James Cordrey at Threshing Floor posts his poem Chameleon.



So many the temptations to deny the authentic, to adapt ourselves to environments that aren't always healthy, simultaneously to deny and to profess. Vanity often, fear often, avarice often, sloth often, all the vicious children of pride.



The woman at the well. The woman taken in adultery. Those who condemned her. All of them convicted. All of them stripped of their masks and their pretense. All of them known to the depths of their personality and being. All of them, like us, called to be His.



And it's not the mask that's redeemed, not the chameleon, but our true selves. Rich Mullins, thinking of Luke 15:20 and the Prodigal in his song Growing Young, put it this way: "And our father still waits, and he watches down the road, to see the crying boys come running, back to His arms."



An older hymn says Like a Wayward Child I've Wandered. Let's go home.