One of the most penetrating and commented on questions recorded in the Torah is Hashem’s inquiry of Adam HaRishon following his eating of the eitz ha’daas, Ayekah? “Where are you?” The question is whether it is in fact, an inquiry—or more of a statement. Vayomer, “And he said to him” appears unnecessary. Adam was hiding in Gan Eden – out of shame, having violated Hashem’s one command to him. Hashem knew precisely where Adam was hiding. The Creator of the universe does not require direction. Rather, the Almighty was striking up a conversation with Adam, allowing him to prepare and present his side of the story. Perhaps a little introspection would inspire his repentance. One cannot repent for what (he thinks) he did not do. Obviously, Adam’s shame was an indication of his acknowledging that he had erred. This was a beginning upon which he could build.
What really was Hashem’s question? The question was not, “Where are you hiding?” Rather, Hashem wanted to know, “Where are you now?” What has become of the Adam I created – the yatzir kapav shel Hashem, the Almighty’s personal creation. What has become of the Adam who stood in intimate proximity to the Divine Presence? Where is the spiritual giant whom I created? How have you drifted from your true self?
This question did not end with Adam. It echoes through the generations and is directed to every human being. At some point in life, every person hears the silent call of Ayekah. A person may be successful, respected, financially secure, and admired by his peers, yet Heaven asks, “Where are you?” Are you where you are supposed to be? Have you become the person you are meant to become? Have you remained faithful to your mission?
The Kotzker Rebbe was known to say that the most difficult journey in life is the sheer distance between the mind and the heart. Many people know what is right, but they never internalize it. They live with a nagging awareness that they have settled for less than they can be. The question of Ayekah challenges a person to confront that reality.
The yetzer hora takes advantage of this difficult journey. Prior to a sin, it minimizes the gravity of the sin and its consequences. After one has fallen into his cunning trap, it magnifies them, claiming the sin that he has committed has forever damaged his spiritual persona. He has no hope, so why should he bother to attempt to return? It will be nothing more than an act of futility. This is why the first step of teshuvah is not self-condemnation, but self-awareness. A person must determine how he has arrived at his present state. One cannot chart a course home without first determining where he lost his way.
Imagine a driver who discovers that he is hopelessly lost. He activates his GPS and asks for directions. The device immediately requests his location. If he refuses to identify where he is, the GPS cannot calculate the route. The same is true spiritually. Before one can ask, “How do I return?” he must first answer, “Where am I?” and “How did I get here?”
Adam failed at this critical juncture. Instead of accepting responsibility, he replied, “The woman whom You gave to be with me, gave me fruit from the tree, and I ate.” The focus shifted from confession to explanation. While the statement contained an element of truth, it lacked complete accountability. As long as a person is occupied with assigning blame, he cannot devote himself to personal growth.
A successful businessman addressed a gathering of students. He candidly described how he toiled and expended every bit of time to build an impressive company. Now, decades later, he was uber wealthy and sought after. Indeed, he was, for all intents and purposes, perceived as a model of achievement. Hashem has His various ways of bringing us back to reality.
During a routine medical examination, the doctor discovered what was a serious medical condition that required immediate attention. The diagnosis ultimately proved manageable, but the weeks of uncertainty changed his life. Sitting alone one evening, he asked himself a question that had never previously occurred to him: “If everything ended today, what would I say I accomplished?” He later reflected that, for the first time, he heard the question of Ayekah. Not, “Where are your investments?” or, “Where is your business?” but, “Where are you?” He realized that he had carefully measured profit margins, market trends, and financial projections, yet had rarely measured his spiritual growth, his relationships, or his contribution to others. The experience redirected his priorities and transformed the remainder of his life.
Parashas Bereishis marks the first Shabbos following the Yamim Noraim, during which we experienced, Teshuvah, Tefillah and Tzedakah on a large scale. As we return to the hustle and bustle of everyday life, we must ask ourselves, Ayekah? Have the Yamim Noraim changed us, or were they merely a break in our usual routine? Do we have to stop and make an accounting of life and our achievements? It is not about houses, cars, properties. It is about spiritual achievements – ours and that of our children. Are we doing our best to model Hashem and raise them b’derech haTorah, or are we too busy acquiring our futures?
Every person experiences moments of Ayekah. At times, they arrive as a result of adversity – a sudden illness, an economic hardship, a child that has lost his or her way. Sometimes, we experience failure which brings on ayekah thoughts. Last are those quiet moments when we are able to sit back and reflect on where we are on the journey of life. Are we moving forward or being pushed from behind?
The answer to ayekah is not found in excuses. It is found in another question: “How did I get here?” Was it negligence? Desire? Pride? Anger? Complacency? Fear? Once a person identifies the path that led him away, he can begin the journey back.
This leads to the final and most important question: “What am I going to do about it?” Judaism is not a religion of despair. The Torah does not record Hashem’s question in order to shame Adam. It records the question to teach us that even after failure, Hashem seeks conversation, not abandonment; return, not resignation. The enduring message of Ayekah is that, before a person can become what he should be, he must first acknowledge and accept what he has become. One cannot go home until he knows where he is. The greatest tragedy is not the fall, but the refusal to accept that one has fallen. Only when he accepts that he has fallen can he begin the climb back upward.
