A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
Harvest Sunday, 5 October 2025
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Introduction
Harvest is a strange festival
in the city:
Most of us do not plant or
reap or thresh.
We shop in supermarkets where
fruit comes from Chile,
rice from India, and bananas
from the Caribbean.
We are consumers in a global
market.
Yet here we are in the middle
of London, shortly to gather for lunch
with food harvested from Pret
or Tesco,
and in a few minutes we will celebrate communion
with Bread from Christine’s
oven
and grape juice from the
supermarket,
and yet we say that God provides.
But what on earth does this
mean?
How does ‘God provide’ in a
world of international supply chains,
tariffs, and fluctuating
markets?
And what does it mean to pray,
“Give us this day our daily bread,”
when we know millions go
hungry
while others have too much?
I find myself wondering if the
story of manna
that we find in our lectionary
reading for today
can offer us a radical alternative vision
— what we might call the manna
economy.
It is not the free market of
neoliberal economics.
It is not the protectionism of
nationalist tariffs.
It is God’s economy: an economy of enough,
of neighbour-love, of Sabbath
rest, of hospitality.
And the witness of scripture is
that it is fulfilled in Christ,
the living bread who comes
down from heaven,
given for the life of the
world.
So for the next few minutes, let
us walk with Israel into the wilderness,
and listen again for God’s
word of provision.
The Wilderness Complaint
The story begins with hunger.
“If only we had died by the
hand of the Lord in Egypt,” the Israelites grumble,
“where we sat by the fleshpots
and ate our fill of bread!” (Ex. 16:3).
It is striking that slavery can
be remembered as abundance,
and freedom as scarcity.
It is the old temptation:
to trade liberty for security,
justice for stability.
The Israelites in the wilderness
find themselves preferring the
false plenty of Pharaoh’s storehouses
to the uncertain gifts of God
in a time of scarcity.
And here we see the first echo
of our own economics.
We too are tempted to trust
Pharaoh.
We imagine that security lies
in the stockpiles of the powerful,
in the wealth of corporations,
in the supposed stability of
markets.
We cling to national
boundaries, tariffs, and subsidies
as though they can guarantee
us bread.
Or we put our faith in
deregulated trade,
assuming that invisible hands
will feed the hungry
as the wealth trickles down.
But the wilderness exposes the
lie.
Pharaoh’s wealth is built on
the backs of slaves.
Free markets too often enrich
the already rich while the poor starve;
And tariffs defend the
privileged while excluding the vulnerable.
The Israelites discover what we
must learn:
only God can provide bread
that sustains life.
Manna: Bread from Heaven
And so, in the story, into the
wilderness of complaint comes a strange gift:
fine, flaky, white, like
coriander seed.
The people say, “What is
it?” — in Hebrew, man hu —
and so it is named manna.
It is bread, but unlike any
bread they have known.
It comes with conditions:
- It must be gathered daily.
- Each family must take only as much as it needs.
- If hoarded, it rots.
- On the sixth day, they gather double for the
Sabbath.
This is not ordinary food. This
is sacrament.
It is the visible sign of an
invisible grace.
It is God’s economy, enacted
in daily practice.
And here is the heart of the
manna economy:
“those who gathered much
had nothing over,
and those who gathered little
had no shortage” (Ex. 16:18).
Sufficiency, not scarcity.
Sharing, not hoarding. Trust,
not anxiety.
Against the Free Market
This manna economy from ancient
Israel
confronts our assumptions
about economics.
Free-market ideology tells us
that the pursuit of
self-interest leads to prosperity for all.
Hoard as much as you can, and
somehow your neighbour will benefit.
But in the wilderness, when
individuals try to hoard,
the whole community suffers
the stench of rot.
The free market glorifies
accumulation. Manna forbids it.
The free market rewards
competition. Manna teaches cooperation.
The free market produces billionaires and beggars.
Manna produces enough for each
and every one.
In the manna economy, the
invisible hand
is replaced by the visible
hand of God, distributing daily bread for all.
Against Nationalist Tariffs
But manna also confronts
nationalist economics.
Tariffs, subsidies, and
protectionist policies claim to put one nation’s people first,
but they do so at the expense
of others.
They divide the world into
insiders who deserve plenty
and outsiders who must be kept
out for fear they will take their share.
Manna recognises no such
boundaries.
It is for the whole people.
Nobody is excluded.
Those who gathered much shared
with those who gathered little.
The gift crossed household and
tribal boundaries.
And when Jesus declares, “I am
the living bread that came down from heaven” (Jn 6:51),
he widens the scope still
further.
His bread is not for Israel
alone, but for the world.
It seems God’s economy knows
no borders.
The harvest is for the
stranger, the refugee,
and the neighbour we have not
yet met,
every bit as much as it is for us and those like us.
Participation
But notice this: God does not
spoon-feed the Israelites.
They must go out each morning
to gather the manna.
God provides, but human action is required.
This is important because faith
is not passive.
Grace does not abolish effort.
The gifts of God come to us,
but we must receive, gather,
work, and share.
I’ve never been convinced by
the suggestion
that the most faithful are
those who ‘live by faith’,
trusting that money will
arrive whenever it is needed
as a divine reward for
faithfulness.
The miracle of manna is not
that God rains down bread into people’s mouths,
but that God’s provision
requires human participation.
The people rise early, they
bend to the ground,
they collect what they need,
and they trust that tomorrow
God will allow them to so again.
Participation in God’s gift is
both grace and discipline.
It shapes character. It forms
community. It teaches trust.
The Israelites’ daily gathering
became a spiritual practice:
a liturgy of dependence,
repeated every sunrise.
And so it is for us.
God’s provision does not
bypass our effort; it dignifies it.
Food does not arrive on our
tables
without someone planting,
harvesting, transporting, and cooking.
Even when we pray “give us this
day our daily bread,”
we do not expect loaves to
materialise.
We expect to work, and we
expect others to work,
and we expect to share in the
fruits of that labour together.
This is why hoarding is such a
distortion of the gift.
When Israel tried to gather
too much manna, it rotted overnight.
God was teaching them — and us
—
that the gift is not for
stockpiling but for sharing.
Faithful participation means
taking what we need and leaving enough for others.
In the church, this
participation takes concrete form.
We are the ones through whom
God provides for others
— through the hardship fund, through
hospitality,
through justice work and compassion
and advocacy.
Manna does not simply drop into
empty mouths.
It comes through daily,
faithful gathering
and daily, faithful sharing.
Sabbath and Rest
One more feature of manna must
be noticed: the gift of Sabbath.
On the sixth day the Israelites
were told to gather twice as much,
so that on the seventh day
they could rest.
The manna would not rot when
kept for Sabbath,
because rest itself was part
of God’s provision.
This is profound.
The rhythm of gathering manna
was not endless work,
but work punctuated by rest.
The slaves of Egypt, who had
been forced to work without pause,
were now free to stop for a
while.
Free to lay down their burdens.
Free to discover that the
world kept turning even when they did not.
We need this reminder
because in our culture,
productivity has become an idol.
Our worth is measured by how
much we do,
how efficient we are, how busy
we appear.
Sabbath interrupts that lie.
Sabbath says: you are not
defined by your output.
You are defined by God’s love.
And Sabbath, like manna, is for
all.
It is not the privilege of the
wealthy who can afford a day off,
while the poor
labour without pause.
True Sabbath justice means
ensuring that all people,
and indeed the land itself,
are given rest.
The earth cannot sustain
endless extraction.
Human beings cannot sustain
endless work.
Communities cannot sustain endless anxiety.
Sabbath is God’s antidote to
overwork and overconsumption.
So as we gather at harvest, we
also gather on the Sabbath.
And the invitation is for us
to learn to resist
the restless drive to hoard
and produce.
Let us receive rest as manna
for our souls.
Let us build a society where
everyone, not just the privileged,
can lay down their burdens and
taste God’s rest.
Creation and Climate Justice
But the manna story is not only
about feeding people;
it is also about how we live
with the earth.
Manna falls like dew upon the
ground,
a reminder that creation
itself is the medium of God’s gift.
The Israelites learn that the
land cannot be treated as a limitless resource.
Just as they must not hoard
manna,
so they must not exploit the
earth without restraint.
This lesson is urgent for us.
Our modern economies depend on
extraction:
digging, drilling, burning,
consuming without limit.
But the planet groans.
Ice melts, seas rise, forests
burn, crops fail.
We have treated the earth as
Pharaoh treated Israel
— forcing it into endless
slavery,
demanding more bricks with
less straw.
The manna economy calls us to
another way.
It teaches us that the earth’s
abundance is enough for all
if it is shared justly and
rested regularly.
It calls us to resist the
idolatry of growth without limit.
It invites us to discover
sufficiency, sustainability, Sabbath.
To live the manna economy today
is to join the movement for
climate justice:
to reduce our waste, to change
how we use energy,
to stand with those most
affected by rising seas and failing harvests.
It is to remember that creation
is not ours to exploit but God’s to give.
At harvest, therefore, we do
not only give thanks
for what we receive from the
earth;
we pledge to treat the earth with reverence and care.
For the manna that sustains us
comes through soil and sun,
water and air, seedtime and harvest
— and these too are gifts
entrusted to our stewardship.
Jesus the Manna
All of this comes to its climax
in Christ.
In John’s Gospel, Jesus takes
up the manna story and makes it his own:
“I am the living bread that
came down from heaven.
Whoever eats of this bread
will live forever;
and the bread that I will give
for the life of the world is my flesh” (Jn 6:51).
The manna economy points to
Jesus.
In him, God’s provision is no
longer just daily food,
but eternal life.
In him, the bread of heaven is
broken and shared for all people.
In him, the gift is universal,
abundant, inexhaustible.
And as we share Communion, we
enact this manna economy.
We come with nothing but our
need, and we receive the bread of life.
We share one loaf, and
discover that there is enough for all.
We taste in advance the feast
of God’s kingdom,
where strangers become
neighbours, enemies become guests,
and none are excluded from the
table.
Hospitality and the Stranger
The manna story presses us to
ask: who is the bread for?
For Israel, it was for everyone
—
those who gathered much and
those who gathered little.
Nobody was left out.
And in Christ, the bread is for
the whole world.
Hospitality, then, is manna
lived out.
To share food with the hungry
is not just charity;
it is participation in God’s
provision.
To welcome the stranger to our
table
is to enact the gospel.
Jesus himself shows us this
again and again,
breaking bread with tax
collectors, sinners,
outcasts, disciples, and
crowds.
Harvest therefore is not just
thanksgiving; it is invitation.
Who is missing from our
tables?
Who has been denied the bread
God intends for them?
Who waits for an invitation we
could extend?
Bloomsbury has long sought to
be a community of radical hospitality
— welcoming those who have
nowhere else to go,
offering shelter and
friendship to those society rejects.
This is not an optional extra;
it is manna made visible.
Let us make our tables wide
enough for strangers to become friends,
for outsiders to become
neighbours,
for enemies even to become
guests.
For this is how manna
multiplies:
in the breaking and sharing of
bread.
Harvest as Practice of Trust
So what does it mean for us, in
London, in 2025, to celebrate Harvest?
Surely it means more than singing
harvest hymns of a lost golden Victorian agrarian age?
Maybe it means living the
manna economy.
- Maybe it means resisting the idols of nationalism
and the free market,
and living by God’s economy of enough. - Maybe it means trusting that daily bread
comes not from Pharaoh’s storehouses or corporate supermarkets,
but from God, mediated through the labour of many. - Maybe it means rejecting hoarding and choosing
generosity.
- Maybe it means honouring Sabbath, and building a
society where all can rest.
- Maybe it means offering hospitality to strangers,
and breaking bread with neighbours.
Harvest is not nostalgia for a
rural past.
It is a prophetic act, a
radical declaration:
God provides.
And God provides in ways that
subvert our economic assumptions
and call us into a new way of
life.
Conclusion
The Israelites asked, “What
is it?” — man hu —
when they first saw the manna.
We too may ask: what is this
strange economy God calls us into?
It is not the economy of
Pharaoh,
nor the economy of global
markets.
It is the manna economy: the
gift of enough,
the call to trust, the command
to share, the promise of rest.
And in Christ, the manna is
fulfilled.
He is the living bread come
down from heaven,
given for the life of the
world.
So let us come to his table
today.
Let us taste and see that the
Lord is good.
Let us give thanks for God’s
harvest,
and let us learn to live by
the manna economy
— in trust, in generosity, in
hospitality, in justice —
until all are fed, all are welcomed,
and all are at rest in the
kingdom of God.
Amen.
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