The First Feast of the American Dream

 

Thanksgiving 1621.

It’s a beautiful picture. Indians and Pilgrims, holding hands, bowing heads, giving thanks and having a feast.

But look closer and you’ll see the scars, the wrinkles, the 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.

By edict (executive order, mandate) of King James, the whole world was to be Christian. 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.

Those with eyes closed, followed blindly, existing, but not living. If those with eyes open, spoke up, they were hunted down, banned, canceled, imprisoned, excommunicated… eliminated. Nevertheless, these courageous few, wouldn’t back down—they couldn’t. The inward, still, small, voice was too powerful, too real, too convincing, that life, liberty, freedom, were unalienable rights that could not be dictated away.

They were labeled heretics, haters, religious dissenters, those who separated the common good. Separatists.

These Separatists decided to separate. Like Israel leaving Egyptian slavery, they fled. They knew, out there, somewhere, was their Promise Land. 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 adapted, eating cheese and wearing clogs, but the tentacles of tyranny tightened and the still, small voice still echoed, 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 of which were Pilgrims in search of a land where they’d never been, but already knew and loved, in their heart. They could already see the beautiful land. A land with spacious skies, amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain. Most of all a land where, God shed his grace on thee.

It was perilous, yet they made it, through the wilderness of water only to land on another 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 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 off full of joy and hope. But before 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 they weren’t 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 were literally lifesavers. They helped plant corn, taught how to fish and trap and tan deer and beaver skins. They showed these Pilgrims, how 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, was giving of thanks to God, for not only helping them to survive…but to thrive. That still, small, voice, calling them to freedom, had become a thunderous roar, like waves crashing, from sea to shining sea.

But it almost didn’t happen.

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 entrepreneurs with money. 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.  

The Pilgrims established a commune. One goal. All working for the common good of all. United. As one. It sounded good on paper…like the Tower of Babel. And we know how that turned out.

They had everything they needed to thrive. The Indians educated. God provided. Yet, this commun-istic idea, 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 the sons of Israel were each 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. That one decision changed everything. 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 built.  Debts to the old world were paid and the taskmaster’s shackles were shattered.

And before the next snow fall. Tear fell. Lots and lots of tears. Tears of joy. The Harvest was great, but not nearly as great as their gratitude.

They stood there, tired, but smiling. See those scars, those wrinkles, those calloused hands and prayer worn knees?

It’s a beautiful picture. Indians and Pilgrims, holding hands, bowing heads, giving thanks and having a feast.

Thank You, Father.

Happy Thanksgiving, America.