Rembrandt's Mirror by Kim Devereux Page A

be forgiven. This reminded me that it was the second day of the two-day holiday – a day for fasting. I would dedicate the entire day to turning my thoughts away from last night and towards God. My stomach growled. I would view any physical discomfort as a reminder to practise governance over my flesh but it would be difficult without any distractions. I’d seen notices announcing a sermon to be delivered in the Oude Kerk by Jodocus van Lodenstein, a famous preacher from Utrecht. I’d go; the sermon would help to keep my mind off Rembrandt and my stomach. But first I drank a good draught of diluted beer to quell the worst of my hunger pangs.
    When I arrived at the church, people were queuing at the door, but I managed to squeeze by and find a seat in one of the pews nearthe front. It was hard to imagine how one man in a pulpit could make himself heard to the hundreds of people in this vast space. Van Lodenstein was small in stature and entirely dressed in black. He was shifting from one leg to the other, and had none of the aura of godly authority that a preacher like him ought to possess. At last he gave a nod to the organist and as the first notes boomed I joined in with the hymn. I didn’t know a soul but it was comforting to be here, doing what I’d done at home in Bredevoort every Sunday – although I’d never enjoyed it then. After the last note had rung out, van Lodenstein waited until there was perfect silence. Even the baby in its mother’s lap to my right had stopped gurgling.
    A thud forced my attention back to the pulpit. Van Lodenstein had brought his fist down on the lectern and spoke. ‘Why should we harden our hearts if the Lord wishes us to turn away from our sins? Is the obedience to the flesh and its desires worth losing the Lord’s favour and kindling God’s terrible wrath?’
    I’d never seen someone launch into a sermon like this: the backs in the pew in front had all gone from slumping to straight, as had mine. How could so small a man have such a loud voice? It was as if he was looking at me and only me. Did he know? Had I become soiled simply by living in a house of sin? Had Rembrandt really put his pezel inside her last night? I mustn’t think of it. Perhaps van Lodenstein knew I’d stopped listening, for he was glowering at me. Or perhaps he was distracted by the baby, which had started cooing loudly. I’d never been able to remember what we’d been taught at Sunday school despite the inevitable punishments. My stomach wasgrumbling so noisily that I was glad for the baby’s commentary. At the stroke of midnight, the end of the prescribed fast, I’d eat all that remained of yesterday’s stew.
    Van Lodenstein was leaning so far forward in his pulpit I thought him reckless. ‘Humble yourself under the power of God’s hand, because He will elevate you in His time. But you must conduct yourselves with the external humility that you display before God’s face; above all it appears in your clothing, and your furniture, as well as in your children, yes, in everything.’
    Humble . I chewed the word over. Why did it matter to be humble in appearance? Surely the members of the congregation who decked themselves out the most carefully in black were the least humble?
    â€˜Humbly we meet him in the heart, in confessing our guilt . . .’ Ah, confessing guilt, this was what I’d come for. I certainly felt guilty. If only guilt could be wrapped into a parcel like mouldy pieces of cheese in cabbage, and fed to the cows.
    â€˜. . . in the deep feeling for our sins and our sinful nature. With Ezra we can then say: “O my God, I am ashamed and blush to lift my face to thee, my God, for our iniquities have risen higher than our heads, and our guilt has mounted up to the heavens.”’ A lot of cows would be required for my guilt alone. ‘Only then have we made a beginning towards the