Abundant Harvest: Bearing Fruit That Lasts

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be always acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer. Lord, give us eyes to see and ears to hear, so that we can learn Your Word together as a family. We give you all the praise and honor and glory for it, in Jesus’ holy name. Amen.

A few weeks ago, we began this Rooted journey, and in the first sermon of this series, I told you about Jane’s and my little garden. It was an analogy of the soul’s springtime. In Good Soil, we learned that the Christian life begins when the Lord prepares the heart, softening the ground so that His Word may take root.

Then came the summer, in Deep Roots, when growth happens beneath the surface. Summer taught us that what God plants must be strengthened through prayer, Scripture, and perseverance — even when nothing seems to be happening above the ground.

In autumn, through The Father’s Pruning, we discovered that the Divine Gardener cuts back not to harm, but to heal — removing what hinders so that greater fruit may come. Fall is the season when God’s love looks like loss, but leads to life.

And now today, we stand at the quiet border of winter, on the Sunday Next before Advent — when the harvest is gathered in and the field rests under the Father’s care. Winter is not the end of the garden, but the completion of a season and the holding of hope.

The ancient wisdom of agriculture knew what modern impatience often forgets: growth follows a rhythm. The farmer who digs up seeds to check their progress harvests nothing. The gardener who demands fruit out of season will be disappointed. But the one who plants in faith, tends with patience, and waits with hope will see the abundance God intends.

And here we stand today at the Church’s “edge of the field,” where the growing season meets the season of waiting. The question before us is simple: What does God’s harvest look like in a human life, and what does it mean to bear fruit that lasts?

It begins with the heart God prepared. St. Matthew tells us that when Jesus saw the multitudes, “He was moved with compassion on them… as sheep having no shepherd.” His heart broke because their soil was weary.

The word translated “compassion” is splanchnizomai — a word describing being moved to the depths. This is not detached pity, but the ache of divine love encountering human need. And this compassion is the beginning of harvest — for unless the Lord of the harvest is moved by love, no fruit can grow.

The harvest Jesus speaks of is not first about what we do, but about what His compassion produces in us. The harvest begins in the heart made tender in prayer, nourished in Scripture, strengthened in community, and shaped by service. Harvest is what grace looks like when it has been growing for a while.

St. Paul tells us clearly in Galatians 5 what this harvest looks like: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance…”

Notice it is the fruit of the Spirit, not the fruit of self-effort. You don’t get peaches by stapling fruit onto a dead branch. Fruit appears because life is flowing — the outward evidence of an inward union.

Jesus tells us in John 15: “I am the vine, ye are the branches… without Me ye can do nothing.”

All Christian fruit — everything that lasts — comes from Christ’s life flowing through us:

… love that forgives, joy that endures, peace that steadies, patience that suffers well, kindness that restores, goodness that stands firm, faithfulness that perseveres, meekness that restrains, and temperance that governs desire.

We don’t do this on our own. These are the harvest of the Holy Ghost in a heart that abides in Christ.

Consider for a moment what happens in winter. Though the fields appear dormant, essential work continues beneath the surface. The soil rests and replenishes. The cold breaks down what is no longer needed and prepares for new growth.

So too in the Christian life. There are seasons of visible abundance and seasons of hidden preparation — and both are necessary for lasting fruit.

In our culture of constant productivity, we’ve lost the wisdom of winter. We demand year-round harvest, instant results, perpetual summer. But God’s rhythm includes necessary fallow periods, when the visible growth pauses but the invisible work continues. The fruit that lasts often comes after such seasons of stillness.

We are St. Barnabas Anglican Church — the Encouragers. Barnabas did not perform many miracles or write epistles. His harvest was quieter but lasting: he encouraged Paul and opened the door for his ministry. He strengthened the Church in Antioch and restored Mark.

Encouragement is fruit, and fruit multiplies. Without Barnabas’s encouragement, we might not have Paul’s epistles or Mark’s gospel. The fruit of his life continues to nourish the Church two thousand years later. This is what Jesus meant by fruit that remains.

In a small parish like ours — rural, faithful, steady — we may not see crowds or headlines, but we do see fruit: faith that endures loss, hope that survives hardship, mercy in quiet corners, love expressed in casseroles, phone calls, and intercessory prayer. This is harvest.

Throughout this series, the Sacraments have been the steady nourishment beneath the surface. Today, we bring them into the sunlight. In Baptism, God tills the soil of the heart and plants us into Christ’s death and resurrection.

In the Holy Eucharist, the branches feed on the Vine. We come to the rail with empty hands — hands that cannot produce fruit on their own — and there, the True Vine gives Himself: His Body, the Bread of Heaven; His Blood, the life of the New Covenant.

Here, the life of Christ flows into us again. Here, the harvest is strengthened. Here, the roots are watered, and the fruit ripens. Without the Eucharist, our soil dries. With it, the garden flourishes.

The Eucharist itself follows the pattern of the seasons. The bread is made from wheat once planted in spring, strengthened in summer, harvested in autumn, and now sustains us in winter’s waiting.

The wine comes from grapes pruned for greater fruitfulness, pressed in their ripeness, and now poured out as blessing. In this sacred meal, we participate in the very cycle of growth we have traced.

Today is the Sunday Next before Advent, known for centuries as Stir-up Sunday. It comes from the opening words of the collect: “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may by thee be plenteously rewarded…”

This is not just a call to action — it is a prayer rooted in Christ’s compassion. Just as Jesus was moved with pity when He saw the multitudes, we ask Him now to stir our wills, awaken what He has planted, and bring to harvest what His grace has been growing in us.

There’s a beautiful connection here to English tradition. On Stir-up Sunday, families would gather to make their Christmas puddings, stirring the mixture together while praying for their hearts to be stirred toward good works. The pudding itself needed time to mature – it couldn’t be rushed. So too with spiritual fruit – it requires divine stirring and patient waiting.

We began this series asking the Lord to prepare the soil of our hearts. Now, standing at the edge of Advent, the Church teaches us to pray: “Lord, stir the soil. Do not let us grow dormant. Bring forth in us the fruit that lasts.”

The collect does not ask God to stir our feelings, but our wills — where obedience takes root and good works ripen into a harvest that blesses others.

The harvest God desires for us is one of plenteousness, more than we could produce on our own. And the reward is not earthly recognition, but the joy of becoming more like Christ, and seeing His life multiply in others.

So today, we do not pray for busier hands, but for readier hearts — for the Spirit to complete what the Father has planted, and for the Son to bring to maturity the fruit that will last into eternity.

In just a few moments, we’ll come to the Lord’s Table. We come not as those who have finished the harvest, but as those who still depend on the Vine.

We come with empty hands, so that Christ may fill them. We come with weary hearts, so that He may strengthen them. We come as His branches, so that His life may flow in us once more.

So, as you kneel or stand at this altar rail, pray the ancient prayer of the Church: “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord…” Stir my will. Stir my obedience. Stir my love. Do not let me grow dormant, but bring forth in me the fruit that lasts. For the Sacred still speaks. The ancient faith still bears real love. And Christ, the Gardener of souls, will finish the harvest He has begun.