BitterSweetLife

We all know we ought to “keep it real.” In many circles it’s the in thing, the holy groove, the inaudible rhythm to which we’re all supposedly jivin’. Most of us have made speeches about it: the beauty of transparency, the need for openness, how cool it is to be up-front. And while it’s hard to disagree with the diagnosis, the question is how to get there. Or get toward there, since (and this we know by heart) we “never really arrive.” How to get en route toward authenticity?

But a standard profile for “realness” remains elusive. Some have taken the four-letter path toward sincerity, with the unswerving conviction that cussing gives them the street cred of Al Pacino. Others parade sordid details of their lives in front of strangers, or state, with jagged candor, that their day was really bad—and then proceed to illustrate. Despite the drama inherent to such brutal honesty, I find myself hesitant to call this “realness” and end the show.

The desire for honesty is genuine. We would all like to know that everyone around us has not forgotten they are human. At best, we simply want reassurance that we’re in this fight together. The middle-ground position, if you will, is a distaste for hypocrites. The worst case scenario is that we demand to know that everyone is similarly screwed up. But despite its potential for abuse, this desire to see rough edges is legitimate. So what next?

How can we assert our “realness?”

Maybe it’s just me, but the question seems loaded. Aside from the pitfalls of existentialism, asserting one’s authenticity seems a lot like “asserting one’s personality”—push too hard and what you’re producing is no longer the genuine article. If you work up a sweat to produce the big noise, some people, yourself included, may begin to suspect that it’s just theater. Who or what are you asserting? How do you know your honesty hinges on the right impulses?

Thing is, gritty realism can be as much a façade as plastic goody-goody-ness. I’ve listened to a variety of jaded diatribes that were pure drama, and wondered what was really happening under the “raw” veneer. The ready admissions of life’s cruddy-ness merely concealed, as dirt does, and did not reveal who he really was, or the immediacy of her struggle. The depths were awkwardly obscured with blasé “realness.”

I’ll admit to anyone that I’m fallible and prone to find the cracks in moral sidewalks; I’m equally willing to point out life’s bitter edges. But this is only honesty’s cheap side, a fraction of the big picture, because we are all this way. Your persona may be pure swagger, but you still get mad in traffic jams.

There’s a rarer side to realism—call it soul authenticity. It hinges on the fact that we have to be something or someone, before we can assert it. We’re not blank slates. Paradoxically, I have to have an identity before I can become it. In our postmodern culture, this may seem laughable, but it follows.

So how can I assert my “realness?”

Only by homing in on the AJ-shaped mold that already exists. Otherwise, I’m merely hazarding guesses. So where is this carbon copy? Somewhere very safe, in a place where only the honest may go. Consider, then, the living blueprint for authenticity: Jesus. I look at him and see my own DNA, and the implications explode our cultural clichés; the cult of gritty know-how goes up in flames around me.

The best honesty is being unabashed in my emulation of Christ, not unabashed in my laundering of screw-ups. The weight rests on my God-pursuit. Pursuit is by nature incomplete, and though it goes without saying, this ought to be emphasized now and then—but the stress still rests on my Christward trajectory, not my darker tangents.

After all, Christ transforms souls; freedom of heart means a changed life, and thus, “goodness,” severed from its namby-pamby stereotypes, means radical purity, dogged in its resolve. Real goodness is nothing if not authentic. As Soren Kierkegaard wrote, “Purity of heart is to will one thing.” This “one thing” is God’s will, and so Kierkegaard’s maxim could be translated, “I’m set on purity, and if anything gets in my way, God help me—I’ll knock it down.”

At my most honest, in a moment of vulnerability, I admit that I am frantically chasing Jesus. I’ve set out to become his little brother (Romans 8:29), and I’m not stopping. It’s no surprise that this heart-intent effects my relationships.

It generates a deliberate devotion to one’s friends—a refusal to pigeonhole and categorize, a decision to pray and work together—and genuine relationships are free to emerge. In other words, I jettison edgy “realness,” introduce a cultivated purity, and soul authenticity has a fighting chance. I lean on Christ’s example, grow into his holiness, and find myself free to be who I am.

This common endeavor, not shared flaws, are what sparks dynamic friendship. We’re all human, but the infinite variety of our vices fades in the single light of a common Friend. In the search for soul authenticity, emotive rawness is not a better substitute than plastic virtue. Sold in either form, sin fails as an adhesive.

At our most honest, we know that what we want is an audience of one who won’t pat our hands when we’re bad and offer us a cookie. We need a God who will call out ugliness where he finds it, grab our flaccid wrists, and say, “Get up, I’ve paved the way for something better!”

Authenticity is ultimately Christ, and how he’s relentlessly altering your life. In our headlong attempt to “keep it real,” we must not settle for anything less.

By means of concession, I suppose I could spit in your eye after I state this and say, “You down with that?” Whatever it takes to get the point across.