On November 19, 1620, after 65 days of being crammed into a floating wooden shoebox with no Wi-Fi, no personal space, and definitely no plumbing, the Pilgrims finally saw land. Cape Cod, to be exact. Not their intended destination—because even in 1620, Americans were bad at directions—but it was land, and they were desperate. So they did what any weary travelers would do after being trapped at sea for over two months: they didn’t get off the boat. That’s right—they stared at the shore and thought, “Let’s stay here a few more days. You know, for fun.”
Let’s take a moment to appreciate the mindset of these folks. They left England seeking religious freedom. That’s admirable. That’s brave. But let’s not over-romanticize it. This wasn’t “We want everyone to worship however they like!” It was more like, “We want to worship how we want, and if you disagree, we’ll excommunicate you or, I don’t know, throw you in a stockade.” It’s kind of like saying, “We’re starting a rock band for freedom of expression! But only if you play exactly our music.”
After sighting Cape Cod, the Pilgrims signed the Mayflower Compact, a document that essentially said, “We’re all in this together, and no one gets to be the boss.” Revolutionary, right? Sure—if you don’t count the fact that they weren’t really thinking about everyone. The Native Americans who’d been living there for, oh, thousands of years? Yeah, they didn’t get a vote. Women? No vote. It was a democracy for some, not for all. It was like holding a neighborhood meeting but only inviting people who already agree with you.
Now, let’s talk about Cape Cod itself. Picture the scene: a barren, windswept shore, completely unlike the brochure. This wasn’t a sandy paradise with lobster rolls and whale-watching tours. It was cold. It was bleak. And the Pilgrims were ill-prepared. They didn’t have survival skills; they had faith—and also, apparently, a very loose understanding of how farming works. So why did they leave England? Religious oppression. Why didn’t they go back when things got hard? Religious oppression. Freedom was their goal, but only their freedom. Anyone else’s freedom? Eh, not so much.
And here’s where things start to feel familiar. The Pilgrims came in search of liberty, and in doing so, they inadvertently began the long American tradition of demanding freedom for ourselves while denying it to others. Indigenous peoples? They didn’t see the Pilgrims as saviors. They saw them as, well, people trespassing on their land and taking their stuff. And the Pilgrims, in turn, saw the Indigenous peoples not as equals but as obstacles—or worse, as tools for their survival. This was the original “freedom for me, but not for thee” moment.
Sound familiar? Today, as we navigate a resurgence of Christian nationalism, we’re seeing echoes of this same narrow-minded version of liberty. It’s the “freedom” to impose one vision of morality on everyone else. It’s the idea that America is a land of religious freedom—as long as you’re practicing the right religion. It’s Cape Cod in 1620 all over again, but with less scurvy and more Facebook arguments.
Here’s the problem: Freedom isn’t a buffet where you pile up what you like and leave the stuff you don’t. It’s a two-way street. It’s for everyone—or it’s for no one. The Pilgrims didn’t fully understand that, and honestly, neither do a lot of people today. It’s easy to say “freedom” when you mean your freedom, but true liberty means tolerating things that make you uncomfortable—different beliefs, different lifestyles, different ways of being.
Now, don’t get me wrong. The Pilgrims weren’t all bad. They were brave in their own way. Leaving everything behind for an uncertain future takes guts. But their vision of freedom was like the first draft of a screenplay—ambitious, but incomplete. They got the basic structure down—self-governance, mutual accountability—but they forgot to include anyone outside their bubble. Indigenous peoples? Excluded. Women? Not consulted. And the land they sighted on November 19, 1620, wasn’t empty, even if they treated it like the clearance aisle at Target.
What can we learn from this? First, freedom is messy. It’s not a straight line from oppression to equality. It’s more like a badly drawn map—lots of detours, mistakes, and moments where someone yells, “Wait, where are we?” Second, freedom isn’t something you just claim for yourself and call it a day. It’s like a pizza—you don’t get to keep the whole pie for yourself while telling everyone else they can fight over the crust.
So today, as we reflect on the Pilgrims sighting Cape Cod, let’s remember the good and the bad. They dreamed big, but they didn’t dream big enough. They wanted freedom but couldn’t see how their actions denied it to others. And as we face challenges in our own time—from the rise of Christian nationalism to the erosion of rights—we have to ask ourselves: Are we building a future where freedom is expansive, inclusive, and fair? Or are we just re-sighting Cape Cod, thinking we’ve arrived while still clinging to the ship?
Because here’s the thing: The Pilgrims didn’t step off the boat on November 19, 1620. They stayed aboard, debating what to do next. Today, we don’t have that luxury. We’re already on the shore. The question is, will we build something worthy of the word “freedom,” or will we just repeat history with better Wi-Fi?
