The King We Need - Put Me in Coach

Psalm 110:2–3 

BRIEF REVIEW — WEEK 1

Last week we spent time in Psalm 110 — and if you weren't here, here's what you need to know. This is the most quoted Old Testament passage in the entire New Testament. Jesus quoted it. Peter preached from it at Pentecost. Paul appeals to it. The writer of Hebrews builds his greatest argument around it. Revelation echoes it. No other Old Testament text shows up more in the pages of the New Testament.

And there's a reason for that. The Bible is not a collection of disconnected stories and rules — it is one unified story, and it points to Jesus. Someone once said it this way: the Old Testament is the New Testament concealed, and the New Testament is the Old Testament revealed. What we celebrated at Easter was not Plan B. It was planned long before David ever picked up his pen.

Psalm 110 is unique even among David's psalms. David isn't writing about God — he's recording a conversation between God the Father and God the Son. It's as if the Spirit pulled back the curtain and gave David inside information on how history would unfold. And what David heard settled everything: Jesus is on the throne. God has a plan. The victory is assured.

But that raises an obvious question — and it's one we all feel.

If the King is already on the throne, if the victory is already guaranteed — why does the world still look the way it does? Why does it feel like we're losing? And where do I fit in all of this?

That's exactly where Psalm 110:2–3 takes us today.

READ THE TEXT

Psalm 110:2–3 (NIV)

"The Lord will extend your mighty scepter from Zion, saying, 'Rule in the midst of your enemies!' Your troops will be willing on your day of battle. Arrayed in holy splendor, your young men will come to you like dew from the morning's womb."

I. THE KING RULES IN ENEMY TERRITORY (v. 2)

Verse 2 opens with a reminder of where the victory originated — Zion. That's the biblical name for Jerusalem, and it's no accident. That's where Jesus was crucified. That's where he was resurrected. And that's where Peter stood up on the day of Pentecost and preached the first sermon of the church age in Acts 2. Victory was achieved in Jerusalem, and it was first proclaimed there. It started in Zion.

But the next phrase introduces something a little uncomfortable. Notice where the King rules from. Not from a safe distance, surrounded by allies, waiting until all resistance fades. He rules in the midst of his enemies. That phrase matters. The scepter of King Jesus extends into hostile territory right now — even while enemies are still present. The victory has been secured, but it has not yet been fully consummated.

Theologians call this the "already but not yet." Jesus is already King — but the final victory is not yetcomplete. The battle continues. And that shouldn't surprise us, because Scripture is honest about it. Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 4:4 that "the god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers." There is an active enemy. We are not in neutral territory.

Let me tell you about a baseball game.

A few years back I organized a trip to Globe Life Park for a group from our church to see the Texas Rangers play. I was born and raised just north of Boston, so I'll go ahead and confess — I am an unapologetic Red Sox fan. And on this particular night, the Rangers happened to be playing the Red Sox. So I did what any self-respecting fan would do: I showed up in full Red Sox gear.

I got dirty looks. When most of the crowd was cheering, I wasn't. When I was cheering, most of the crowd wasn't. When a Red Sox player hit a home run, I turned to the die-hard Rangers fan sitting next to me and asked — maybe a little too smugly — why the fireworks didn't go off. He reminded me that fireworks don't celebrate the opponent's success. I already knew that, of course. When you're in enemy territory, the crowd cheers for your demise, not your victory. I wasn't surprised. I was just a long way from home.

That's exactly where we live as followers of Jesus. We are in enemy territory. Jesus himself told us the world would hate us just as it hated him. John wrote to Christians years after the resurrection and said plainly: "Do not be surprised, my brothers and sisters, if the world hates you" (1 John 3:13). We shouldn't be caught off guard when the world celebrates what we despise, or despises what we celebrate. We know whose stadium we're in.

So we should expect resistance. We should expect moments of discouragement. In some parts of the world, we should expect outright persecution. None of that means the King has lost. It means we're paying attention to where we are.

And here is what Psalm 110:2 will not let us forget: the King rules here. Right here, in the middle of enemy territory, the scepter of Jesus extends. He doesn't wait for a friendlier crowd. He reigns now.

That raises the obvious question — and the one this psalm is driving toward: if the King rules here, what does that mean for us? Which side do we choose, and how do we show up?

That's exactly where the psalm takes us next.

II. THE KING HAS A WILLING ARMY (v. 3)

Verse 3 gives us the answer. If verse 2 raises the question — whose side are you on? — verse 3 tells us how people respond when they truly believe the answer.

Psalm 110:3a (NIV)

"Your troops will be willing on your day of battle."

The word behind "willing" here is rooted in the idea of a freewill offering — the same spirit found in Judges 5:2, when the people of Israel voluntarily threw themselves into battle against impossible odds. But it goes even deeper than that. The text can literally be read: your people will be freewill offerings. Not just willing soldiers — willing sacrifices. People who give not just their effort but themselves entirely.

Think about that for a moment. When you genuinely believe that Jesus is King, that the victory is already secured, that the outcome is not in question — the choice becomes obvious. Who doesn't want to be on the winning side?

Think back to elementary school. The schoolyard. Teams being picked. You know how it worked — the best player picked first, and everybody wanted to be on that team. Not because they had to be. Not because they drew the short straw. But because being on the winning team meant something. You raised your hand. You leaned forward. You wanted to be chosen.

Here's the difference between the schoolyard and the Kingdom: you don't have to wait to be picked. You get to choose. The best player — the one with the perfect record, the guaranteed victory — has already opened the door. The only question is whether you walk through it.

This willingness — this eagerness to step forward, to raise your hand, to say "I'm ready" — reminds me of an old song. "Put me in, Coach. I'm ready to play." That's the spirit of Psalm 110:3. Not dragged onto the field. Not guilt-tripped into service. Ready. Willing. Already warmed up.

That's what we see over and over in Scripture when people encounter the King.

Isaiah found himself standing in the throne room of God — overwhelmed, undone, painfully aware of his own unworthiness. And then he heard it: "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?" Nobody grabbed Isaiah by the collar. The door simply opened. And Isaiah said: "Here am I. Send me" (Isaiah 6:8). The King calls and the willing heart steps forward.

You see it on the shore of Galilee. Jesus walks up to Peter and Andrew and says two words: "Follow me"(Matthew 4:19). No contract. No job description. No guarantee of comfort or safety. Just an invitation. And Matthew tells us they left their nets immediately. The willingness showed up in the speed. They didn't negotiate. They didn't ask for time to think it over. The King called and they came.

Paul saw it in the churches of Macedonia. These people were poor — going through severe hardship — and yet they gave generously, far beyond what anyone expected. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 8:3–5 that they gave entirely on their own. No pressure campaign. No matching gift deadline. They begged for the privilege of giving. And why? Because they had first given themselves to the Lord. Everything else flowed from that.

Paul describes his own life the same way in Philippians 2:17 — poured out like a drink offering. Not forced. Not grudging. A life freely given, like water poured before the Lord.

This willingness, however, isn't naive.

Jesus never pretended that following him was easy — and he never asked anyone to sign up without reading the fine print. Luke 9:23 is as honest as it gets: "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me." Notice that word — wants. Jesus doesn't draft anyone. But he also doesn't sugarcoat what he's asking for. He's asking for everything. Daily. The cross isn't a one-time inconvenience. It's a way of life.

In Luke 14, Jesus tells a parable about a man who wants to build a tower. His point is blunt: sit down first and count the cost. Know what you're getting into before you start. A half-built tower is worse than no tower at all. A soldier who turns back in the middle of battle causes more damage than one who never enlisted.

Jesus isn't looking for impulsive volunteers who bail when things get difficult. He's looking for people who counted the cost, looked the King in the eye, and said — I'm in anyway.

That is the army of Psalm 110:3.

And notice how they arrive.

Psalm 110:3b (NIV)

"Your young men will come to you like dew from the morning's womb."

Dew doesn't announce itself. It doesn't wait for conditions to improve. It doesn't ask whether the timing is convenient. It simply shows up — quiet, faithful, covering the ground at dawn before the rest of the world is even awake.

Spurgeon captured it beautifully: given to the King from of old, his people are his own — and when his power is revealed, they hasten with cheerfulness to own his sway, appearing at the gospel call as it were spontaneously, even as the dew comes forth in the morning.

That's the picture of the willing soldier. Not the one who shows up when it's comfortable. Not the one who waits to see how others respond first. The one who, because they truly believe that Jesus is reigning King, simply shows up. Ready. Committed. Already there.

Anyone who genuinely believes verse 1 will live like verse 3.

III. ARRAYED IN HOLY SPLENDOR

Tucked right in the middle of verse 3 — between the description of a willing army and the image of dew at dawn — is a phrase that deserves its own moment.

Psalm 110:3 (NIV)

"Arrayed in holy splendor."

This isn't a detail about clothing. It's a statement about identity.

I remember getting my Little League uniform for the first time. The hat. The jersey with the team name across the chest. I couldn't wait to put it on. It wasn't just clothing — it meant I belonged to something. I looked ready to play. And I wanted everyone to know which side I was on.

Some of you remember what it felt like to walk down a school hallway and see your name on the door for the first time. Your name. Your classroom. Something inside you straightened up. You weren't just a person walking down a hall anymore — you were a teacher. You had a role. A responsibility. The way you carried yourself in that room was going to reflect on something bigger than yourself.

Or maybe it was your work badge — your name, your photo, your title. Access to places others couldn't go. It meant you belonged. You were on the team.

That's what arrayed in holy splendor means. You belong to something. Your name is on the door. The uniform fits.

Paul describes this moment with striking clarity in Galatians 3:27: "All of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ." Past tense. Already done. The moment you gave yourself to this King, he dressed you — not in your own righteousness, not in the tattered outfit you'd been wearing — but in his. His holiness. His splendor. His name across your chest.

You may not always feel like it. The mirror may not always confirm it. But the uniform has already been given. The name is already on the door.

The question isn't whether you are clothed. The question is whether you will walk like it.

You carry his name. You wear his splendor. Not because you earned it — because he gave it. That's not a burden. That's an honor. And it's an invitation to live up to what you've already been given.

IV. BUT HERE'S WHY WE DON'T

So if the King is already reigning, the victory already secured, the army clothed in splendor and showing up at dawn — why do so many of us hold back? Why do we keep one foot in and one foot out?

Let's be honest about it.

We want to blend in — and we're afraid to stand out.

There is something deeply human about wanting to belong to the crowd. When everyone around you is cheering for the other team, it takes real courage to show up in Red Sox gear. Most of us, if we're honest, would rather follow Jesus quietly — privately — as long as it doesn't cost us a friendship, a reputation, or an awkward conversation at work. We want the King. We just don't want to be conspicuous about it. The uniform of holy splendor is beautiful in theory. But wearing it visibly — living differently, being known as someone who actually takes their faith seriously — feels risky. What will people think? What if they ask questions we can't answer? What if they think we're strange? So we fold the uniform and leave it in the drawer.

We're not fully convinced the right team wins.

This one is harder to admit, but it's real. We've been told the throne is not empty. We've heard that Jesus is already reigning. But then we look at the world — the chaos, the injustice, the suffering, the way evil seems to advance unchecked — and a quiet doubt creeps in. The enemy territory starts to feel less like a place we're passing through and more like a place that's swallowing us whole. And when the victory feels distant, the willingness drains away.

The other team makes compelling promises.

The world is not shy about what it offers — comfort, acceptance, success, pleasure, belonging. It makes a loud and attractive case for itself every single day. Following Jesus often means walking away from things that look genuinely appealing. The opposing team has a very good marketing department.

These are real. They are not weaknesses to be ashamed of — they are the honest struggle of everyone who has ever tried to follow a King they cannot see, in enemy territory, surrounded by people who think they're foolish for trying. If you recognized yourself in any of those, you're in good company. Every person in this room has felt at least one of them.

GO BACK TO VERSE ONE

So what do we do? How do we find the willingness of Psalm 110:3 when the pull to blend in is strong, the doubt is real, and the other team's promises are loud?

Here's the honest diagnosis: most of us are simply tuned to the wrong channel.

Think about how much news you consumed this week. How many times you checked your phone. How many headlines scrolled past. How many voices told you what to fear, what to want, what to chase. The world's news cycle is relentless. It is loud. It is engineered to hold your attention.

Now think about how much time you spent listening to the news from heaven.

There is a broadcast running that most of us are barely tuned into. It doesn't trend. It doesn't break in with alerts. It has no notification badge. But it carries the most important news ever announced — news that makes every other headline secondary. And it sounds like this:

Psalm 110:1 (NIV)

"The Lord says to my lord: 'Sit at my right hand until I make your enemies a footstool for your feet.'"

The Father speaking to the Son. The throne is not empty. The King is not anxious, not pacing, not watching the news cycle wondering if things are going to work out. He is seated. Reigning. Already ruling. And the enemies — every last one of them, including the ones dominating today's headlines — are becoming a footstool.

Spurgeon put it this way: there is no cause for alarm whatever may happen in this lower world. The sight of Jesus enthroned in divine glory is the sure guarantee that all things are moving onward toward ultimate victory.

The world's broadcast will tell you the wrong team is winning. It will make the chaos look permanent and the other team's promises look reasonable. And if that's the only channel you're listening to, no wonder the willingness drains away. No wonder you fold the uniform and leave it in the drawer.

But when you tune into the news from heaven — when you sit with Psalm 110:1 long enough to really hear it — something shifts. The noise doesn't disappear. The enemy territory doesn't suddenly feel friendly. The cost of following Jesus doesn't get cheaper. But the outcome snaps back into focus. The King is seated. The victory is secure. The result was never in question.

And that is exactly what produces willing soldiers.

We need to pray for that willingness. To hear the call and respond. To see a need and meet it. To see an opportunity to tell someone about Jesus and seize it boldly. To bring everything God has given us — our time, our talents, our treasure — and lay it at his feet.

To be like Isaiah, who heard the call and said: "Here am I. Send me."

To be like Peter and Andrew, who heard two words and immediately left their nets.

To be like the churches of Macedonia, who gave not out of abundance but out of a heart already surrendered to the King.

Tune into the news from heaven long enough, and willingness follows. It always does.

So turn down the noise. Open the Word. Go back to verse one.

The King is seated. The victory is secure. And in light of that — the call of verse 3 sounds less like a demand and more like the best invitation you've ever received.

Sides are being chosen. If you have not yet chosen the God of the universe, I want to say this as plainly as I can: you have not yet chosen wisely. But here is the grace in this room today — you still get to choose. And God, in his kindness, has already told you who wins. We have heard it from heaven itself. The King is on the throne. Only he can truly save us.

And the door is still open.

SONG TRANSITION — MIGHTY TO SAVE

All morning we've been talking about a King who rules in enemy territory. About an army that shows up at dawn, clothed in splendor, ready. About people who counted the cost, looked the King in the eye, and said — I'm in anyway.

That willingness looks like Isaiah stepping forward when the door opened. It looks like Peter and Andrew dropping their nets without negotiating. It looks like a poor church in Macedonia begging for the chance to give. It looks like a life freely offered — not out of obligation, not because you had no choice, but because you've heard the news from heaven and you know how this ends.

This song we're about to sing captures that perfectly. Verse 2 says it plainly: "I give my life to follow... now I surrender." That's not defeat. That's the most courageous thing a person can do — walk into the presence of the reigning King and say, take me as you find me. All my fears, all my failures, all of it. I'm yours.

And the bridge says what a willing army looks like when it opens its mouth: "Shine your light and let the whole world see — we're singing for the glory of the risen King."

That's us. Right here. Right now. In enemy territory, knowing whose side we're on, and not being quiet about it.

The King is on his throne. The victory is secure. Let's sing like we believe it.