And they'll know we are Christians ... like Alice in Wonderland, we often feel like confused children, unsure of our true identities as people of faith. (testaments).

INTRODUCTIONS ARE among our most significant social exchanges in which we take part. In a few words we tell who we are and learn to whom we are speaking. Consider the following exchange:

"I'm Joel. I work at the bank, and this is my wife Cynthia."

"I am Dr. Freud. I am vitally interested in your relationship with your mother."

What do we learn about the first speaker? What do we learn about the second? In the process of introduction, we tender the delicate business of our identity out in public. What kind of impression we make--or hope to make--has something to do with who we understand ourselves to be in the first place. Are we primarily the work we do, the relationships we keep, the roles we play, or something more? Is our identity something we wish to reveal or conceal in our exchanges with each other?

Often identity is a problem for us. Though our ID cards record our name, age, and hair and eye color, they do not tell us who we really are at 3 in the morning when we are unable to sleep because we aren't sure where our lives are headed. We have created an entire stage of life called adolescence in which the main task is to find oneself. And because identity is not so hard and fast as we might like, we acknowledge another stage of life, midlife crisis, in which we attempt to find ourselves again.

Some of us, truthfully, get misplaced a lot more often than that, as the events of our lives rearrange us and make us nearly unrecognizable at times to ourselves or to those who love us.

One of the most memorable introductions in literature is recorded in the meeting of Alice and the Caterpillar in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. As with many unexpected encounters between strangers, this one begins in silence as the two stare at each other. "Who are you?" the Caterpillar asks at last. Poor Alice, lately fallen down a rabbit hole into a world where the old rules no longer apply and being addressed by a large blue caterpillar, can be excused for not having an answer. "I ... I hardly know, Sir, just at present--at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then."

The Caterpillar is not pleased with this reply and insists she explain herself. Her response is priceless: "I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, Sir ... because I'm not myself, you see."

Perhaps at those moments in our lives when we, too, are at a loss to explain ourselves, the root of the problem is that we are not ourselves--that is, our authentic Selves--at all. Integrity means holding all the pieces of ourselves together in one place: values, habits, relationships, and choices. If we lack integrity, siphoning off a bit of ourselves to "practicality" here and "popularity" there, eventually we might need the arms of an octopus to hang onto a coherent sense of self.

When our identity is fragmented, it doesn't take a litmus test to figure it out. Do we behave remarkably differently in one group than in another? Do we modify or revamp our opinions based on whom we're talking to? Do we hold values that we do not live out? Are the things we say in conflict with the things we do?

To a certain extent, this fragmentation is a psychological example of the effects of sin. We go one way, and our hearts go another. And in the meantime, the gap between our true selves and our false selves widens, as does the separation from God, others, and the person we were created to be. Falling down the rabbit hole of sin, we might say, is descending into a realm where the original rules of goodness and wholeness no longer apply. If we do not recognize ourselves here, it is no wonder.

Jesus never said anything, on the record at least, about identity crises and the problem of fragmentation. But he does tell a remarkable little story to the chief priests and elders about saying one thing and doing another. By any other name, this story is about personal hypocrisy, appropriate for an audience of religious leaders at that time--and maybe in other times, too.

In the story, a man with two sons approaches one of them and asks him to work in the vineyard today. To be precise, the father orders his son to go, not leaving anything to chance. "I will not," the son impudently replies. He may be disobedient, but no one can call him a pretender! And as we know, the son changes his mind later and does what his father wanted, so he is not so disobedient after all.

But consider the response of the second son. "Yes, sir," he says at once, and never makes an appearance in the vineyard. Actually, this guy sounds really familiar to me. He's the guy who promised me a job interview and never called back. Or the customer service representative who took my order over the phone and promptly deleted it from the files. Or the friend who promised to be there for me no matter how hard it got--until she knew just how hard it was going to get. This guy, regrettably, sounds an awful lot like me as well, when I make all sorts of grand plans and commitments and find myself sheepishly incapable of fulfilling them.

SO WHAT DO WE DO, WHEN OUR MOUTHS SAID YES AND OUR lives said no? Most of the time, we employ the same arsenal of excuses that the second son probably selected from when he arrived home for supper that night: "Got caught in traffic. Time got away from me. Someone dropped by unexpectedly. I wasn't feeling well. Your request turned out to be unrealistic. It was too hot for that kind of work. I don't remember you asking me. Are you sure it was me? I'll do it tomorrow. Promise!"

In some cases, tomorrow will do, and an extra day to gather up our words and actions into some sort of harmony is enough. But there are occasions and situations in which today is the day, and now is all we've got. In the vineyard, someone may have needed us, and she won't be there tomorrow. Perhaps someone died in the vineyard today, waiting for us. Perhaps a crisis could have been averted with our presence. Perhaps the vineyard itself won't be there tomorrow. Or, as we understand it, there may be no tomorrow, period. The order was given, and we accepted the charge today, but we were undependable. And now it's too late.

You and I, of course, know what our respective vineyards are, and how acute the summons is to tend to them. Family and responsibility, work and community, friendship and loyalty, church and profession of faith--the promises we make and the expectation of fulfillment follow us everywhere we go. Jesus isn't talking theoretically about the promises we might want to consider making; he is pointing to the commitments we've already made and are obliged to meet. The father's command to his sons is significant; this is not an "invitation" story--of which Jesus tells many. There's work to do, and these sons are required by their relationship with their father to do it! The very definition of this family is at stake, for a family pulls together and not apart.

And of course, Jesus is speaking directly to the religious leaders, who have already said yes to tending a certain vineyard of God's people and no longer have the luxury of demurring. And he is speaking to those of us who, by our Baptism, have likewise accepted the responsibility of the name Christian. A Christian is by definition a follower of Jesus, not someone who is willing to consider the possibility of discipleship on a case-by-case basis. If we claim this identity, we are also expected to do what we are commanded.

A word about commandments, before this all sounds too severe: Sure, there are 10 given to Moses, but Jesus hands out relatively few. "Love one another as I have loved you" is known as the greatest, and we ought to take that very seriously. Love is our obligation to our enemy, to the stranger, to the needy, to the outcast. This is the "work" we are commanded to do if we belong to the family of Jesus.

Love cannot be an option we exercise on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It has to be the soul of who we understand ourselves to be, the identity by which we are known to others: "See how these Christians love." Unhappily, because so many, Christians say yes and do no, that is not what the world says when they look at us. As in the time of Jesus, the world sees our rampant hypocrisy and dismisses Christ because of his laughable ambassadors.

I'm absolutely serious when I say the idea of answering for this hypocrisy makes my blood run cold. I personally promised to be an ambassador for that name at my Confirmation, and I renew that pledge every time I receive the Eucharist. I profess my identity at each Mass when I recite the Creed, and I say yes again whenever I mention to someone that I am a Catholic. I've said yes, all right, every time I am obliged to make a commitment. But have I done what I said I'd do? Am I who I say I am?

My hope is in the fate of the first son, who says no and does yes. Jesus compared him to the tax collectors and prostitutes who are entering the kingdom of God ahead of their leaders. This son, despite his original hardness, changes his mind. Initially he denies his father but later fulfills the obligations of love. And it is his love, not his words, that proves his identity as the true child in the end. Our fervent hope is to be found, through the extravagance of our love, to be the true children of God.

Like Alice in the story, more often we feel like confused children indeed, fallen quite far down the rabbit hole of sin and dazed by the unclarity of our identity in this place. Like her, some of us may have changed identities several times since this morning--loving, unloving, loving again--and that can be dizzying, especially to those around us. We may find it difficult to explain ourselves when we are not ourselves, making choices entirely inconsistent with the name of Christ we bear emblazoned on our hearts.

But the command of love still stands, and the vineyard waits for us today. It is not too late to remember who we are, to change our minds, and to be on our way.

By ALICE CAMILLE, author of God's Word Is Alive! and the scripture series "Exploring the Sunday Readings," both available through Twenty-Third Publications.