoughts where we want them to go but, in these moments, we just aren’t sure where to go, or how the pieces of our life can fit together; it’s as if our thoughts don’t know where to land. Some might say we are “spaced out” – but in fact we may be “reaching in.”

When I returned home, I read more about this period: Rembrandt’s last years were the most difficult of his life. He was effectively declared bankrupt in 1656; a picture commissioned for Amsterdam’s new Town Hall, the largest he ever painted, was installed and then replaced in 1662; his lover, Hendrickye Stoffels, died in 1663, and his son Titus, at the age of 27, in 1668. At one point he was so hard up that he had to raid his daughter Cornelia’s money box.[i]

A friend told me of a conversation he shared with a man who had been a wise spiritual mentor. This man was in his 80s at the time and had outlived his wife and many others. My friend asked him, “Has anything surprised you as you reach this stage of life?”

“I wasn’t prepared for the amount of loss,” he said.

Over time, we lose people we love. Periods of success in our working life can seem far away. We might remember times when life was going well, following a script we were writing in our imagination at the time. But unexpected events occurred that we couldn’t change, and our script had to be rewritten. How did this all happen? Did it have to go that way?

We can become “single figures lost in thought.”

Rembrandt’s specific spiritual beliefs aren’t known. We do know his personal life didn’t conform to the religious establishment of his time: “The artist’s eccentricities and irregular, unwed lifestyle may have put him beyond the pale of Amsterdam’s stuffier and more conservative circles… but his engagement with biblical themes was lifelong and his last years gave rise to some of his most thoughtful and unusual interpretations of them.”

I’m drawn to two of the paintings from this period.

The first is “Jacob Blessing the Sons of Joseph,” created in the 1656, the year he declared bankruptcy. In the Biblical story, two of Jacob’s grandsons are brought to him for the family blessing with the expectation that he will bless the eldest with his right hand. But instead, he blesses the younger:

Here is a close-up of Jacob’s face:

I don’t think he’s looking at the grandsons – he’s looking both beyond them and within himself. What does it feel like to know your life is almost over, wanting to do what you think is right for your family, but realizing you will never know how it will turn out?

“Simeon in the Temple” is his last painting, unfinished at his death in 1669. It is another story of an old man blessing a child. In Luke’s Gospel, Mary and Joseph bring the 8-day old Jesus to the temple for dedication. Simeon believed he would be able to bless such a child before he dies:

The infant child is looking up at the old man and seems to truly “see him.” Simeon is holding the child with tenderness as he gives the blessing, but where is his attention? Like Jacob, he seems “lost in thought.”

Rembrandt didn’t have life figured out. Most likely he was “not prepared for the amount of loss” he had experienced. But these late portraits convey a reverence for these people in their private moments, a tender love and respect. That, to me, can be more “spiritual” than having simplistic answers to life’s challenges.

When we see someone “lost in thought,” may we summon that same reverence for them as Rembrandt did. And when we are in such moments ourselves, may we know that in some mysterious way we are not alone.

[i] https://www.nytimes.com/2014/12/04/arts/international/rembrandts-turbulent-final-years.html

Is Life Meant to Rival Paradise? Or Be a Vale of Soul-Making?

“The purpose of life is not to rival paradise but to be a vale of soul-making.”

Global religion scholar Huston Smith

I wrote these words in my journal over a decade ago while on retreat with Huston Smith. At the time, I wasn’t certain what this quote meant. I decided to explore it this week.

“The purpose of life is not to rival paradise…”

I thought about the earliest years of my spiritual journey. After a transformative mystical experience in my early twenties, I saw the world as something more than just physical matter — it was infused with divine presence. I found a spiritual community where people were truly caring for each other and seeking to align themselves with a higher purpose. I discovered sacred texts that can possess the power to reveal hidden thoughts and fascinating possibilities. I learned hymns and songs that filled me with joy. I went off to seminary keeping much of this early enthusiasm. Three years later I was ordained and began serving congregations. It felt like the world had become a “paradise.”

As my life and work unfolded, I encountered events that challenged this belief: a mother, standing on the porch of the family’s vacation cabin, watched the private plane carrying her husband and two teenage children crash and burn; a young mom was on her way to work at the local hospital when a semi-truck crossed over the center divider and killed her instantly; parents struggling every day with adult children living with mental illnesses or addiction issues. Life was no longer a “rival to paradise.”

“The purpose of life is not to rival paradise but to be a vale of soul-making.”

Since I first heard these words rather than saw them, I wondered if he meant “veil,” like a fabric that partially hides something. But this week, I realized he meant “vale” rather than “veil:”

Vale: river-land between two ranges of hills, early 14c., from Old French val “valley, vale” (12c.), from Latin vallem…”valley”… Now “little used except in poetry” [Century Dictionary].

So “vale of soul-making” means a “valley of soul-making.”

If you are making your way through a “vale” or valley, your path is bounded on both sides by mountains or hills. If the land formations are steep, you can’t go up or around…you must find a path through, bound by those limits. It’s hard, patient work.

How is navigating life like traveling through a “vale (or valley) of soul-making?”

There is a sense in which our “soul” can evolve as we go through life. We see the suffering of others, and instead of turning away, we grow in empathy. We discover there are situations we cannot fix, but that doesn’t mean we can’t care for the people involved. There is more ambiguity in life, less black-and-white.

As a pastor, I was sometimes asked, “Who are your favorite theologians?” In my early years, I would cite scholars who seemed to have everything figured out – as if they held maps to paradise. But in time I found myself offering a different answer; I would say “Rembrandt, Bach, Wendell Berry, and the older people I’ve known in my congregations.”

Rembrandt chose to paint portraits not of flawlessly attractive people (the kind displayed these days in fashion shows, on red carpets, and at Met Galas). He preferred ordinary people in whom he recognized a quiet integrity deep within; they had a beauty that transcended age, social status, and physical appearance.

“Johann Sebastian Bach lost both of his parents when he was nine and watched ten of his children die young. He was, in other words, well acquainted with death, and may have been uncommonly sensitive to the emotional chaos that it engenders. …Bach possessed a “consciousness of catastrophe”—a feeling for the suddenness and arbitrariness with which suffering descends on unsuspecting souls.”[i] But he took his grief and somehow transformed it into hundreds of pieces of music that miraculously express both the pain of shattered hearts and the joy of sacred knowing.

Wendell Berry left a high-status academic position in New York to return to his family farm in Kentucky. In his novels, poems, and essays, he brings to light the endless miracles hidden in the earth and the rugged dignity of people who work the land and revere it.

And the many older people in my congregations. As I got to know them, I gained great respect for all they had gone through — wars and hard times, hardships and heartaches, sacrifices and disappointments. They had given up on naïve illusions or easy answers. They didn’t have life figured out. Yet they seemed always ready to serve and care for others. These people spent decades finding their way through the “vale of soul-making,” their own possibilities bounded by the steep terrain they traveled through. But they endured. In the process, their souls somehow expanded to silently embrace life with all its tragedies and moments of wonder – moments that can feel like glimpses of paradise.

“Jacob Blessing the Sons of Joseph,” Rembrandt, 1656

[i] “The Book of Bach,” Alex Ross, The New Yorker, April 4, 2011

Our Evolutionary Inheritance: Work, Sleep, and Campfire Wisdom

Several years ago, I read about an African hunting/gathering community that had virtually no prior contact with “civilization.[i]” For two years an anthropologist recorded daily conversations, coded them, and analyzed them. Some key findings:

Almost all the daytime conversations involved work, with approximately 37% consisting of people complaining others weren’t doing their fair share.
Tribal elders did not have much to say or contribute during the day.
At night, everyone gathered around the fire. The focus changed from work to spiritual topics, tribal history, and “subtle psychological insights.” Elders became central to these conversations. The conversations could last for hours, and the old ones might nod off. But after a rest, they would often rejoin the circle.

At the time I read the article, I was leading a nonprofit with 30 employees, and these themes resonated with what I was experiencing:

The hardest part of the job was dealing with “HR Issues” – people’s work performance and how people would fret about the performance of others (probably close to 37%).
Younger employees often had more energy and could work longer. They also had more skill and less anxiety dealing with IT issues and were invaluable for pointing out cultural changes that were occurring and how we might adapt.
While everyone might have insights into our work, it was the older ones who held the “tribal memory” of both the organization and the profession and were particularly helpful in offering long-range perspective.

Later I saw an article about how our evolutionary past might explain the way memory changes over time.[ii] As we know, older people begin having difficulty with short-term memory (“Where are my glasses?” “What’s my password?”) But even seniors with dementia can have remarkable recall of past events. When our ancestors were hunting or gathering during the day to survive, they had to rely on mental alertness and physical abilities. But as they became slow, creaky, and sore, their value to the community shifted – they were the ones who carried the valuable stories; short-term memory was less important.

Maybe evolution also explains our sleep patterns. During COVID, I read Why We Sleep[iii]. The author notes that some adults go to bed early and wake up early while a roughly equal number of people go to bed late and sleep late. He theorizes this may be an inheritance from our past: it would be advantageous to have people awake at different times of the night to act as sentries for the tribe. So maybe this is one reason older folks wake up more often at odd hours — they’re wired for sentry duty. (Of course, the seriousness of the danger has changed; instead of “Is that a lion I hear in the forest”? it might be, “Does the dog need to go out?”)

These ideas comfort me. I like to think some of the changes we experience as we age aren’t because there’s “something wrong” with us, but because of deeply engrained behaviors that were advantageous for our ancestors.

I’ve always been fascinated by how Rembrandt was able to document his aging process. He portrayed himself close to 100 times, 40 of which are complete paintings. Here is one from 1632:

This 26-year-old guy is on top of his game – no doubt staying up late, full of energy and confidence, and successfully adapting to the latest trends and techniques.

And here he is 31 years later at age 57:

He may not be not going out as much…probably frustrated with aches and pains…going to bed earlier than he used to and waking up at odd times during the night. Maybe you wouldn’t ask him to help you move furniture across town. But look into his eyes: wouldn’t you like to hear some of his stories?

[i] I wish had the citation for the article, but I can’t seem to find it.

[ii] I can’t find this article either. Do you remember where I put it? Did you move it? You didn’t throw it away, did you?

[iii] I found this one! Why We Sleep: The New Science of Sleep and Dreams, by Matthew Walker.

Top image: “White Mountains Moonlit Campfire,” Getty Images

Love As Care and Confrontation

Years ago, a wise therapist said: “Steve, remember– love is a combination of care and confrontation.” That came as a shock. I had assumed “love” only meant “care.” But over the years I’ve reflected on this insight many times.

This week I will explore how this perspective on love is reflected in our spiritual journeys. I am going to let Rembrandt’s understanding of Jesus do most of the work by considering one of his masterpieces, “The Hundred Guilder Print” from 1650.

If you look at the full picture, what do you see? At first glance, it may look like just a pleasant portrayal of Jesus amid a crowd. It’s easy to identify him – he’s at the center, with rays of light shining from his face. But a closer look reveals it’s a not just a visual dose of religious saccharine, but a multifaceted masterpiece.

Rembrandt took Chapter 19 from the Gospel of Matthew and imagined how Jesus was interacting with each character in the story.

Let’s start with the right half of the picture, illustrating verses 1-2: “…large crowds followed him, and he cured them there.” Rembrandt imagines the various sicknesses and disabilities of the time and uses a variety of facial expressions and postures to show each person as they hope for healing. The compassion he showed such people is what I think of as “caring.”

But the mood changes as we shift to the left side. In verses 3-12, Pharisees pose a hard question about marriage and divorce. Jesus gives them a provocative response and they are discussing it. Loving these people meant challenging their beliefs.

In verses 13-15, a woman brings her child for a blessing. The disciples “speak sternly to her” implying a woman with a child shouldn’t bother Jesus. But he contradicts his disciples, putting his right hand in front of Peter (personifying the disciples) to silence him. Peter gets “the back of his hand,” but the palm of that same hand opens to welcome the woman. Behind her is a woman who has a baby in her arms; a second child is tugging on her sleeve, encouraging her to also accept the invitation. In this one hand gesture, Jesus is rebutting Peter and welcoming the women and children – confronting and caring at the same time. (As one feminist scholar has pointed out, this is a common dynamic in the Gospels – in scenes where both women and men are present, Jesus often speaks and acts in a way that humbles men and affirms women.)

We now focus on a character described as a “rich young man” (verses 16-22). He asks what he needs to do to deepen his spiritual life. Jesus first cites the Ten Commandments, assuming that is sufficient. The young man says he has done that but still feels something is lacking. I imagine Jesus pauses and looks more deeply into the man’s eyes before telling him he needs to sell all he has, give the proceeds to the poor, and follow him. “He went away grieving, for he had many possessions.” Rembrandt pictures the young man in deep introspection before leaving. His conversation with this young man – confrontation? Or care? Or both?

In many traditional religious paintings, every character is depicted as being in adoring rapture, surrounded by heavenly shafts of light. Not for Rembrandt. Other people in the scene are doing things ordinary people do. Some are listening to him, but others aren’t paying attention at all and are talking among themselves. A scrawny dog is hoping for scraps of food at the feet of the woman with children. On the far right, a camel driver looks bored and tired as he rests his head on the camel. The point: sometimes when a gifted teacher is speaking, some people are paying attention, but others are not.

Coming back to our theme: if Jesus channels the “love of God,” it’s not a one-size-fits-all warm and gentle feeling, like we have when we see a photo of a puppy. Far from it. For the characters in this etching, the love of God is customized for each person, directed at what they need in that moment in their life. For some it’s healing, comfort and blessing. For others, it’s challenging righteous assumptions, posing provocative questions, or causing them to discern their true motivations.

Looking back on my life, this expresses how I’ve experienced divine love and leading.

Many times, I’ve reached out in a time of need and been given “a peace that surpasses all understanding.” Sometimes that came right away, sometimes it came later in the day, sometimes several days later. But when it came, I felt cared for. I know many others have this experience.

Other times I’ve reached out for guidance, I was really hoping I’d find some pleasant reassurance or an easy way out. And instead, I was given something better.

In 1986, my wife and I had spent a year as volunteers at The Campbell Farm, an apple farm and retreat center within the Yakima Reservation in rural Washington. I had never lived in an area with a high poverty rate. I thought we’d be there for a short time, then move on to some setting where life was easier. The local church had offered me a position as pastor, but I was reluctant to stay. I prayed for guidance. One afternoon, I was out in the alfalfa field changing irrigation lines. These words appeared in my awareness: “Instead of being served, think of serving.” After a moment of reflection, I knew what that meant. I didn’t like it. But I sensed I needed to trust that message. I accepted the call. We ended up staying for six years. It was not an easy time, but a rich and rewarding time as I learned about myself and rural communities and served as best I could. I’m forever grateful my ego was confronted rather than appeased. Looking back, it was a message I needed to hear.

Divine love can be a combination of care and confrontation. That’s one of the many reasons grace is amazing.

— Steve

(For a full view of the 100 Guilder Print, go to https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b8/Rembrandt_The_Hundred_Guilder_Print.jpg/1280px-Rembrandt_The_Hundred_Guilder_Print.jpg)