Ayeka is Already Too Late

I really enjoy music. I love a good harmony, I love great guitar work, and I’m a sucker for great lyrics. Recently, I’ve become reacquainted with a song you probably know by Counting Crows — A Long December. It’s melancholy without being sad, and it’s hopeful without being blithe.

It’s been a long December and there’s reason to believe that maybe this year will be better than the last.

As I was thinking about the start of the Torah reading cycle, this line came to mind. The Torah reading is yet another “new year” in my world. And you know, there’s reason to believe that maybe this year will be better than the last.

My favorite section of the song goes like this:

The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl

All at once — there was no expectation. And you noticed the light. I suspect most people didn’t notice that light. It’s just that after all that work with no reward, you were ready to notice it. Huh.

You’re not going to believe me, but I think that line is a great parallel to the aftermath of Adam’s original sin. Hear me out.

We all know: Adam eats from that fruit and then, all at once, things are different. The Torah tells us:

“Then the eyes of both of them were opened and they perceived that they were naked; and they sewed together fig leaves and made themselves loincloths. They heard the sound of God moving about in the garden at the breezy time of day; and Adam and his wife hid from God among the trees of the garden. God called out to Adam and said to him, ‘Where are you?’ He replied, ‘I heard the sound of You in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.’ ‘Who told you that you were naked? Did you eat of the tree from which I had forbidden you to eat?’ Adam said, ‘The woman You put at my side—she gave me of the tree, and I ate.’”

For a moment, let’s play the counterfactual game, “What if . . .?”

What if somehow there was a 1 in 14,000,605 chance that Adam could have pulled a victory out of the jaws of failure? Imagine a universe where Adam said, “You gave me a command, but I failed. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” Based on all the things we think we know about Teshuvah (repentance), if this were Teshuvah from love (and not fear of punishment), then Hashem changes willful sins into Mitzvot. (Mitzvot I say!) That means that even Adam’s catastrophic failure would somehow have been transformed into something redemptive.

Okay, so when would have been the moment that we would expect this hypothetical Adam to speak up and ask for forgiveness?

In the ideal world, it’s not when Hashem asks if he ate from the tree, and it’s not when G-d calls out to him, “Ayeka? Where are you?” It’s not when they hide in shame, and it’s not when they hear G-d’s presence in the garden.

I think it’s right away, when they perceive that something has changed in them.

A person who is spiritually tuned in to the Creator doesn’t have to wait for the punishment of “by the sweat of your brow will you eat.” By the time Hashem calls Ayeka — “Where are you?” — he knows he messed up. Actually, he probably knows that way before.

In a way, Rashi is making this point. Rashi points out the absurdity of Hashem asking Adam where he is and explains that Hashem did that in order to enter into conversation with Adam slowly, so he shouldn’t be too confused to answer. Meaning, I think, that the whole thing was a setup so that when Hashem asked, “Did you eat from the tree?” Adam would be able to respond honestly.

My suggestion is that “Ayeka? Where are you?” is not the first time we’re experiencing that; it’s just the most obvious. Certainly, Adam hearing the sound of G-d moving about in the Garden is the same thing. But just like Adam didn’t hear the call Ayeka for what it was, he didn’t recognize the other, more subtle calls for what they were.

If he had looked across that crowded room, he might not have seen the way light attaches to a girl. He wasn’t ready to receive that moment.

In my teaching career, I’ve met many people who tell me that they are not religious, per se, but they are very spiritual. And in my observation of the world, I’ve seen people who seem very religious, but to be honest, I’ve wondered if they’ve ever tasted spirituality. If we sat together and tried to define “religious,” I think we could do that pretty easily. But if we tried to define “spiritual,” I wonder if we would arrive at consensus as easily. Let me offer this: I think that a “spiritual” person is someone who senses the Creator’s presence. A spiritual person feels closeness to Hashem at moments that other people miss and is sensitive to the call of the Divine Will when it’s still a whisper.

Adam, though made through the handiwork of Hashem, doesn’t seem to be a very good model for being spiritual.

The point is that a spiritual person is looking for messages from the Creator in the world around them. The spiritually dull person doesn’t hear those messages until there’s a lump, or a Hatzalah call. Maybe he never hears them at all. On the other hand, how do I know if these are real messages or if I’m just seeing shapes in the clouds?

In contemporary Judaism, we use the phrase Hashgacha Pratis — personal oversight — as a way of describing Hashem’s relationship with the individual. Over time, Judaism has produced widely varying ideas about who is entitled to Hashgacha Pratis — G-d being personally involved in their lives. There is one school of thought that the only people who enjoy that level of closeness are The Extremely Righteous. The great sages and saints who make up the fabric of Jewish history have that type of relationship with Hashem. Another view is that the greatness of an infinite Creator is not limited by our capacity to receive; the Creator has no limits. So even we, regular Jews living our regular lives, mucking about and trying our best, even we can have a level of personal closeness with Hashem. In other words, the old-school way of thinking would have been to say that we regular folks don’t get those kinds of whispers of Divine Will that I’m talking about, but the view that’s in vogue today assumes that we do.

So again, how am I to know if something I experience is just a natural part of the world or if it is a Direct and Personal Message from the Creator?

The great Chassidic Rebbe, Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev, attributes an idea to the founder of Chassidus, the Baal Shem Tov, that I think helps here:

הפסוק ה׳ צלך, והיינו כמו צלו של האדם, שכמו שהוא עשיית האדם כן הוא עשיית הצל, כך הקדוש ברוך הוא, באיזה מדה שהאדם מתנהג את עצמו, כך הקדוש ברוך הוא מתנהג את עצמו עם האדם בזו המדה.

The verse in Psalms 121, “Hashem is your shadow by your right arm,” means that just as a person’s shadow moves along with them, so too Hashem responds to a person according to the way he acts.

I think that idea is a key for us. If I live my life conscious of Hashem’s presence —  always expressing gratitude that the blessings in my life come from Him, turning to Him in sincere prayer at times of need (and want), looking for Him in the ordinary moments of my life — then Hashem tzilcha, Hashem is my shadow. That becomes the relationship I have with Him.

And maybe that helps us notice one more thing about Adam. At exactly the moment that we find Adam unable to notice Hashem’s subtle call, we also find his ingratitude. He can’t help but say to G-d that this is all the fault of “the woman You gave me.” He has no sense of gratitude for the helpmate Hashem created specifically because lo tov heyot ha’adam levado — it is not good for the human being to be alone. The gift itself has become something to blame on the Giver.

In the end, I think that prayer and gratitude are the keys to building our spiritual senses, so we can react when we hear Hashem’s whisper, so Hashem never needs to call out, Ayeka — where are you?

The fall holiday season has come to an end and the “new year” of Torah reading has begun. So I say, it’s been a long September, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.