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In my walk across America, over the past month to raise $25 million in support of community-based programs that address some of our nation’s most pressing challenges, I’ve traveled through some desolate places — the forgotten corners of the country.
That’s why it felt like a revelation when I stepped into Lancaster Central Market. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted coffee and freshly baked Pennsylvania Dutch pastries. I saw Amish farmers in their plain clothes selling their goods. Next to them, Latino families ground masa for handmade tortillas. I also smelled spices from bins sold by refugees who shared stories of how those spices were used in their native countries. I knew I looked out of place, sweaty and dusty after walking 12 miles with my crew, but we were instantly made to feel at home by the people there.
This was no staged scene. This was real America — a living portrait of the nation at her unapologetic best. What I saw at that market — people of all creeds, politics, religions, races and cultures coming together to exchange kind words, food and wares — was a living sermon on unity that our divided nation needs to hear.
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This market, in the heart of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, isn’t just a place to shop — it’s a time capsule of the American Dream with roots reaching back to 1730. Back then, Andrew Hamilton laid out this town amid rolling farmland and carved out a plot in Penn Square for a public marketplace.
King George II chartered it in 1742, and by 1757, a sturdy 20,000-square-foot brick building rose. The market has outlasted wars, depressions and countless changes. It’s the oldest continuously operating farmers’ market in America, listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
If America could see herself like this market — everyone bringing their best to the table — we’d go a long way toward rediscovering what we’ve lost.
What amazes me is how the market continues to thrive — how alive it remains. It’s overwhelming to think of how many Americans have come through this place and kept it going, each contributing their share. You can see that spirit here today. I could have walked in and judged everyone by their outward appearances.
After all, what do I have in common with an Amish man? Turns out, a lot. One of the gentlemen I met was a skilled basketball player, in his youth, just like I was. We both played for powerhouse high schools and competed for state championships. The difference was that he told me he had to defy his community’s ban on competitive sports. We reminisced and formed an unexpected bond.
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Here in this market, everyone gathers not to argue politics or scroll social media, but to exchange something real. No one’s checking your voting record or ZIP code. The most important thing these people share — no matter where they come from — is pride in their produce, wares or service. They’re craftsmen who take pride in offering their best. That pride is a reflection of who they are.
I miss that — that pride. I remember when I was a boy in Tennessee and one of my uncles brought a truck back to life from the dead. I’ll never forget the smile on his sweaty, grease-smeared face when that engine roared to life. He slapped the steering wheel and shouted, “Attaboy!” We used to take pride in those things, and that became our identity. My uncle became known all over town as the wizard who could fix any engine.
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That’s the same pride I saw at Lancaster Market. Maybe that’s why I felt so at home the moment I walked in. These were my people.
As I walk, I’ve been thinking a lot about America — and I believe this market holds a lesson for a fractured nation. If America could see herself like this market — everyone bringing their best to the table — we’d go a long way toward rediscovering what we’ve lost.
Our strength doesn’t come from sameness. It doesn’t come from keyboard wars. Our strength comes from who we are as individuals and what we bring to the table.
That’s why Lancaster Market embodies America — and what the rest of us should aspire to.
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