Texts: Deuteronomy 26.1-11 and John 6.25-35
It’s that time of year again—Harvest Festival. The day when, across the land, vicars feel compelled to say something profound about tins of beans and packets of pasta. I’ve even heard Harvest sermons that wax lyrical about spaghetti hoops, as though they were manna from heaven. But perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps the miracle is precisely that God can use something as humble as a tin of beans, or a loaf of bread, to open our eyes to the truth that all life, all sustenance, all hope comes from him.
Our first reading from Deuteronomy reminds us how Israel were taught to bring their first fruits before the Lord. They didn’t just stumble into worship with the leftovers of the weekly shop. They offered the first and the best. And then they told the story. A wandering Aramean was my ancestor, says the text. The point was never just the grain and the figs and the honey—it was the memory. The reminder that this land was gift. That freedom was gift. That all good things are God’s doing.
Fast forward to John’s Gospel, and the crowd chasing Jesus across the lake after the feeding of the five thousand. They’ve seen a miracle, but they’ve misunderstood it. They’re still fixated on bread to fill their stomachs, when Jesus is trying to point them to the bread that gives life itself. “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life,” he says. And then he makes that bold, startling claim: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”
So here we are, in Havant, with our tins, our apples, our loaves, trying to get our heads around what it means to bring first fruits, and what it means to seek the bread of life.
Harvest is not about nostalgia for village greens and hay bales. It’s about reality. And the reality is this: we live in a world groaning under pressure. Our farmers—like those Colin Headley works with every day—are under immense strain. Supermarket price wars, climate instability, and government bureaucracy are squeezing them from every side. It is no exaggeration to say that the future of British farming hangs in the balance. If we don’t support our farmers, one day soon we may find we have no one left to bring in the harvest.
And then there is the wider creation. We’ve just been recognised as an Eco-Church, with a silver award—thanks to Sue Tinney and her Eco-Team. That is no small achievement, and I want to pay tribute to them. But silver is not gold. And even gold is not enough. For the task before us is nothing less than the safeguarding of the integrity of creation itself. That’s the fifth Mark of Mission of the Church of England, and it will need to shape our five-year plan as a parish. If we take Jesus seriously, if we pray “thy kingdom come” with integrity, then our worship must be joined to action that protects the soil, the rivers, the forests, the air that every child of God depends upon.
And that action can be gloriously practical. Like Kevin Edwards’ work to get solar panels onto the roofs of this church and the Pallant Centre. Imagine the irony if the people of God, with a south-facing roof the size of a small football pitch, were still relying entirely on fossil fuels. Imagine if, in fifty years’ time, our children looked back and said: “Why didn’t they act, when they had the chance?”
Or take our Fairtrade commitment. Every cup of coffee we serve, every biscuit we offer, carries a moral weight. Because it says: “We care about the dignity of the farmer in Kenya or Colombia as much as the shopper in Havant.” Harvest is global now. The fruits of the earth come to us from every corner of the world, and every purchase we make is a spiritual act, a choice between justice and exploitation.
Closer to home, we might also celebrate the work of our Churchyard Team—Colin, Mike and Jim—who labour quietly, week after week, to keep our churchyard both beautiful and biodiverse. They remind us that creation care is not just about far-off rainforests, but about whether bees can find nectar in Havant, whether wildflowers can thrive among the gravestones, whether a child can come into this churchyard and discover that nature is not dead but alive, vibrant, buzzing.
This is the stuff of Harvest. Not just bringing tins to the altar, but asking the dangerous question: “What are we working for?” Are we working for food that perishes, or for food that endures? Are we satisfied with cheap bread that hides the cost to farmers, to soil, to rivers—or do we hunger for the bread of life, which is justice, peace, sustainability, and ultimately Christ himself?
And maybe this is the challenge for us, right now, as we shape our parish’s five-year plan. We could choose the easy route—balancing budgets, maintaining buildings, keeping the show on the road. Or we could choose the harder, holier route—the route of the Five Marks of Mission. Proclaiming the good news. Teaching and nurturing disciples. Loving service to our neighbours. Transforming unjust structures. And safeguarding creation. These are not optional extras, like toppings on a pizza. They are the bread of life. They are what it means to be the people of God, in Havant, today.
I sometimes think that Harvest is one of the most radical festivals of all. Because it refuses to let us forget that everything is gift. That we are dependent—on God, on the earth, on one another. It punctures the myth of self-sufficiency that says we can survive without farmers, without ecosystems, without God. It dares to tell us that gratitude is political, that thanksgiving is revolutionary.
So today, let’s bring our tins and our loaves, our apples and our prayers. Let’s give thanks for our Eco-Team, our farmers, our Fairtrade partners, our solar panel dreamers, our churchyard gardeners. Let’s tell the story again: a wandering Aramean was my ancestor, and the Lord brought us out of slavery with a mighty hand. And let’s hear again the promise of Christ: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry.”
And then, brothers and sisters, let’s work, together, not for food that perishes, but for the harvest that endures.
Amen.
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