After Yom Kippur the story isn’t over

When Yom Kippur ends, most of us feel done. We’ve fasted, spent some time in synagogue, maybe even whispered a promise to change something small in our lives. Then the shofar blows, we break the fast, and the holiday slips into memory.

But Jewish tradition insists that the real work doesn’t end when Yom Kippur does. In fact, the Shabbat right after Yom Kippur is said to carry a spiritual energy even higher than the day itself.

That sounds strange; how could anything surpass Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year? But the key is that teshuvah, often translated as “repentance,” isn’t a one-day event. It’s a lifelong process.

Rabbi Shalom Dovber of Lubavitch once explained: After Yom Kippur, our work is not finished; on the contrary, now is when we begin. Teshuvah doesn’t mean wallowing in guilt or constantly focusing on mistakes; it means realigning ourselves, finding our way back, and always moving higher.

Think about personal growth in general. Maybe you train hard and finally run a 5K. At first, that feels like the finish line. But then you realize: “Wait, I can do a 10K, I can keep building.” What was once the peak becomes the new baseline.

That’s how Jewish thought sees teshuvah. Yom Kippur gives us a leap forward, but afterward we realize there’s more to reach for. And sometimes, the most powerful change happens in a single, unexpected moment.

There’s an extraordinary story about this week’s Torah portion, Haazinu, that brings this idea to life. In the 13th century, Rabbi Moses ben Nachman, known as the Ramban or Nachmanides, had a student named Avner. Sadly, Avner abandoned Judaism and became a prominent government official.

One Yom Kippur, in an act of defiance, he summoned his former teacher. In front of him, Avner slaughtered a pig, roasted it, and ate it—on the holiest day of the year.

The Ramban, brokenhearted, cried out: “What drove you to fall so far?”

Avner’s answer was shocking. He said it was the Ramban’s teaching itself. “You once told us,” Avner said, “that the Torah portion of Haazinu contains all of Jewish history and the name of every Jew. That’s absurd! And because of that, I walked away.”

The Ramban replied: “Your name is there too.” He pointed to a verse where the third letter of each word spelled out “R. Avner”—Rabbi Avner.

The words of the verse were chilling: “I said I would scatter them, erase their memory from mankind.” Avner turned pale. His name was literally encoded in words describing rebellion and erasure.

Shaken to his core, Avner asked, “Is there any hope for me? Can I ever make this right?”

The Ramban told him: “The verse itself shows the way back. You must disappear from the corruption you’ve created and let your soul return to its source.” Avner boarded a ship and was never seen again.

But here’s the remarkable part. The Torah didn’t spell out just “Avner.” It encoded “Rabbi Avner.” Even at his lowest point, even after betrayal and defiance, the Torah insisted that his true essence was not a sinner, it was a rabbi. His potential, his truest self, could never be erased.

This story may sound far removed from our lives. Few of us are Avners, publicly defying tradition in dramatic ways. But we all know what it’s like to drift, to compromise on things that matter to us, or to look back and wonder if we’ve wasted our time.

The lesson of Avner is that no Jew, no human being, is beyond return. Change doesn’t always require years. Sometimes it happens in one moment of clarity, one decision, one turn of the wheel.

So if Yom Kippur felt powerful, don’t leave it behind. And if it didn’t, that’s okay, the door is still open. The days after Yom Kippur are an invitation to keep climbing, to trust that our essence is always “Rabbi Avner,” no matter how far we’ve wandered.

Because in Judaism, the story is never really over.