If We Cared

In the 2012 elections, candidates for federal office spent an estimated $7 billion. If we took that money and gave it to the charity Compassion International, they could sponsor almost the entire under-18 population of Liberia for eighteen years. What we spent on what to most of us is little more than a distraction and a hobby could have provided life changing assistance to a generation of an entire country. And we could do that every fourth year. If we cared.

"He's not dead," I thought to myself, "He's just asleep." He looked asleep. His body lying there limply, face down, arms straight down his side. I've seen that posture every day for years. He had that "lumpy" toddler look with his oversize head and buttocks that always seem to project straight into the sky, like two peaks in a mountain range of cuteness. I looked at his tiny shoes and thought of the thousands of times I'd wrestled shoes just like that onto feet that just weren't ready for them. I looked at him and thought of my own toddler lying asleep, likely in the exact same position, upstairs. But, he wasn't asleep. Aylan Kurdi was dead. His body was lying facedown on a beach in Turkey, his face half covered in water. His father had secured passage with some smugglers the night before to get to Greece. The family was fleeing their home in war-torn Syria and facing the harsh reality that no one wanted them. During the trip, the waves had become too big for the overcrowded boat. The smugglers jumped overboard and the boat capsized. Aylan, his mother, and his 4 year-old brother drowned. I can't imagine what the loss of even one child does to a father. I would imagine it would unravel my entire world, but to lose your entire family in the cold sea . . .the weight of your wet clothes dragging you down as you frantically grasp for your children . . . I don't want to imagine that.

I'm typing this sitting in my new house. We didn't need a new house. The old house would have served us fine for the rest of our lives, but we wanted more space. Abdullah Kurdi wanted a home where his family wouldn't be bombed. Our house had older carpets, so we are ripping them out and replacing them with hardwood. Oh, how I've patted myself on the back for that. My kids won't have to play on cloth that smells like dogs. I've saved thousands by doing the work myself, and been blessed by the help of dozens of friends. Abdullah Kurdi fled his home to find safety in a land that didn't want him and failed. What pride has he left? If I cared, I'd rip those carpets from my home and sell them for whatever money I could find. My children would eat oatmeal for three meals a day and gratefully play on plywood floors so that a child in Syria could breathe and his father could have the same pride in his family which I have. If I cared.

This morning my family will go to church. We will sit in a multi-million dollar facility and wave our hands in the air as a band plays and words are projected onto the wall from high-definition projectors. We've patted ourselves on the back for that too. We've created a wonderful place for people to experience God's Kingdom. Yet, no one created a space for Aylan Kurdi to have oxygen. When I was a kid I went to churches made of cinder block with concrete benches. The metal roofs turned the buildings into ovens in the 100 degree heat, and a seat inside was considered a luxury. People sat  in the aisles and crowded every door and window for hours to hear words sometimes not even spoken in their language. If we cared, we would strip our houses of worship of all the trappings of wealth and sell them to ensure no child ever struggles to find safety again. We would throw ourselves on the ground and beg the forgiveness of the Almighty for our selfishness. We would hold million-dollar fundraisers for others and lament with tears when we had to keep even the smallest amount to fix the holes in the roof of our own sanctuary. If we cared.

I suppose it's all just emotion. Thousands have died fleeing the conflict in the Middle East. Fleeing an organization which, I pray to God, is the worst I will see in my lifetime. Thousands have died fleeing, that doesn't include those who never had the chance. Why do I care now? Because I saw a picture of a child who looks like mine and met death in a place I'd go for vacation? I suppose. This one thing I know, the only difference between me and Abdullah Kurdi is fortune. I was born here, and he was born there. I lead my family with pride and his world has been destroyed. I look at the body of his son and weep tears of anguish and guilt and gratitude and know I should have done so much more for him. If I cared.

Four Kids Who Live in Your Town

This is the story of four kids who probably live in your town. I know, because they lived in mine. Their names are Al, Darren, Jake, and Emily.

Years ago, a family moved in next door. They looked a little rough, talked a little rough, and smoked a little much. We had no idea how rough they were. They had two little boys, Al and Darren. The kids were cute, and. . . kids. They were just two little kids. At first, they kept  to themselves, but that didn't last long. The yelling and fighting and a drinking soon spilled onto the streets and the sidewalks. Dad had a problem. With alcohol? Yup. With drugs? Probably. With mental health? Definitely. With Violence?

And in it all were those two little boys.

We tried to be good neighbors, but how do you do the white suburbia neighbor thing with a drunken redneck wrestling six cops on the sidewalk? You want to know? You get real honest. While other neighbors ignored Dad, threatened Dad, called the cops about everything Dad did, I looked him straight in the eye and told him the truth. We know what goes on in that house, and every time we hearing the yelling, the screaming, the smashing of objects (of people?) we will call the police. Because of two little boys. You know what? Dad kind of respected that.

Those boys got older. They made friends. Another boy, Jake, started hanging around the house and before long a girl, Emily, too. I only got to know one of them well, Al. The others were too young or busy or whatever, but Al would tell me things. The things he told me. Imagine laying on top of your drunken father, pinning him to the ground, because you thought he was going to kill your mother. You aren't a man, you're a kid, and you are doing this. Al tried to get out of it, but he had no idea how. Maybe he wanted normal, but he'd never seen it. He tried the military. We went running together to get him in shape, but he barely cleared boot camp. He couldn't get out because he didn't know where, or what, out was.

I'm not sure when that ignorant bastard Heroin showed up, but he did.

One night, we were sitting in our kitchen and heard it start next door. It was bad. We were in our house with the windows closed. They were in their house with the windows closed. And we heard her screaming. That's when it all broke. Dad in jail. Mom in the hospital. They all just disappeared.

After that I didn't see them for months, but then Al would pop up now and then. He bumped around in different cities fathering different children. One day, he showed up at my house looking for a place to live. His brain was fried. We didn't want him in the house, so we put him in the backyard and gave him some pizza while I made some calls. He said he forgot something at a friend's house and left.

The next time I saw him was at Darren's funeral. Al's little brother overdosed on Heroin. I went to the memorial service and gave my condolences.

The next time I saw him was at Jake's baptism. While in prison, Jake met a pastor, and Jesus. Upon his release, he wanted to be baptized. I spoke with Al. He read in the Bible about a baptism by the Holy Spirit that can heal. He was praying for one for himself. He knew that only a miracle could save him from his addiction.

Last month, Al died. Almost exactly a year after his brother. Emily is currently fighting for her life in a coma. This week, Jake was arrested with thousands of dollars in cash and several hundred bags of heroin.

Who are these kids? Are they despicable scum bags who you'd avoid on the street? Yes. Have they made terrible choices and bought into foolish lies? Yes. Are they just kids who needed a Mom and Dad and got a nightmare instead? Yes. Are they people who desperately need your prayers and, God forbid, you kindness as well? Yes.

The most haunting thing about these four is that they are literally our neighbors. Yet, I couldn't do a damned thing to save them. What's worse? I don't think I tried very hard either.

How Siri Made Me a Better Dad

Several months back, I was facing a small emergency at my part-time job. At the moment I learned of the issue I was driving and didn’t have any free hands. “Aha!,” I thought, “This is the perfect time for Siri.” For those of you who don’t know, Apple’s Siri is a voice-activated feature on iDevices which acts as something of a personal assistant. You can ask Siri to place phone calls, send messages, even tell you the date of the last Space Shuttle launch (that one comes in handy if you have a Kindergartener). Apple is known for technological advances and ease of usability, right? Imagine my surprise when Siri proved to be completely useless. It could not identify any of the people I was asking it to call, and the entire situation ended with me yelling at my phone and Siri promising, “I’m trying to be helpful.” Seriously, my phone said that to me. The entire situation reaffirmed my suspicion that most claims regarding the ability of technology to actually improve our lives are mere marketing hype. However, there is one very specific situation where technology has improved my life. It’s made me a better father, and it is all thanks to Apple’s Siri.

The Problem

                I’m a Stay-at-Home Dad raising three young boys. Discipline is a big deal in our house. Not that I’m some sort of brutish dictator, but with these three little ones you’ve got to be on top of things. I like to use a variety of disciplinary tools, but by far my favorite is the time out. Our household policy is simple, when you commit an infraction you sit on time out for one minute for every year you’ve been alive. So, our three year-old sits for three minutes, our six year-old for six, etc (I have yet to find a way to earn myself a 36 minute time out, but one can dream). This might seem like a simple policy to execute, but it is harder than it initially appears. I used to use the timer on our microwave to measure these time out minutes, but that only works when you are close to the microwave. It doesn’t work upstairs, in the backyard, or at the park. Additionally, when you are dealing with one child who is screaming because he was hit over the head with a plastic helicopter, one who is screaming because he did the hitting with the plastic helicopter, and a third who is screaming because – well, because everyone else is screaming – that walk across the room to the microwave suddenly becomes a whole lot more difficult.

                Without a reliable way to measure time, the lengths of prescribed time outs became very inconsistent. Maybe you are able to accurately estimate when three minutes had passed in your mind, but I’m not. When someone is screaming in my face, I tend to think the three minutes has passed pretty quickly. When I am upset with someone, I can make that three minutes last forever. In the end, the actual time was based on my mood, and my kids picked up on it. Soon, every time out became a festival of whining and harassment. My boys learned that they could manipulate Dad, and that Dad was the only factor controlling when they could return to whatever they wanted to do. If they could make time out more miserable for me than it was for them I would end time out early. They were completely correct. And life was hell.

The Solution

                I’m not sure when I figured it out, probably while exploring the date of the last Shuttle launch, but I found out that there was a person who would set a timer for my whenever I wanted for as long as I wanted, and she lived in my pocket. With the push of a button and one little phrase, my time out problem was solved. “Siri, set timer three minutes,” changed my life and made me a better Dad. The boys know that time out lasts until the phone chimes. That knowledge alone has reduced the time out whining. Sure, we still have time out battles, but those battles typically focus on real disciplinary issues, not my inability to discipline consistently. Siri goes with my wherever I go, upstairs, outside, in the grocery store. Problem solved and Siri can now claim to actually be helpful.

A Truth, a Blessing, and a Hope: Three Things Every Child Needs to Hear Every Day

It’s a sobering feeling, sending your child away. That first morning dropping them at school or putting them on the bus is a reality check. At least it was for me. My moment came a few years ago as I dropped my oldest son off for his first morning of preschool. It wasn’t the first time he had been away from me, but this was different than a morning in Sunday School, a night with the babysitter, or a weekend at Grandma’s. For the first time, I was putting my child into the hands of people I didn’t really know and a situation where I had little influence. There’s a lot that can go wrong. The media has done a thorough job reminding us that every time a child leaves our sight we may never see him again, and even though I am something of an emotional curmudgeon, that idea sometimes brings a cold dread into my heart. More than that, I had no guarantee that these “other people” took the responsibility to guide my child into adulthood seriously. I had no guarantee that they didn’t harbor hidden desires to damage and harm him for their own pleasure. I had no guarantee that he would make friends and discover all the joys that come with that. Maybe people would be mean. I had experienced some of that as a child and desperately wish my sons will be spared those experiences. But they won’t, will they? People will be mean. People will harm them. People will put their own desires above the well-being of these little ones. I have zero control over that. On that first morning, I came to the realization that the only thing I can control is the last words my child hears me say before I let him go. So, that morning, and every morning since, I grabbed that little man by the shoulders, looked straight into his eyes and whispered three things:

A Truth: I Love You

     For several years now, I have volunteered working with young adults. I have worked with some great young men and women and some damaged young men and women. I have seen the addicted, depressed, and mentally ill. I have seen the long-term results when a person has never received the affirmation that they are loved. It’s as if the foundation for all of life has been pulled from beneath them and every event, every challenge, is a threat to the very core of their being. These people flounder and wander. They are lost, because they do not know that they are loved. I would trade all the wealth in all the world to save my children from that life. The truth is that we are all loved. You are loved. I am loved. They are loved. The foundation of the Universe, the truth that is holding it all together, is love. If you have not faced that reality in your life, I encourage you to explore the person of Jesus Christ and reflect on his love for you. You are loved with a ferocity that is both terrifying and wonderful to experience. Whatever happens in the next day, whatever wonders or tragedies befall you, one truth does not change. You are loved. So, I grab my son by the shoulders, look straight into his eyes and whisper, “I love you.”

A Blessing: I Am Proud of You

     There is a wonderful practice in some cultures, well attested to in the Old Testament, of an aged father calling his sons to him to receive a blessing before he dies. By no means does this practice need to be restricted to sons! A blessing is an affirmation of a person’s strengths and a prediction of the continuation of strength into the future. A blessing tells a child that the parent believes in her strength and is excited to see that strength shared. A blessing is a statement of pride. This child of mine has something to offer the world, and I want him to know that. I am proud of him.

     Now, am I always proud of my child? No and yes. There was the time we were at the grocery store. My hands were full at checkout and a woman in a wheelchair in the next aisle dropped her purse on the floor. She could not reach it and I asked my son to go and help her. He did not go. I was not proud of his actions in that situation and I let him know that. There are times when we will not be proud of the actions of our children. They will make poor choices. They will pursue lies. They will hurt others. In those situations we must express our own hurt and disappointment to them, but does that negate the blessing? Does the fact that my child sometimes acts in ways I wish he didn’t mean that I no longer believe that he was made for a purpose and has something positive to offer the world? Does is negate my belief that he has the power to turn to a different path and change? No, my pride in his potential and my blessing for his future thrive, even if he struggles. So, I grab my son by the shoulders, look straight into his eyes and whisper, “I am proud of you.”

A Hope: You’re Gonna Have a Great Day!

     I have complete control over my love. I can offer it or withhold it at my choosing. I only control half of my blessing. I offer it, but my son must accept it and live in it for it to come true. I have no control over the hope I offer to my son every morning. It is just that: Hope. I hope that life treats my children well. I hope that they find a community that loves them and supports them. I hope they find their way into places where they can potently exercise their gifts in the service of others. I hope that their dreams succeed. I hope they find confidence in who God made them to be despite their own shortcomings. I also hope that they never feel hunger or poverty, that they never experience life on either end of the gun, and that they never have to stand against the toes of bullies and speak a truth I wish they did not know. But I cannot control these things.

So far, life has treated my children well. School has been an eye-opening exploration of knowledge. Friends have been kind and generous. Whatever bumps life has given us have, in hindsight, been mild. There is no guarantee that tomorrow will continue in the same way, but we hope. If life brings hardship, we continue to hope that it will work out for the good. This is a legacy I want to pass to my son. So, I grab him by the shoulders, look him straight in the eye and whisper, “You’re gonna have a great day!”

The Legacy Continues

     Our oldest son is in kindergarten now. When the weather is nice we walk to school. He rides his bike, our middle son rides with training wheels, and the youngest is pushed in the stroller. It is a great way to start the morning, and as we wait in front of the school I grab the oldest by the shoulders and share my little message. Last week, our middle son had the chance to attend a one-week preschool preview before beginning in earnest in the fall. As we stood outside waiting for the classroom to open on the first morning, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I looked down to see my son; jacket zipped to the neck and backpack snuggly tightened on both shoulders. He looked so ready for life, yet so tiny at the same time. He looked up and me and said, “Daddy, can you look at my face and tell me your secrets?” So, I knelt in front of him, grabbed the straps of his backpack, looked straight in those wonderful little eyes and told him, “I love you. I am proud of you. You’re gonna have a great day!” And. . . he did.

What I Read in 2014

I'm not a big New Year's resolution guy, but as 2013 came to a close I noticed that my stack of "books to read" had gotten pretty large. So, I made a 2014 resolution to read the stack. Mostly, I succeeded. There were a few books that I started to read and then decided they weren't worth the time. I apologize to those authors, because I know putting your writing out there is an incredibly brave thing to do. I also made some substitutions on the pile. Overall, I made it! I'm pretty proud of that considering that my reading time these days is limited to the amount of time I can keep my eyes open in bed at night. Occasionally, people ask me what I'm reading or if I've read anything good. This post is for you. If nothing else, it is to celebrate the fact that I can actually remember what my resolution was at the end of the year. And, yes. I do have a whole new stack of books to read in 2015.

Here's what I read:

Fiction

The Odyssey, Homer: I’m sure I read this at some point during my education, but it made no lasting impact on my memory. So, I thought I’d try it again. I was surprised at how emotionally real and raw it was on occasion. I was especially moved early in the book by the real feeling of despair from young Telemachus as he watches his father’s wealth consumed by others. Perhaps this initial connection is what kept me reading through Odysseus’ lengthy (and often tedious and boring) journey home. I’m glad I endured because the moment of utter triumph and celebration (for Odysseus and Telemachus) and surprised terror (for almost everyone else) when Odysseus strings his war bow thus revealing himself as returned is one of the finest literary moments I’ve yet stumbled across.

The Keeper’s Son, Homer Hickam: I initially picked this up as a book on tape for my wife while she was laid up injured in bed, and then decided to read it myself. It is the story of a rag-tag group of Outer Banks islanders who work on a US Coast Guard cutter, mainly because they get paid to fish. That’s until the US enters the Second World War and their “fishing grounds” become the hunting grounds of German U-boats. In the midst of the battle, some remarkable connections are made between the enemies. Overall, this was a good beach read. Some of the characters are a little flat, and the plot is occasionally a little ambitious, but it was an enjoyable read.

The Ambassador’s Son, Homer Hickam: The sequel to The Keeper’s Son. The rag-tag band of Coast Guarders is sent to the South Pacific to observe the taking of the Solomon Islands on behalf of the Secretary of the Navy. Their unique position as outsiders makes them the perfect crew to investigate when an extremely well connected officer goes missing. Their mission takes them throughout the islands, rubbing shoulders with some of history’s greats (maybe before they were so great) along the way. Another fun read.

Holmes on the Range, Steve Hockensmith: Another hand-off from my wife. What happens when two cowboy brothers (one of whom is illiterate) stumble across a Sherlock Holmes novel? They roam the old west solving mysteries, of course! This is the first of four novels by an award winning short story mystery writer. It is a mixture of two disparate genres into an enjoyable read.

Master and Commander, Patrick O’Brian: One of my all-time favorite novels. This was at least my third time through it. It is the dawn of the 19^th century as England is at war with France. A young naval officer, Jack Aubrey, is given his first command. By chance encounter, he invites an unemployed physician, Stephen Maturin, to come aboard as ship’s surgeon. That friendship will keep readers on board for another nineteen books. In this case, we stay with the two just long enough to see them take their ship against an enemy frigate five times their size. O’Brian is known for his exemplary prose and thorough historical research. This book is worth multiple reads.

Non-Fiction

How Children Raise Parents, Dan Allender: At the start, Allender admits that he isn’t writing as an expert parent. Rather, he writes as one who has failed repeatedly and still been blessed with wonderful children. He argues that every child, and therefore person, needs to know the answers to two questions: Am I loved? and Can I do whatever I want? He goes on to explain the dangers of answering these questions poorly, and the way that answering them well ultimately shapes and matures the parent more than the child. The last chapter alone makes the entire book worth the time.

Teaching the Bible through Popular Culture and the Arts, Mark Roncace and Patrick Gray: I have to admit, I pretty much skimmed this one. This is a reference book in which each chapter deals with how to teach the Bible through a specific form of media. The chapters begin with brief essays on each form and are followed by lengthy lists of specific works with suggestions for their use. It’s a good resource, but not a page turner.

After Our Likeness: The Church as the Image of the Trinity, Miroslav Volf: Probably the work that put Volf on the map (he’s a world famous theologian at Yale). I had to read a portion of this while in seminary and had wanted to return to it for some time. I the first section, Volf selects two representative theologians from the Catholic and Orthodox traditions and analyzes their theology of church as informed by their understanding of the Trinity. He then finishes by presenting his own understanding of the church and Trinity while critiquing and utilizing insights from the previous section. This is one of those books where you find yourself reading some passages three or four times just to grasp their meaning, but are never sorry that you invested the time. This is a highly technical work and the English translation doesn’t do it any favors. I would actually read a chapter and then read a “lighter” book before returning for the next chapter. Regardless, it has challenged and shaped my thinking.

Bold Love, Dan Allender and Tremper Longman III: What is love? How do we love others? A psychologist and an Old Testament expert (who happen to be best friends) team up to answer the question. In the process, they reveal an image of love that is far harder and more disturbing that we typically acknowledge. As soon as I finished this book, I loaned it to a friend. When I get it back, I plan to read it again.

Spiritual Theology, Simon Chan: This is another book I started in seminary and am now finishing off. It is an attempt to systematize a Christian understanding of spirituality. As such, it does a fine job. Chan lives and teaches in Singapore and approaches his writing from a “non-western” approach. This brings some interesting and challenging observations to his work. My problem is Chan’s use of the systematic approach. I’ve read a few systematic theologies over the years and something about them just doesn’t connect with my brain. I remember that this was a good book, as I flip through it I see my usual underlinings and comments, but for the life of me I can’t remember one significant take-away from it.

A Book of Voyages, Patrick O’Brian: Well known for his historical fiction, Patrick O’Brian compiled a collection of his favorite factual voyages. The book is literally a series of journal entries from real people on real trips several hundred years ago. Some went quite well. Others ended with starvation and the fighting of polar bears with sharp sticks. Depending on the author of a given journal, the reading can be a little difficult.

A Celebration of Discipline, Richard Foster: This is a Christian classic that I just never got around to reading before. It is very good. In the 1970s, Foster set out to discover and share ancient spiritual disciplines which he felt the church had lost (our Catholic and Orthodox brothers and sisters might disagree). Foster created a wonderful, accessible, and brief guide to practices like prayer, submission, and confession. It is an excellent starting point for anyone looking to deepen his/her spiritual practice.

Never the Same, Steven James: James is one of my favorite authors because of his random and rambling approach to devotional writing. In this book he selects a series of biblical characters and explores their world, perspective, and encounters with Jesus. It is good, but easy. It would be right on pace for a high school student. That isn’t to say that it lacks depth. The chapter on the boy about to stone the woman caught in adultery was sufficiently convicting to make me think twice.

Money Well Spent? Michael Grabell: Grabell is a reporter for ProPublica who found himself at ground zero of the Great Recession. In this book he looks at the largest economic stimulus package in history. He simultaneously tells the story of how the package was put together and administered while also asking if it was worth it. Ultimately he ends up with a strong maybe. He concludes that the package certainly bolstered the economy and helped to shorten the recession, but was also poorly managed, sometimes shockingly so. Grabell’s style is easy to read. I appreciated that while he certainly falls on one side of the political divide, he isn’t afraid to point out the failings of those who may be his friends, or even heroes.

Psalms, Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Bonhoeffer has quite the reputation. As a pastor and theologian who was hung for speaking out (and maybe a bit more) against Hitler, he deserves that reputation. Yet, he didn’t earn it with this book. It is a very quick overview of the Psalms, specifically the use of the Psalms in prayer. If you want a quick read on this topic you can finish this in a few hours. I just didn’t find it very engaging.

Experiencing God, Henry and Richard Blackaby and Claude King: I’m going to ruffle some evangelical feathers with this one. I have heard so much about how wonderful this book is. I’ve heard it lauded from pastors’ pulpits and professors’ podiums. I’ve had friends tell my how it changed their lives. I had a mixed experience. I should say that I read the 2008 revised and expanded edition, and I think much of the material I took issue with was part of the expansion. So, keep that in mind. In a very general way, this is a great book. It gives some very helpful guidance for how to seek God when facing a decision or uncertainty. On the other hand, the author(s) come from a very specific religious context and can’t seem to see beyond that. The material itself was mostly sound, but at some point (the expansion?) they added case studies of what happened to people who followed the stated principles. Almost without exception, every person became a missionary, pastor, church planter, or just gave a bunch of money to one of those causes. Does God not call people to cure cancer, fight crime, build homes, or raise families (unless you are a woman raising your children while your husband pastors)? And if these authors have never seen God call people to do any of these things, what does it say about their methodology and theology? I could go on, but won’t. In the end, if you are going to read this book, find an early edition.

War, Politics, and Power, Karl Von Clausewitz. Edited by Col. Edward M. Collins: This book sat on my shelf for years and I never really had any interest in it. Sometimes I am quite the fool. Clausewitz was a Prussian military officer who fought against Napolean and later in life wrote a massive book, On War, which delineated the lessons he had learned in that struggle. In 1962, Col. Collins edited and translated key portions of On War, thus creating War, Politics, and Power. Today, the US military describes itself as “calusewitzian.” Regardless, this is a wonderful book. While Clausewitz maybe wasn’t the clearest communicator, his clarity of thought and insight is amazing. With a little effort, one can take his insights on war and apply them to most human endeavors. The effort is well worth the time. In fact, I enjoyed this so much that I placed On War on my 2015 reading pile. This is a must read for any organizational leader.

Please Understand Me II,  David Keirsey: This is one of the classics on personality type. Keirsey puts his own twist on Jungian type theory (commonly marketed as the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator). Rather than focus on the sixteen types of the MBTI, Keirsey looks at four broad categories or “temperaments” into which each of the sixteen types fit. He argues, pretty convincingly, that these four temperaments have been recognized going at least as far back as Plato. Indeed, he names his four temperaments, the Artisan, Guardian, Idealist, and Rational after the types delineated by Plato. He then looks at how these types have been viewed throughout history and delves into the unique skills, attitudes, motivations, and desires of each. I especially appreciate his insight that everyone carries intelligence in some area. No one is stupid. Rather, different cultures value different types of intelligence and suffer for neglecting others. It is an informative read, but Keirsey’s style can be blunt and difficult. I’ve used his approach when working with others on personality type. More than once a client has referred to him as a “jerk.” I prefer to call him honest.