“Where are you?”
That’s the first thing God says to the first humans after everything fell apart. Not, “What have you done?” Not, “How dare you?” Just a question. A searching. A quiet echo through the trees.
Not because God didn’t know. But because Adam didn’t.
He had never hidden before. He had never needed to. But now shame was in his chest, fig leaves on his body, fear in his voice. So he hid—from the One who had only ever given him breath, beauty, belonging.
That’s the absurdity of distortion. It makes us afraid of the very Presence that formed us in love.
And we still do it.
We hide behind competence. We hide behind busyness. We hide behind theology or rebellion or self-protection—anything to avoid being seen where it hurts.
But God still walks toward us in the cool of the day.
He still asks, “Where are you?” Not to expose you, but to awaken you. Not to punish, but to reconnect. Because the tragedy was never that God couldn’t find Adam.
The tragedy was that Adam no longer knew he was safe to be found.
Maybe you’ve been hiding, too. But God is still walking. And He’s still asking the same question—because He already knows the real you is still in there.
