Spurling Silver: America's First Thanksgiving Almost Didn’t Happen

Thanksgiving 1621

A perfect picture of the American Dream

A beautiful picture. Men, women and children, Indians and Pilgrims, different colors and races, holding hands as one, bowing heads, giving thanks to the Lord God Almighty Creator of them all and Provider of the bounty before them.

United they feast.

But look closer and you’ll see scars, calloused hands and prayer worn knees.

The first feast of the American Dream was almost aborted before it got started.

The feast and freedom they celebrated then, and we celebrate today, began about twenty years prior.

In early 1600s King James declared Christianity the official religion of the kingdom.

It may have sounded good on paper, tyranny always does. It masquerades as an angel of light (free this, free that, diversity, equity, inclusion), while it steals, kills and destroys, like a thief in the night.

Those with eyes closed, followed blindly, doing what told to do, saying what told to say, worshipping who and how they were told to worship, existing, but not living.

Those with eyes open, spoke out. They were hunted down, locked up, banned, canceled, imprisoned, excommunicated… eliminated.

Nevertheless, the courageous few wouldn’t back down—they couldn’t.

The inward, still, small, voice was too powerful, too real, too convincing, that they were endowed by their Creator with unalienable rights, of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, that could not be dictated away.

They were labeled heretics, haters, dissenters, separatists.

These Separatists decided to separate.

Like Israel fleeing Egyptian slavery, they fled.

They knew, their Promise Land was out there, somewhere. They didn’t care if it was a land flowing with milk and honey, as long as it was, a sweet land of liberty.

They landed in Holland. For about eleven years, they worshipped freely and adapted to their new land, perhaps eating cheese and wearing clogs.

But the tentacles of tyranny tightened, and once again tried to strangle their religious liberty.

The inward, still, small, voice, echoed louder. This time from out there, somewhere, some distant shore where freedom rings.

In the fall of 1620, Providence provided passage on a little ship called the Mayflower.

Thirty crew, one hundred and two passengers. Forty were Pilgrims in search of a land they’d never seen but knew and loved in their heart. Like faith heroes of old who searched for a city whose Builder and Maker is God.

Perhaps they pictured the beautiful land with spacious skies, amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain. But most of all, they were drawn to a land where, God shed his grace on thee.

The voyage was perilous, yet they made it, through the wilderness of water, only to land on a wilderness of rocks and trees.

They were greeted by New England’s bitter November wind. That’s all. No friends, or Inns, no cafés, no taverns, no houses, no churches, no shelter.

The only thing for sure and certain was that it was getting colder.

William Bradford, a leader of the bunch, kept a detailed journal. It started, full of joy and hope. By winter’s end, it was stained with tears. Half of them died from starvation, sickness or exposure to the elements. One tearstained page tells of the passing of his wife.

But these Pilgrims were not alone. Indians appeared. Although their looks, language, and lifestyle, were different, somehow, they discovered they had the same Creator, which made them brothers.

The Native Americans taught the Pilgrims how to plant corn, fish and trap and tan deer and beaver skins. They taught them to survive.

Some folks end the story there. They say, the first Thanksgiving was to say thanks to the Indians. And they all lived happily ever after, amen, the end.

But that’s not how the story goes.

The Indians, indeed, taught the Pilgrims to survive. They did not, however, teach them to thrive. That’s something that can’t be taught. It must be caught.

That first Thanksgiving they gave thanks to God, for not only helping them to survive, but also, to thrive.

But it almost didn’t happen.

Now, that still, small, voice, grew to a thunderous roar, like waves crashing, from sea to shining sea.

You see, every good story has a bad villain. Even true stories. Especially, this true story.

It took money to charter the Mayflower. Some of the passengers were wealthy entrepreneurs. The Pilgrims weren’t. Their trip was funded by, what appeared to be, a generous gesture from businessmen in London and Holland.

It may have sounded good on paper, tyranny always does. It masquerades as an angel of light; but steals, kills and destroys, like a thief in the night.

The funders of the Pilgrim’s journey demanded they sign a contract. Thus, the trip to freedom in the new world, was shackled to taskmasters, in the old.

The contract dictated that all profit, all property, all gain, obtained, in the new world, was not their own, but only a share in the collective whole. Everything produced would go into a common store, a single bank.

No one owned anything. All working for the common good. It sounded good on paper. Like the Tower of Babel. And we know how that turned out. Confusion. Collapse.

Even though they had everything they needed to thrive. The Indians educated. God provided. Yet, this well-intentioned socialism utterly failed and caused a shadow to fall over their souls.

Mr. Bradford wrote in his journal that this experience revealed the foolishness of the idea that bringing community “into a commonwealth would make them happy and flourishing; as if they were wiser than God. For this community (so far as it was) was found to breed much confusion and discontent and retard much employment that would have been to their benefit and comfort. For the young men, that were most able and fit for labour and service, did repine that they should spend their time and strength to work for other men's wives and children without any recompense. The strong, or man of parts, had no more in division of victuals and clothes than he that was weak and not able to do a quarter the other could; this was thought injustice. The aged and graver men to be ranked and equalized in labours and victuals, clothes, etc., with the meaner and younger sort, thought it some indignity and disrespect unto them.”

They had been so focused. Their dream for freedom so clear. They weathered stormy seas and a brutal winter. Yet, when barely into the Promise Land, they became despondent, confused, indifferent.

Bradford sought God and sought counsel. They acknowledged that the corruption in the heart of man could not resist resentment when their labors were spent for naught. He wrote, “seeing all men have this corruption in them, God in His wisdom saw another course fitter for them.”

That Godly wisdom fitter for them was to assign to every family a parcel of land.

Unlike the commune at the Tower of Babel.

Just like when each of the sons of Israel were given a piece of the Promise Land.

This was the birth of the American Dream, one hundred and fifty-five years before America’s birthday as a nation.

Nothing on the outside changed.

It was the same soil. Same weather. Same beaver skins. Same fish in the river. Same deer in the woods…but on the inside everything changed.

Suddenly they were living in the land of opportunity—and the opportunities were endless.

Bradford writes, “This had very good success, for it made all hands very industrious, so as much more corn was planted than otherwise would have been by any means the Governor or any other could use, and saved him a great deal of trouble, and gave far better content. The women now went willingly into the field, and took their little ones with them to set corn; which before would allege weakness and inability; whom to have compelled would have been thought great tyranny and oppression.”

Suddenly folks were willing to work rather than calling in sick. The shadow over their souls vanished. The tentacles of tyranny, severed.

Prosperity exploded. Crops were planted. Houses and churches and schools and trading posts were established. Debts to the old world were paid and the taskmaster’s shackles were shattered.

Before the next snow fall. Tears fell. Lots of tears. Tears of joy. The Harvest was great, but not nearly as great as their gratitude.

Look at them, standing there, tired, but smiling. See the scars, calloused hands, prayer worn knees, badges of victory.

Thanksgiving 1621.

A perfect picture of the American Dream.

Men, women and children, Indians and Pilgrims, different colors and races, holding hands as one, bowing heads, giving thanks to the Lord God Almighty Creator of them all and Provider of the bounty before them.

United they feast.

Thank You, Father.

Happy Thanksgiving, America.