Dark Saturday

COMMENT

IONA: place of dreams, visions, and sometimes even nightmares. The island inhabits me, challenges me, inspires me. It has certainly marked me.

One afternoon last summer, I returned to the old Benedictine cathedral, a great shelter in the storms. Let me tell you about it.

As I walk down the centre aisle, the sun is streaming through the window, highlighting the big silver cross on the marble communion table. Then I move into a side chapel, where a number of candles flutter in the draughts. I light a candle. I do so for a particular reason. Let me explain.

When I studied at St Andrews University in the 1960s, I lived in an anarchic student residence called Hepburn Hall. In the room next to mine was a hardworking student, a lovely guy by the name of Alan Lewis. We became fast friends. Alan’s brilliance as a theologian was recognised in his appointment to a lectureship at New College. While there, he began work on a book about Holy Saturday, the day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

In 1987, Alan was appointed to the chair of theology at Austin Presbyterian Seminary in Texas. But in the course of a routine job medical, a tumour was discovered. Alan kept on teaching, and he was much loved by his students. However, his condition deteriorated, and he found himself facing his own dark Saturday.

Alan died on February 19, 1994 at the grievously young age of 49. His great work was nearing completion; Alan’s widow, Kay, lovingly and skilfully finished the task. Between Cross and Resurrection: A Theology of Holy Saturday, was published to acclaim.

Describing Alan’s magnum opus as: “The most remarkable and moving book I have ever read,” Professor T F Torrance went on: “Every page was written by a dying, saintly theologian who stood in the presence of God.”

Alan’s elder son, Mark, studied his late father’s illness. It was pointed out to him that some of Alan’s forebears had exhibited the same genetic patterns as Alan himself.

Mark decided to devote his life to the fight against cancer: he is now gaining a fine reputation as a rising star in the field of oncology.

The story doesn’t end there, though: Mark began to exhibit some of the same symptoms as his father, indicating that early surgery was called for. That prayer candle in Iona abbey was for Mark Lewis and his loved ones – it was burning at the time when Mark was undergoing potentially life-threatening surgery.

As we move from Easter to Pentecost in the great Christian journey, there is so much we simply don’t understand.

As I brood there in the stillness of Iona Abbey, a young woman sits down at the piano in the organ loft. She starts to sing a haunting song:

You were the Word at the beginning

One with God the Lord Most High

Your hidden glory in creation

Now revealed in You our Christ

What a beautiful Name it is

What a beautiful Name it is

The Name of Jesus Christ my King The sun is streaming in again, lighting up the prayer-saturated ancient walls. Ambushed by poignancy and beauty, I find that I am crying.

Mark Lewis has thankfully made an excellent recovery, back doing the skilled, caring work he loves. He will worry about his own son, Alan. Mark’s father would have been so proud of his boy.

As we move from Easter to Pentecost in the great Christian journey, there is so much we simply don’t understand. In the great communion of saints, Alan Lewis will understand more, in the company of the One with the beautiful Name, and nail prints in his hands.

This article appears in the May 2018 Issue of Life and Work

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