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Introduction When I was a kid growing up in Minnesota, my family had a summer tradition. Every Sunday night, all seven kids and my parents would cram into a huge Ford station wagon, and we'd head off to Dairy Queen where I would always order an extra-large, soft-serve, vanilla-crunch cone. But one Sunday evening, the entire family piled into the station wagon and accidentally left me at home. I'm not sure how they forgot me because I was always loud, annoying, in trouble, and breaking something. For some reason, my analytical, scientifically-trained dad didn't do a head count that Sunday, so they left me behind. Do you know what it's like to be lost, left out, and alienated? It hurts. I sat on the steps and cried. Of course, this story has a happy ending. When they arrived at the Dairy Queen, my mom noticed I wasn't there (my older brother also noticed, but he "forgot" to tell anyone). They turned that huge Ford station wagon around and sped back to find me. Has someone ever searched for you and then found you? How does that feel? It feels wonderful! You're home! You feel loved because someone cared enough to go after you and find you. God asks a very simple question.The Bible is basically the story about how we got lost, and God came to find us. Of course, in the Bible, God didn't mess up and forget to do a headcount; we just walked away from God. We hid from God. We ditched God. God's search for us begins with a very simple question: "Where are you?" In Hebrew, the original language the Old Testament was written in, this question is only one word—ayeka. "Where are you?" Did you ever notice that some of the best answers to life's problems are actually questions? That's why Jesus loved asking questions. If you have 30 minutes, sit down and read through the entire Gospel of Mark, circling every question Jesus asked. You'll discover Jesus not only taught by giving answers to life, but he also taught by asking the great questions of life. "Where are you?" It is perhaps the most important question you will ever face. It's also the shortest, most devastating, and most hopeful question anyone will ever ask you. This little question captures the complete story of how we got lost and how we can be found. Most importantly, this question can bring us into the presence of the most important person in the universe—God, the one who asks this question of you and me. Let's put this in perspective. In the first two chapters of Genesis, we find a story of beauty, glory, and perfection. "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth … and it was very good" (1:1 and 31). We were made to bear the image of God's own glory and dignity. We were made to rule and reign with God (1:26–27 and 2:15). We were meant to live as bold, creative artists in an exciting relationship with God, other human beings, and all of creation. It's a high and holy calling. Then, in Genesis 3, we heard the story we sometimes call the Fall. It's all about how we got lost. This story is historical and mythical in the sense it is our story, too. It's a story of mistrust and rebellion against the good heart of God. Our first parents said: We can decide what is good and evil, right and wrong. We're smart enough; we know what's best. So they did: they rebelled and walked away from God. From then on, the story of all of humanity becomes a story of great rebellion and fleeing from God. In Genesis 2:25, we first find this amazing picture of bliss: "The man and his wife were both naked, and they felt no shame." They didn't have any walls or major issues in life. But after sin enters the world, after we walk away from God, something else enters the picture: shame. Shame is that sense of unease at the heart of our being. It's the sense that something is not right inside us. Some people call it alienation or brokenness. In verse 7, we see what happens to people who live as fugitives from God: "Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves." I was explaining this reality to a friend this week, and she said, "Oh, you just mean we're not perfect." "Actually," I replied, "it's much worse than that. It means the brokenness in the cosmos isn't just out there, but it's inside us. It's inside me. Not only do I live in a broken universe, in a broken planet, and in a broken country—I am broken. I'm not just a passive victim of brokenness; I am a perpetrator of brokenness." This truth leads to shame—the healthy, normal, God-given sense of unease over all not being well with me. Consequences of the FallFor a brilliant depiction of the Fall, read the novel by Albert Camus with the same name—The Fall. Camus' story centers on a successful lawyer named Clamence, a respected, arrogant man. Clamence views himself as a moral, decent human being. He never accepts bribes. He tries to be generous to everyone. There isn't a problem he cannot solve. He sleeps with many different women, but he never hurts anyone. He is secure in his self-esteem. All of this changes when a young woman attempts suicide by plunging into the river, and Clamence does nothing to rescue her. At that moment he sees who he really is, and it isn't pleasant. His indifference during the crisis becomes what he calls the bitter waters of his baptism. He notices his selfishness, his irritation when someone interrupts one of his stories, his anger when someone dares to disagree with him, and his inability to love and remain faithful to one woman. Finally, he confesses, "I was not simple, for modesty helped me to shine, humility to conquer, and virtue to oppress." He is a coward and a hypocrite. He comes to the painful realization that he's no better than anyone else—he is a fallen, flawed, broken human being. Our sense of fallenness brings a deep sense of shame. And notice what shame does in this Genesis story: it separates us from others. It builds walls of fear and hostility. It drives us toward fixing what is wrong—to heal the disease and cover what has been exposed. John Powell wrote a powerful book called Why Am I Afraid to Tell You Who I Am? In it, he writes about how we are afraid to tell people who we are because if they saw "the real me," it might not be good enough. We would be exposed as defective, broken, dirty, disgusting, or inadequate. So it's better and safer to put on fig leaves and hide. Notice the attempt by Adam and Eve in verse 7—"they realized they were naked, so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves." The fig trees in the Middle East produce some of the largest leaves in that area. Fig leaves represent anything we do to cover our nakedness and shame. I have fig leaves. You have fig leaves. We have fig leaves called status, awards, degrees, intellectualism, clothing, style, and morality. Blaming others is a huge fig leaf. If you can blame your spouse, your church, or your political leaders for all your problems, you don't have to own your own nakedness. That's exactly what Adam and Eve did in this passage: they passed the buck. Even religion can become nothing more than a big fig leaf. Fig leaves are anything we use to hide behind to prove we're not defective, broken, or sinful. They come in different shapes and sizes, but they all have this one thing in common: they're a self-made, self-covering project to cover our shame and nakedness. But notice Genesis 3:8: "Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day." The words "sound of the Lord" and "walking" are often used symbolically to refer to a simple idea: God is present. God comes looking for the lost man and the lost woman. And what do they do? They keep running. "They hid from the Lord God among the trees of the garden."
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