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.
Prayer Requests:
Call or text: 612-554-2522
Email: pray4measap@aol.com
Facebook: Church at WPV
Books: amazon.com/author/dougspurling
Watch online:
Facebook: The First Thanksgiving Almost
Didn’t Happen
You Tube: The First Thanksgiving
Almost Didn’t Happen
(Like an awesome Thanksgiving dessert the livestream
includes the awesome testimony of: “Genny’s
Pennies”).
This was feed for you to read. Now it’s
Seed for you to sow.
Thank you for sharing.
