RABBI PHIL

American Thanksgiving sits in a curious and fruitful place on the calendar. It is officially secular, broadly civic, and yet it invites language habits, and hopes that feel deeply religious. That mix makes it one of the most natural interfaith moments in American life. It is an annual pause when people of many traditions share a moral grammar without requiring a common creed. 

At its simplest, Thanksgiving is a national day of gratitude. Civic rituals matter because they shape memory and behavior. When a country sets aside a day for giving thanks, it quietly argues that success is not self-made alone, that gifts come from beyond the self. Different communities name that “beyond” in different ways. Some say God, some say grace, some speak of luck or ancestors or the land itself. The table hypothetically at least becomes an interfaith space. A Methodist blessing, a Muslim du’ā, a Jewish psalm, a humanist toast. No one needs to bracket identity. Everyone can offer thanks in a voice that feels honest, while recognizing the others as kin. 

Thanksgiving also carries a moral counterpoint. More families now name aloud the harder histories of the holiday. Gratitude cannot erase injustice, and mature gratitude doesn’t even try. It is the important choice to notice gifts while telling a truer story. Framed this way, Thanksgiving becomes a civic practice of humility and tikkun. 

For American Jews, Thanksgiving resonates in several layers. Jewish prayer is saturated with gratitude. Morning begins with Modeh or Modah Ani, a first whisper of thanks for waking. The Amidah includes the Modim prayer, a communal bow of thanksgiving. Psalms punctuate the day. Psalm 100, a psalm for thanksgiving, gives classical language to the mood of the table. 

Thanksgiving also recalls Sukkot. Tradition calls Sukkot the season of our joy, a harvest festival that gathers food, guests, and gratitude under the fragile roof of the sukkah. Many American Jews experience Thanksgiving as an autumnal echo. It is a second, wider harvest table hosted by the nation rather than the synagogue. The theology is similar: Openness, Hospitality, Remembrance. Blessing. 

And then there is football. It may seem like a sideshow, but it functions as ritual, too. Families plan their day around the early kickoff and the late game. People huddle on couches. Commercial breaks become pilgrimages to the kitchen. The sport gives the day a rhythm, a sequence of drives and pauses that match the meal. There is a prayer over the food, then the first quarter, then the second helping, then a halftime walk, then pie, then overtime on the couch. The metaphors come easily. A team survives by blocking for one another. A household thrives by making room for one another. Even instant replay has a moral. Slow the action. Look again. Try to see what really happened before you call it. Gratitude asks for the same patience. 

Thanksgiving is also a chance for interfaith cooperation at ground level. Food banks run holiday drives. Neighbors invite neighbors who might otherwise eat alone. Interfaith friends can bring a psalm, a verse from the Qur’an, a line from a favorite poet, or a simple toast. It does not require consensus. It does require presence. 

When the dishes are cleared, Thanksgiving leaves a question every tradition can use. If gratitude is the posture that makes room for others and for the Holy, how do we keep it after the final whistle? The calendar moves on, but the work of welcoming, repairing, and blessing waits just outside the door.

Phil

Rabbi Phil Cohen