We Will Play His Music

Johnny Simmons and the Hope of the Resurrection

I’m so sorry about the failure to livestream yesterday. Shock and grief over the sudden death of Johnny Simmons, that cheerful warrior-ing presence on Wierd Anglican Twitter and Facebook, did us in. Over the years Johnny has been an immense encouragement to me. As a longtime reader and commenter of this blog, he often sent fodder and messages my way. He, though I never got to meet him in person, seemed like a kindred spirit. I had always hoped that on some journey or other down to Texas we would be able to cut over to Houston to visit him and Jenni, and now I am so regretful that we didn’t somehow figure it out. I hope you all will join me in praying for Jenni over the many weeks and months, that the Lord will be so close to her, and carry her along. And that on the next trip to Texas, I will seriously just drive to Houston.

In the meantime, like me, you might like to take a few minutes to listen to some of Johnny’s hymns:

Strangely enough—or not strange at all—in the Bible app I listen to while working out in the horrible chilly dawn at Planet Fitness, I got mixed up every day last week. I listened to a mash-up of the Destruction of Sennacherib with the death and burial of Jesus no less than five times. Every day I pushed the little “go to the next reading” arrow on the side, then play, and then did sit-ups or whatever. Halfway through I would realize that I was listening to the same thing again. Frustrated, I would push the forward arrow, which never progressed, and then eventually, morning after morning, I would give up and listen to more of the 45 hours of Stephen Fry reading Sherlock Holmes that is my current light distraction.

I was annoyed, by that and so many other impossible things, and wondered why it mattered which language the Rabsheka was talking in, and why Joseph of Aramathea had made a tomb and not managed to bury anybody in it. It was like Jesus was crucified and buried repeatedly Monday through Friday and Sennacherib went back to his own country to be assassinated by his awful sons. I never paused to ask why I never got to the part where Hezekiah falls sick and turns his face to the wall.

On Saturday we didn’t go to the gym. On Sunday Johnny went to be with his precious Lord and, in misery, on Monday morning, after almost slipping on the sheet of ice that is the parking lot of Planet Fitness and wrenching my back, I clicked the little arrow and suddenly the page moved forward and I listened to Isaiah 38 which has this bit:

The Lord will save me, and we will play my music on stringed instruments all the days of our lives, at the house of the Lord.

and Matthew 28, John 20, Luke 24, Mark 16:1-4, Isaiah 40, which is the “Comfort, comfort my people” chapter, and Isaiah 41, 42, and 43. The makers of the app have carefully mashed up all the resurrection appearances with my favorite parts of Isaiah, the most comforting poetry about how God, in Jesus Christ, rescues us. It’s the word “you” that makes me sob.

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.’

And the thought of how we each go down the grave, one by one, and are torn from each other feels like an overwhelming flood, like the fire and water that always threatened to consume the people of Israel, and us too. We are not supposed to die. We are not supposed to go in sorrow to the grave.

And yet, God arranges the smallest particles of our beings according to the power of the resurrection. The whole Bible is thrilling with that brilliant light, that quiet, empty tomb.

The thing that impresses me, listening to Johnny’s Spotify account and combing through his Facebook page, is how satisfied he appears when he is singing, and drumming, and leading the congregation hymns. He is full of praise, as every Christian ought to be.

Every Ascension Day, Johnny filled the cyber world with admonitions to celebrate the day. Don’t neglect it, he would say. Make sure to have a special service. Don’t just go on with your life as if nothing necessary is happening. And to think of Jesus there, on his throne, interceding for us day and night, drawing our anxieties and griefs to the attention of the Father ceaselessly—Johnny must be so absolutely thrilled to be in the gathered throng.

I’m happy for him, of course. Unbelievably jealous and sad for all of us. Ready, like Hezekiah to turn my face to the wall. But, sure, happy for him. Envy, of course, is so wicked. I will get right onto praying about that. And, fine, we’ll all get there eventually—slowly, one at a time, and then suddenly all at once. What a fine day that will be.

In the meantime, raise your glass to Johnny, in the presence of his King.