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Any time people eat or drink together, it’s communion. At least, this is what Thomas C. Foster claims in his book, “How to Read Literature Like a Professor.” To many people, this statement may initially seem strange. The word “communion” often evokes images of the Biblical last supper, which is a markedly solemn event. It’s a bittersweet meal characterized by deceit, where Christ breaks bread with his closest disciples while knowing that one of them has betrayed him.

The atmosphere of the Last Supper is much different than eating with friends or coworkers in an ordinary context. So is the idea of “communion” as it applies to the church.

Throughout much of my childhood, communion consisted of me balancing a conical cup of grape juice on my lap, holding a delicate wafer in my hands, and counting down the seconds until I could devour them because I was starving. In spite of the fact that I’d rushed to the car that morning with no breakfast, the sacredness of the event wasn’t lost on me. I recognized it as I sat shoulder-to-shoulder with my parents and partook in a unanimous, consecrated tradition with those around me.

In both its original context and its manifestation in the modern sanctuary, the concept of “communion” feels markedly different than eating with humans in any other environment. And yet, Foster claims that all of these events fall under the same term.

How is this possible? Because, in a broad sense, the word communion signals a mutual act of sharing and peace. As Foster notes, “The act of taking food into our bodies is so personal that we really only want to do it with people we’re very comfortable with.” There are, of course, exceptions to this rule–I think of the scene in “Breaking Bad” where the protagonist considers poisoning his drug-lord boss while having stew at his house. Or, the scene in “Squid Game” where the final three characters ravenously consume a steak dinner before battling to the death.

In spite of these moments, we do tend to commune with those we like and want to share things with. We need nutrition to survive, but the process of eating runs much deeper than a need for sustenance–it’s an act of social satiation. As Foster notes, the act of dining together is another way of saying “I’m with you, I share this moment with you, I feel a bond of community with you.”

And so, as we go on a date at a restaurant, break into a dessert with small silver spoons and simultaneously feel an influx of dopamine from the sugar, we are partaking in a form of communion. As we sit around the college cafeteria table with friends and shovel warm food into our mouths, we are participating in an act of mutuality with those that we care for and value.

For these reasons, Thanksgiving represents a climactic instance of communion across the United States. It marks a time of year when so many of us gather together–parents, children, extended families, friends–and consent to share an elaborate meal with one another. We shift back and forth between stoves, ovens, microwaves, sinks, stacked cutting boards, and overstuffed fridges in the hours preceding the grand event. And once the table is piled with steaming mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, roasted vegetables, casseroles, traditional family dishes, and drinks, we sit down and eat until we can hardly move.

But at the same time that we break bread with one another, this particular instance of communion is marked by nuance. Families are not perfect, and this meal often fleshes out tensions that are easily avoided when we don’t dine with extended relatives. The internet is overflowing with sardonic commentary on this subject.

“May none of your real feelings slip out at Thanksgiving dinner,” reads one post.

“In advance of our annual awkward Thanksgiving conversation, thought I’d let you know up front that yes, I’m still single, and no, I still haven’t gotten a real job.”

“Happy Thanksgiving to someone checking their phone in the bathroom to escape their family.”

In light of these more complex aspects of Thanksgiving, I find it most helpful to consider the holiday an instance of “communion” in multiple definitions of the term: its broad, universal meaning, and its decidedly Biblical one. At the same time that Thanksgiving dinner is about “sharing and peace,” it is also about consenting to dine with people whom we might clash with in other moments. It is about fostering an environment of mutuality and love in instances that could reap division. In the same way that the Biblical supper entailed dining with others in love regardless of the circumstances, so do our Thanksgiving dinners.

As we each sit around the table this Thanksgiving, I hope that we treasure these moments of communion with one another. At the same time that we enjoy an indulgent meal, our actions ultimately say to one another: “I’m with you, I share this moment with you, I feel a bond of community with you.”