The Forgotten Psalm (7)

Sermon Manuscript: Week 7 — "When We Stopped Singing the Anthem"

Series: The Forgotten Psalm: Recovering the Reigning Christ of Psalm 110 Date: Sunday, November 24, 2025 Text: Psalm 137; Revelation 3:20 Big Idea: A silent Church forgets her King—and her courage.

Recap & Introduction

As we enter the second half of The Forgotten Psalm, we begin to trace what happened when the Church slowly lost its grip on the message that once turned the world upside down: that Jesus reigns now.

So far, we’ve walked through six foundational moments in Scripture:

Week 1: Jesus quotes Psalm 110 to silence the Pharisees—He is David’s Lord.

Week 2: Jesus declares before the Sanhedrin that from now on He will be seen at the right hand of Power.

Week 3: The Ascension fulfills the promise—He returns to where He was before.

Week 4: Peter at Pentecost preaches Christ risen and enthroned.

Week 5: Hebrews declares the Son greater than angels, seated on an everlasting throne.

Week 6: Paul in 1 Corinthians 15 says Christ must reign until every enemy is under His feet.

But what happens when the Church stops singing that anthem? When the throne is replaced by therapeutic slogans? When the crown of Christ is traded for cultural relevance or political convenience?

Today, we look at that turning point—not just in theology, but in the soul of the Church.

Reading — Psalm 137; Revelation 3:20 (LSB)

Psalm 137:1–4 — “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion. Upon the willows in the midst of it we hung our harps. For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors for mirth, saying, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion.’ How can we sing the song of Yahweh in a foreign land?”

Revelation 3:20 — “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me.”

Context & Background

Psalm 137 is written during Israel’s exile in Babylon, a time when the people of God found themselves physically removed from Zion and spiritually disconnected from their covenant identity. Their temple had been burned, their king dethroned, and their praises silenced. But the Psalm is not merely a historical reflection—it’s a mirror for every generation that forgets where its strength lies.

As we've seen over the past six weeks, Psalm 110 was God's favorite Psalm—not just by frequency, but by function. It was the backbone of apostolic preaching and the anthem of the early Church. Yet somewhere along the way, it was forgotten. Not all at once. Not by denial. But by drift.

The shift began as early as the fourth century. With the institutionalization of Christianity under Constantine, the Church began trading its prophetic throne-centered message for political acceptance. As creeds became formalized and theological systems grew more complex, the simple and powerful announcement of the reign of Christ faded into future expectations. Psalm 110 was no longer the soundtrack of the Church's mission—it was filed away in a prophetic “someday.”

By the time of the Enlightenment and modern evangelicalism, the focus had almost completely shifted: away from the present reign and toward personal experience, future return, and a privatized gospel. Christ’s enthronement became symbolic. His reign was postponed. The anthem went silent.

And in many ways, the modern Church reflects this silence. Not because of physical exile, but because of spiritual amnesia. We’ve forgotten the throne. We’ve lost our anthem. And Jesus, in Revelation 3, is found outside the door of His own Church, knocking—not because He has abdicated, but because we have abandoned the throne-centered gospel that once gave us courage, clarity, and conviction.

Today’s message is a lament, a warning, and a call to remember what we were meant to sing.

Exposition

Psalm 110 is the key to understanding Psalm 137’s lament. Behind the silence in Babylon is the forgotten enthronement in Zion. The exile of the people parallels the exile of the message—the reign of Christ that once defined the Church’s mission has been sidelined. This Psalm, though not directly quoting Psalm 110, reveals what happens when the Church loses sight of her King. Each line is drenched in the absence of what Psalm 110 proclaims: a King reigning in the midst of His enemies, a people offering themselves freely, a priest forever on the throne. Psalm 137 is what it looks like when that vision fades. It is the grief of a people who have lost their anthem. Revelation 3 is the result when the anthem is not only lost, but when the King Himself is no longer central. These two texts are the consequence of forgetting Psalm 110—not remembering it intellectually, but failing to live under its truth.

By the Rivers of Babylon — When Worship Turned to Weeping The rivers of Babylon were not just geographical features—they were foreign altars mocking the memory of Jerusalem. These were waters of exile, where songs once sung in joy now drowned in sorrow. The people of God were broken, not just by chains, but by distance from the throne—the throne of David, the mountain of Zion, the presence of Yahweh. They sat down and wept, not because God had ceased to be sovereign, but because they had lost their song. Worship turned to weeping when the visible signs of the Kingdom were lost. And in that same spirit, the modern Church often weeps not from persecution, but from confusion—because the throne we once proclaimed boldly has become a footnote in our gospel.

We Hung Up Our Harps — The Silence of Zion’s People Hanging up the harp is the clearest image of surrender in the psalm. These instruments were meant for temple praise—for enthroning God upon the praises of His people (Psalm 22:3). But now they hang unused, draped across foreign trees, symbols of a worship silenced by circumstance. Likewise, many churches today have set aside the regal anthem of Christ’s present reign and picked up songs that entertain or soothe rather than proclaim. The harp isn’t just music—it’s memory. It’s identity. To hang it up is to forget who we are and who our King is. The Church was never meant to be quiet in exile. We are heralds, not hostages.

Sing Us a Song — The World’s Mockery and Memory The tormentors say, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion.” This isn’t a sincere request—it’s mockery. They remember that Zion once sang with power. The songs of God’s people were once feared, not because of melody, but because of authority. The world today still wants the rhythm without the reign—Christianity as culture, but not as Kingdom. But they ask because they remember something we’ve forgotten. The Church has lost her anthem, but Babylon hasn’t. The mockery of the world should not discourage us—it should convict us. When the world remembers your power better than you do, you know something has gone wrong.

How Can We Sing? — The Crisis of Identity and Hope The exiles ask, “How can we sing the song of Yahweh in a foreign land?” It’s a question of identity: If Zion is gone, who are we? If the temple is destroyed, what do we worship? And if the King’s throne is empty, what do we sing? Today, the Church asks a similar question: In a culture that mocks Christ and marginalizes truth, how do we proclaim His reign? The answer is simple but costly: we sing by faith. We preach the throne not because the world accepts it, but because Heaven has established it. The crisis of identity is solved not by fitting into Babylon, but by remembering Zion. Our song returns when our eyes return to the right hand of Power.

Behold, I Stand at the Door — Jesus Outside the Church Revelation 3:20 is one of the most sobering verses in the Bible—not because it pictures Jesus knocking on the door of a sinner’s heart, but because it shows Jesus knocking on the door of His own Church. He is outside the very place that bears His name. Why? Because they are rich in self-esteem, but poor in gospel clarity. They have programs but no power. Affluence but no authority. They forgot the throne—and when the throne is forgotten, the King is sidelined. But even in this, He knocks. He calls. He invites. The throne has not moved. The anthem can be sung again. If any Church hears His voice and opens the door—He will come in. And He will reign.

Application Points

As this is the Sunday before Thanksgiving, let us close our hearts with gratitude for the One who reigns and remembers. Even when we forget the throne, the King has not forgotten us. To remember is to return—to lift our harps again, to sing His anthem again, and to give thanks that His rule has not faded, even when our voices have.

Recover the Sound of Zion. What have we stopped singing? Where has worship lost its fire and proclamation? Ask the Spirit to restore the anthem of His reign in your mouth.

Remember the King Who Reigns. What have we forgotten? Our silence often stems from spiritual amnesia. Remember the throne. Remember who rules.

Refuse to Mute the Throne. Where have we silenced the throne? In our pulpits, in our parenting, in our public witness? Bring the rule of Christ back to the center.

Reject a Hollow Gospel. What gospel are we preaching instead? One of sentiment or sovereignty? Let us preach Christ crucified, risen, and reigning.

Repent of Our Forgetfulness. What needs to be repented of? Metanoeō—change your mind. Return to the anthem. Return to the King.

Rise and Sing Again. What song must we begin singing again? The song of the Lamb, the Psalm of the King. Lift it in your home, your church, your heart.

Gospel Call

Church, we are not merely called to lament the silence—we are called to rise and sing again. Christ is not missing from His throne. He has not abandoned His post. But many have abandoned the song. If you find yourself cold in worship, quiet in witness, and disengaged from the mission, hear this: Jesus is knocking. Not with wrath—but with mercy. Not with condemnation—but with invitation.

He is not far. He is near. And He is reigning.

To the weary saint: He sees your discouragement. To the wandering believer: He calls you home. To the religious but unconverted: He invites you not into ritual—but into reign.

Repent. Metanoeō—change your mind. Return to the King. Reopen the doors of your heart. Reclaim the harp you once hung up.

Christ reigns. And He desires to reign in you.

The anthem is not lost. The throne is not empty. But the door must be opened.

Will you answer? Will you bow? Will you rise and sing again?