Today is Shabbat Shuva, the Sabbath of turning, returning. Not that we want to turn back, or turn away from what lies ahead. No, we are hoping that these Ten Days of Awe help us experience a spiritual homecoming.

I’m not certain what that might feel like. Looking forward to the year to come, I seek contentment, joy, a sense of belonging, continued health. Is that going home?

I often use the image of a baseball player as a metaphor for going home. The batter approaches home plate, hoping to return home after first dealing with the pitcher, and then navigating the bases and the obstacles that the other team brings to bear. It is a journey fraught with stress and distress, with inevitable disappointments along the way.

If the runner returns home triumphant, they are free to rest for a while until their turn comes and they must begin the journey again.

And while this feels exhausting and untenable in the long term, it is also an apt metaphor for how we live our lives. We rush from one thing to another, rest for a bit, and then do it all again.

Stepping off the treadmill is the gift that Yom Kippur brings. Shabbat gives us that too, but a weekly break doesn’t make room for the deep introspection this day invites.

Our sages tell us that Yom Kippur is a rehearsal for our deaths. We don’t eat or drink, have sexual relations, adorn ourselves with jewelry or oils and perfumes, or wear leather. Instead, we wear white. No pockets needed.

I read that the original prohibition against leather meant going barefoot, since there were no canvas shoes back in the day. It feels especially humble to me, and I might try it.

But whether we manage to feel humble in the sight of God and our co-religionists, we still need to find that humility within ourselves. The ability to prostrate ourselves, with a complete release of ego and self.

Just me and God.

Humility. And home.

Perhaps that is what Yom Kippur offers: the chance to put down everything we carry, to release for a few precious hours the person we think we are supposed to be, and simply stand before God as ourselves.

No accomplishments. No failures. No possessions. No defenses. Nothing to prove.

And perhaps that is what it means to come home—not to return to who we once were, but to come home to who we are now, changed by everything we have encountered along the way.

May this Yom Kippur give us the courage to let go of what no longer serves us, the humility to see ourselves clearly, and the compassion to forgive ourselves and one another.

And when the gates begin to close and the final shofar sounds, may we find ourselves a little closer to home.

G’mar chatimah tovah. May we be sealed for a year of life, meaning, and peace.