A sermon preached by the Reverend Sarah Grondin, at St. Jude’s Oakville, on Harvest Thanksgiving, 2025.
I speak to you in the name of our loving, liberating and life-giving God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
Thanksgiving is one of those feast days that we tend to go a little overboard on. There’s panic about getting the turkey into the oven early enough, and keeping it moist, (which let’s just be honest, is futile, that’s what gravy is for); there’s drama over who’s bringing which side dish, and who’s going to be stuck at the kid’s table again; there’s the unspoken agreement to avoid certain topics around the dinner table to try and maintain the thin veil of peace, and there’s this incredible pressure to be the perfect pinterest-worthy hosts—with the fancy place settings, the good silverware, the themed napkins, and a table filled with more food than any reasonable person could possibly eat.
I think it’s fair to say that Thanksgiving has become a holiday of excess, in more ways than one…with too much stress. Too much posturing. And too much tryptophane laced turkey.
So in light of our reading from Deuteronomy this morning, I’d like to invite you into a different way of thinking this Harvest Thanksgiving. Rather than placing so much emphasis on the visual display of what’s on the table, our reading calls us to consider instead the importance of memory and generosity when we gather to give thanks.
Memory, to remind ourselves about the history of God’s faithfulness and our responsibility to uphold our end of the covenant, and a generosity that demands we pay more attention to who we include around our tables, rather fussing over what we put on them.
Our reading from Deuteronomy takes us back to a key moment in Israel’s story. The people had come to the edge of the Promised Land, after spending 40 years in the desert. God had delivered them from Egypt, fed them with manna, led them by fire and cloud, and now, finally, they were to settle and plant, to harvest and to eat the fruit of their own land.
But before they did so, God gave them a command: When you have gathered the first of your crops, bring it to me, and remember. And so, they were to take their baskets—the first and best of what they had—and take it to the priest. And as they laid the offering down, they were to recite a story: “A wandering Aramean was my father…”
This confession of memory told the story of Abraham, of slavery in Egypt, of God’s mighty deliverance, and of the gift of the land. Every harvest was to begin not with pride in personal success, but with gratitude; not with a focus on what we’ve achieved, but on what God has given.
The first act of thanksgiving, then, is memory. The Israelites were to remember that their harvest was not simply the fruit of their own labour, but the outcome of God’s grace and faithfulness. And God calls us to remember that as well.
We live in a time in history when food can feel completely disconnected from its source. Here in Ontario, we can buy berries in February, our bread comes pre-sliced in plastic bags, and our milk comes from faraway farms.
When we walk into the grocery store, and we can buy whatever we desire, it’s easy to forget that behind every loaf of bread, every fruit, and every grain of rice, lies a delicate balance of soil, sun and rain—and behind it all, is the hand of our Creator.
I’d like to share a little story with you. My niece was a “Covid” baby, and because everyone had to limit their trips out during that time and everyone was hyper vigilant about masking and sanitizer, when my sister, or her wife, went out to get groceries or whatever, the kids stayed home.
I forget exactly how old my niece was the first time she went into a grocery story, but she must have been around 3… and I remember my sister telling me that when she saw the stacks of oranges, and all the other overflowing bins of fruits and vegetables, her eyes grew to the size of those oranges, because she had never seen so much food all in one place. It was like magic to her.
For those of us who make frequent trips to the grocery store, it’s just another chore on the unending list of things to do, and we take for granted the availability of fresh produce. We don’t think about the hands that planted it, tended it, and tilled it.
Maybe some of you are lucky enough to have a backyard garden, or maybe you’re involved in our community garden plot. If you’ve ever experienced that feeling of digging in the dirt to provide food for yourselves, and your family, and if you grow zucchini, for every person on your block, then you’ll know that the act of harvesting, calls us back to that memory.
It invites us to see the world again as gift, not possession. It teaches us that we live by grace, not by entitlement. That’s why our worship service is full of remembrance. Every Eucharist, we hear Jesus’ words: “Do this in remembrance of me.” At the heart of our faith is memory—sacred memory—and that sacred memory shapes how we live in the present.
This sacred memory teaches us that as we remember, we must also give. The Israelite’s remembrance wasn’t complete until they had offered the first fruits—the very best—back to God. In a way, true memory leads to open hands, because when we remember God’s faithfulness and generosity, we can’t help but become generous ourselves… Because the examples of generosity in scripture, aren’t just about giving out of abundance—but about sharing from gratitude.
That’s why the Israelites are told not only to bring their offerings, but to rejoice and share them with others: with the Levite, who had no land of his own; and with the foreigners, who lived among them. In other words, gratitude becomes generosity when it includes everyone in the joy of celebrating God’s provision.
Our world often tells us that what we have is ours alone, and that we need to secure it, protect it, and hold it tightly. But the gospel turns that upside down. In fact, it goes all the way back to Genesis, when God tells Abraham that he has been blessed to be a blessing. God reminds us that what we have has been entrusted to us so that we might bless others—especially those who have less.
The first fruits offering wasn’t a tax; it was a celebration. It was a way of saying, “All that I have comes from you, O Lord, and of your own have I given you.” That same spirit is echoed every Sunday at the altar. When we offer bread and wine— fruit of the earth and the work of human hands— we’re joining in the larger story of redemption and renewal, the story of our God who brings life from death, and abundance from barrenness.
In this celebration of Thanksgiving…Remembering keeps us humble. Generosity keeps us joyful. And together they keep us faithful.
So, as we bring our offerings before God, let us do so with grateful hearts that remember the goodness of God, and let us give generously with open hands, rejoicing in the harvest of God’s grace.
And may our remembering and our generosity bear witness to the One who gives the true harvest—our Lord Jesus Christ, who took bread, gave thanks, broke it, and gave it to us all.
Amen.
