Dear Friends,

In the autumn of 1852, a New York Jewish newspaper solicited rabbinic material on Thanksgiving. Two rabbis submitted sermons they had delivered in their respective synagogues a week prior to publication. Taken together, the pair reflect the complexities of American Jewish life.

Rabbi Morris Raphall of B’nai Jeshurun saw in America, and within its discovery in 1492, a sanctuary for his people made possible by God. “For the selfsame year that witnessed the expulsion of our race from Spain by Ferdinand and Isabella,” preached Raphall, “likewise witnessed the discovery of America by Columbus, the servant of these ruthless persecutors. And thus at the very time our fathers were driven from one home by the cruelty of man, another nobler home was prepared for them by the mercy of God.”

That trust in divine intervention continued into the Early Republic. Raphall, believing that God guided America’s leaders toward a deep sense of virtue, utilized his pulpit to eulogize two recently deceased statesmen: Daniel Webster and Henry Clay. These were men who, Raphall claimed, operated “with a knowledge so vast and varied,” that it could only come from a “higher order.”

At nearby Congregation Shaaray Tefila, Rev. Samuel Myer Isaacs delivered a very different sermon. Isaacs’s 1852 Thanksgiving remarks were inward-focused. “We are Jews,” he implored. “Obedience to God is our first law, and the retrospect is our chart and compass to guide to the future.” Unlike Raphall, Isaacs did not, at least on this occasion, deign to sanctify America as holy ground. Against a rush of nativism that sought to strip Jews and other minorities from their citizenship, Isaacs interpreted Thanksgiving’s message as a moment for his community to take stock of their faith, rally around one another, and express gratitude for the “gracious design of the judgments of Heaven.”

I suspect the newspaper’s readers absorbed both essays and derived a nuanced perspective. They appreciated American liberties and became better sensitized to the work yet to be accomplished for the sake of freedoms intended for all people. The dichotomy of the American Jewish experience resonates in contemporary conversations. But whereas in the past, the optimism and anxieties of American Jewish life coalesced and balanced one another—today, I fear, they are polarizing us, distancing well-intentioned people in divergent directions.

A fuller, connected view of history is one way to solve this challenge. Listening to an alternate perspective is another.

With hopes that both opportunities find their way to your Thanksgiving this year, and with abundant gratitude,

Zev Eleff